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her-devils-advocate · 11 months ago

Text

Selfish risks

pairings: Levi Ackerman x (GN!) reader

genre: domestic fluff

summary: In the peaceful downtime spent together, Levi decides to risk asking an important question.

word count: 1,435

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54159382

The Scout headquarters is silent, most of the survey corps members have already taken themselves off to bed, greedily getting as much rest as possible before the next mission creeps up on them. Everyone has been working hard, with both training sessions and squad meetings running longer and longer each day, almost as if each scout could sense something approaching.

The wind howls outside the stone structure, rustling the leaves and causing the windows to rattle. You shiver despite the loud crackling of the fireplace inside your office, the amber flames fighting to keep the chill away.

The warmth and ambient sounds of nature do their best to lull you to sleep, exhaustion tugging on your eyelids as you force yourself to work through the night. A bad habit that you had picked up from a certain captain.

Your relationship with him over the years within the scouts had caused a few of his mannerisms to rub off onto you, for better or for worse. You’ve found that the recruits you are tasked to train tend to listen to you more after you picked up Levi’s “don’t test me” expression. However, you have caught yourself clicking your tongue in displeasure a lot more as well, much to the amusement of all those nearby to pick up on it.

The frantic scribbling of your pen grows louder as you try to rush the piles of paperwork towering before you. A small rumble breaks the silence as your stomach protests, unhappy with the dedication to the mountain of paper causing you to skip dinner accidentally.

You are so engulfed in the moment that you almost miss the gentle creaking of the door. You raise your head only to be met with tired silver eyes cutting through the shadows of the room.

Levi slowly shuts the door before pausing, simply watching you sign your name and toss the pen to the side, ignoring the halfhearted glare thrown your way as it rolls across the desk and onto the floor with a small clatter.

You stare at him for a moment, waiting for the small lecture about making a mess, even if it is in your own space. A lecture that, surprisingly, never comes.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" He says instead, his voice is gentle, yet you can sense the small reprimand within his words.

"Curfew doesn't apply to squad leaders and higher, I thought you knew that?" You shoot him a playful smirk that only grows with the withering look you get in response.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"I know, there's just... so much to get through and I figured I would power through most of it while you were in the meeting with Erwin and Hange. Which seemed like a good plan considering how long it took."

Levi lets out a long sigh as he walks towards the armchair by the fire, flopping down onto the worn fabric. You smile at the sight, at how carefree and unguarded he lets himself be around you.

A sight some could never think to imagine when it comes to the aloof captain, but you know him better than most.

You get up from the desk, groaning slightly as your muscles scream in defiance. A sign that you have been cooped up on the uncomfortable wooden chair for far too long. The sound causes Levi's head to snap in your direction, only relaxing again when he notices you are in no real pain.

The sight makes you smile, even with everything he has to handle within the Survey Corps, he still always makes sure to look out for you as well. Even when he doesn’t need to.

His eyes track your every movement and you see a myriad of emotions swirling through them: exhaustion, concern, wonder, adoration and love all mix with the flickering amber of the fire within the gunmetal of his eyes.

He shuffles to try and give you some space beside him in the small armchair, only to frown in frustration and pull you into his arms instead. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, straddling his lap as you bring your hand up to run through his silky hair.

"Interesting meeting?" You whisper into his neck, not wanting to break the peace that has settled over you both. Something you both rarely get to cherish, yet heavily deserve.

The only reply you get is a small hum, he tightens his grip around you and peppers your shoulder with small kisses.

"Four-eyes has a new experiment they want to try out. Apparently, it's fundamental that Erwin lets them capture more titans for it." Levi says with a small grumble, his voice slightly muffled by your shoulder, clearly unhappy to remember what had held up the already late meeting for so long.

You go to open your mouth to speak, only for his low voice to cut you off instantly.

"And no, you're not helping them with whatever shitty plan they have in mind. You need to stop letting them drag you into their schemes so easily." He punctuates his words with a small flick to the centre of your forehead.

You let out a light laugh, the action sending a shiver across Levi's skin.

"How did you know I was going to suggest helping Hange?"

"I know you too well."

"That you do." You kiss his jawline, slowly moving towards his lips, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses as you do. He sighs when your lips finally meet his own, his eyes flickering shut briefly as you part.

"Marry me."

Your eyes widen briefly, shock and excitement rushing through you, you are almost certain you had misheard him if it weren't for the slightest blush covering his cheeks and the determined look in his eyes.

"Is that an order, Captain?"

He huffs out a small laugh, his eyes flicking up briefly before he reveals a small ring from the pocket of his jacket. A proud green jewel sits atop the thin silver band, your breath catches as it glints in the firelight.

"I could make it one if you wanted. I got fed up of waiting for some perfect moment or whatever that traditional bullshit is. There are no perfect moments in this world, not when titans could eat us at any moment." He pauses for a moment, his usually stoic voice faltering with emotions as he tries to hide his face from your unwavering gaze.

"Or so I thought until you made me experience peace in these moments with you. Then I realised that every moment where we are alive together is a perfect one."

You stare at him with wide eyes, not noticing the stream of tears running down your cheeks until you feel his calloused hand brush them away with a softness you couldn't begin to imagine.

"The thought of having someone to lose scares me, but you've made me realise that marriage or not, loving you has been a risk I've been taking for a while now. Might as well make you officially mine while we have the chance."

You let out a watery giggle as your hands dance along the fabric of his shirt, smoothing out any creases that dare to cling to him.

"You know, most marriage proposals don't have the implications of a horrible death woven into them."

"That's clearly where the poor fuckers are going wrong then."

Levi's eyes are soft as he watches you, his lips finally quirking up into a small smile as you let out an undignified snort at his comment.

"Yes, I will marry you."

You don't miss the way his shoulders drop with relief, nor the genuine joy that shines through his eyes. He delicately takes the hand you wordlessly offer him, taking his time to slide the ring onto your finger.

“Good, I want to risk being selfish. Just this once.”

You beam at his words, heart heavy as you place a soft kiss onto his lips before throwing your arms around his neck to pull him as close as possible. His arms quickly wrap around your lower back as he holds you tightly, his head resting against your chest.

He can almost sense the approaching comment from the way you jiggle with pure, albeit restrained laughter.

“Is it green to match our capes? Don’t get me wrong, love, you choose very well. A fact I’m sure you already know, but…is that the reason?” “Shut up.”

The laugh you give him in response warms both of your hearts more than the now-dying fire could manage.

#♥. writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman #aot x reader #levi ackerman x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #aot #snk #this is the first time i've written Levi and the man makes me nervous to do so!

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someone-will-remember-us · 3 months ago

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A total of 51 men are on trial over their alleged attacks on Gisèle Pelicot, recruited by her then-husband Dominique Pelicot, who has admitted drugging and raping her.

The 50 men accused of rape and assault alongside Dominique Pelicot are aged between 26 and 74. They include a nurse, a journalist, a prison warden, a local councillor, a soldier, lorry drivers and farm workers. They each face up to 20 years in prison.

In total, 49 are accused of rape, one of attempted rape and one of sexual assault. Five others are also accused of possessing child abuse imagery.

Most lived in south-eastern France within a 60km radius of the village of Mazan, where the Pelicots lived. Six have previous convictions for domestic violence, two have convictions for sexual violence. A total of 23 have a criminal record for offences such as drunk-driving and possession of drugs.

Some of the accused men have admitted rape but said they did not set out with this intention, and have apologised in court to Gisèle Pelicot, 72, a grandmother and former logistics manager. Others have denied the charge of rape, saying they believed they were taking part in a game by the couple.

Gisèle Pelicot was unknowingly sedated and raped by her former husband, Dominique Pelicot, 71, who crushed sleeping tablets and anti-anxiety medication into her food and drinks and invited men to rape her over a nine-year period from 2011 to 2020.

Pelicot has admitted the charges against him and said that for almost a decade he was in contact with men on an online chatroom titled “without her knowledge” where he would organise for strangers to come to the couple’s home

“I am a rapist, like the others in this room,” Pelicot told the court.

The case is being heard by a panel of five professional judges in the southern city of Avignon and runs until December. Gisèle Pelicot has waived her right to anonymity in order for the trial to be held in public, saying: “Shame must change sides.”

As the men appear in court over the course of the four-month trial, the Guardian will detail their profiles and testimony.

Cyrille D, 54

Trained as a butcher, Cyrille D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in her home in September 2019. Cyrille D’s partner, the mother of his children, was on holiday at the time. He said he was sexually frustrated in his relationship and had gone on to the online chatroom to console himself.

In court, Cyrille D admitted rape, saying he had realised later that he had not gained Gisèle Pelicot’s consent, only her husband’s. He said Gisèle Pelicot was clearly unconscious but that her husband had been “insistent”. He said: “I’m sorry, I was naive, a little stupid, an idiot.” He told the court that while in prison on remand he had understood that “women do not belong to men”.

Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyer said video evidence had showed that the alleged rape by Cyrille D had put her life in danger as she had risked not being able to breathe.

Cyrille D detailed a violent childhood at the hands of his alcoholic father, who he said would wait outside school with a meat cleaver to attack him and threaten him. “My father was Hitler,” he told the court. After a brutal public beating by his father outside school, Cyrille D was placed in care as a teenager.

Lionel R, 44

A worker at the Pelicots’ local supermarket in Carpentras, Lionel R was a married father of three when he made contact with Dominique Pelicot. In court, Lionel R admitted raping Gisèle Pelicot on 2 December 2018 at her home, but he said he had not intended to commit rape.

“Since I never obtained Mrs Pelicot’s consent, I have no choice but to accept the facts,” he told the court. Turning to Gisèle Pelicot, he said: “I am sorry, I can only imagine the nightmare you’ve lived through … and I am part of this nightmare.” He said: “I never told myself: ‘I will rape that woman” but he admitted: “I’m guilty of rape.” He added that he should have left when he saw she was unconscious, and that it was cowardly of him not to have said anything.

The court heard that Dominique Pelicot had previously brought an unsuspecting Gisèle Pelicot shopping at the supermarket so that Lionel R could see if he was attracted to her.

Lionel R told the court he had been sexually abused at the age of 12 to 13 by the president of the pétanque club in his village.

Jacques C, 72

A former fire officer who had worked as a truck driver and then owned a pizzeria, Jacques C had been married for 25 years and had two children.

He told the court he denied rape. He said he had been “naive” and he thought that Gisèle Pelicot would wake up and it was a game by the couple.

Jacques C admitted touching Pelicot, but said there had been no penetration and therefore no rape.

Jacques C told the court he considered that his religious education had made him a “giving person” who did good and respected women. He said he loved women “in all their complexity”.

Jean-Pierre M, 63

A former lorry driver for an agricultural cooperative in southern France, Jean-Pierre M is not accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot. Instead, he is accused of using the same technique to drug and rape his own wife, and organising for Pelicot to rape her with him.

Described in court as a “disciple” of Pelicot, he admitted sedating his wife, with whom he had five children, and enlisting Pelicot to rape her.

The two men made contact in the online chatroom called “without her knowledge”. Pelicot is alleged to have provided sedatives to drug the man’s wife, explained the method and travelled to rape the woman himself.

Twelve rapes of Jean-Pierre’s wife are alleged to have taken place between 2015 and 2020. Jean-Pierre told the court that he admitted the charges.

Pelicot admitted raping Jean-Pierre’s wife on several occasions and said he regretted his actions. He said he had cut contact with the couple after Jean-Pierre’s wife woke up during one of the assaults while he was in her bedroom.

The court heard how Jean-Pierre’s childhood in the French countryside was marked by extreme poverty, extreme violence and he was the victim of sexual abuse within his family. “I was raised by pigs in the woods,” he had told his children.

Joan K, 26

A soldier in the French military, Joan K is the youngest man on trial. He was 22 at the time of his alleged raping of Gisèle Pelicot on two separate visits to her home in 2019 and 2020.

He told the court: “I’m a rapist because the law says I am” – but he said he had not intended to rape and “at the time I did not know what consent was”.

He said he had been invited to the couple’s home by Dominique Pelicot for an encounter and had not asked for Gisèle Pelicot’s consent, saying he learned only in prison what consent was.

He said he had found it strange that Gisèle Pelicot was snoring, and that he knew she was unconscious but he had not known that meant she had not consented.

In November 2019, Joan K was absent for the premature birth of his daughter on the night he was accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot for the first time.

Born in French Guiana, he joined his brother in Avignon when he was 16 before enlisting in the army. The court heard he had lived on the streets as a teenager and three of his brothers had died. He lost his army job when he was arrested. He was described by a psychologist as a chronic user of alcohol and cannabis, “depressive, impulsive and solitary”.

Hugues M, 39

A tiler, motorbike enthusiast and father of two, Hugues M is accused of the attempted rape of Gisèle Pelicot a few days before his then girlfriend’s birthday in October 2019. He denies the charge. He said he did not know Gisèle Pelicot was drugged and had not looked at her face, just her body.

His ex-partner Emilie O, 33, who met him online and lived with him for five years, told the court she feared she may have been drugged and sexually assaulted by him herself. “I don’t know if I was raped,” she said. “It’s terrible. I will always have doubts.”

She told the court that one night in 2019 she had woken up to find her partner attempting to assault her. She launched a police complaint, but it was dismissed for “lack of material evidence”. She told the court she had experienced “dizziness” between September 2019 and March 2020, but investigators did not detect any substances that might have affected her at the time.

Husamettin D, 43

A married father who had given up part-time work to care for his disabled son, Husamettin D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in June 2019. He denied the charge in court saying: “I don’t accept being called a rapist, I’m not a rapist.”

The court heard that Husamettin D had made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom and had gone to the Pelicots’ home the same night, telling his own wife he was going out.

Pelicot had told him he was looking for an “Arab” man for his wife – Husamettin, born in Turkey, used the online pseudonym “Karim”.

He admitted that Gisèle Pelicot “seemed dead”, with her leg dangling oddly, but he said he had thought it was a scenario or game and that she was pretending.

He said Dominique Pelicot had said his wife was in agreement. He said he had not known she was drugged.

The court heard that Husamettin D had become addicted to cannabis from the age of 11, and had lived in children’s homes. In 2000, he was convicted for dealing drugs.

Fabien S, 39

A man with 16 previous convictions ranging from armed robbery and drug dealing to domestic violence and sexual assault of a minor, Fabien S said he admitted the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot in August 2018. But he said he had not gone to the Pelicots’ home with the intention of raping her.

“I didn’t go there to rape her. I didn’t know I was supposed to rape her, but I recognise the facts,” he said, adding he had “not paid attention” to whether or not she had consented.

He said he wasn’t interested in a scenario where a woman was unconscious because he liked to hear women scream. He apologised to Gisèle Pelicot in court.

The court heard that Fabien S allegedly raped Gisèle Pelicot in her dining room. Asked how this was possible, Dominique Pelicot said he had put drugs in her meal and carried her unconscious to the dining room table.

The court heard that Fabien S had been sexually abused by his father from the age of two, then placed in different foster families where he faced further violence and sexual abuse, and that he was admitted to psychiatric care at the age of 16. From 18 to 28 he lived on the streets in Toulon as an alcoholic.

Mathieu D, 53

The father of two had worked as baker for 25 years before having to leave his job because of an intolerance to wheat.

He is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot with Dominique Pelicot on 3 October 2020. He admitted the facts, saying he was high on the drug MDMA at the time and thought it was a game with a married couple.

Mathieu D accepted later that Gisèle Pelicot had not been in a fit state to consent. “I can’t deny it was rape,” he said.

The court heard that Mathieu D’s stepfather had been violent. Mathieu D told investigators he was inspired by Buddhism and “the balance of karmas”.

Andy R, 37

An unemployed agricultural labourer and married father of two, Andy R has two domestic violence convictions and is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on New Year’s Eve 2018.

He said he did not intend to rape Gisèle Pelicot, telling the court: “As the husband had given me permission, in my mind she agreed to it.”

Andy R arrived at the Pelicots’ home an hour after first making contact online with Dominique Pelicot on New Year’s Eve. He said he had “nothing else to do” that night because his brothers hadn’t invited him to their New Year’s Eve party. He said he had thought it was a sexual “game” between the Pelicots.

The court heard he had been addicted to alcohol since he was 13 or 14, and was a regular user of cocaine.

Simone M, 42

A builder, former soldier and father of five, Simone M lived on the next street to the Pelicots in the village of Mazan. He is the only alleged rapist whom Gisèle Pelicot recognised when she was shown video evidence by police.

She told the court he had come into their living room once to discuss cycling with her husband. “I saw him now and then in the bakery; I would say hello. I never thought he’d come and rape me,” she said.

The former mountain infantryman made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the online chatroom before realising they lived less than 200 metres apart. Simone M lived opposite the tennis club where Dominique Pelicot played. “Things were going badly with my ex-wife, I was looking for love, an encounter to calm myself,” Simone M told the court.

Dominique Pelicot suggested Simone M first come to the house during the day “to see how beautiful my wife is”, adding: “If she asks, say you’ve come to discuss my bike.”

Simone M is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot on the night of 14 November 2018. He denies rape. He said he thought Gisèle Pelicot was only pretending to be asleep and would wake up. “I’m not a rapist,” he told the court.

His ex-wife told the court he had once threatened her with an axe.

Simone M is from New Caledonia, where he grew up. As a teenager he was abused and raped by a man his parents had sent him to live with as a labourer. The court heard he had a complex about his penis size and needed constant reassurance. He had debts and periods of alcoholism.

He has a 15-month-old daughter with his current partner, who told the court she stands by him.

Thierry Po, 61

A refrigeration specialist and father of three from Bouches-du-Rhône in southern France, Thierry Po is also charged with possession of hundreds of child abuse images found on a USB stick after his arrest for the alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot. He admits those charges but denies raping Gisèle Pelicot on 21 August 2020.

He said hadn’t seen anything abnormal about the night he went to the Pelicots’ home, believing he was meeting a couple. “I always thought Mrs Pelicot would wake up,” he said. “She wasn’t cold, she wasn’t dead, her skin was soft.”

He said he had not sought Gisèle Pelicot’s consent because he had lots of experience of encounters with couples when it was mostly the man who gave consent for the woman. He said he had had three “major” previous experiences where a husband had invited him to have sex with a wife and “she’ll be asleep, she doesn’t want to know, we’ll film it”. In one case, the woman had woken up. In two cases, he had left without seeing the women’s faces. He said he couldn’t tell if those women had been asleep or not.

He told the court: “After I leave prison, I’d like to create an association to get men like me to understand that consent is important. I’d go to swingers’ clubs and say: “Don’t forget to get consent!”

Jérôme V, 46

The former grocery store worker and father of three is one of the few accused men who admit the charges of raping Gisèle Pelicot with the knowledge that she was drugged. He told the expert psychiatrist in the case that he was aware she had not consented.

He allegedly went to the Pelicots’ home six times between March and June 2020 to rape her during the first Covid lockdown in France. A volunteer in the fire service, he lived 30 minutes’ drive away.

He told the court: “I didn’t keep going back because rape mode was my thing, but because I couldn’t control my sexuality.” He said he was at first attracted by the idea of having an inert body at his disposal and being free to act however he wanted.

He said his life was defined by sexual urges, and he was regularly unfaithful to partners because they “couldn’t meet my demands” and he tried extreme practices to break the “monotony”. He said he paid “less and less” attention to his partners.

Jérôme V said he was addicted to sex and that Pelicot took advantage of that. In court, looking over at Gisèle Pelicot, he said he was ashamed “to have done bad to someone who seems so pure”. At his home, a list of 89 names of sexual partners were found. “I needed to count my conquests,” he said.

His current partner told the court she stood by him and visited him regularly in prison.

He said he was never supported or protected by his parents. He was bullied at school and once forcibly stripped in public by other pupils at high school.

Thierry Pa, 54

A former builder who turned to alcohol when his 18-year-old son died in a road collision, Thierry Pa was an inpatient on a psychiatric ward after suffering from depression when investigators identified him as allegedly raping Gisèle Pelicot several months earlier in 2020.

He had separated from his wife a few weeks before his alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot in July 2020 and had left his family home, saying he was unable to bear the photographs and memories of his son.

He said he had contacted Dominique Pelicot online for an encounter with a couple. He denied rape, saying: “I didn’t set out from my house saying: ‘I’m going to rape someone.’” He said: “I don’t understand how she didn’t feel anything, didn’t realise.” He said he thought Pelicot may have drugged him, and that he was manipulated and brainwashed by Pelicot.

His ex-wife told the court the alleged rape was out of character. She said she would like to get back together with him.

The court heard that Thierry Pa’s mother was an alcoholic and his father was often absent.

Adrien L, 34

Adrien L, a former building site manager from Carpentras, was convicted last year of the rapes of three former partners in a different trial and is serving a 14-year jail sentence.

He denied raping Gisèle Pelicot in March 2014. He said he had thought he was taking part in a game and did not think she was drugged.

Aged 23 at the time of the alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot, he is one of the youngest men on trial. He was educated at private school before joining his father’s successful building business, and was described as coming from a higher-income background than many of the other men accused.

He told the court that when he was 21 he discovered after a paternity test that he was not the biological father of the three-year-old girl he was raising with his girlfriend. He said from that point onwards, “I had a hatred towards women”.

The night he was alleged to have raped Gisèle Pelicot, his new girlfriend was nine months pregnant and gave birth 10 days later. He admitted to court experts that he had mistreated his pregnant girlfriend and called her a whore.

The court heard that he was sexually abused by a cousin when he was 10.

Jean T, 52

A former roofer born on the French Indian Ocean island of Réunion, Jean T was in a nine-year relationship when he drove two-and-a-half hours from Lyon to allegedly rape Gisèle Pelicot in her bed on the night of 21 September 2018.

He had made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom, where he used the name “Bill”.

He told the court: “I am not a rapist”. He said he thought Dominique Pelicot had drugged him. “I don’t remember anything,” he said.

In court, he recalled many details of the evening, including the house, the rules of undressing in the kitchen and seeing Gisèle Pelicot on the bed. But he told the court he had no memory of the actual moment of his alleged rape of Pelicot, and recalled only getting into his car afterwards when he drove home.

Judges observed that he had not appeared drugged in seven videos, in which he was active and gave a thumbs-up sign. He was asked why, if he feared he had been drugged, he did not report this to police. He said at the time he had thought: “It was a bad encounter, forget about it.”

The court heard he had regularly sought encounters with couples for more than a decade and had paid sex workers but “it felt dirty”.

Redouan E, 55

A former anaesthesia nurse in hospital operating theatres in Morocco, Redouan E lived in Avignon, where he worked as a community nurse.

He was married for the second time and in the process of adopting a young girl from Morocco. He was disappointed that the adoption process was stopped after he was arrested for allegedly raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on a Saturday night in June 2019.

Redouan E told the court: “I plead not guilty.” He denied rape, saying he was the “victim of a trick” and had been too “terrified” of Dominique Pelicot to say no. Confronted with video evidence of several alleged rapes of Gisèle Pelicot, he said: “I was terrified, but you can’t see it.” He said he did not leave because he feared that would ruin Pelicot’s Saturday night.

He said he had not known Gisèle Pelicot was sedated. Asked in court, how, as a trained aneasthesia nurse, he had not seen that Gisèle Pelicot was unconscious, he said he thought she was pretending to be dead “but never that she’d been drugged”, and he believed he saw her move.

Patrick A, 60

A former factory worker and video-club owner from the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, Patrick A admitted the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot but said he had taken part reluctantly because he was gay and had wanted an encounter with Dominique Pelicot, not his wife.

Patrick A met Dominique Pelicot in the online chatroom and they messaged on Skype, where Pelicot told him Gisèle Pelicot was a “prudish bitch who didn’t want threesomes” and said: “I’m looking for a pervert accomplice to abuse my wife, she takes sleeping pills and I take advantage.” Patrick A had replied: “OK.”

He told the court he had wanted so much to have a gay encounter with Dominique Pelicot that he was blinded by it and brainwashed. He said he raped Gisèle Pelicot “reluctantly” to “please” Dominique Pelicot. He questioned whether he may have been drugged.

“You are homosexual but you have committed a heterosexual rape, which you admit,” said Antoine Camus, Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyer. “In this trial we have already heard of rapes committed ‘by accident’, your specificity is to plead rape committed ‘reluctantly’.”

Patrick A apologised in court. He told the court he had known he was gay from his teenage years but sought to hide it from his homophobic parents. He married a woman, had two children and after divorcing at 43 regularly met men for sex in saunas and backrooms of sex-shops in the Avignon region, and truck-drivers in motorway laybys.

Didier S, 68

A former long-distance lorry driver and divorced father of two, Didier S said he went to Dominique Pelicot’s house ��exclusively for a homosexual encounter” with him. He denied the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot on 30 January 2019. He said he had thought she was pretending to be asleep.

In court, he said he had had no intention to rape Gisèle Pelicot and was simply following her husband’s instructions. “It’s not me you should be angry with, it’s your husband,” he told Gisèle Pelicot in court, trying to catch her eye. She turned away.

He lived a 20-minute drive away, had logged on to the chatroom at 8pm one night, and two hours later went to the Pelicots’ home.

Five years earlier he underwent bladder and prostate surgery for cancer and had begun meeting men. The court heard he was raped when he was 16.

Karim S, 40

A computer expert with two university degrees, Karim S denied raping Gisèle Pelicot on 27 June 2020. He is also charged with possessing child abuse imagery found on his computer during the investigation. He denied those charges, saying he downloaded the images “inadvertently”.

He told the court of the night he went to the Pelicots’ home: “I did not go there with the aim of committing a crime and I had absolutely no idea that Mrs Pelicot was not consenting.” Messages between him and Pelicot showed them discussing Gisèle Pelicot in crude terms, referring to her not being aware of what was going on. Karim S had been told that Gisèle Pelicot would be “asleep from alcohol and a sleeping tablet” but he said he had thought it was a game.

Dominique Pelicot, who told Karim he was a doctor, invited him back in August. Karim said he feigned food poisoning as an excuse because the June encounter had been “too bizarre for me”.

He grew up in Marseille and had moved to a picturesque village half an hour’s drive from Mazan just before the Covid lockdowns of 2020.

Vincent C, 42

Vincent C, a carpenter, was convicted of domestic violence against his ex-partner in 2021 and given a six-month suspended sentence. The court heard he had had an alcohol addiction since he was a teenager.

He is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on two occasions in October 2019 and January 2020. He denies rape. He admitted a sexual encounter but said he had had no intention of committing rape. He said he had thought Gisèle Pelicot would wake up.

He met Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom after a postcode search on the site to find people nearby. He tended to log on after his village bistro closed on a Saturday night.

“I was looking for sex,” he said, adding that he had not put much thought into it. He said he found the situation in the Pelicots’ bedroom “bizarre” but trusted the fact that he was “at a couple’s home, invited by the husband”. He said he felt no pleasure himself, but went back a second time because Dominique Pelicot had told him that he and Gisèle Pelicot had “enjoyed it”. Pelicot said Gisèle Pelicot had watched a video of his first visit and “liked it”, which for him, “closed the door on any doubt”, he said. He said he felt he had “satisfied” the Pelicots more than himself.

During his testimony, Gisèle Pelicot got up and briefly left the courtroom, appearing exasperated.

Jean-Marc L, 74

Describing himself as a former “international truck-driver between Paris and Baghdad”, the divorced grandfather is the oldest of the accused men.

He denied raping Gisèle Pelicot in May 2017. He said he had always thought that rape was “something violent … done by a madman, a brutal thing”, but that this had instead been a “sexual game”. He told the court he had only “obeyed orders” from Dominique Pelicot. He said: “She was going to wake up because it was a game.”

It was only after he left the house that he thought about whether Gisèle Pelicot had consented. He didn’t alert the police. “I should have done but it didn’t cross my mind.”

He said Dominique Pelicot, whom he had met beforehand in a supermarket car park, had told him he wanted to “punish” his wife for having had an affair in the past.

He said Pelicot asked him to come back another time “with a friend”, which he didn’t do, after mentioning it to another truck driver who said it wasn’t normal.

Jean-Marc L said he had often paid sex workers in Spain. “What truck driver hasn’t been to prostitutes?” he said in court.

Dominique D, 45

Dominique D, a lorry driver and former soldier, said he was contacted via the online chatroom in February 2015 by Dominique Pelicot, who said he was looking for a man as a “gift” for his wife “for Valentine’s Day”.

Dominique D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot on six different occasions. Police found video evidence of five visits to the Pelicots’ house, but he told them of one further visit.

He denied rape, saying he had not intended to rape anyone. He told the court: “I didn’t wake up one morning and say to myself hey, today I’m going to go to a couple’s house and commit a crime.”

He said that before going to the Pelicots’ home for the first time in 2015, he had asked to see Gisèle Pelicot and was sent a video of her taken without her knowledge as she left the shower. He also briefly visited the home pretending to be an electrician and saw Gisèle Pelicot reading on the sofa. He said he felt he had enough guarantees from Dominique Pelicot, adding “I just forgot one big guarantee – Madame’s consent.”

He is the youngest of 16 children and was placed in care at the age of six months.

Mohamed R, 70

Mohamed R, a former discotheque worker from La Rochelle who in 1999 was sentenced to five years in prison for raping his 17-year-old daughter, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in May 2019 at the holiday cottage of the Pelicots’ daughter, Caroline, on the island of Île-de-Ré in the west of France.

Mohamed R denied raping Gisèle Pelicot. He told the court: “I couldn’t imagine for a fraction of a second that Dominique Pelicot did that without his wife knowing.” He had been in contact with Dominique Pelicot via the online chatroom.

Dominique Pelicot was asked in court why he had drugged and raped Gisèle Pelicot not just at the couple’s own home but at their daughter’s holiday home, where the Pelicots often went with their grandchildren. The couple’s daughter and grandchildren were not at the cottage at the time.

Pelicot said: “There was no symbolism, it could have happened anywhere.”

Ahmed T, 54

Ahmed T, a plumber and former champion boxer married for more than 30 years with three children, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at the couple’s home in June 2019. He denied rape and told the court: “I’m not a rapist, but if I had wanted to rape I wouldn’t have chosen a 57-year-old woman, I would have chosen a pretty one.”

He was in contact with Dominique Pelicot on a chat room, saying that at the time he was having less sex with his wife and he “did not want a mistress” but thought “why not” have an encounter with a couple. He said Dominique Pelicot had referred to Gisèle Pelicot as “la bourgeoise”, saying she was away a lot in Paris and home at weekends. He said he had thought Gisèle Pelicot must have been shy, and that he had trusted her husband.

Ahmed T said he travelled to the couple’s home by car after his own wife had gone to bed.

Redouane A, 40

Redouane A, an unemployed, separated father of four who has convictions for domestic violence, burglary and death threats and has served time in prison, went to the Pelicots’ home twice in 2019.

He denied rape. He said he had asked Dominique Pelicot if it was normal that Gisèle Pelicot was snoring and had been told: “Yes, we like doing it like that.”

He described the Pelicots’ home as “a beautiful house in Provence” with a “well-kept garden”.

He said he grew up on a housing estate, began smoking cannabis at 10 and was the victim of sexual abuse at this age, by an old man he met in the park who took him to his van. He left school at 16.

The question was raised in court of a possible diagnosis of schizophrenia, with one psychiatrist saying he instead had a personality disorder.

Mahdi D, 36

Mahdi D, a transport worker and father of one from Avignon, is accused of going to the Pelicots’ home once in October 2018.

He denied rape. He placed the responsibility on Dominique Pelicot, who he said had presented himself online as part of a couple who wanted to meet single men.

Mahdi D said of Gisèle Pelicot: “One can’t imagine what she has been through, she has been destroyed and I have thoughts not only for that poor woman but her whole entourage and family.” He said it was “terrible” for him to find himself caught up in something like this.

Cyril B, 47

Cyril B, a single lorry driver who described himself as a daily consumer of cannabis, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home in November 2018. He was recorded by Dominique Pelicot in a video called “With Cyril from Carpentras.”

He denied rape and said he had been manipulated and was not capable of committing a rape. He said he was also a victim of the situation, as he had been duped by Dominique Pelicot, whom he had met on an online chatroom.

He told the court he had previously had encounters with couples he met via websites.

Cyprien C, 43

Cyprien C, a former lorry driver and father of one, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in her bed in Mazan in 2017.

He denied rape. During cross-examination, he accepted a sexual encounter had taken place and said he was sorry to Gisèle Pelicot but that he could “not say more than that”. He did not say the word rape, telling the court “I can’t say that it’s rape”, arguing that Dominique Pelicot had led him to believe that Gisèle Pelicot was playing a role in a game and “would pretend to be asleep”.

The court heard he grew up in children’s homes and foster families and later suffered from alcohol addiction as an adult.

#radblr #radfem #radical feminist #gender critical #radical feminism #terfblr #gisele pelicot

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bookwormjust · 4 months ago

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Surprising Him with His Favorite Food (established relationship with Cassian)

Cassian had been out all day, training recruits and dealing with the demands of his job, and you knew he’d come home sore and tired. So, you decided to surprise him with his favorite meal—something hearty and comforting to lift his spirits. The kitchen filled with the warm, savory smells as you cooked, your anticipation growing with every dish you prepared.

By the time Cassian arrived home, the table was set with all his favorite foods, the flicker of candlelight adding a soft glow to the room. You heard the door open and the heavy footsteps of Cassian walking in.

“Hey, love, I’m home,” he called out, his voice slightly tired but full of warmth.

“In here!” you replied, grinning to yourself.

Cassian appeared in the doorway, his eyes immediately widening as he took in the sight of the table and the aroma of the meal. “What’s this?” he asked, clearly surprised, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“I figured you could use a good meal after the day you’ve had,” you said, walking over to him with a proud smile.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression softening. “You did all this... for me?” he asked, his voice full of genuine awe.

You nodded, a little bashful. “Of course, I did. You deserve it.”

Before you could say anything else, Cassian wrapped you in a massive bear hug, lifting you off the ground as he spun you around. “You’re the best!” he exclaimed, his laughter bubbling up as he buried his face in your neck.

You laughed as well, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Put me down, or the food’s going to get cold!” you teased, though you couldn’t help but melt into his embrace.

He set you down gently, but his hands lingered on your waist, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips, lingering for a moment. “I can’t believe you did this,” he murmured, his tone filled with affection. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled up at him, brushing a stray lock of his hair back. “You deserve everything, Cass. I’m just glad I could make you happy.”

He gave you one of those big, radiant smiles, the kind that always made your heart flutter. “You always make me happy,” he said, his voice warm with sincerity. “But this… this is perfect.”

The two of you sat down together, Cassian immediately digging into the meal with an appreciative groan. “Gods, this is amazing!” he said between bites, his face lighting up with every taste. “You’re a genius.”

You laughed, watching him enjoy the food you’d made, his enthusiasm making all the effort worth it. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I love it!” he exclaimed, pausing to give you a playful nudge. “Seriously, this is the best surprise ever. I don’t think I can thank you enough.”

He leaned over, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “But I’ll definitely try,” he added with a wink, making you giggle.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of laughter and conversation, filled with Cassian’s constant compliments and his playful attempts to feed you some of his food. These moments—simple and domestic—were filled with so much love and warmth.

As you cleared the dishes together later, Cassian wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Thank you for always thinking of me,” he whispered, his voice soft and sincere. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smiled, leaning back into his embrace. “You don’t have to thank me. I love you, Cass.”

“And I love you,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your neck before holding you tight, both of you basking in the quiet joy of being together.

#acotar reader imagine #cassian x fem!reader #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #cassian x reader #cassian #acotar x reader #acotar #SoundCloud

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fanaticsnail · 8 months ago

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Just a short prompt idea for Garp: Either first Valentines day with him or first anniversary.

Bouquet of Red Roses

Masterlist here

Word Count: 1,300+

Synopsis: Your work day was interrupted by an open display of devotion from your lover, something you both agreed was for the best to keep secret from your colleagues.

Themes: Garp x f!reader, feelings, established relationship, secret relationship, domesticity, act of devotion, fluff, kisses.

Notes: I had this sitting in my ask box for a little while. Really felt like I needed to pay the Vice-Admiral some attention.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @nerium-lil @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @indydonuts @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

Hands racing atop the wafer-thin paper, and eyes darting over the finer printed words of the latest outlined information from headquarters, you barely noticed the uncommon presence of flowers being placed on your desk. You held up your index finger, continuing to skim over the words with a simple command to the person arriving at your desk.

“Just a second,” you informed them, lifting up your pen and scratching a few markings on your notepaper beside you. Withdrawing your hand from the air, you shuffled the papers and placed them within a manilla folder to get the outline ready for your boss in his office.

Upon floating your eyes up, you were immediately taken aback by the presence of your boss, Vice-Admiral Garp of the marine base. His smile drew up his face as he noticed your eyes meet his, his hand balling itself into a fist around the stems of the bouquet in his hands. Retracting his hands from your desk, and leaving the flowers behind in its wake, he stooped into a short nodded bow.

Immediately rising from your desk, you saluted the Vice-Admiral and stood at attention to receive a reprimand and formal scolding for your abrasive attitude towards a superior. All he offered was a soft chuckle in response, with him waving to the floor with his right hand and gesturing for you to halt your formal stance.

“At ease, officer,” he snickered with a wolfy grin. You laced your hands behind your back, square your shoulders in a swift rotation, and gulped back your anticipation. He shook his head, looking down to the folder on your desk and tilted his head to the side.

“This the list of new transfers and recruits?” he asked, arching his brow up and reading the titled page. You responded with a curt, “Aye, Sir,” and continued staring straight ahead. You met the eyes of his two proteges behind him, the pink-haired Captain offering you a soft smile, whereas the blonde-haired swordsman’s face remained stoic and vacant.

“Bogard already in my office, Lass?” he asked you, stepping around your desk to get a better look at the folder and your writing. With a swift, polite nod, you offered him another disciplined, “Aye, Sir,” in response. Garp smiled, nodding his head towards his office and making eye contact with Koby and Helmeppo, wordlessly ordering them through the doors to meet with Bogard.

As the two younger members left your desk and shut Garp’s door behind them, you finally looked down and noticed the bouquet of red roses placed delicately on your desk. Sprigs of baby’s breath, leaves of fine emerald ferns shot out amongst the soft opening of red bulbs of fresh roses. The scent wafted from your desk to the place you were standing at his side, your eyes once again depicted shock.

“Sir?” you asked, cocking your head to the side, “There are flowers on my desk.” Garp hummed in thought, leaning his hips on the desk and gazing lovingly at you from his position anchored against the wooden surface.

“Aye, so there is,” he admitted with a soft smile. He reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear, softly caressing your cheek and earning him an inquisitive smile from you in return. You swatted his hand away from your face and hushed your voice in a soft whisper.

“You said we weren’t going to bring this to the office, Sir,” you warned him with your soft scolding. His eyes held mischief with a soft gaze of love and affection. He collected your hand within his, looking between your eyes and softly flickering down to your lips.

“Aye, that I did,” he admitted softly, stepping closer to you and holding your hip with his unoccupied hand. He gently thumbed over your hip in a soft circle, caressing the joint raised on your waist and stepping closer to you.

“You said it wasn’t appropriate to openly display our relationship, Sir,” you tilted your chin away from him and warned him with your eyes, “Said it was unbecoming of an officer to be dating above their station. Showing favoritism, and all that.”

“Aye, I said that too,” he confessed, his eyes creasing up at the corners as he leaned down towards you and attempted to kiss you. You pulled your hand out of his grip and placed your fingertips over his lips to halt his descent.

“What changed, Vice-Admiral?” you pushed him a little with your hand, prompting him to smile beneath your fingertips. He pursed his lips under your hand, pressing a soft kiss against your fingers.

Circling his hand around your forearm, he began mapping your skin with his lips in a slow descent of soft, intentional kisses. Without further warning, he kept tracing higher and higher up your arm while watching your hardening resolve break from your face and your smile grew wider and less withheld.

He devoted his lips to bringing more of your smile to the surface, his mustache and beard tickling your skin and prompting you to giggle. Each of your soft laughs were as good as any trophy or medal he received in combat. His smile pressed into your skin, finally making his way up to the pulse-point in your neck and halting at that point for a moment beyond a simple touch.

“Can a man no’ spoil his wee bonnie on his anniversary?” he whispered huskily into your skin, shooting tingles up your spine and igniting a soft rise of goose flesh at the scruff of your neck. You finally gave in to his advances in the office, hooking your hands around his neck and drawing his face up to see yours.

Pressing your lips against his, you parted your mouth and gasped your desires in soft moans against his skin. He smiled at your display and snuck his tongue beyond your bottom lip and began to caress yours in a dance of passion. The surroundings of your office and paperwork slowly dissipated from your sights the longer your lips lingered together.

Upon pulling away, you pressed your forehead against his and closed your eyes upon impact. Drawing his arms over your back, he held you closely and slowly nuzzled against your skin.

“Happy anniversary, Lass,” he uttered softly. His cologne rose to your nose as he held you firmly against him. Brushing his nose lightly with yours, he collected your lips against his for a soft, chaste kiss with more passion than the last.

“Happy anniversary, Love,” you responded to him, looking up through half-hooded lashes to float your gaze over his scarred face. “Go to your office and leave me to sift through my reports.” He chuckled in response, giving your ass a playful slap in response.

“I din’nae take your orders here, Bon,” he smirked at your soft yelp at the touch, pressing another kiss to your lips before withdrawing his proximity, “Home is another tale entirely.” You gave his chest a gentle tap in response, earning you a huff of mock pain and his hand clasping over his heart.

“Ye’ wound me,” he chuckled, shaking his head and removing himself from his place by your side. “But I’ll take ye’ scolding,” he began making his move to leave your desk, your gaze floating to the folder still remaining on your desk.

“Garp,” you whispered, retrieving the folder and thrusting it forward into his hand, “Don’t forget this.” He gently took your wrist in his with his right hand, the folder in his left, and stooped to press a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“This is why I love you,” he whispered against your bones, rising from his bow and turning towards his office. Shaking your head, you move to sit back down at your desk and continue your work.

The bouquet of red roses brought you joy throughout your working day, noticing the world became brighter for you the longer the scent of florals lingered beyond the margin of your stationary. You could not wait to celebrate your anniversary with your love after your shifts both finished, both of you eagerly anticipating the events to come as the night fell into soft darkness.

#one piece #x reader #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #snail answers #ask snail #garp #monkey d garp #garp x reader #vice admiral garp #monkey d garp x reader #one piece fluff #f!reader

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gremlinmodetweeker · 6 months ago

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When König is Mad at You

Aha! I finally got a chance to clean up and post this! So here it is, the deluxe edition!

If you do something that König cannot let fly, he'll let you know. He doesn't show his feelings to many people, but if you're someone important and if you're important in König's world, then he'll let you know everything he's thinking (and I do mean everything). So have no fear, König will not keep dwell on anger and keep things from you. No he'll let you know.

Now, if should be known that König doesn't get mad at other people that often. Having been bullied through his entire childhood for the most minuscule mistakes, he's taken to giving others the benefit of the doubt. He won't snap at you for asking too many questions and he won't bat an eye if you accidentally break a kitchen appliance. If you lose something of his, he'll sigh tiredly but if it's replaceable, it's no skin off his nose. He can just get another.

Below the cut are the five types of people that König will get angry with.

Civillians: König is not going to go off the handle on someone in customer support. He's not going to yell at random people if they irritate him. He's a soldier, he can control himself. A petty slight will only hurt him internally. Externally, you'd be hard pressed to make him so much as bat an eyelash.

Recruits: If you're just a new recruit he's training, he'll let loose like a cannon on your ass. He'll scream and shout and hurl insults like you've never heard before. He's absolutely brutal as a commander. He's the type to loom over you and yell at you about an inch from your face. Bless his mask because if he weren't wearing it, you'd be coated in his spit.

Teammates: If you're a teammate and he's mad at you, you probably nearly got him killed. God have mercy on anyone who dares do such a thing.

Friends: If you're a friend, König will just be tired and try to talk through his issues. If you won't listen to him, then he'll get a bit loud, but he won't go so far as to insult you or try to hurt you. No he's just pissed, and that's scary enough as is.

You. Let's go into this a bit more.

When König is angry with you, he'll sit you down or bring you both to a quiet place. If there's no chance to talk, he'll wait until later. If he can contact you, he'll give you a text with his problem and ask you to talk on the phone (if it's not a major issue) or in person (if it's something massive). When he does get to talk to you, he won't raise his voice or fist, nor he will not break things or insult you maliciously. These are not the reasons why König's anger is so frightening.

It's his disappointment.

If König hasn't had a chance to think about his problems, he'll tell you he's disappointed and he'll tell you he needs a walk to think about what's happened. Please don't follow him, give him space. I promise you he'll come back soon. I know it's scary, but he'll always be back before dark. If you're fighting at night, he'll be back before you wake up.

Once he's returned, he'll tell you that he's upset, that he has thought about the incident, and he'll go over what he's prepared to do to make things better. He doesn't want to get mad and just leave it at that. No, that's stupid. He wants solutions. He's a military man who grew up in a functional household, he's emotionally mature. What he wants to do is sit down and talk through possible solutions until you both finally finds a satisfactory plan of action.

König won't hurt you. However, he very well might nearly bore you to death with his lecturing. This man is so pedantic that it's painful. When you have an argument, it's more like an official public debate than it is a domestic dispute. He avoids making personal attacks and he'll stick to what he believes his truth is, and listen to your every word. He doesn't like drama at all. He just likes solutions. So really, having an argument with him is more like sitting down with a guidance counsellor and going back and forth.

He has boundaries though. If you start throwing insults at him, if you scream at him or start threatening him or those he cares about, he'll tell you to come back to him when you're calm and then promptly leave you alone for a bit. Once you've calmed down, you can try, try, try again. He won't tolerate you verbally abusing him. He understands distress, but attacking him is not something he will tolerate. If you are verbally abusive, he will leave you completely.

König will not tolerate you trying to physically hurt him. If you try, sure you can't hurt him, but it's a betrayal of his trust that he won't stand for. He'll kick you out almost immediately. He'll kick you out of your own home until he's packed his stuff and he'll leave. Don't try to make him stay, it won't work. He will not tolerate abuse, and he has many ways of leaving and disappearing if you try to come after him. So please, don't try to abuse this man. He will not tolerate abuse.

This said, I'm pretty sure everyone here can agree that abuse is unacceptable, so I think we're all in agreement that we won't intentionally hurt this sweet sweet man. He is far too precious for that. Instead, let's all agree to talk calmly and civilly, so we can be rewarded with head pats and forehead kisses.

König is the best at comforting people after an argument. He won't hold things against you, and instead he'll offer to do something nice to put things behind you both. He'll hold you tight and tell you everything will be better, and you know what? It will be.

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collapsedsquid · 2 months ago

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Opus Dei is hypersensitive to bad publicity. With one exception (which Gore covers at length), it has avoided major sex scandals. But it has taken three hits in recent years: the financial scandals mentioned above; recruiting underage (i.e., fourteen- or fifteen-year old) adolescents, which many parents understandably view as too young to sign up for a lifetime of sacrifice; and several lawsuits by the Work’s “numerary assistants.” These are generally young, poor, and uneducated women in underdeveloped countries who are recruited to serve God by maintaining the houses and buildings of Opus Dei. They are trained in domestic arts, given housing and spiritual direction, and in return work up to twelve hours a day cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and other chores. They are not paid, and they have no retirement accounts or labor contracts. They take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, so even if they had any money and could speak the language of the country they’re working in (they often can’t), it would be a hard life. Those who try to leave and ask for help with the transition are told that they have not actually been working for Opus Dei but for one of the countless anonymous entities set up to own its individual buildings, which has no further responsibility for them. Lately some of the women have been fighting in court and in the media for restitution. Opus Dei has been resisting. If the judges in these cases could see some of the breathtakingly expensive furnishings at the organization’s headquarters in Rome, they might be moved.

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honestsycrets · 1 year ago

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hi sy! first things first, you’re a fantastic writer. i am in LOVE with your western series! second, may i request an idea? it’s the 1920s, and miguel is one of the top mobsters in nueva york, while the reader is his mob wife. after an attempted hit from one of miguel’s rivals that nearly kills her and gabriella, the reader decides it’s time to her and little girl to skip town, but miguel will be damned if his family tries to leave him. cueeeee angst, drama, the whole shabang!

canary I: a threat | [miguel o'hara x reader x gabriel o'hara]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader, gabriel o'hara x reader

❛ type | double shot; 5k

❛ tags | non-monogamy, some angst, 1920s inspired piece, irish clan inspired piece, bootlegging and mention of hits, explicit, a depiction of killings, some jealousy, some trad-roles elements, f!reader, 1920s slang and Spanish not translated, time period birth control (cervical cap).

❛ sy’s notes | i have spent weeks staring at this piece. it's a bit longer than my usual works and for that reason i decided to split it up into two chapters. this piece takes on a little bit more of a generalized irish mob approach rather than italian. this chapter is more domestic than the subsequent one will be.

Miguel O’Hara hated it when his kills ran. No matter how many alleyways they ducked into, shoddily constructed fences they tumbled over, or crappy cars they tried to hitch a ride in, he always found them.

His fingers were blisteringly tight around his kill’s throat, sure to leave certain bruising if the man made it out alive. He wouldn’t. Not based on the blood that seeped over Miguel’s tanned hand. He gurgled underneath Miguel’s hand, the kill messier than he imagined. Any number of his hitmen could have carried out this contract but instead, his crisp white top was slathered in the contract kill of the week. He recalled the sudden memory of his hand on your slight waist, the kiss on the top of your head with the promise of his night. He snarled the memory away.

Should’ve just shot him, Miguel thought. Mierda.

With the fading of the man’s life, his choked grunts drifted into silence. Miguel allowed the man to slump over. Silence fractured, his world bursting with sound. The salt-laden wind whistled past his hair as ships sailed into the pier, carrying cargo, and his latest shipments. Bootlegged booze had its own benefits-- poor training and numbers among agents, for example. A crackle of an engine sped down the road was followed by the bright beams of an electric headlamp.

“¡Oye, Miguel!”

Of course. Under the bright moon that shone arrogantly in the dark sky, the figure came into focus. His polished suit was just a tad too big for his toned, but hardly muscular frame. Even in the darkness, he had the kind of smile that made people feel like they were the special ones. It matched the gentleness in his eyes behind that swoop of chestnut brown hair. If the feds published men of their color on army recruitment posters, he’d certainly make the cut. Handsome, but not too handsome. Strong, but not too strong.

“Gabe,” he breathed. “The lights.”

“Lights? The lights!” Gabriel looked back at his shiny black car. He bounced back toward the car, bellowing. “This a Spot boy? You did a number on him.”

“You sap. Could you be any louder?” Miguel threw aside. “Why are you here?”

“Thought you could use me tonight, big shot,” Gabriel said in that sugar-dipped tongue of his. It works less on Miguel than it had on you. It was oddly discomforting. As the days wore on, he loathed his brother’s silver tongue.

“I could use someone watching my girls.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I was. They're sleeping." Gabriel booted the man, more than minced meat when Miguel was done with him. “You had some beef with him, huh?”

“No.” Miguel mumbled, looking at the man’s body rather than his own, something sharp hovering there. There was nothing he wanted less than to stand in the biting cold listening to his baby brother prattle on a moment longer. He wiped his blade on his once-was-crisp slacks and slid it back into its sheathe. “Let’s hit it.”

“Jake,” Gabriel said, an annoying rendition of an okay. Gabriel was full of shitty terms from his stint in the big house. Almost as many as he picked up at Miguel’s speakeasy.

“Say. Miguel?”

Gabriel’s voice was soft, almost strained. Miguel caught his eyes, knowing subconsciously what his brother would say. He sucked in a breath to calm himself from a reaction to thin, sharp words. They balanced on the point of a knife as Gabriel spoke them into existence.

“They're our girls.”

This setup wasn't going to last. One day, you'd probably settle with Gabe. Miguel jerked up to the sensation of your fingers ghosting his chest, twiddling around his inky black chest hair, gliding across scars. He senses the source of his disquiet, your small frame draped over his side, watching him with a foreign curiosity.

“Muñeca?” he murmured sleepfully, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “What's it? Did Gabriel sleep in?”

He finds it hard to believe that his chirpy brother would do such a thing. Mornings were notoriously his favourite part of the day. Unlike Miguel, who shunned the light that streamed in from your thin curtains.

“Coppers took him in for questioning,” you murmured, leaning in to lay a small peckish kiss on his lips. That was quick. His eyes swept down to your lips, lingering there as you spoke. “Gabi said you’d come with me to iglesia.”

“Chingado. He passed the buck onto me.” Miguel groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow, weighed down by such a stupid request. You thumbed the golden necklace he’d forgotten to take off, gliding one of your legs up his hirsute thighs. He finds himself hiking your leg higher up his thigh. “That’s what you woke me up for?”

“‘Course not,” you muttered. “I missed you last night. Where’d you go off to?”

“To finish intake.”

You didn’t believe that.

“Promise it didn’t have nothing to do with what Gabi got carted off for?” He holds you in a working gaze, something that tells you he isn’t about to answer something like that. You are his woman. Yet, some secrets aren’t ones that he’s willing to disclose. It could put you in a compromised position. Most men, namely the Italian boys, had enough sense not to drag a man’s family into problems between the mob and the clan but in this world, not everyone had sense.

“Miguelito, you’re scaring me.” Your breath quickened, palpable with your chest against his. His large hand encompassed the middle of your back, guiding small, consolatory circles.

“Some things you’re better off not knowing,” Miguel worked at an explanation. Some things like the amount of hits he was getting for Spot boys. The booze going missing from the speakeasy. Some of his girls licked off the street. Just-- some things. “Got it?”

“Long as it’s not another dame,” you mumbled, fisting his necklace around your fist, dragging him forward for emphasis. A smile tugged at his lips, somehow pleased with your response. “What? You been out the house more times than not.”

“I share you with my brother,” Miguel worked the back of his neck. “Better that I skip town than hear you moaning for him. Might hem him up one of these days.”

You laugh-- but Miguel doesn’t find a lick of it funny.

“You got me now,” your hands drifted up to Miguel’s massive shoulders. “How ‘bout this. You fill me all up for church, wear that spiffy dark blue suit. Then we take Lyla out to get her some cherry coke at the apothecary’s. Maybe I’ll even sing you a whole song today if you’re lucky.”

Church, again. Miguel rattled a groan. Of course, he couldn’t have one day off from frateurinizing with people who hated the fuck outta him. Church folk. He didn’t know why you insisted on going with people who openly called you loose.

“Can do without one of those things.”

“If you want me, you go to iglesia, Miguelito.”

West-Side Violence at All-Time High! Italian Enforcer found dead! The West clan’s Gabriel O’Hara facing added charges on suspicion of--

Tch. You interrupted the scowl on his face with a well-placed kiss to his cheekbone, sliding a piping hot mug of Joe before him. Wafts of steam warmed his cheeks. You set down his morning’s breakfast, a plate loaded with fats. No tamales today, but baked beans from a few well-established Irish wives in the area. You wiped your greasy fingers off on a dirtied apron. Miguel stabbed a hunk of sausage as you spoke.

“Gabi’d never do that. They’re trying to hem him up like that capo last month,” your voice quaked, strutting back toward the cabinets. “It’s too personal. He’d… fill ‘em up with lead sure, but a stabbing? It just don’t make sense.”

Sure didn't. Miguel dropped the paper to the side of the oak table, tracing lines of worry that grew into spiderwebs of panic across your forehead. You spoke so feverishly in defense of Gabriel, whose absence was palpable. He often talked about the latest hired singer, sneaking behind your waist for kisses on your nape when Miguel could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning after pulling all-nighters.

“I have someone on it.”

“I bet Papa did it.” His daughter-- or Gabriel’s-- they were never quite sure. He glanced to his foot where Lyla sat. A full seven-year-old, Lyla was a spitfire of a thing, her hair in a bouncy bob topped by a silky ribbon. She glanced up from the dreidel she was spinning around and around. His lips pulled into a minced smile. “What? He’s a liar.”

“Miguel.”

Couldn’t even eat in peace.

“Lyla,” Miguel gestured toward the door. “Go wake up Maeve. Go on kid, get.”

That kid had a smart mouth. He watches her roll her eyes, only budging when you supply her with a hunk of pan dulce. She takes a mean bite, eyes locked on Miguel as she hopped out, somehow less bothered than she was a few seconds ago. You closed the metal door behind your daughter, a hand balled up on the bend in your waist as you watched her skip down the stairs and out of view.

“Most girls don’t talk like that about their papas,” you mumbled. Your arms crossed one over the other for support. “Does she hate him that much?”

“Most girls don’t grow up in the life.”

“Mi culpa.”

With his breakfast all but spoiled, Miguel pushed the plate away. His hand was soft on your waist, nose burrowed into your hair, tracing the notes of jasmine and rose, vanilla and sandalwood. The scent was unmarred by the stench of speakeasy smoke so early in the morning. Your hand came over his, steadying yourself from the rushing thoughts by leaning into his touch.

“I need a girl at the speakeasy tonight.”

Unlike his brother, Miguel’s requests rarely offer a tone of choice. It rolls off his tongue dry and hits your ear like a spike. Nothing about your relationship with Miguel was easy-- it was marred by the rivalry among the brothers-- and as you suspected-- interloping from your grandfather.

“Y Lyla?”

“Maeve is her nanny.”

“How can I step in there without Gabi?”

“He’d want you to. And I want to see you out of this dumb apron.”

“It isn’t dumb,” you pursed your lips, somehow more convinced despite your reservations. Most days, you spend the day in the house-- isolated from any life you came to Nueva York for. Any half-formed excuse that was on your tongue flopped. He nearly has you. “It is right dumb, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. What happened to my canary?”

“She met a pair of terrible brothers who don’t care for pulling out.”

“Don’t blame me.”

He pushed himself against your back, twiddling your fingers against the pantyhose that clothed your thighs. A smile tugged on your lips as Miguel leaned over to kick the front door shut, dipping onto his knees. It wasn’t often that he allowed you to ruin his perfect face before work. Today is a special treat.

But… if you thought back, you really should have.

Took a long time to get any mail from the island. Almost impossible.

In your hands is a sloppily penned letter-- You should be married to one of those boys-- your grandfather. He isn’t stupid enough to think that you’re opening this for the first time tonight, here and now, right in front of him. If you’re ‘reading’ it, you must be wanting him to take a hint. Miguel bent down, placed a kiss on your temple, gliding his hands over your own to place the letter onto the vanity.

He used those very same hands that were meant for maiming against the clasp of a set of pearls around your neck with gentle precision. His fingers coursed along the curls at your nape as he clasped them together.

“How long before your set?”

“Half an hour… maybe.” You stood to face him, pursing ruby-red lips, whispering in his mother’s tongue. He never liked it when his mother barked at him in Spanish, but when it's off your tongue, he knows how sweet it could be. Your hand inched its way over his chest, tracing the fat knot against his throat.

“What’s the issue?”

“I don’t-- feel very perfect. You have all these shebas out there--” women who not only knew how to sing but weren’t terribly mottled by stretchmarks or burdened by the eviscerating effect of motherhood. They’re beautiful, free canaries when they sing in his speakeasy. As much as you loved singing-- you felt shy on that ruby-red stage lately, before a dozen ruby tables and the hopping band.

“They’re to bring in the sugar.”

“Uh-huh, bring in the sugar until they take you away.”

“I’m satisfied.” Miguel took a step up, communicating the way he knew how, by settling his large hand over your jaw. His strong hand glided to your chin, urging you to look him in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere. Tied me down with Lyla as it is.”

“Words are just words. Why buy the…”

“Cow if you can get the milk for free, sí, I know what your grandfather says.” He slips into your chair. “Què quieres?”

“I don’t know, Miguelito. A promise. A marriage. Algo.”

“You want me to wife you up? Don’t remember ever talking about this.” He gestured you to come closer. You stepped up, knocking between his legs. Miguel’s gaze falters, chasing the glint of your tassels as they come to a stop.

“What’s the issue?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d ask Gabe.”

“Gabe gets around.”

“You believe those rumors.” You slap his large hands groping up your thighs, climbing over his lap like it was your throne. His massive frame eclipses the chair, suppressing your comparatively smaller frame. “And don’t think I do?”

“Do you?”

“No,” he laughs. Or, not recently. It’s hard being a father-- harder when he has a whole ass business to keep on top of. Most women wanted those things: jewels, a new pair of silk knickers, and a home. “If that’s what you want, you got it.”

“Oh Miguelito,” he suckled your neck, drawing horrendous marks to the surface. Marks of his ownership in the absence of a ring. He hears the pleased hum of your voice, low and sweet, and knows that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.

“I haven’t put in my cap,” his fingers danced across the outside of your thighs, slipping past your stockings to your silken shorts. He slotted his fingers underneath the fabric, grazing his fingers through your neatly kept curls. Your breath came in deeper bursts as he melded his hand over your vulva, expecting you to grind back on him. You did, ever so eager for him.

“Don’t bother me with that,” he said in a low, husked voice. “You know how I feel about your birth control.”

It was your idea, primarily. Gabe was ever too content to simply be with you-- he didn’t need a large family like the rest of Miguel’s Irish clan. Four, six, sometimes more. Unlike Gabe, Miguel wanted the exact opposite. You shifted over his thigh, obeying his desire to have you ride him. Miguel urged your hips down, working his thumb over the precious button as you did. Miguel’s leg trembled up against your slit, bursts of warm friction warming your hungry body. With his slacks freshly cleaned, you worry about soaking them, soaked in lubricant as you were.

“Come here,” you surrendered a soft moan to him, leaning forward now, less to ride his thigh than the bulge in his slacks. He does not quite care for the idea of ruining himself inside the confines of his pants, but if you want to feel him, he has no reason to deny you. You’re wonderfully spoiled, juddering your hips over him like any whore walking the streets in exchange for a coin or two. What he’d give to have this to himself.

It donned on him-- he could have it to himself. This time, he’d be certain of who the child belonged to. He adored his Lyla, though his irritation with her quips was ever palpable, this-- right here, the ability to fill you and be certain filled him with fat hunger and possessive need to burst into his slacks.

“Stop-- Muñeca-- stop,” Miguel tipped his head back, gathering his focus by digging his hand into your hair, stopping you immediately. His harsh grip loosened, followed up by loosening the button of his slacks and shoving them below the curve of his ass. His cock slapped your silken shorts, beads of his desire dripping from his cockhead. “Take those off. I’m finishing inside.”

“Miguelito,” you slipped onto shaky feet, enough that Miguel could force the shorts underneath your dress to the floor. “We agreed that babies would be--”

“You asked to be my wife. Ain’t this what wives do?”

“I know bu-- not there, deja, let me,” you stopped. His cockhead clumsily poked here and there, until finally, your hand guided him properly. Your mouth fell into a hazy moan when Miguel’s cock shoved forward, breaching your cunt with a snap of his hips. You seated yourself back onto his fat cock, reminded of the absence of your cervical cap in your cunt.

For all your talk, you ached for him, dipping your intertwined hands down to your mound. The rhythm was as sloppy as whatever singer was on stage right now, her voice giving way into a distinct crack. Whatever-- if it bought him more time to properly seed you, he didn’t mind.

He buckled forward as you clenched down upon him, holding him prisoner deep in your body. Liquid soaked his slacks-- and Miguel huffed, puffs of hot air warming your back. That was going to be fun to walk out in. His wife’s cum soaking his crotch.

“Hold still. It’s almost showtime,” Miguel’s voice was thin, his hand splayed on your waist as he used you less like his woman and more like a toy for his pleasure. It didn’t take long for Miguel to find a proper rhythm, his muscles flexing against your back. You were preoccupied as it were with the pain of Miguel’s teeth sinking on your shoulder, spiking hot as his pleasure crested. Soon enough, you felt his warmth fill your core, your head lulling back against him only after his thrusts ebbed.

“Don’t clean up, go on stage leaking.” Miguel held out his hand for you to take, allowing you to pull your shorts back up your ass, nestling his leaking cum in the fabric. It helped ease the anxiety of having you on stage, somehow, to see you in such a state.

“When you knock me up, you’re telling Gabi. I... can't.” You told Miguel, smoothing your dress over your shorts. There was a nervous flush in your eyes-- shame, he placed the emotion. He scrubbed the smile from his face. He had at least a few weeks.

“Sure thing.”

There was a certain delight in seeing you dressed up in that little black dress, all bright red lips, and sultry song. Not that you didn’t look tasty in that stupid apron you wore not to dirty any one of the pretty dresses you wore to church-- like you weren’t a heathen for warming the bed of two O’Hara boys. The people knew it. The church knew it. Damn well, the town knew it.

“Pal, that’s her on stage,” went an Italian boy. An allied family through nothing but contract killing and coin, he was safe here for the time being. One little lapse in a contract could shake it all. “That’s their kitten.”

“She married?”

Miguel turned his gaze back to you for a long moment. Your warm, sweetly lidded words slipping off your tongue, making his mind sluggish and relaxed after a long day. He captured your eyes, minding how your hands fell to the tasseled ends of an already short skirt, daring to expose your skin obscured by pantyhose to the crowd. You knew the game, how far you could lift your skirt without your would-be husband jumping his cage.

“Don’t be goofy. Miguel’d get sore if Gabe tried. She has ‘em both around her finger. Has a kid by one of them. No one knows whose. I got my money on--”

Stupid kids.

“Kid, I’m gunning for another.” Miguel cut the boy off, eyes crinkling at the edges. Something in the way you moved on stage reminded him of Lyla’s pregnancy, perhaps the glitter in your eyes when you met him at his table, instead of backstage, holding his large hands in your own. Some sparkle in your eye, a ginger announcement in his ear. Half elation, half… something else. Something, not quite fear, swirled in the boy’s eyes. Miguel watched with a keen interest as the boy flushed.

“Right on, big shot.”

Miguel brought his cigarette to his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed and his mind wander to the past. He should have known you were hands-off from the moment Gabriel wouldn’t beat it with the idea of adding another girl to their speakeasy.

The best time to tell Miguel about his new girl in the speakeasy was when he was in a good mood: catching any bootleg thief put him in a good mood. Not that he was particularly partial to grey matter and blood spraying him like a fresh pinata, but… he was more partial to money in his pocket and a good reputation. His boys cared for much of the violence in the West of this shitty little town.

“You hired a new girl?” Miguel repeated, drawing a long hit of his cigarette with blood-smattered fingers.

“Spanish girl. Like us. We don’t have a Spanish girl in this joint.”

“Gabe. Most of our clients are Irish. They don’t speak Spanish.”

“You should see her Miggy. She’s got this angelic little face,” Gabe whacked his elder brother, his grin growing ear to ear. There it was, his baby brother got blinded by his dick again. “When she sings you-- well, you get all twisted up.”

“Angelic face,” Miguel mumbled under his breath, tapping excess off of his cigarette. For the price he paid his girls, she had better have the face of Mary herself. The last few Gabe had pulled were mistakes. Some drug-addicted. Others whose husbands always caused a mean stir. He drags his hand down his face, weighing the costs. “She another dumb--”

“She’s Daniel’s littlin’. You remember Daniel? Taught you how to use a kn--”

The sigh that sat in his chest dissipated like vapor, perfusing into his tissue. Miguel looked at the paper Gabriel set in his blood-tinged fingers. He rotated it, gave it a look with his tired eyes. Talk to Gabriel. That old man knew just what Miguel would have said: get your ass back on a boat and go home to whatever rinky-dink island you foolishly sailed off of for this shitty city.

“Lemme see her sing.”

He doesn’t pay attention when Gabriel introduces you onstage for the first time, focusing on the paper ledgers Peter arranged for a review. Unlike his Italian connections, he don’t mind mixing it up with the Jewish boys. They’re twice as smart on the books and twice less likely to be hauling in trouble. Bootleg booze was one thing— the opium, the heroin, the cocaine, and morphine another. It packed too much heat from the coppers.

He hadn’t meant to look up.

It didn’t occur to him that you could have a sickly sweet voice, tempered by the rich Spanish on your tongue, only rivaled by those beautiful looks. His abandoned ciggy threw smoke into the air. He slumped back into the chair with a heavy thud, unclenched his tense jaw, and listened to a siren’s song that felt both familiar and distant all the same.

You had the sort of eyes he swore he’d met before, despite knowing he’d never seen a face like yours around. He’d remember sinking his teeth in that delicate neck that sat under pearls that he supplied most of his singers for their performances. His eyes hungrily cantering down your tassel dress. Not one he provided, no, he knew most to all the pieces in the back. There was a simple beauty in the gown.

You were trouble. He caught your eyes with an intent expression and expected you to blush and look away. You smiled. He wasn’t sure if it was for him or Gabriel, who flicked a grade-A smile, and a twiddling wave of your little fingers. He wants to feel them scratching down his back.

“--anyone home? Miggy? Miguel. Don’t tell me you’re already stuck on her.” Gabriel teased, elbowing Miguel in the arm. “You are! Told you she could sing.”

“Pipe down.” He jammed his ciggy in the dish.

“Sorry.”

He watches you a moment more, the slide of your legs to the tune of the band. The way your laugh resonated through the speakeasy when a patron stumbled onto the stage for his take on some stiff-legged swing. Most women would push them off, look to him for help in the swing, but you ran with the twirl the drunk led you into. He hated to admit that Gabriel was right. Among all the girls in his speakeasy, you brought a lightness to the life of a drunkard he’d not seen in a while.

“Gabe,” he mumbled, standing up and whirling his suit jacket over his broad shoulders.

“Yeah?”

I told’ja so, Gabriel’s voice sounded in his head. He could already feel the stiff annoyance that would be Gabriel’s fist connecting with his shoulder. Why did Gabriel have to know him so well? Miguel spoke with an undercurrent of annoyance.

“Let’s keep her.”

“You don’t gotta tell me twice.”

A hail of loud pops ruptured his sweet, distant memories. He reaches out to snatch his gun from the table, settled between the fresh flowers he plucked for your show. For an instant, his world wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t sounded out by the deafening assuredness of a kill, but very real panic under the singled out by the shrill of your scream.

They're going to push up on us, Miguel told Gabe. He never did take anything outside the speakeasy seriously.

Except tonight, there was no Gabriel. Miguel clasped his hand around his gun, whirling for the source of the flame. The barrage of gunfire is put down as quickly as it began. With a host of Irishmen in the bar, he should be so unsurprised. One of the Italian kids slumped over on his table.

There’s blood-- a lot of blood. Hysterics bound all around, some soothed by their partners or friends. The other Italian boy just stares-- lips slightly apart-- jarred by whatever horror was before him. Miguel finds it hard to believe that he hasn’t seen worse. Others burning his ears like the morning sun in his eyeballs every day you forgot to pull the curtains closed.

“God damn it, Peter.” Standing there is the scrawny little devil of a bookmaker himself, smiling cheesily.

“Hope that’s a good god damn it.”

He shoved his way from the tables, numbing out the complaint of the Italian boy. You were long since gone, probably a good thing that you weren’t here, that’s for fucking sure. It’d been the first time since Gabe’s incarceration he managed to drag you out of there and now… you were somewhere, undoubtedly frightened. Maybe even hurt.

“Boy, wonder who this kid crossed. Say, about Gabe, I got good news--”

He seized a chair, flicking it past Peter, a sure hiss for him to shut the fuck up about his baby brother in the can. Peter put his hands up reflexively, tracing Miguel’s rising shoulders.

“She ran to the back.”

The slender hallway down to his office is cold, only illuminated by the occasional pull-pin light bulb swinging overhead. He came here most days that he wasn’t on shift, taking a hit, or caring for his boys. Keeping track of everything was the best way to stay ahead. And even still-- he missed something from one of Spot’s boys.

You didn’t bother to close the door, balled up in a corner of his small office. He has a glorified cot for a bed in a corner, a heavy desk that nearly killed Gabe trying to hike it down the stairs years ago, and a rack stuffed with any number of books.

“It’s me,” his voice filled the room. You peered up from behind your arms, wrapped around your knees. What a stupid oversight, he thought, whoever was in charge of the damn door let someone in that was… going to be a problem. He was good with Lucky’s crew. Now he was gonna have to pick up that wired phone and tell him some kid was dead.

Your heels scratched across the ground, scooting back to the cool wall. You weren’t hurt-- just, sort of shocked. Maybe being conned into church with you panned out somehow.

“Muñeca.”

“That ain’t… ever happened with Gabe before.”

Gabe. Dy by day that he heard his brother’s voice, it became more of an annoyance. It wasn’t fair to make the comparison-- Gabe caring for most things that went on in the speakeasy, Miguel caring for interpersonal deals and security. With Gabe away, he’d not… it didn’t matter.

“It won’t happen again.”

“If Lyla were here--” You’re a shark-- going after the one thing you knew would hurt. The little girl back at home who he went to great lengths to make sure was safe. She was… his, even if he felt was his brother’s, putting more salt into an ever widening sinkhole that was his irritation.

“She wasn’t.”

“But what if she was?”

“Cállate,” he barked.

“Fine, I’ll beat it. You can holed up all alone down here like you like to be, you-- you-- big lug.” You recoiled for an instant, before forcing yourself up, rubbing at heavily fallen tears in your pursuit of the door. Your cheeks were kissed by raw agitation, all pink and in any other situation, beautiful. Miguel swayed to catch your elbow.

“Discúlpame,” he murmured, a rare apology if you could even call it one to begin with. There was a long pause, and he wondered if you would be upset with him for the rest of the day. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He knew he made it damn hard not to.

That was the thing about Miguel. He made it hard to get close, but even harder to leave. No matter what he did, you wanted to stay there right by him-- because he was the complicated brother. The one who… well, hell, you wanted to be about. Gabe was good and easy, your Miguelito was…

“Dios mio, Miguelito. This hinky stuff ain’t happening again. Or-- Or I’ll leave you both. Take Lyla right back to the island I came from and marry a man who isn’t in wrong with the police.”

You should have known the day that you gave birth to his daughter that something like that wasn’t going to happen.

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x reader

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zepskies · 2 years ago

Text

Break Me Down - Part 8

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter! It made my week. 🥰 I truly thrive on hearing back from all of you — it gives me the fuel I need to finish this story!

(And it's rapidly becoming a beast lol.)

Word Count: 6,000 Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, mentions of past domestic abuse/trauma, PTSD, hurt/comfort, fluff, and a (small) cliffhanger.

Part 8: Something In the Way…

It was three more rounds before he finally let you sleep.

Or rather, you couldn’t help but drift off. Ben had said he would help you sleep, and in his words, a promise is a fucking promise.

After you’d scarcely recovered from the first round, he’d taken you from behind in your bed. You’d repaid the favor by dropping to your knees for him in the shower, after which he’d propped you up against the bathroom counter and ate you out with his talented tongue until you really did see fucking stars.

But he’d gotten what he wanted; your voice reverberated his name off the bathroom walls with superior acoustics…

And when you next woke up, to your surprise, Ben was still there. He was sitting up against the headboard and watching a nearly silent TV while he smoked a blunt.

“What time is it?” you muttered.

“Around 6 a.m.,” he replied.

For God’s sake. He had to be tired by now.

You rubbed at your bleary eyes and turned onto your side. For a moment, you just stared at his profile, wondering what the hell you were going to do if Butcher and the rest of your team actually found you.

“Go back to sleep,” Ben said. He glanced over at you after blowing some smoke. A smirk started to curve his lips. “Thought you’d be knocked out until noon.”

You too, if you were honest. Your insides felt like warm jelly.

“What keeps you up if even last night can’t tire you out?” you asked. Ben didn’t answer you. He faced the TV again and took a long drag of his blunt.

Slowly you sat up, wincing at the soreness in your muscles, in your legs, arms, and between your thighs. Your entire body felt like a bag of stones, but it was a good ache. A thoroughly sated one.

You managed to sit up next to him and reach over to lay a tentative hand on his chest. It was warm, even with the ceiling fan and AC on full blast above you. He briefly looked down at your hand, then at your face.

“What’s it really like?” you asked, before your inner filter could catch up with your brain. “The new power the Russians gave you.”

His expression changed from relaxed to tightening around the edges.

“They didn’t give me anything,” he said, puffing away.

You read between the lines of that statement, surprised that he was even that honest about what he went through in Siberia.

They carved it into him, you realized. Like a wound he couldn’t heal from. Without wanting to, you remembered the CIA files you’d studied about his imprisonment.

“Did it hurt?” you asked, moving your hand down to the center of his chest. The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched humorlessly.

“Nothing fucking hurts me,” he said. His voice was flat, and matter-of-fact. But he didn’t even look at you.

Maybe he didn’t want you to catch the lie in his eyes. But as curious as you were, you didn’t want to push too hard. Not for the first time since you got here, you realized that you weren’t really sure what you were doing.

During the day, the two of you had your own lives. You swam in the pool, trained yourself in the gym, and read in the garden. You played cards with Loco and Saul when they had time for a break (from whatever it was Soldier Boy had them doing).

And over dinner one evening, Frank even told you that his daughter was fifteen going on sixteen, and sweet as pie, but she could get an attitude real quick.

“You remind me of her sometimes,” Frank remarked.

You scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Frank’s answer was merely a wry raise of his brow.

You just rolled your eyes and carved into your steak. Simone’s cooking was in rare form tonight.

And at night, Ben invaded your room like it was his own.

You couldn’t help but let him in, and into your bed. You were frankly surprised that he hadn’t gotten bored of you now that he’d gotten what he wanted.

But apparently, he felt the same way as you…that one taste was just not enough.

Like now, while the radio played on the nightstand. And he had you naked and writhing beneath him on the bed.

One of his hands rested below your ribs, holding you down while his head was caged between your thighs. Your knees were squeezing his head like a grape, but of course, all he felt was encouraged.

Your moans were getting higher, more keening as his tongue worked inside your hot core. Meanwhile, his thumb circled and pressed at your clit relentlessly.

Your grip threatened to pull out a chunk of his hair, your leg wrapping tighter around his neck. “Ben…goddamn it…”

“A little busy right now, sweetheart,” he teased, taking a beat to nip hard at the inside of your thigh. It had you bucking against his chin with a gasp. His gaze raised up to yours, dark and filled with desire between your legs. Sweaty locks of his brown hair were falling over his brow.

Though you were panting for breath, you managed to sweep his hair away from his dewy forehead. His eyes traced the path of your hand, but he stared back up at you again.

“Tell me what you want while I’m still feeling generous,” he demanded. Two of his fingers found their way into your entrance, a placeholder for his mouth. “I’ll fucking finish you just like this, have you coming apart on my tongue—”

You were surprised he was giving you a choice at first. But you saw his intentions in his eyes—he wanted to fill you up regardless. His dick was straining hard against your thigh, and your core was pulsing with need anyway.

“Want you inside me,” you panted, though not without a cheeky smile of your own. “Almost as much as you wanna be in me.”

Ben smirked and wiped at his mouth and chin. “Yeah, fucking right. You know how hard you’re squeezing my goddamn fingers right now?”

He twisted said fingers inside you, making you utter a strangled sound. His smirk deepened, but he withdrew them just long enough to line himself into your entrance and slide right in, with little resistance as he bottomed out.

You clung to his shoulders as you shuddered at being entirely filled to the brim. You still weren’t used to that feeling—of being consumed from the inside out.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, “so fucking tight.”

You squeezed around his hips with your legs, digging your heels into his ass. Your hold was desperate, but Ben just braced himself above you.

“For god’s sake,” you blurted. “What’re you waiting for?”

Even he was breathing harder now, maybe more from restraint than exertion. His smirk was devilish though. “What’s the magic word, baby doll?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Ben rocked against you a little, but not enough to give you what you wanted. Just enough to drive you insane. On some level, you had to admire his restraint.

“Fucking say it,” he said, his gaze firming. “Unless you want me to leave that pretty pussy on fire.”

You had a hard time believing that one, considering he was the one who couldn’t seem to go twenty-four hours without getting some. But you were just desperate enough in this moment to oblige his demands.

You hooked a hand behind his neck and pulled him down to crash your lips into his. You licked into his mouth and bit sensuously on his bottom lip. He rumbled a deep, pleased sound that you felt in your chest.

And you felt his hand spanning the small of your back. Your fingers once again dove into his hair.

Eventually you spoke against his lips, “Please. I fucking need you…”

His lips twitched in satisfaction. But he read the sheer wanting in your eyes, and the bit of vulnerability in your voice. Like you hadn’t been taken apart quite like this before. Or maybe it had really been that long for you.

Whatever it was, this seemed to matter to you. The way you responded to his every touch, the way you demanded from him, was incredibly fucking hot.

So he was more than willing to help you make up for lost time.

Ben licked his already wet lips and guided you back down. He actually put his all into fucking you. Not only were you the hottest piece of ass he’d had in a long time, but it was a point of pride for him.

He wanted to be the only one you remembered—the one who’d turned you inside out and made you forget that you were supposed to hate him.

Because yeah, he was that fucking good. And you were worth the effort.

He held you tight enough to bruise as your release hit you in waves, sending hot tingles all over your body and making you freaking light-headed. Your tightening inner walls around his cock brought him along with you, and he spilled into you with a straining grunt.

Once he’d pulled out and slid onto the bed next to you, an exhausted sigh fell from between your lips. But Ben turned to you with an almost boyish grin.

“You mentioned something about the new Bond movie,” he said.

You blinked at him, for a moment uncomprehending. Then you had to laugh. “Yeah, I said that an hour ago. Then you all but tackled me onto the bed.”

He shrugged and turned on your TV.

“Put it on while I wash up,” he said, tossing you the remote. You had a feeling it was because he still hadn’t gotten the hang of the apps on smart TVs. You sent him a narrowed look, but you found Skyfall on Netflix.

“It’s not new, exactly. New to you, maybe,” you quipped.

“I already know it’s not gonna be as good as Connery, but I’ll give this British asshole a try,” he said from inside the bathroom.

“You will, huh?” you asked with a grin. “Didn’t think you were into that sort of thing.”

“What?”

He finally came back out, still buck naked, and returned to your side on the bed. He gave you a quirking brow.

“Never mind,” you said with a chuckle. You went to the bathroom to clean yourself up too, then dragged on a large shirt over a pair of underwear. By the time you returned to the bed, Ben had gotten a bowl of popcorn and, of course, a large blunt.

You knew he was self-medicating. According to Butcher and Hughie, the guy had been suffering from PTSD big time…well, you hadn’t needed them to tell you that.

Even though your interactions with him before now had been somewhat limited, you knew that he couldn’t sleep. He boozed and drugged hard, from what you’d seen of his hangovers in the morning.

The rest of it, he tried to keep a tight lid on. A byproduct of the bygone “never share your honest man feelings” era. Butcher was another one. But you were perceptive enough to see that Ben was hiding.

You were still curious though; still wanted to know what it was he hid behind stoicism and lust. And what then?

“I’ll give Hollywood one thing. The stunts and effects are fucking incredible now,” Ben said. He was glued to the car chase on the TV screen. He was almost like a little kid, his eyes lighting up with every explosion and seemingly impossible move James Bond made to evade his enemies.

It had been a while since you’d seen this movie, but then it dawned on you that there was a certain erotic-ish scene between Bond and the villain, Raoul Silva, that you weren't sure of how Ben would react.

You shook your head. Another consequence of him being from a much different time, along with his outdated views on gender roles, among other things.

No matter how frustrating he could be, you reminded yourself of the night he helped you cook. And the night he saved you.

He could change, you reasoned. Maybe. With the proper motivation—

A shootout with a machine gun on the screen jolted you a bit, interrupting your thoughts. You reached over to the bowl of popcorn in Ben’s lap and grabbed a handful. But when you heard his breathing shallow, you glanced at him and frowned in concern.

His gaze was on the TV, but his eyes were glazed over, slightly dilated. He was sitting very still, and he looked pale.

“Ben,” you tried, with a tentative hand on his bare chest. His skin was hot to the touch, and clammy with sweat.

“Hmm, what?” He turned his head towards you, but you he wasn’t really hearing you. His gaze ran through you, and above your head.

“Ben,” you said, more firmly. You kneeled next to him, grabbing his shoulder for leverage, and grabbed his face to turn it towards you. He blinked down at you.

Your name fell from his lips, almost like a question. He wasn’t able to focus on you though. You called his name again and took his face with both hands.

“Wherever you are in your mind right now, you’re here with me. Stay with me!” You raised your voice. His skin was getting really hot.

You gasped and had to let go of him when it threatened to burn you.

His chest started to glow and hum. Your eyes widened, and finally, so did his.

Ben pushed you away from him and knocked you clean off the bed. He managed to angle himself with his chest upwards, just in time for the nuclear power in his chest to carve a huge hole into the ceiling, through the entire roof of the mansion, and up into the sky.

Afterwards, Ben slumped, taking in ragged breaths and wiping sweat from his face. But then his eyes widened with realization. He looked over and saw you prone on the floor.

He slid off the bed and went to you, dropping a knee at your side and reaching a hand to your cheek. He called your name once, then twice. When you didn’t wake up, his hand hesitated, then moved to feel your pulse.

He felt it thrum beneath the pads of his fingers. You were alive, just knocked the fuck out for a bit…

So he eased you into his arms and slid your hair away from your face, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he was worried.

Not until you roused in his arms did he let out a subtle, relieved breath.

He gave you a crooked smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You groaned. “What the hell…”

Your beautiful eyes opened and met his.

“You with me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” though you winced at a nod. Your gaze shifted behind him and a soft gasp fell from your lips. Ben glanced over his shoulder, and the two of you looked up at the giant hole in the ceiling that was letting the bright glow of the moon into your bedroom.

There was a mess of debris and wood and plaster all over the room. Even you and Ben were covered in a fine layer of it. He was avoiding your gaze now.

But you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at him.

You just sighed and offered him a smile.

“At least now I have a window in here,” you joked. “Was getting stuffy as hell."

That night, you slept in his room. You practically drowned in his large, plush bed that smelled like his cologne and aftershave.

Though you hoped he didn’t expect you to stay here from now on. As much as you were starting to like him (and you still didn’t want to admit that fact), there were times when you needed your privacy.

By the time you woke and started your day, however, Ben led you to a new room. It was bigger, with nicer furnishings, including a king-sized bed instead of a queen. It was bigger than your entire apartment back home in New York.

“Wow,” you said, turning to him with a smile. “Thank you.”

Though at that point, you knew Stockholm syndrome was real.

Ben shrugged, returning your smile a bit. “Got twenty more of these. No big deal.”

“Right.” You raised a brow, then turned to survey your surroundings with your hands on your hips.

He’d insisted on carrying all your things himself (likely due to an old-fashioned sense of machismo-backed chivalry), even though the room was on the same floor as your old one. It was much closer to his, you noticed.

Then you felt his hands snaking down your sides from behind, molding to the curve of your waist. You felt the warmth of his chest through his clothing as he pressed against your back.

“Time to break it in,” he said, with the deepening turn of his voice that too often made your insides quiver and melt into goo.

“Do you ever get tired of fucking?” you quipped. Though it lost its effect somewhat when you leaned against him, all too willing.

Ben chuckled into your ear. “Take it as a fucking compliment, sweetheart. Your pussy is the sweetest I’ve had since before I went under.”

That made you pause. You turned in his arms and looked up at his face with a challenging brow. You wondered if he was just sweet-talking you (his version of it, anyway), or if he really meant that shit.

“Don’t believe me?” he asked.

“You’ve been plowing through hookers and escorts for months. Professionals,” you pointed out. “You don’t have to lie to me just to butter me up.”

“Why the fuck would I lie about some stupid shit like that?” he retorted. You frowned at him.

“Because it’s not stupid,” you said.

You pushed his hands from you and turned away, but he held you fast by your wrist, pulling you back toward him. You frowned in annoyance at his manhandling.

“What’s the real reason you hadn’t fucked anyone in three years?” he asked. Though it was more a demand than a question.

“Why’re you so hung up on that?” you asked. “It’s no big deal.”

“Why are you so shocked by what I said?” he countered. He was giving you a choice: answer one question, or the other.

You let out a frustrated breath and waved your arms in exasperation.

“I was busy, okay?” you said. “Vought had me on tough hours and shitty details. I didn’t have time for a life.”

And after the things you’d seen, you didn’t much feel like interacting with people, be they supes or normal humans.

“That’s not the real reason,” Ben said. His fingers held your chin so you couldn’t look away. In the deep green of his eyes, you saw the same curiosity that plagued you.

Maybe…maybe if you gave him an inch, he’d give you one.

Metaphorically speaking.

“I didn’t like who I was,” you confessed at last. “I just…I don’t know. Nothing felt right back then. It just took me a while to finally do something about it.”

He seemed to consider that, and you.

You took the opportunity of his distraction to extricate yourself from his grip, and you ventured further into your new room. Your eyes lit up when you found an old record player sitting on a dresser, and a basket full of vinyl on the floor next to it.

“Wow, seriously retro,” you said with a chuckle. But you knelt down and started flipping through the collection. Ben followed you. With his arms crossed, he looked over your shoulder at the record you fished out. Abbey Road by the Beatles, 1969. You placed the record and set the needle at a specific song.

The drums kicked off into a familiar electric guitar melody. Then John Lennon’s voice echoed through the room.

“Something in the way she moves, attracts me like no other lover…”

Nostalgia flooded through both of you, albeit for different reasons. For you, it reminded you of your grandpa (on your mother’s side). He’d dedicated this song, “Something,” to your grandma on their 50th anniversary. He’d made sure you played it again a year later, at her funeral.

Meanwhile, this song always reminded Ben of fingerfucking Farrah Fawcett at a Beatles concert. Ah, the ‘70s. A wild fucking time.

“Good choice,” he remarked.

You flashed him a smile.

And with a sigh, you turned to sit against the dresser while the record played. You pat the ground next to you, and while Ben looked reluctant, he eventually sat down beside you. It seemed he had nothing better to do.

“I dabbled in music myself, you know?” he told you, with a smug raise of his brow. “Had a few hits on the charts.”

You grinned in amusement. “Yeah, I had to muck through every one of your cheesy-ass music videos.”

“Hey, every one of those fucking singles were gold.” He shot you an indignant look. “What, had to?”

“When I was researching you,” you said with a chuckle. He raised a brow at that.

“Oh, yeah?” He rubbed a hand over his beard and met you with a critical eye. “What else did you dig into?”

You met his eyes, and you knew he had some idea of what you were thinking.

Ben let out a breath through his nose, craving some reefer.

“Ah. That, huh?” he said. After a moment to gather your courage, you took a breath.

“Ben—”

“It’s not worth fucking talking about,” he said, a bit of grit edging in his voice.

“It is if you’re still blowing craters into ceilings, Ben,” you replied sharply. “Do you even remember what happened yesterday?”

His steely silence was all you needed to know.

“Look, I’ve gone through some shit too,” you said. “But forty years? …I know I’ll never completely understand what you went through, but—”

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” he said. His eyes were sharp, but also guarded.

You couldn’t help it. The footage you watched was playing inside your mind in perfect scenes. You remembered the sound of his desperation, his struggle. And it had been all-too familiar to you.

“Maybe,” you agreed. “But I do get having shit that flashes behind your eyes, like a bad movie. Things you can’t forget. Things that won’t even do you the mercy of letting you sleep.”

Ben was reluctant to meet your eyes, as if even that small thing would be an admission of weakness. But when he did, you knew he would see a kindred spirit.

“Things that clog up the works,” you continued. You wet your dry lips, swallowing past a tendril of nerves. “And things that should be easy get…complicated. Like watching a movie, or…”

You had to take in a somewhat shaking breath, turning your face away.

It allowed Ben to look at you a fraction softer. His mind was able to flash away from some of the past, to a more recent memory: the first time you’d pulled him into your room and let him into your bed.

You’d pleasantly surprised him a few times that night, but there was one moment where he hadn’t known what to do next.

When he saw panic instead of pleasure take over, and however briefly, he’d wondered if he truly was the monster everyone seemed to think he was.

So now, Ben couldn’t help but reach out to you. The back of his hand touched your neck. Your eyes widened a fraction when his thumb brushed down the column of your throat.

“What happened to you?” he finally asked. He seemed more than just curious. There was more behind his eyes, and enough earnestness for you to consider trusting him with this part of you…

But still, you were reluctant to give him that big of an inch.

“It’s only fair,” he pointed out. “The CIA gave you the full low down on me.”

Once again, you sighed. Can’t argue with fair.

You rested you head back against the wooden dresser as “Oh! Darling” started to play from the record. Now didn’t feel like a particularly good time for a doo-wop, but such was your reality.

“I told you about my dad, right?” you said. Ben inclined his head.

“Something about the family business.”

You nodded. “He trained me. How to read people, how to fight…but he was the first one we had to defend ourselves from.”

Ben considered that with a deepening frown. He’d had an idea this story was going that way, but hearing you come out and say it (even without really being able to say it) just made him angry. His hands clenched into fists where they rested at his sides, on the ground. Until something you said called his attention.

“We?” he repeated. You nodded again.

“My mom, and my younger sister,” you said, with a tremulous breath. “He was a drunken bastard for most of my childhood. I was about thirteen when he put my mom in the hospital, and it was…bad.”

You swallowed past a lump of emotion in your throat—mostly at the guilt. If it hadn’t been for you, and your weakness, your mom wouldn’t have needed to intervene. She wouldn’t have had to try to protect you…

“From there, my grandparents got us out of that house,” you said, with a suspect sniff. “Mom finally divorced him.”

Unfortunately, the story didn’t end there.

By the time you were in high school, your father had gotten through his court-ordered rehab and managed to get his life back together. He built his P.I. firm back up, and by all appearances, he seemed to turn his life around.

He convinced your mother of it enough that she let you work for him after school.

You hadn’t wanted to, but your father had a way of manipulating you too. He reminded you that your grades were shit (I fucking wonder why?). You had little chance of making it to college, so at least he could teach you a trade.

“I’ll even pay you,” he’d said. And you’d taken the bait.

He’d been unrelenting in your training, as he was in most respects. As a former Marine, he was rigid in his discipline, demanding perfection from you.

However, when he felt his lessons weren’t being drilled into your head, he reinforced them with his calloused hands.

And when Vought came to him, offering him a contract, he negotiated one for you too, without even asking if that was what you wanted. But you went along with it…until you couldn’t anymore.

“I finally broke contact with him when I left to join Supe Affairs,” you finished, quickly wiping a tear from your cheek. You glanced over at your captive audience with slight hesitation.

Ben looked stoic on the surface, calm even. But you didn’t know that it had taken every cell of self-restraint in him to stay quiet. Your red, shining eyes, the way you’d had to stop a few times to collect yourself—it all grated on him in the worst way.

“Christ on a cross,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. “Why the fuck did you work with him?”

“I told you. I was a kid—”

“No, I mean when he got the fucking deal from Vought,” he said tersely. “You could’ve split. Found yourself a husband, got your own life. Why the fuck would you sell yourself out like that?”

Your lips pursed. “First of all, I don’t need a husband to have my own life. Second, I’m not the only one here who worked for Vought.”

Ben huffed. He wanted to call you a fucking idiot. He wanted to say, See? This is why you need a real fucking man in your life.

But with daddy issues this bad, you’d probably fuck that up too.

“Answer the goddamn question,” he said instead, though none too gently.

You gave him a soft glare. Didn’t he realize how hard it was for you to say all of this aloud, let alone confide in him?

But now that he did know, maybe he’d be more likely to open up to you. You would be able to understand him better, and maybe…maybe one day, you could convince him to let you go.

So you felt you had no choice but to answer his real question.

Why the fuck did you follow your father to Vought?

The truth was, that man had a way of getting into your head, living in your skin, and making it crawl.

“He’s a manipulative bastard,” you said.

He knew how to work you, just like your mom. And your mother was…well, damaged. You knew you couldn’t rule yourself out of that one either.

However, the thought did spark your own curiosity.

“What were your parents like?” you asked.

The question seemed to surprise him. His frustration with you melted into a more uncertain frown. You bumped his shoulder with yours.

“Come on. It’s only fair,” you teased. A smile lifted his lips, but his eyes became rueful.

“She was a good woman,” he replied, speaking of his mother. “Quiet maybe, unlike you.”

You smiled in amusement at that.

“But elegant,” Ben said. The softening edges of his smile told you volumes.

“She didn’t grow up with much, so when she married my father, she learned how to live in his world," he said. "But she still cooked and cleaned and pretty much ran the house, even though we had people to do that shit.”

“How did she meet your dad?” you asked. You knew his father’s family was from old money. He’d inherited his empire from his father before him.

Ben glanced at you. “She sang at this club…a nice one though, not some fucking dive. She wasn’t the star or anything, but my father noticed her. Said she was the only one who could pull off red lipstick without looking like a whore.”

That made you roll your eyes, which provoked an amused grin out of Ben.

“Charming,” you remarked. It must’ve really upset the old apple cart when his father married his mother. You wondered how she’d felt about Ben becoming Soldier Boy…

“Doesn’t sound familiar?” he asked. "Pretty girl in red, croonin' for a bunch of assholes in a musty fucking club?"

At first, you were confused.

And then, you realized the reason for his not-so-subtle grin. With an incredulous blush, you supposed that you and Ben had met in much the same way as his parents.

Well, that’s not creepy at all, said the more rational part of your brain.

…Or maybe, weirdly romantic, whispered the other part. The part that had probably caved after you watched Ben try and fail to chop onions for the first time.

“What was your favorite thing about her?” you asked.

“You know, all my pictures of her are in black in white…I don’t even remember what color her eyes were,” he admitted. “But I remember her voice. Smooth as warm butter. She’d hum with the radio whenever she cooked. If Dad wasn’t there, she’d belt out a tune or two. I’d sit in the kitchen and watch.”

Imagining that scene made you smile softly.

“Her captive audience,” you teased. Ben took it with a quirk of his mouth.

“What about your dad?” you asked. He turned to you with a knowing look. You both knew what the man had thought of Ben. But you wanted to hear it in his own words.

“My father was a stern man,” he said. The softness was gone, and your smile fell. “This kind of larger-than-life force when I was a kid… Of course, when I became a man, he didn’t consider me worth the fucking effort. Not even when I became a hero, and everybody in the fucking world knew my name, he couldn’t admit that I’d fucking surpassed him.”

You sighed. More than anyone, you understood the underlying resentment in Ben’s tone. The kind of young recklessness that pushed him into becoming Soldier Boy, trying to prove his father wrong.

“He thought you cut corners to do it. And while he wasn’t wrong,” you said, as gentle as possible. You held your ground when Ben looked sharply at you. “You didn’t deserve to be ignored either.”

Ben scoffed at that, as if he didn’t give two shits one way or the other. You knew better.

So the two of you kept talking, sitting there on the floor long after the record finished. You traded stories and bickered as you often did.

But when you managed make him laugh, genuine, hand-on-chest, and almost boyish, you had to try and stem off a blush as you felt a pleasant flutter in your belly.

“It’s been two fucking months since you lost him in Colombia, and what do you have to show for it?” Grace Mallory said into the screen of her cell phone. FaceTime was only glitching slightly, at least.

On the other side of the looking glass, Butcher was annoyed.

“He’s like a coil of smoke,” he said. “Pulled a motherfucking Houdini act. I have half a mind to think he’s gettin’ some help. Other than the ex-military cunts he recruited on the road.”

Grace thought for a moment. “Give me five minutes.”

Butcher hung up before she did. With a purse of her lips, she searched for another number in her contacts. Some personal assistant answered the line.

“Get me Stan Edgar,” she said.

“Well, he’s actually in a meeting right now—”

“Now,” Grace snapped. “Unless you want a CIA squad storming the tower for withholding evidence.”

In less than thirty seconds, Stan’s familiar monotone greeted her.

“Good afternoon, Grace,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“You fucked up, Stan,” she replied, resting back in her office chair. “This doesn’t bode well for you.”

“To what matter are you referring?”

“You know exactly what. I’m going to ask you this once,” she said. “If I don’t get a straight fucking answer, I’ll have no other recourse but to rake through your records all over again. And we both remember how pleasant that was.”

“We’ve done nothing but comply with the government’s demands.”

“Right,” Grace scoffed. “Listen to me. If I find out that you’ve withheld information about Soldier Boy’s location—or even so far as helping him evade my grasp—I will dig so far up your ass, you won’t be able to fucking breathe.”

There was a pause on the other line.

Eventually, however, the little toad spoke.

“You’ll have the coordinates shortly.”

Grace’s mouth curved with a grim smile, and she hung up.

Meanwhile, in his office at Vought Tower, Stan sighed and turned to his Chief of Security, Jon.

“Should we send them the comprehensive list of Soldier Boy’s safe houses?” he asked.

“No. Just the one in Colombia,” Stan said. “But Jonathan, it is time for our contingency plan.”

Jon met Stan’s gaze with a nod.

“I’ll give the order.”

AN: 😬 Welp, things are going to start getting bumpy from here lol.

Next Time:

His frown deepened the moment he saw you, which you didn’t quite understand.

“Ben,” you said, even though it was an effort to do so. Every breath was like a hot knife cutting deeper into your side.

Your eyes closed at the pain, and at tears that burned down your cheeks. It also cut through the brain fog enough for you to realize this was bad.

It was very bad.

Keep Reading: PART 9

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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thedovesaredying · 1 year ago

Text

Monsters in the Dark | Nikto x Reader | Cowboy AU

Prologue

Introduction to my fic set within the cowboy AU created by @ghouljams for our dear boy Nikto. This is just a quick starter piece to set the scene for the fic so to say. Also decided to include Sputnik since I don't see many fics including the precious baby!

A/N: Obligatory note that I do not condone the owning of dangerous or wild exotic animals as pets regardless of a country or state's laws. Exotic animals require a large amount of knowledge in their husbandry and specific requirements to ensure the highest standard of welfare is maintained. They should never be treated like domestic animals, they do not make good pets.

Warnings: Discussion of Serious Injury, Limb Amputation.

Masterlist: CoD Masterlist

Next Part

Nikto had been waiting for death to greet him throughout the entirety of his career. It was simply an inevitable fact of life both in the military and working as a mercenary for hire. People died constantly at his sides, and it quickly became a question of “when” and not “if” the final string would be cut and his body would fail him for the last time.

There were days when he almost wished for the reaper to claim whatever remained of his empty heart. Torture was tolerable, an old friend at this point, but the months and years of recovery afterwards were what really felt like suffering.

Alive, and yet completely useless. A fractured mind trapped within an equally ruined body.

The only thing he could look forward to was getting back to work once his body was finally strong enough to pass medical approval. Tedious as the waiting game could be, he wasn’t stupid enough to push himself beyond his limits like some honour-hungry rookie. No, he waited and saved his strength for when it would one day be needed, for the days when nothing but sheer willpower can save his pitiful soul.

And yet despite his many brushes with death, he had still yet to be taken by it, even when by all rights he should have been. Death yet remained a stranger.

But why? Was his mind too corrupt and darkened for even the devil to want to touch? He had never believed in any God, but surely there was one looking down on him and mocking his pathetic existence. How else could he have survived an injury that should have killed him?

He could remember little of the mission, only the sounds of people shouting orders, the potent scent of smoke and chemicals in the air, and pain. Certainly not the worst pain he’d experienced in his life, a blade to the gut still had the honour of that, but close to it. He was fortunate that the concussion he’d received had left him drifting in and out of unconsciousness for most of the trip back to base.

His arm was fucked. According to the doctor and the reports from various other operators present on the mission, his elbow was bent in a way it definitely shouldn’t have been, and there was enough shrapnel in the remaining flesh that he might as well have lopped the whole thing off entirely.

Which is exactly what the doctors ended up doing.

It was their last resort, but with the complete lack of feeling in the limb coupled with an infection that just couldn’t be stamped out no matter how many antibiotics they pumped into his IV, it was necessary. They tried as hard as possible to save it, but necrosis had set in, and the safest course of action was to remove all damaged and dead tissue.

He still wasn’t sure what would have been worse, being taken out by sepsis, or dealing with his current existence.

And what a miserable existence it is.

KorTac wanted to keep him on – surely, they couldn’t just let a wild beast like him roam free without a firm hand on his leash – but there was very little they could offer for him. Stay with the PMC and become a glorified guard dog? Train bratty little recruits? Sit behind a desk pushing papers nine to five? No, that would destroy what little grasp he still had on his sanity.

That was how he ended up standing on the rundown porch of a house that could be described in a single word as dilapidated. It was cheap but came with enough land for him to not need to worry about nosy neighbours. He’s so far lacked the motivation to do anything to try and restore the building, but it has four walls and a roof, which is more than can be said for some of the “safe” houses he’s utilised over the years.

He’d been lucky to discover the place at all with how small the town is. A passing comment from a fellow soldier about the region had caught his attention and, considering the impossibility of returning to Russia, he’d decided to look into it. America was a massive continent, and in the US he wouldn’t be questioned for owning weapons. Even better? This particular state allowed him to continue to keep Sputnik without suspicion.

The old man who had been selling the house had been sympathetic after he’d played the whole “injured veteran” card and had even offered him a reduced price for the property. It still sickens him to think about how weak he must have looked in that moment, but needs must, and what he needed was a place to call home, even if only for a little while.

One terrible accident and he’s reduced to begging for help like a stray dog wanting scraps.

His irritation has the hand of his prosthetic curling gently into the fur of Sputnik’s pelt. All it can do is open and close around things to allow him some form of grip, but it works, and he supposes that’s all that matters. His girl doesn’t seem to care that it’s not a flesh and blood hand petting her, leaning into him regardless.

She’s the centre of his current predicament and the reason he’s been forced to reach out for help. No amount of puppy dog eyes and wide grins sent his way are enough to save her from a trip to the vet. Or rather, a visit from one.

He waits patiently as a large car rolls down the gravel road that leads to the small house from the property’s front gate. Sputnik whines as it draws closer, before beginning to laugh with nervous excitement. The moment the vehicle pulls to a stop she moves to investigate, but is quickly stopped with a barked, “МЕСТО!” command from Nikto.

Sputnik huffs, unimpressed with not being allowed to greet their visitor, but settles for sitting at the top of the stairs while her master approaches.

In all honesty, Nikto had been expecting a grizzled old man or woman with decades of experience under the belt when the receptionist had promised to send someone with knowledge of exotics. What he wasn’t expecting was... you.

#writing #fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #reader insert #call of duty nikto #nikto x reader #cowboy au

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ravenclod · 5 days ago

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kyomadosaya [ 🍎🎀🐟 ] hcs so i can recruit more people to my agenda :

fyi thse hcs apply to like an aged-up domestic life lol. maybe ill come up with current day ones if u guys want?! ^<^

begins as love triangle for 🎀 with 🍎 and 🐟 falling in love throughout and 🎀 being down bad for them both since the start

share a 2 bedroom flat, 🐟 banished to the small bedroom which is really an office at best. 🎀 and 🍎 have the actual bedrooms <- 🐟 gave them the 2 rooms, claiming she "preferred the smaller space" [ she didnt ]

🍎 cooks 🐟 cleans 🎀 organises

🎀 is very affectionate and often initiates contact everywhere once she got over her embarrassment, incl hugs, handholding, small touches on the face etc, LOTS of little kisses

🍎 is very clingy at home, shes practically glued to whoever is closest, but grumbles if you dare hold her hand in public

🐟 doesn't initiate often, but accepts any affection without complaint, and often slings arms around her gfs shoulders and/or high fives them.

🍎🐟 frequently play competitive videogames [ fav is smashbros ] and 🎀 often cheers them on, acting as damage control

🍎 often wins fighting based rpg games

🐟 is a rythym player addict

🎀 is very good at strategy, and can absolutely destroy you in mariokart

🍎🎀 go to art galleries together, while 🐟 has baseball training [ they sometimes visit her when theyre training but they complained abt being embarrassed so they stopped coming as frequently ]

🍎🐟 go on morning jogs [ 🐟 gets 🍎 up ] while 🎀 sleeps in and then makes breakfast for them

🐟🎀 read books together, and 🍎 listens to their rants [ she has no fucking clue what theyre talkikg about ]

sexuality/gender hcs just cuz !!

🍎 - lesbian, she/her but bro does not gaf

🎀 - sapphic, ace, she/her

🐟 - bi, she/they, demiromantic

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downbaddetective · 6 months ago

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Next one because I can't stop thinking about this AU now:

Charles-Markl, a sorcerer in training under the tutelage of "The Cat King", who specializes in magical disguises and pocket dimensions (biggest successful one currently is a "bag of tricks")

Crystal-Calcifer, a fire demon currently magically tied to "The Cat King" due to a deal turned curse

Monty-Turnip Head, a missing prince from a neighboring kingdom, cursed to be a scarecrow (because I think that's hilarious)

Niko-Lettie/Martha (taking a little from the books for this one), one of Edwin's only friends before he disappears, Niko goes to learn magic from another witch (hi Jenny) to see if she can find her dear friend

Cat (Meatball?)-Heen, a lazy spy for the Night Nurse turned semi domesticated house cat

Esther-Witch of the Waste, kinda self-explanatory I think

Night Nurse-Madame Suliman, "The Cat King's" former teacher currently employed by the kingdom to recruit magic users to the war or remove power from those who won't

Part One | Part Two

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randomfoggytiger · 5 months ago

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React: A Late-Canon Reviler Gives the Revival a Try (Weremonster), Part III

Here we go, first comedic episode of the Revival.

…Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay…

Part I (My Struggle I) and Part II (Founder's Mutation).

Let's go!

MULDER AND SCULLY MEET THE WEREMONSTER

Why are we starting with adults huffing spray paint.

…Darin wrote two episodes with people getting high off of the strangest substances.

And that’s not a lot, but it’s odd that it happened twice.

Why do monsters always run towards the people or object or whatever they’re trying to scare or escape from? Like, what if he got surprise-shanked by two high, high school dropouts? (It’s not out of the realm of possibility.)

No self-preservation instinct, tsk tsk.

This dude’s okay, no that dude, woah that dude might not be okay.

…Random paper bag for the high man to stress-blow into.

Oh, look, a writer remembering the lore.

How quaint.

(Sidenote: Darin did not remember the lore, and kinda prided himself on not keeping up with all of it. But that won’t matter to me if he writes a good one-off.)

Mulder’s older now so he can’t stretch his neck to throw pencils at the ceiling. I guess. I suppose. I supposition. I presume.

Kumail’s in this one?

…’Kay.

“Mulder?” Yay, that’s Scully-- “What are you doing to my poster?” And that’s Gillian.

Mulder’s recounting all his failures in an upbeat, presentational way ‘cuz he’s wooing his girl. At least neither of them act like they’re on the precipice of death, that’s neato.

Oh, look, Scully can smile. Remember how she did that twice in My Struggle I? Good times.

Why’s her shirt look like it’s from Walmart?

Forgot this… pencil-scratch material was popular around the mid twenty-teens.

Can I forget it again…? …No? Do they leave it behind in Season 10?

“--Going through these cases with fresh, if not wiser eyes.” Well, I don’t know about that.

Also, is that a dig at his “wiseness” or a tongue-in-cheek joke at Mulder’s pat-on-the-back nature? (Lemme rewind.) Backpat coupled with epiphany.

“Mulder? Have you been taking your meds?”

…

….

…..

What, did they expect a laugh out of me? It just annoyed me because of the whole “Mulder’s depression” trauma I suffered for two episodes.

But at least Darin’s trying to remind us that’s an on-going issue (despite CC implying it doesn’t bother Mulder anymore in My Struggle I and Morgan?-- or Wong-- reinforcing that idea in his “bitterly healed and chakras open” Founder’s Mutation ending.)

Mulder’s a middle-aged man who just got back to the office and is wondering if anything he’s accomplished… well, if he’s accomplished anything.

A valid question in these dark times.

And by dark times, we all know what me and my chocolate-addled, My Struggle-PTSDed brain are referring to.

Mulder certainly does:

“Maybe it’s time to put away childish things-- the Sasquatches, the Mothmen, and… Jackalopes.”

Okay, well that’s rude-- I always wanted to see a jackalope case.

Mulder spent one weekend not getting a community response to his latest fanfic and let the dark thoughts take over.

All joke’s aside, this is an… it’s an okay scene. It’s weighty enough to be taken seriously, you feel for this clone of Mulder’s, you hope he gets his Mr. Incredibles act together--

Oh, wait, he already did by now.

I guess.

We skipped the traincar training montage while he was getting back into FBI ready shape.

…

.....

.......

You’re welcome.

On another aside, Skinner just pulled all the strings only for Mulder to have an identity crisis after one weirdo case.

Man’s been carrying everyone on his back for decades with no rest and his newly recruited, depressed-but-not-depressed-depending-on-the-writer, domesticated-feral-animal agent might just trounce back out of the FBI and go wall up somewhere to mope.

At least he’s not wandering off to take illegal substances to satisfy his curiosity.

No.

That’s saved for another episode.

Scully brushes over Mulder’s confession to say, “we got another case, and this one’s ALSO got a monster in it.”

And that makes him happy.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooookay.

*scribbling notes for later observation*

Darin has a favorite and that is OG Scully. And I will give it to him, she actually sounds happy for once.

ALSO, I noticed your smoker voice is gone, GILLIAN, unless you’re mumbling or using The Sad Voice ™. I noticed.

Scully’s insisting this is a monster case while Mulder mopes around the woods and says it’s a mountain lion.

…I’m NOT gonna nitpick. I’m NOT-- OKAY, so, rewind time.

Older Mulder-- as in the 90s Mulder-- would have at least been amused by Scully’s antics and followed her around for the fun of it, unless he felt used and abused, i.e. Host and Folie a Deux. Here is not the case.

Further, he was intrigued in the basement but is now kind of… dismissive.

Which is. It’s not a big problem, it doesn’t stand out, and it wouldn’t be something I’d clock except I’m very disgruntled and burned and grumpy about the past three days.

However.

Let’s continue.

Mulder’s Patriarchy Pants are making him do the Marilyn Monroe wiggle again. However, like a virus, middle-aged wedgie crotch has infected Scully, too; and the two of them are squeak-squonking ‘round the forest.

They do say marriage slowly turns you into each other.

Mulder sloughing off the naked guy in the crime scene pics as “Well, maybe he’s a nudist.”

Darin.

I know what you’re doing here.

Give Mulder the doubting identity crisis and have his faith transformed. A reverse Clyde Bruckman, if you will. I get it. But you gotta admit, "a nudist" is a pretty weak rationalization, let alone a comeback.

“That’s how I’d like to go out.” That saved it a little.

“The uniqueness of the wound, Mulder, implies a human element.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Scully, I gave up profiling before I gave up monsters.” WHAT? LAST WEEK?

YOUR CREDENTIALS AS A PROFILER GOT YOU HIRED BACK TO THE FBI--

Pause, pause, pause.

He’s probably being tongue-in-cheek. He gave up monsters this morning and profiling last night.

…If he’s not, what’s Mulder gonna do? Take up residence under Skinner’s desk? Have his bald benefactor feed him pencil shavings between meetings?

“You seen one serial killer, you seen ‘em all.” Quite literally, no.

I am.

Puzzled.

It’s not offensive-- WAIT, NO. I’m being emotionally manipulated by a softer Mulder and more upbeat Scully, youcan’ttakemealive--

“Mulder, I can see you’re going through a questioning phase of some sort--”

You don’t say.

From bar to basement. From closet to forest. From Founder’s Mutation to… Weremonster Investigation.

Scully points out they need to help the victims.

Mulder: “Okay, well when you put it that way, Scully, but mark my words--”

I’m not getting the essence of Mulder here, gang.

I got him for, like, three whiffs in My Struggle I and once at the end of Founder’s Mutation, but he’s MIA here so far.

…Perhaps my “clone Mulder” crack in a previous paragraph kinds fits.

Hmmm. If he continues to be Mulder-adjacent, I shall name him… I was gonna say ‘Charlie’, then remembered that’s Scully’s brother’s name. The CC name rot is infecting me.

The streetwalker-on-crack scene was amusing, but not really funny.

OH, MAN, JUST GOT JUMP-SCARED BY KUMAIL, OHMYWORD.

Also, that was a weird cut-- Scully opens her mouth to say something, Mulder looks at her, CUT, Kumail face.

The director was meaning to imply Mulder stopped Scully’s attempted defense with a look, but it only made it seem like one of them said something so cancellable the editors drop-kicked that bit from the final recording.

I haven’t laughed once .

Welp, Kumail ran off after playing a scared animal control officer for three seconds.

Pardon, but what was the purpose of that scene?

This kinda feels like a play: in this set piece, the hooker whacks a creature with a purse; in this set piece, Kumail gets spooked by the agents and runs off after hearing a roar; still in this set piece, Mulder whips out his phone and starts… hitting… the… picture… button.

My thought process:

It's dark at night.

2. I hear a ROAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.

3. I'm pulling out my gun, not my camera.

You know why?

There are more tigers in North American than the world combined.

Just sayin’.

SCULLY, REINSTALL THE SAFETY FEATURE IN YOUR KEN, PLEASE.

JUST. PUT. THE PHONE. ON. VIDEO. MODE.

Oh, wait, he’s a tech goombus who doesn’t know how to take videos.

THEY SAW A DEAD BODY--

…

THEY SAW A DEAD BODY THROUGH HIS PHOTOS INSTEAD OF NOTICING THE CORPSE RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM?

I’m not mad because this isn’t as mean-spirited as the previous two episodes, but that’s just. That’s just.

That.

Wait, how’d they get from Mulder’s camera setting to his photo collage, without swiping or going there or…? He was taking rapid-fire pictures, Scully looks over, says, “What’s that?”, and the camera cuts to a picture that has to be in the phone’s gallery. …What happened-- you know what? Never mind.

Mulder runs off INTO THE DARK with ONLY HIS CAMERA OUT while Scully is yards behind him WITH THE GUN.

Solid decision making there.

My man, if this were a tiger (we’ve already seen it’s the horny Lizardman) or a cougar in heat (well, give Scully a few episodes), you’d probably be very dead.

I’ve named Mulder-Clone: Ken. He’s cute, he’s having an identity crisis, and he’s as dumb as a rock.

This fits unintentionally well with his Patriarchy Pants (though they’re wearing him, not of the other way around.)

Kumail’s here and they both scared each other and now they’re hyper-Ken-focusing on Ken’s wonky phone app and stuff.

Barbie-- clone Scully-- hears Ken and Kumail screaming their lungs out after getting jumped by Lizardman and only NOW notices Mulder had Marilyn Monroe shimmied off.

Imagine if this were the end of Mulders career: questioning his life’s purpose, losing the battle to technology, and T-posing, dead, on the ground.

Ken sounds completely fine when Scully runs up to him asking if he's okay. No wooziness. No nothing. (Kumail, too.)

“Okay. I quit.” Smarty Mr. K. over there (not Ken, but you knew that.)

Monster’s a-running, and Formerly-Mulder springs up and races off with Scully.

What did that jumpscare accomplish, narratively? What did any of these jumpscares accomplish, narratively?

I know we’re only 10 minutes in, but it’s feeling a little too… scene-scene-scene-scene-scene, jumpscare-jumpscare-jumpscare, phone-phone-phone-phone-phone. T-pose. That was a shakeup, I guess.

Ken was going to question the guy on the pot (who is, indeed, the Lizardman, btw) but notices Scully’s face and closes the door and walks away with her.

Strangely, that and the basement are the only scenes, thus far, where Ken was most like Mulder.

Scully, do you regret putting a battery pack in your Ken doll now?

This interaction is still Ken-not-Mulder, but Scully is kinda recognizable.

Just realized. Mulder replaced his slideshow with a phone. Now he can inflict them on his partner even in the midst of her autopsies.

No one is safe.

THERE’S A MULDER MOMENT, I ACTUALLY SMILED!

And now it’s gone.

“So now you’re saying you were attacked by a six-foot horny toad?”

“Woah, let’s keep this in the realm of natural sciences, shall we?”

Um.

That’s not a Mulder line.

That’s not even a Ken line, I don’t think.

Need to think up a new name for Mulder, I guess.

I figured it out. David’s attacking the lines too vigorously rather than letting them breathe. I’m sure he’ll get there.

Or Mulder and Scully were swallowed up by a black hole the second after they exchanged “Scratchy beard” niceties. Because that’s the last I’ve seen of them.

But honestly? Clone. Lives. Matter.

So, I shall fully support Clone Mulder and Clone Scully living their truth, expressing their lived experiences, and digging through each other’s brains like hairless capuchin monkeys dressed in skin-tight leotards.

I was gonna say “horny, hairless capuchin monkeys” but I’ve not got a LICK of sexual tension between them this whole time.

They do say married couples transition from goose-pimply “honeymoon love” to matured, knowing passion; but all I’m getting is the “knowing” and none of the “passion”.

Right after my point, the two exchanged a little upbeat moment. I’ll give it that; but the passion’s still not there.

WAIT, this episode has the fox-in-the-wall scene?

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I thought that was the doppelganger one.

‘Kay. Color me intrigued.

…WHAT is going on with these random, “comedic” scenes?

Desk clerk yells "Monster!", Mulder runs in, guy’s shaking over a bottle, makes up a story, tells Mulder to go back to his room “or I’ll kill ya.” Mulder nods and walks off.

I’m not getting the fun of this episode, but I’m only 12 minutes in. So.

Mulder’s snooping in someone else’s room.

Mulder took someone else’s meds.

Mulder found an animal head with hollow eyes that led him to a secret room behind the motel room.

Heh, get it, he’s a Fox looking through fox eyes at Scully. Get it.

I’m remembering bits from DD and GA’s commentary and how they were cheering him on in this moment. Someone should’ve told them this is Clone!Mulder.

More proof this man finds burrows in the unlikeliest places:

The manager says he installed those peeping tom hallways after 9/11, and yes that’s being used as an excuse but there’s supposed to be a joke behind it, right?

For instance: Rocky from Jose Chung’s From Outer Space took some political hits, but the jokes were funny and well-written. Here, they're either badly written or… someone’s directing these actors astray. And I know Clone!Mulder and innkeeper man are good actors because they’re doing their best selling this material. Things still feel wonky, unfortunately.

Mulder’s getting objectified again, Your Honor. He got closeted last episode, he’s “questioning” this episode, and he’s being stared at in his speedo. And he didn't mind one bit.

Innkeeper man’s got closets of his own, too. *badum tssssss*

HOW did Mulder’s phone get a picture of the Lizardman in his human form earlier? In the split-second he and Scully opened the potty stall before turning and continuing their search? I'll even grant that... but a CLEAR one?

Whatever, whatever, whatever.

Clone!Mulder’s patched his disbelief during the insomnia upgrade.

Clone!Scully unleashed a beast but still wakes up and stays up to hear him ramble. (Here’s the “my Mulder” line and the could-have-been-a-Knick’s-T-shirt moment.)

I do have another nitpick: why is Mulder diatribing here-- trying to convince Scully it’s a werewolf when she’s been saying monster or creature from the get-go? Is it the “werewolf” claim that he thinks she’ll rebut? Or?

I do like: Scully about to answer, then nearly smiling when Mulder cuts her off. Brilliant touch. Hats off to GA for that second of goodness.

“‘It defies every known law of nature’-- exactly, Scully, every known law of nature!”

Mulder, she’s agreed with this point since Herrenvolk. She kinda did a mini speech about it.

He doesn’t know how it came to be, but all he’s saying is, “it’s a MONSTER.”

She’s ready to go back to the Unremarkable House already, Mulder. She just needed you to nerd out over monsters.

Which… isn’t that actually the most Scully thing you’ve ever heard? Think about it: she wants to leave the Conspiracy behind, it’s eating her alive, she’s so sad and yadda yadda yadda. Darin says, “Hold up, this girl loves Mulder’s rants and raves” and makes her poke and prod him out of despair with a juicy creature case. And then (hopefully) reaps the benefits.

Girl’s got a mission.

And also, this doesn’t mesh at all with the Revival’s canon, but when has that stopped this crazy trainwreck?

Why’s Scully calling him watered-down-for-FOX’s-approval crazy when she’s been saying creature this whole time? Does she just… like arguing him? …That’s a stupid question, does she like arguing with him this much? …Again, that’s a--

Mulder spouts his theory, admits he stole stuff from another guy’s room, and tells Scully they can use his meds to track him down. “Well, that sounds like a good investigative plan.” In other words: “And you do so good at beach.”

Now Mulder wants to go peeping around the motel, for the lols.

Ken energy, I’m just saying.

Alsooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo not Mulder, sorry. He’d be curious, intrigued, perhaps roguishly amused by peeping tom corridors; but he’s never taken the time to search places inch-by-inch, top-to-bottom unless they directly related to the case. Is this a nitpick? Probably. But he’s flinging around broken FBI regulations left-and-right, carelessly reckless of all the rules and laws he’s breaking. Sure, Mulder’s a lawbreaker; but not to the extent that it would violate civilian rights. And even if it were fine, he’d be running off to the next lead instead of sticking around to snuffle through a useless one.

The “Lizardman stabbing himself in the mirror with green glass to break the curse, not realizing it’s him” story doesn’t… really…. Darin Morgan’s writing crackfic at this point.

Impotency jokes.

Ahhh, the middle ages: you end up questioning things about yourself or having to pop pills one way or another.

The comedy keeps failing, I think, because it’s trying too hard. This episode feels like a play (did I mention that earlier?) with dramatic pauses and etc. etc. Not really X-Filesy.

The psychologist prescribes Mulder a pill (because Mulder believes the Lizardman’s a lizard man), then pops the pill himself the second Mulder leaves… which meansssss he believed, too? Though he doesn’t?

I get he was supposed to be a crazy psychologist (ala Dr. Spiegel during the Johnny Depp trials), but, again, the comedy flopped.

“Horny toad lizard man” works at a smart phone shop OF COURSE. Because that’s soooooooooooo clever! Modernization, crises of humanity and identity, get it???

Weremonster’s not offensive, but it’s… I’m gonna be honest, it’s not clever, either.

Why does Scully wear her shirt open almost past her bra line now? Not shaming her, but that doesn’t seem a very Scully thing to do. I don’t know, maybe I’m overthinking things. It was just her style, her way, her self-expression; and it feels smudged and lost in this version of Clone!Scully.

At least she seems more naturally Scully, this episode. Which means she can only be natural in the funny episodes, huh.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Mulder has a gold car? Mulder rented a gold car? There’s a gold car here that serves as middle-age-over-compensation commentary.

Mulder chastises Scully about the danger of approaching a dangerous suspect without backup then runs off, get it, ‘cuz that’s FUNNY.

I must have a heart of coal because I’m bored instead of tickled. It’s waaaaaaay better than being angry and tired, though, so.

“I’ll take it” is giving this experience too many brownie points, so I’ll use “I’m resigned”, instead.

Here we go, the part where the Lizardman voices Darin Morgan’s gripes with work culture (and I say that because Darin himself said he only works because he has to pay the bills. Which, fair enough, I suppose.)

Wait. Did Lizo Man go from a generic British to an Australian accent?

Guy tries to stage a cop suicide by green glass at Mulder’s hands and…. I’m sorry, this is kind of a fever dream. I can’t even unpack that logic for some bizarre reason.

Let me unpack that logic for some bizarre reason:

Psychologist tells Lizardman the story about breaking the curse by getting stabbed in the appendix.

It involves the realization that the Werelizard stares at himself in the mirror and realizes he’s the monster.

Does… does that prevent him from committing suicide? The psycologist’s instructions remain murky.

Lizardman’s fed up with existence. Decides enough’s enough and goes back to the cemetery.

Mulder walks up and tries to get him to unburden himself.

Lizardman tries to bait him into cop homicide by green bottle.

…How in the world did he think that would happen.

MULDER. LOST. HIS GUN. Which is probably a wink-and-nod by Darin of the good ol’ days when Mulder lost it constantly.

This Lizard’s gotta know who Mulder is at this point, and that Mulder would track him down and find him. That’s my prediction.

Mulder agrees to kill Guy Mann. Guy Mann calls him the only nice human he’s ever met. Of course cut back to Mulder’s face as he insists Guy tell him the whole story, first.

Scully has no idea where Mulder is, does she.

I knew the psychologist’s “other client thought he was a werewolf” would play into this. Heavy-handedly.

The stupid, perfectly placed bush when Lizardman woke the next morning. I can’t even be mad at it.

He took the not-nudist’s clothes, that explains things.

The dialogue’s also kind of… juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuvenile.

Lizardman leaped over the natural order of human life by talking mad game, and Darin glosses over the details with “humans are the best at that.” Ooooooookay.

Nope, that doesn’t work for me. Not if Lizardman joined a tech shop and got promoted to manager the next day.

I feel like Darin hasn’t hung around iphone shops much.

HE COMMITTED A MURDER BECAUSE HE ATE A COW IN A HAMBURGER. Really.

Was this lizard a vegetarian????? Because animals constantly break their own eating rituals if they’re hungry (deer eating baby birds, rabbits, and even human corpses, for example.) I doubt a creature of that size and strength existed only on vegetation, especially if there were food shortages during the natural course of its life (which happens in the wild.)

But NITPICK ASIDE, he ate his first cow.

…Why didn’t he go find a head of lettuce and chow down on it? Then realize he’s missing something, eat the chicken from the salad, then go on a meat-eating binge? That would have been kinda funny.

Oh, he’s an insectivore.

So, he’s a meat eater.

And he... uuuuuuuuuuuuugh--

Dude’s a protein eater via the carcases of other living things, not plants.

Dude didn’t have consciousness until he woke a man.

So it wouldn’t have mattered to Dude if he ate a cow, anyway, because he’s a carnivore and humans are omnivores.

So what gives?

“No one likes insects. Not even other insects.” SO INSECTS HAVE EMOTIONS, LIKES, AND PREFERENCES. YET, YOU ATE THEM. I don’t see sound reasoning for an ethical or moral stance here, Guy Mann.

Lizardman spent the rest of the day helplessly watching… porn. Just couldn’t help himself. Uh huh.

Dude, you were an animal YESTERDAY, with no association to human morays or social etiquette or guidelines or….

OH. That’s how the Scully scene plays into this.

But then that scene’ll be shot because it’s played for jokes-- males wanting to overexaggerate their knotch count-- rather than a very real reality of animals with zero morals when it comes to their procreation habits.

Let’s see if I’m right.

Guys, this would have been funnier and-- there’s that word again-- clever if Guy Mann lived like a caveman for a few days then overheard some humans talk about job, bills, and etc. spiraled, thinking he would be stuck as a half-human forever, and resigned himself to the fate of every other human (through the lens of his lizard brain, heh.)

It’s not supposed to be taken seriously, I know, but Darin always wrote plausibility into his previous scripts. This one feels like he didn’t try hard enough.

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO wow.

Guy went to a "witch doctor"-- oops, “a psychologist”-- but stopped taking his prescribed meds because “it just clouded my thoughts” TO WHICH MULDER NODS IN UNDERSTANDING.

Mulder gets it because, as an Oxford educated psychologist, he could diagnose the other psychologist (who shouldn’t be prescribing meds) as a wack job.

Mulder stopped taking his meds.

Which is what Scully asked if he’d done in the intro.

Which means his depression’s gone away without his meds.

Which means his depression’s either CURED, BOOM, or he never needed meds to begin with.

Which means Scully misdiagnosed him.

And left.

OR Mulder stopped taking them and was on depression med withdrawal in the beginning of this episode, hence his melancholia…?

‘Tis a mess.

Only time to be happy as a human is to spend time in the company of a non-human-- YOU’RE AN ANIMAL. YOU’RE NOT A HUMAN. YOU JUST LOOK LIKE ONE FOR TWELVE HOURS A DAY.

Also, Daggoo. Yup. There he is. Uhuh.

Scully was robbed of her first dog by an overgrown lizard and robbed from another overgrown lizard in return.

Daggoo was let out of the motel and ran off, and Mann felt crushing loss and grief (while looking not quite that) then ran into Mulder and Smarty K and ran to the toilet and got pap shot by Mulder and etc.

(Also, he ran into the werewolf dude; and Mulder knows the urge to “strangle him and eat his flesh” when it comes to villains and their villainy.)

Hokey. That’s how I would describe this episode. Inoffensive, but new Scooby Doo.

Wait, he threw his clothes off while witnessing the werewolf man eat another man (get it, it looked like animalistic sex) then but had them on again when Mulder ripped open the stall door and took his pants-down shot.

What.

Wait, Mulder’s up-to-date with transgender procedures and terms but not? familiar with gay bars?

What, did he subscribe to a Queer Life email subscription between episodes, or is that too new-fangled?

This episode doesn’t know what angle it wants to tackle for Clone!Mulder (forgot that nickname temporarily) and instead becomes a mix of everything at different strengths (that also change depending on which scene.)

HOW did Guy Mann not recognize Mulder after Mulder took a picture of him on the port-a-potty??? And stuck around to ask him some questions???

“That was me, actually.”

“I thought I recognized you!”

So. He… diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid?

OR it was a jackalope head on the wall?

No, wait, it wasn’t a jackalope, Guy Mann just misidentified the animal head on the wall-- and he’s “creeped out” by jackalopes ever since a friend got “gored” by them and GET IT, GUYS, THIS ALL LINKS BACK TO THE BASEMENT WHEN MULDER TALKED ABOUT MOTHMEN AND JACKALOPES.

I swear, Mulder’s just trippin or suffering withdrawals from his meds.

Scully said, “We have a creature case,” and he went home and dreamed this all up in a slime pit of sweat.

HIS DEAD FRIEND GEORGE.

SO THESE LIZARD PEOPLE HAVE NAMES????

THEN WHY’S HIS NAME GUY MANN?????????????????????????????????????

SO, they have friends and eat insects that have some form of consciousness and consider burgers to be cow murder.

I need to stop thinking seriously about this plot.

It’s pit stink Mulder thrashing around in his bed, smiling over speedos and peeping tom tunnels and Scully affectionately calling him crazy-- and that makes the most sense, honestly.

“I think my phone isn’t working right because guys don’t send me pictures of their junk on it.”

More evidence that this was written not by Darin Morgan but by his middle school aged doppelganger, Marin Dorgan, who split from his body during the stress of having to write for the Revival.

“Ever since I became a human, I can’t help but lie about my sex life.” Stupid. He’d need a Twitter account, first.

Mulder’s back to doubting because the entire story’s too silly. To be fair, I do like this beat; and it does align (if you squint at it) with his journey out of depression. BUT it is all too silly, so… kinda think Clone!Mulder’s got a point.

Mulder smiling over learning that Shakespeare called us all ignorant idiots is a nice touch which I shall now spoil: how did Guy Mann know that? Porn?

“Fox, man, you’ve gotta put me out of my misery!” Get it, Fox Mann, Guy Mann? Animals, GET IT.

“You wanted to arrest me for something I didn’t do. Who takes advantage like that? I’ll tell you: a human.” That’s the only comedic bit that landed, for me, and even then it was a lip twitch. His contained righteous indignation got through whatever made the rest of this the way it is! WHOO!

The guy goes stomping off yelling “Monster!” behind him at Mulder to drive his point home, which drives Mulder to drink.

“Mulder’s the monster, get it, because he doesn’t know what he is and is just willing to use other people for his own selfish ends?” the plot says, affectionately, with a giggle behind its hand.

This is the scene where he collapses by Kim Manner’s tomb, isn’t it.

ARE YOU KIDDING, MULDER HAS HIS THEME SONG AS A RINGTONE.

MULDER’S HIGH, THAT’S IT. HE’S HIGH OR OVERDOSING ON HAPPY DRUGS, THERE’S NO OTHER EXPLANATION.

Now that I know this is Ken Mulder’s delirium, it’s going to be interesting to draw unauthorized conclusions about his Alice in Wonderland hallucination.

Aww, look, it’s Kim Manners.

Mulder’s got his Patriarchy Pants' cheeks right on Kim’s face.

Me, ten minutes into the Revival: “Maybe I’m just a fool, Scully. Maybe I always have been.”

Can’t knock that line too much because it is a Mulder thing to think or say.

And it still fits into my delirium scenario, so.

Oh, Kumail’s been turned. Didn’t see that coming. The music’s suspenseful, too. That’s cool.

There’s no way Mulder should figure this out, but he probably will.

Oh, he didn’t.

That’s good.

Also, Scully’s: “Maybe I miss having a dog. And someone to hold my grudges for me,” could apply to her tendency to own dogs but it also might refer to Mulder who she let “curse God for a while” in her stead in IWTB.

Also, where was THIS scene hiding? It’s really good.

Ken Mulder’s hobbling, not running, to his car. ‘Kay.

Wait, Kumail's not a werewolf?

And Scully's got it all handled????

Wait, NO, that makes no sense. AND IT’S ALL EXPLAINED AWAY WITH “I’M IMMORTAL” what.

Scully went to the animal control shelter because she suspected Kumail was the murderer.

She lingered with her back to Kumail, letting him have home court advantage.

HE SLIPPED A NOOSE AROUND HER NECK.

That’s it, she’s doneso. She’s a 5’2” woman that’s as light as a bird, there’s no way she’s toppling a man, let alone one with a noose around her neck and has distance on his side.

Yes, I know this was because the transgender woman surprised Guy Mann with her punch, but that doesn’t translate to a stunning twist for Scully to also have the upper hand. She doesn’t have enough meat on her bones, and nowhere near the arm length to stop her attacker.

Did Guy Mann show up and interfere? Help her out in anyway? Did the dogs rush in and tackle him until she could get up?

IS SCULLY A DOG WHISPERER????? If so, why did Daggoo bite her????????

I will say: Kumail being the murderer really changes that one scene where he was sneaking up behind Mulder.

And also… the fact that he worked for an animal shelter, since he started with small animals.

WAIT, this is a normal animal control shelter, yes? That’s what Mulder yelled into his phone, anyway.

But… there were only dogs in the room when Mulder and the officers arrived.

So. Scully is a dog whisperer, or she tackled Kumail, loosed all the dogs before he got up, and pinned him (impossible) until the cops arrived. I guess. Or the dogs were loose to begin with.

Oh, and chickens.

Dogs and chickens.

Dogs. And chickens. And goats.

(Were ALL the animals loose??????)

Scully, the farm animal whisperer. A trait she must share with her Wyoming son.

Welp. There goes that scene.

Scully approached a dangerous suspect twice without backup (says Mulder, who was Kenning it out in the cemetery with the first dangerous suspect… and the second, if you count him running off and nearly getting offed by Kumail without his knowledge); and excuses it by saying Mulder needed “quality time” with his Lizardman.

“Besides, I’m immortal.”

That sounds like the prequel to another poor decision tattooed on your back, Scully.

Mulder’s not soothed by this pronouncement (obviously), but realizes “If Guy’s story was true--” and runs off into the woods. Again.

And Scully asks the dog if he wants to go home with her.

And I question. Why a dog. Why that dog.

You miss dogs but you didn’t have a tie to any particular dog. And this dog bit you.

Because he’s Plot Relevant Dog. I see.

“Woah, I’m not a reptile! That’s racist!”

No it’s not you silly, silly reptile with utterly unexplainable human knowledge and reflection.

Also, another motif of Mulder just standing there watching another guy undress, casually.

An aspect of Darin’s writing I hadn’t considered: Mulder knows Guy does odd things for a normal human; but also knows this is normal for Guy and just goes with it, for his sake. Like a good psychologist. Like a decent human.

But also, he has his limits.

Also, get it, Mulder’s a man outside mankind, too, who just needs to find himself again. Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit?

“I want to believe,” Mulder says.

Mulder just needed someone to say they’re glad to have met him, they’re glad to have him in their life.

So.

I guess Scully hasn’t said those words yet.

Guy shakes his hand.

Mulder watches, stunned, as Guy runs off to hibernate for 10,000 years-- another hallmark of Marin Dorgan’s writing. Ha ha ha, a knee slapper, that one.

“Likewise,” Mulder whispers, overcome and disbelieving and renewed all in one.

A nice little heartfelt, cheesy, sincere ending.

CONCLUSION

What did I just watch?

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #Mulder and Scully Meet the Weremonster #React #A Late-Canon Reviler Gives the Revival a Try #Revival Reviler's first-time watch through #mine #Part III #Mulder #Scully #Revival #xfiles #x-files #the x files #first-time watch through #and there we go #xf meta #S10

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