#SIR WHY ARE YOU STANDING AT PARADE REST

[aliwritex]

PLEASE PLEASE ME mv1

summary: Max convinces you to try something new

wc: 2.6k

warnings: anal!!! unprotected sex

“Please, baby” he begged as you grew more and more impatient “I’ll be gentle, I swear.”

“Max, you can either fuck my cunt right now or not fuck me at all, just tell me so I can get my vibrator.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he groaned as he started kissing your neck again “The day you let me fuck your ass I’ll give you the hardest orgasm of your life”

“I’m sure you will, love” you told him as he finally penetrated you.

Now that wasn’t the first time your boyfriend had begged you to fuck your behind. He knew you had never done it before but he had and had been trying to convince you ever since he got comfortable enough to ask. He knew you’d enjoy it. Max would often sneak a finger between your cheeks and massage your rim while he fucked you, it always made you cum instantly.

When summer break started Max decided to take you on a holiday. Beaches, drinks and teeny tiny bikinis. You were always wearing something incredibly short or nothing at all, parading around the hotel suit in thongs that left your ass completely exposed.

It was on a particular morning when you were wearing the smallest of your swimsuits and one of his linen shirts that he lost his mind. You were about to leave to the beach when he stopped you and lifted the shirt to check your ass.

“You’re so not wearing that out.” he pulled you close by the arm to kiss you.

“I so am”

“Na-hun” he mumbled against your lips “You’re staying in with me so I can take it off”

He walked back towards the couch in your room, sitting on the edge and plopping you on his lap. You smiled against his cheek and your legs wrapped his, letting his hands roam over your sides and down your ass. You attached your lips back to his as his hands cupped your ass tighter, fingers reaching under your thong to circle your hole. You jumped slightly at the contact, his cold hands contrasting with your warm skin.

“Max…” you warned

“Please, love” he kissed your neck “let me just finger you, show you how good I can make you feel”

“Okay” you sighed in pleasure as your hips moved against his.

“Okay? Are you sure?” he pulled away to look you in the eyes

“Yes, Max, act on it before I change my mind”

“So fucking demanding” he swore between his teeth before moving you off his lap and getting up. “Wait a second”

You laid back on the couch, watching as he walked over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Max started looking for something that apparently he didn’t find so he made his way to the other side. He opened the drawer and grabbed a bottle, he looked at it throughly and started reading the label.

“Oh my god” you mumbled “Max what are you doing?”

“I said wait a second, i’ll be right there”

You then watched as he walked into the bathroom and came out a couple seconds later, finally making his way to you.

“Were you washing your hands?”

“Well, yes. I was outside, you don’t want me touching you with dirty outside hands, do you?”

“No, sir, no need to get offended.” you joked, sitting up and pulling him closer to you by the hips till he stood between your legs.

You rested your chin right on the band of his shorts, looking up at him as you lifted his white tshirt, revealing some of his stomach and kissing it. He dropped the bottle next to you to run his hand through your hair and down to your chin, lifting it so he could lower himself to kiss you.

“C’mon, schat, up”

You shivered at the pet name. Something about the way his mother tongue was so guttural made you melt for him every time.

You got up with his help, standing up so he could take your seat and manhandle you into lying across his lap. He placed a pillow under your head and flipped your hair off your face.

“Comfortable?” you nodded “Need you to be relaxed for me” he told you, caressing your ass with his large hands.

“Okay” you said in a whisper.

You felt his hand play with your bottoms, tugging at the sides as the other hand still caressed your ass cheek. You wiggled into his touch, starting to grow impatient. He took your request and pulled at the side ties of your bikini, undoing them and pulling it off you.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet, look what you did to your little swimsuit” he said and threw them on the floor in front of you, where you could see the mark you had left on them. He touched your wet cunt softly, making you lean into his touch, arching your back even more. “No need to be desperate, schat” he said before kissing and bitting at your cheek.

You groaned softly at the sting. Max’s middle fingers traveled up your perineum, pressing down slightly till he got to your tight hole. You felt his hands leave you for a second and then heard a squeeze of the bottle he grabbed earlier. He had squeezed the lube on his fingers and spread it around. making sure to cover them properly. When you felt his hand on you again it was his palm, flat on your back, under his shirt you had on, caressing and getting you relaxed for his other hand that made its way between your cheeks.

You sucked in a breath when his cold, lube covered fingers met your hole again but before you knew the coldness was rubbed away by him pressing tight circles around it. His left hand left your back once again to squeeze some more lube on your hole before he lowered his torso to yours to whisper.

“I’m going in now, ‘that okay?”

You nodded. It was a matter of seconds that he had the tip of his finger in you. You groaned at the feeling of your hole starting to stretch around him but he had barely made it in. He started pressing it further, trying to get is past your second ring but it was just too tight.

“Does it hurt, love?” you shook your head side to side “Then relax a bit more for me, schat”

He told you and started running his palm up and down your back again, it was an endearing touch and it really did help you relax, seeing that soon Max had his entire finger inside you.

“There you go, love, that was the first one” he told you, against your cheek before leaving a kiss to the corner of your mouth “Doing so good for me, zo lief, schat”

His whispers sent shivers up your back and he could feel it, all the little bumps against his palm. He started working the finger inside you, watching the way you had started to squirm slightly. Max waited and worked you until you were ready for a second finger, he could see it and feel it so he pulled out and put his two fingers together, pressing them against you.

“Going for two now, love, can you do it for me?”

You nodded against the pillow. Max watched your face as he started pressing the two fingers, looking for any signs that you might not be enjoying but all he saw was your flushed cheeks and your agape mouth. You did let out a grunt that wasn’t exactly of pleasure but it was followed by a grind of your ass up onto his fingers so Max didn’t worry too much about it. He pushed his fingers slowly till you swallowed them completely, a sigh of relief left your lips when you felt his knuckles against your ass.

“How are you doing schat? Good?”

You nodded again, concentrating on how thick his fingers felt inside you. Max had a cocky smile on his face, proud that he finally made you crack and let him do it. He pulled his fingers out slowly, fighting your tightness when he pushed them back in. By the time he was thrusting them in a faster rhythm you were grinding against his body thigh, your clit catching on his skin with perfect friction.

“Ma-max” you sighed “so close, fuck”

“I know, love, let go, yeah?”

The sweetness in his voice had you squirming on his lap, legs starting to shake as Max’s fingers reached deeper into you somehow, pressing a magic spot you didn’t even know existed. You came undone on his lap with an intense, leg shaking orgasm. Max had you moaning and squirming on his lap for a while before pulling his fingers out of you. He looked at your spent body noting how relaxed you looked, his hand still caressing your back.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Good” you mumbled

“Just good? Do i have to go again to get a ‘perfect’?” he just heard a small hum from you “I’m gonna take that as a yes. Ready?”

Quickly, Max had his two fingers buried inside you again. He worked them in again before pulling out to join a third finger. He pressed them slowly watching you stretch to take them. You groaned into the pillow again, melting into all of your boyfriend’s touches when you finally felt his knuckles on your ass again.

“There you go, schat. Didn’t even struggle this time” He started working them inside you, in and out, slowly going deeper and deeper. “Think you’d be ready to take my cock if you wanted to, you know. I’d love to have you on my cock, schat. Wouldn’t you?” He asked right to your ear.

“Fuck! Yes” you breathed out.

“You want my cock, love?” he smiled, cockiness spread all over his face.

“Please”

He pulled his fingers out of you and helped you sit up on his lap. Max pushed your shirt off your shoulders and down your arms setting it aside and wiping his hands on it. You basically fell to his chest as he got up from the couch, holding you by your ass and making sure to grab the lube bottle. He laid you down on the edge of the bed, legs between yours, and tugged at the cords of your bikini top, easily undoing them and pulling it off.

“You wanna stay like this or get on your knees?”

You quickly gathered all the strength you had in your body to flip around and get on your knees, letting your torso fall to the bed as you arched your back. Max grabbed some pillows to shove under your hips and give you some support.

“Suck a good fucking girl” he mumbled, letting his hand come down on your ass with a smack that made you gasp.

Max was already rock hard from having you squirm non stop on his lap so he let out a sigh of relief when he pulled his tight shorts off, his hand immediately pumping his cock and covering it in lube.

“Ready, love?” he asked as his fingers circled your hole, making you shiver.

“Yes, please” you whispered.

He aligned himself to you, tip resting against your rim, and started pushing in, slowly. Max watched the way you stretched open to take him and how you whined at every single push of his. His hands spread your cheeks out, thumbs caressing them to get you to relax.

“Feeling good, schat?” you nodded “Good. You feel so fucking tight, love, can’t believe you’re gripping me so hard”

Max folded his torso onto your back as he finally filled you up, leaving kisses and bites to your back, waiting for you to get used to his size. His hands dropped down to your tits, grabbing them with each hand, fingers twirling your nipples.

“Max-“ you sighed.

“What’s wrong, love? Want me to stop?”

“No, please, don’t. Keep going, you can move.”

He lifted his body off yours to stand back up and pull his hips away from yours, his cock slipping out just for him to snap his hips back onto you. You moan at the first thrust, feeling your wall burn from the stretch. Max was slow, being as delicate as he could when he fucked into you.

“Max, please, pick it up” you whined

“Sure?” you nodded and he pushed harder into you, picking up a rhythm that he would usually have when fucking you. That’s when you lost it.

He kept hitting that same special spot that drove you to your first orgasm but this time with more precision and strength. You could feel your wetness pooling between your thighs and you figured Max could see it because he pushed two fingers (from his clean hand) inside you easily.

“Come for me, schat, can feel you so close, let it go. Be good for me, love” your boyfriend praised.

And you did. You came hard, squirming on the bed and letting your hips fall on the pillows as you squeezed Max’s fingers and cock. He waited for you to come down to flip you onto your back.

“So beautiful, so perfect, so good for me.” he mumbled against your skin as he kissed your neck. You pulled his hips closer with your legs, silently telling him you wanted more. “Are you sure, love? Can you take it?”

“Yes” you sighed, reaching for his cock and aligning it to your hole again. He smiled at how desperate he had gotten you and pushed in at once, making you gasp.

Max stood straight and threw your legs over his shoulders, hitting deeper inside you.

You started moaning, whining and mumbling uncontrollably and a little too loud, making him push two of his fingers past your lips. With every push of his hips you drooled over his fingers.

“So fucking pretty when I destroy you, schat. Taking me so well in your tight little home, aren’t you?” You nodded, trying to communicate the best you could.

You tried to tell him you were coming but it just came out as mumbles around his fingers right before you reached your high. You practically strangled his cock inside you making him come too. Your matching orgasms made everything more sensitive for both of you, legs shaking, toes curling and you couldn’t help but bite down on his fingers making him groan loudly when he let his body fall onto yours.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, darling” you apologized as soon as you came down, leaving kisses to the bite marks.

“‘t’s okay, love” he kissed your cheek and stood back up. “Gonna pull out” he warned and you nodded.

The sound he let out was truly pornographic but so was the view of his cum dipping out of your asshole. “God, i’ve never seen anything prettier. Hold on, I’m gonna get something to clean you up.”

Max came back seconds later with a hotel towel but it was too late, you had already dripped onto the covers.

“Let’s hope they don’t ask questions.” he joked, swiping the towel between your legs.

“If they do I’ll just tell them to look at how hot you are and they’d understand” you sat up

“Could say the same for you”

You reached for his softening cock and ducked your head lower to catch it in your mouth. Max groaned as you cleaned him up, a hand on your head to ground himself.

“That’s enough. God, you’re insatiable.”

[whumped-by-glitter]

I want to talk about conditioning for a minute, from someone who has undergone it.

It has been 15 yrs as of March 30th since I left for basic training (probably why it's been on my mind A LOT lately, so sorry guys). In those 15 years, I've undone most of the programming, but you know what, there are some things that just will not go away.

For example, reveille, if you want to see me go from fast asleep to moving like something is on fire and have me dressed and out the door before the song ends, wake me up with that, even hearing it during the day gives me a minor adrenaline rush. I have not heard that tune in like 2 years, and I'm pretty sure I will still react the same way. I have been completely Pavlove's dog to it, and it only took 8.5 weeks.

Next is my hands in my pocket - it feels rebellious and taboo when I do it, even now I still feel a slight jolt of excitement when I do it. I actually put my hands in my pocket a lot now because it feels weird, and I like that 🤣

Even how I walk has changed, I still have no bounce in my step, I still roll my feet to walk quieter, I still find myself falling in step with people I'm walking next to. I have done my best to undo this one, but it still shows up every now and then. I will also still walk to a beat if music playing is anything similar to a Jodie.

It has been 15 years with active work done to undo this, and it still shows up! I was in for a total of just 5.5 years.

It also took me years (3-4) to stop standing at parade rest and over using sir/ma'am. That only got better from being constantly called out on it.

My point? A conditioned whumpee will likely have behaviors just show up even years later. there will also likely be completely normal things they will likely have to actively think about doing or not doing, and it may always feel weird or foreign to them (like me putting my hands in my pocket). This won't be something that goes away in weeks or months. They are going to have these internal reactions to certain stimuli, likely the rest of their life. Also, these responses can be exhausting for a caretaker! That's a lot of emotional burden on them, depending on what the whumpee was conditioned to.

Hopefully, this helps someone somewhere somehow with some inspiration! 😊 feel free to pick my brain further if you want.

Thank you for letting me talk a bit about my experiences, it's refreshing. I promise after March I'll be less military again. 🤣

[bomberqueen17]

Liveblogging the Aubreyad: Post Captain Part Three

I promise, this book really is that long. It's not that I'm rambling. I mean I am a little, but.

OK installment one was fly honeys and financial ruin, installment two was Bear Fursona and How Many Indiamen Has Tom Pullings Been In Please Read The Footnotes On This One, and we left off with Jack Finally Gets A Ship And Asks For One Big Favor. So now we are going to find out about this Disaster Boat and the Big Favor.

But first I can't resist this exchange between Stephen and Sophia, Jack's would-be wife prospect. Stephen and Sophie have hit it off as platonic friends and confide in one another a great deal, and Stephen is trying to convince Sophie that if she would just tell Jack she's into him then Jack would do what he had to do to make it happen. She refuses, she couldn't possibly, but meanwhile she is trying to explain to Stephen that Diana treats him like shit because she's trying to figure out if Stephen is into her or not, so if he would just fucking tell her he's into her she would stop being such a raging bitch to him, and Stephen, completely devoid of any self-analysis of this situation, breaks off his contemplation of how very wrong Sophie is to ignore his advice to explain to her that of course he must ignore her advice.

So while Jack is in his interview with Lord Melville, Stephen and Sophie are walking in a nearby park, and have this exchange.

'If you had seen him last night at Lady Keith's, you would not have worried. To be sure, he lost the rest of his ear in the Indiaman - but that was nothing.' 'His ear!' cried Sophia, turning white and coming to a dead halt in the middle of the Parade. 'You are standing in a puddle, my dear. Let me lead you to dry land. Yes, his ear, his right ear, or what there was left of it. But it was nothing. I sewed it on again; and as I say, if you had seen him last night, you would have been easy in your mind.' [...]'What a good friend you are to him, Dr Maturin. His other friends are so grateful to you.’ ‘I sew his ears on from time to time, sure.'

Anyway: The Big Favor, below.

So Jack repairs aboard HMS Disaster Polychrest to fit her out, she never having sailed anywhere before and for good reason, and Stephen turns up shortly in Portsmouth and sends Jack a note to let him know he's arrived. Jack responds, not having shipped any paper or pens aboard, by sending a messenger by way of reply. Brace yourself for the absolute onslaught of human sunshine that is about to follow:

A thundering on the stairs, as though someone had released a bull; the door burst inwards, trembling, and Pullings appeared, lighting up the room with his happiness and his new blue coat. 'I'm made, sir,' he cried, seizing Stephen's hand. 'Made at last! My commission came down with the mail. Oh, wish me joy!' 'Why, so I do,' said Stephen, wincing in that iron grip, 'if more joy you can contain - if more felicity will not make your cup overflow. Have you been drinking, Lieutenant Pullings? Pray sit in a chair like a rational being, and do not spring about the room.' 'Oh say it again, sir,' said the lieutenant, sitting and gazing at Stephen with pure love beaming from his face. 'Not a drop.' [...] 'Lieutenant, will you drink a glass of wine, a glass of sherry-wine?' 'You've said it again, sir,' cried Pullings, with another burst of effulgence. ('You would swear that light actually emanated from that face,' observed Stephen privately.) 'I take it very kind. Just a drop, if you please. I am not going to get drunk until tomorrow night - my feast.'

Pullings does indeed throw a party, to which both Jack and Stephen are invited. But first, the situation-- Pullings is the junior lieutenant, and Jack's first lieutenant is a Mr. Parker, who has been a lieutenant 35 years and never been given a command of his own, for reasons that become obvious: he is not good at his job. He doesn't totally understand how ships work, and focuses instead on cosmetic issues, and to motivate the men he constantly yells at them and beats them and generally is a terror to them. But he has influential friends-- not influential enough to get him his step, but influential enough that Jack is stuck with him.

The staffing of the ship is not ideal either, as they're very short-handed and of the men they have, most are Not Sailors. Pullings goes out to press men out of an incoming Indiaman ("won't she already be stripped?" asks Stephen, and Tom laughs at him.

“Love you, sir, I made two voyages in her. There are hidey-holes under her half-deck you would never dream of, without you helped to stow men into 'em. I'll have half a dozen men out of her, or you may say, black's the white of your eye, Tom Pullings. Lieutenant Tom Pullings,' he added, secretly.

I already included this one in the Indiaman Body Count Tally)

As a bit of a consolation, though, somehow Barret Bonden and his cousin Joe Plaice show up, bold as brass, rowing straight through that harbor openly to report aboard, so Jack has his coxswain back.

(We find out, alas, that Bonden's nephew George Lucock, who Jack had rated midshipman in the Sophie, couldn't get a Navy ship as a mid and wound up pressed as a foremast jack out of a merchantman and into HMS York, which recently went down with all hands in a blow-- built by the same corrupt dockyard as the Polychrest, so she probably came apart at the seams in the heavy storm-swell. Jack is sorely grieved, having valued the young man highly.)

So Barret Bonden takes the captain ashore in his barge to attend TOM PULLINGS's celebratory feast, at an inn near the shore in Gosport-- his parents have come, and his sweetheart.

The young man was standing there with his parents and an astonishingly pretty girl, a sweet little pink creature in lace mittens with immense blue eyes and an expression of grave alarm. 'I should like to take her home and keep her as a pet,' thought Jack, looking down at her with great benevolence.

The party goes well (Stephen bonds delightedly with Mrs. Pullings over their mutual love of mushrooms) but then the bailiffs show up, having been tipped off that Jack is there. Jack gets out the window but there are more waiting for him outside the inn and he can't jump down. So he hollers "Polychrest!" down to the end of the lane where his barge is moored, and up the street come running his barge crew, led by the loyal and extremely capable Barret Bonden, who knocks the head cop flat out with a wooden stave. "Pullings," Jack says once the bailiffs have fled, leaving several of their number stretched unconscious in the mud, "press those men," and so they go back to the ship with several additional hands.

By sea law this is perfectly legal. They have out-copped the fucking cops, and are very pleased with themselves.

So the next day they go out to sea and immediately find out that however little they expected out of the Polychrest, she is in fact much worse. She has so much leeway-- meaning, the wind pushes her bodily across the surface of the water no matter which direction she is meant to be sailing in or how closely she is steered-- that she is manageable only in wide vast open empty stretches of water, but her construction means she has no hold for supplies to be stored in, so she cannot make long voyages over vast open empty stretches of water. She must be used for duties that put her close in to the shore, but she cannot be steered well enough to be close in to the shore.

As a bonus they find out that she is actually slightly better at going backwards than forwards, which is. Well, embarrassing, and unexpected. But Jack can sail anything, and does, so on they go to rendezvous with the blockading Channel fleet.

Additional supporting characters revealed at this time include my son William Babbington, he of the venereal diseases, and a new tiny baby named Parslow, who mostly exists for Babbington to play wicked pranks upon.

HMS Failboat reaches the Channel fleet, whose job it is to keep the French from invading. This is a very real danger, there are hundreds of thousands of French troops sitting on the other side of the channel quite openly in a state of high preparedness and Napoleon around this time said "Let us be masters of the Channel for six hours and we are masters of the world."

But the commander of this patrolling squadron at this time is our old enemy Admiral Harte, yon blue-faced son of an old French fart whom we have known and loathed these years, and he really, really sucks.

Meanwhile in shipboard life, Stephen has fallen afoul of the incompetent Parker, who he catches gratutiously torturing the men out of his misguided ideas of how discipline works. This obliges Jack to openly interfere; he had been trying to be diplomatic with Parker, but he cannot overlook this. He handles it very competently, making Stephen and Parker apologize formally to one another and dismiss the incident, and then berating Parker in private. Stephen is coldly furious and offers to quit on the spot, but is talked down. He does however take a short leave and go ashore, where he visits Sophie and tells her among other things that Jack isn't eating very much because he's too poor to lay in his own private supplies, which is customary for ship captains.

And so Killick comes aboard, bearing extravagant amounts of food sent as gifts by Sophie. Jack actually almost cries, it's such a kind and also necessary thing for her to have done. And it's good timing, because Canning comes to dine. (He is Jewish and there is a funny sidebar as Jack tries to find out from the Bible [Stephen is astonished that he owns a copy] whether Jews can eat venison. The answer, as far as the unfussy Canning is concerned, is yes.)

So the dinner is a success, but then they immediately put to sea again. But not far out to sea. And Jack goes repeatedly ashore to visit-- Diana, not Sophie. Diana, who is in Dover, which is easy for the squadron to get to. (Sophie is farther away and also he cannot see her because her mother would not allow it, and she has refused to tell him openly that she wants this, though one would think the food she sent would have been a clue. And yet.) But Jack goes to visit Diana even in peril of being arrested, to the detriment of his duty, to the damage of his reputation, delaying the sailing of convoys he's meant to escort, imperiling his career. Which is what she wants. It's easy for men to say they care about her, but in her state she demands sacrifices to prove it, which Stephen provides as well but in his case she wants declarations, which he won't make.

Back aboard, Jack is trying to fix the ship's rigging to make her sail forwards more often, and Stephen is bonding with the new Marine captain over the various martial arts. The Marine asks if he should like to do some fencing practice. "Would that be quite regular?" Stephen asks, apparently without a hint of irony continuing "I have a horror of the least appearance of eccentricity."

Really. Do you now.

Anyhow they do practice fencing and pistol-shooting, and Jack is astonished to realize that his mildly bumbling friend is actually an incredible shot and a very skilled fencer. Stephen's university days had involved rather an extreme amount of dueling and he is extremely well-practiced and skilled at these arts.

HMS Failboat meets the Bellone, their old frienemy. They could chase her off and simply take the prizes she was escorting, but Jack knows that she does too much damage to English commercial traffic to be allowed to continue, so he doggedly chases her, leaving the prizes behind. He cannot take her, but drives her onto the rocks of the Spanish coast, and watches the surf break her back.

Admiral Harte doesn't give a fuck about this, he's just mad Jack didn't take the prizes.

Stephen is called away to do intelligence work, which Jack still knows nothing about really-- he has some inklings that there are depths to Stephen, but has no idea what those depths really are. Stephen visits Diana and Sophie on the way again, and again, Diana tries to get him to show concrete interest and he won't; he then tells Sophie she absolutely must show Jack some concrete interest but she says she can't and then counter-insists that he absolutely must be more direct with Diana, and he refuses. (I begin to see why this book is so long...)

Stephen is landed by the dark of the moon on the Spanish coast, and some undefinable time later he returns, deeply tanned, and tells everyone he's been in Ireland seeing to tedious family business.

He meets Heneage Dundas, who begs him to tell Jack that everyone has noticed him going ashore so much, it is entirely obvious to everyone what he is doing and it does not look good to anyone. He begs Stephen to tell Jack, lest Jack imperil what few chances he has to advance his career. Dundas is himself a notorious womanizer, so coming from him, this is really, really saying something.

Back aboard, Stephen finds the ship thoroughly unhappy, badgered by Parker's hard-horse willy-nilly torture, unbolstered by any real help from a despondent Jack, after a boring and unproductive convoy escort to the Baltic. But, Jack brought Stephen a souvenir-- a narwhal horn-- and Stephen is delighted.

So delighted he resolves to try to convey Dundas's message. Jack, already sensitive because he knows he's behaving badly, takes it amiss, answers him sharply, carelessly uses the word bastard to which Stephen, being one, is extremely sensitive. Stephen cannot abide it, demands Jack withdraw, and Jack, too angry, doubles down instead, pointing out that Stephen coming back deeply suntanned from a trip to Ireland is beyond believing and makes one question whether Stephen is telling the truth about anything-- which is of course entirely the wrong thing to ever say to someone who has fought as many duels as Stephen, and so of course Stephen goes to ask Dundas to second him in a duel.

Jack belatedly withdraws the word bastard but nothing else, which isn't going to cut it. But the scheduling is prohibitive, so the whole thing drags on unresolved.

Jack goes ashore once more to see Diana, but her servant says she isn't at home; he sneaks around back and discovers that indeed she is there, entertaining Canning in her bedroom.

Admiral Harte now orders the Failboat to go and traverse a very dangerous set of inshore channels to look in upon a French harbor. Now, either Harte is trying to get him killed, or is genuinely ignorant enough not to realize that the Polychrest is fatally unsuited to this mission, but Jack is so dispirited that he merely registers a dull formal protest about it (Failboat's hull has indeed started to come apart and it needs refitting already), then goes away shrugging on what amounts to a suicide mission.

Stephen meanwhile has been noticing that the men are increasingly sullen, but attributes it to the falling-out he has had with Jack-- most of the crew has been treating him poorly now that he is clearly no longer the Captain's Favorite. But in the sick bay he hears the men talking about their plans for mutiny. So he goes, dutifully, to tell Jack: the men will mutiny once they are close to France, and plan to carry the ship to a French harbor once the officers are dead. He will not name names, he is no informer, but he felt it his duty to report the fact of the matter.

Jack knew this was coming, they had been rolling shot in the night and he is not unaware of the state of the ship. He has a solution.

'Men,' said Jack, 'I know damned well what's going on. I know damned well what's going on; and I won't have it. What simple fellows you are, to listen to a parcel of makee-clever sea-lawyers and politicians, glib, quick-talking coves. Some of you have put your necks into the noose. I say your necks into the noose. You see the Ville de Paris over there?' Every head turned to the line-of-battle ship on the horizon. 'I have only to signal her, or half a dozen other cruisers, and run you up to the yardarm with the Rogue's March playing. Damned fools, to listen to such talk. But I am not going to signal to the Ville de Paris nor to any other king's ship. Why not? Because the Polychrest is going into action this very night, that's why. I am not going to have it said in the fleet that any Polychrest is afraid of hard knocks.”

No punishment, the incident will not be logged, but they are going to go on this possible suicide mission here and now and either fucking do the impossible or fucking die trying.

Everyone is pleased by this, except Parker, so off they go, making it to their target in shockingly good time. The navigation is incredibly tricky, and Jack does not know the waters, so he is relying entirely on his master, who is a Channel pilot. He double and triple-checks everything with the master, but the master is absolutely confident, despite the fog that has rolled in, despite how tricky this harbor in specific is. No, they are in the right place, the master is perfectly confident, this is going exactly as planned, and so they are definitely going to--

They run hard aground on a sandbar, midsentence. They were in the wrong place, the master having confused one distinctive headland with another identical distinctive headland. They are now hard aground under the overlapping fire of two heavy, well-staffed land batteries, the fog is lifting, and the gunboats from the harbor are coming out to destroy them.

The only way off the sandbar is to carry an anchor out some distance and then winch themselves off with it, but none of the smaller boats they possess are strong enough to carry the anchor. They will have to go steal one from the harbor. Having decided this within the first three seconds of realizing the situation, Jack then realizes that it would be faster, better, to go cut out a large enough vessel from that harbor to simply directly tow the Polychrest off. And there is in fact a 20-gun corvette there, the Fanciulla, anchored under the batteries, but so close under them that their guns could not bear on her. She is the ship they were meant to locate, and there she is. And why not cut her out? It's suicidal but then this whole thing was anyway.

So he calls for volunteers for this absolutely madcap, reckless plan, and is stunned when most of the men onboard follow him with zero hesitation; he has to order some to stay behind to keep the ship, having already ordered some others off on a distraction gambit to draw the gunboats off.

They reach the corvette; Babbington gets shot and Jack saves him, it's only his arm that is broken, he tucks it into his shirt and fights on, desperately. Pullings cuts the cables with his bloody axe, the Fanciulla is theirs-- the battery has not realized the ship is taken and does not fire on them as they make their way back out to the Polychrest, only belatedly opening fire when they're most of the way there. They pass a cable, set the sails, get on the capstan bars, and are working to tow the Polychrest off-- it has started to move-- they're nearly there-- and then the cable is cut by shot from the batteries, and there is no surviving boat to carry another cable.

So Jack, already wounded but determined, swims over to the Fanciulla to get another cable. He is wounded again in the water, and comes aboard exhausted and bleeding heavily. No one else can swim, and the Fanciulla cannot come any closer without grounding herself as well. So he takes the heavy cable and sets off back to the Polychrest, nearly drowns, but gets there, seeing double. Bonden has to haul him out of the water, he cannot stand, but finally heaves to his feet to take a place at the capstan in the final desperate effort to get the Polychrest unstuck.

She floats. But she has been hulled upwards of 200 times by the batteries' heavy shot, and above all, her poorly-built hull is coming apart at the seams. She cannot swim long.

They tow her out. A large number of transport ships had fled the harbor when the fighting started, meaning to get clear of whatever happened, and they are all out in the shipping lane, milling about and completely confused. The Polychrest and Fanciulla sink several, take one that blunders into them and gets stuck, and leave flaming chaos behind them. Which was, after all, the substance of Jack's orders.

They get everything they can off the Polychrest, and then, finally, she sinks. And so does Jack, massively short on blood.

But the book is not over, no. There's more, but this is another suitable place for an intermission.

Stay tuned for: Gibbon crimes, sixty thousand bees, romantic heartbreak and separate resolution (not the same romance), and somebody gets a promotion. Two somebodies! ... one of them is really not who you would expect.

[relia-robot-writes]

Lone Wolf

A mech and a pilot handler deal with the loss of their shared pilot

"Commander on deck!"

There was a chorus of boots and servos as every person in the hangar saluted.

"At ease," called the Commander as she made her way to the center catwalk. Thankfully she wasn't one of those hardasses who enforced every single iota of protocol. She didn't need to. She had our respect. "New watch rotations after the latest casualties. Look 'em over, share 'em with your squad, get 'em done. I expect the new rotas to go into place with the 1800 shift. Command's still figuring out our next move, so if you're not on watch, take some R&R. Dismissed."

She turned to go. I looked at the posted watch schedule on my HUD. Then I ran after her.

"Sir!" I saluted, and tried to get my body into a parade rest position. It's not easy when you're twenty feet tall and your arms aren't supposed to bend that way.

The Commander put her hands on the railing and looked me in the head camera. "Yes, Corporal Stormcrow?"

"Sir, I noticed my name isn't on any of the rotas." She stared at me, face neutral. "Just wondering why. Sir."

She sighed, and pulled up her dataslate. "Following the events of Operation Waterfall and the death of Pilot Abagail Walker, awakened machine Corporal Stormcrow is to be relieved of duty until another suitable pilot is found," she read. She put it away again. "Sorry, Stormcrow. I'm sure they'll get you a new pilot soon." She turned to go again.

"Sir!" She stopped. "What if- Sir, I don't need a pilot. It's unnecessary to keep me decommissioned, I can fight just fine without one."

"Rules are rules, Corporal. Can't go breaking protocol just because you want revenge." She didn't turn around. "Dismissed, Stormcrow. Get some rest."

She got another ten paces before I couldn't stand it anymore. "Sir, do you know what the weak point of a mech is?" Everyone in the hanger had turned to look at me, but I was beyond caring. "The pilot! Kill the pilot and the whole machine goes dark. Everyone knows that. But I don't need one!"

She sighed, but still didn't turn around. "Corporal, the rules are there for a reason. The pilot helps you as much as you help them." She sounded tired. I didn't care.

"Sir, I'll blow things up for you. I'll capture targets for you. I'll escort shipments, rescue VIPs, hell, I'll turn into a goddamned truck for you, but I will not take on another pilot." I slammed my giant metal fist into the hangar wall, making the commander stumble. The sound echoed through the silent hangar. Slowly, I pulled myself back into something resembling parade rest, and tried not to scan the dent in the wall.

The Commander turned around slowly. "You're grieving," she said, "so I'll let it slide this time. Dismissed, Corporal."

She walked out of the hangar bay, and I was left standing alone.

---

Rain beat down on the roof of the hangar. Boots sounded on the catwalk, accompanied by the clattering of bottles. I looked up from my welding. "Handler Finn."

"Corporal Stormcrow." She sat down on the catwalk, letting her legs swing out in the air. Her tank top showed off her wiry frame. Not muscular, like Abagail had been, but fit, and too tall for the cockpit. I always felt like she should have been wearing spurs. There was a pop as she flicked the bottlecap off her first beer. "They'll writecha up for that, you know."

I finished welding my cockpit shut. "What are they gonna do, court-martial me?"

"Dock yer pay, at least," she drawled. She took a swig, let the silence roll out in front of her. "I miss her too, you know. There's like... a void in my head where she used to be." She tapped the side of her head, where the uplink implant was.

I contemplated my cockpit. Finn took another drink.

"Hell, how long did we work together? 'Spect it's only natural."

"Depends on how you count."

"Pardon?" She leaned against the railing, letting herself go boneless.

I turned to face her, my head level with the catwalk. "I spent ten years non-sapient as her M.I., and then another five as Corporal Stormcrow. Is that five, or fifteen?"

Finn let out a low whistle. "Fifteen years, huh? Can't hardly believe it." She took another swig. "Goddamn."

Lightning flashed through the windows, and a beat later a long, drawn-out rumble sounded through the mostly-empty hangar. Finn and I stared at the rain together.

"So, you wanna go solo, huh?"

"It just makes sense," I said, a little stiffly. "No pilot, no risk. They can shoot my cockpit all they like." I ran my fingers over the patch job the engineers had done after the op.

"Guess I can't blame ya. I ain't the one putting my neck on the line." She took another plug, set the empty bottle down.

"......yeah," I said. "It won't... be the same without you."

"Then again," she popped the cap on another bottle, "there's a reason they group us all up. We watch each other's backs."

"What's a scrawny little pilot supposed to do to watch my back?" I snarled. "Pain in my ass."

Finn put the bottle down and gave me a look. "Now, I know you didn't mean to say that about our poor Abagail."

I couldn't look her in the eye. After a moment, I muttered, "I did a pretty piss-poor job of watching her back, too."

Rain fell against the windows in waves. After a moment, I looked back at Finn. Her cheeks were wet. "Damned," she said, a hitch in her voice, "leaky roof. Command really oughtta fix this thing. Somebody could get hurt."

I scanned the sealed roof, and looked back at the rain. "......yeah."

"You know- you know she wouldn't blame ya. Right?"

I put my hand over my cockpit with the sounds of shifting metal. "...yeah. But that-" a warning flashed on my HUD, and I dismissed it. "That doesn't matter. I'm still going solo."

"Mm." Finn picked her bottle back up, swirled it around by her fingertips. "I met the new kid."

It took me a moment to process the change of subject. "The pilot? They replaced Abagail already?"

"'S conditional," she said, taking a drink. "Lots of pilots in the program these days. Supposed to be the safest place in the forces." She let out a hollow chuckle. "Seems like a good kid. Eager, but respectful-like. We're s'posed to have a neurolink test next week."

I couldn't believe it. "You- you can't be serious."

She looked at me and wiped her cheeks. "I can't live like this, Stormcrow. Not half-in and half-out. Not with this... hole in my head. Mebbe you're built different, but for me, it's either this or..." she let the sentence trail off into the rain.

I shook my head and started walking to the other side of the hanger. To replace her? So quickly? Maybe humans could forget that easily, but I couldn't. I could still feel her, hands on my controls, voice shouting in the neurolink...

"-mcrow! Stormcrow!"

"Huh?" I jolted to. Chronometer said several minutes had elapsed. Finn stood on the catwalk near me, holding her half-empty six-pack.

"I'm headin' out. Gonna take a walk, try and get my head on straight, before I get all maudlin on ya." She grinned ruefully. "Well, more maudlin."

I straightened myself up. Could at least keep things professional. "Good to see you, Finn. Take care." I held out my finger, and she shook it.

I turned to go back into my charging alcove, but she stopped me. "Hey, after the neurolink test next week, I want to bring the kid by. Have her meet you, hear your side of things."

I bristled. "I'm not gonna let some punk kid pilot me."

"No piloting. Just... remembering Abagail. So she knows."

I relaxed my alert level, sighed. "All right. See you around, Finn."

"Take care, Stormcrow."

I plugged myself in, and listened to the sound of the rain.

next

[xoxoladyaz]

AU-gust, Day One: Sculpture Artist

I saw the prompts and this grabbed me by the throat! I wrote it in about an hour, so my apologies if it's not up to my normal quality.

Steve wasn’t good at a lot of things.

He wasn’t very intelligent; while everyone else in town eagerly devoured the latest books delivered monthly by Murray, the traveling librarian, Steve struggled to make it through the first few pages. (He thought it might have been a curse at first, the way that the letters and words moved all over the page. When he had asked Madam Byers, the town witch, she had just smiled sadly at him and, well, he already knew everyone thought he was an idiot. He should really be used to it by now.)

He wasn’t the strongest or most athletic either; that honor belonged to Sir Hargrove and his knights. (Once upon a time Steve had been the one the town was counting on for protection. He was the one getting parades in the streets, catching handkerchiefs thrown by all of the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. He was the son of Sir Harrington, after all.

But when the darkness came, when he took his stand against the creatures that appeared like smoke out of the great forest, his knights – his friends – abandoned him.

All except for Sir Hargrove, for Billy, his – well, it doesn’t matter anymore now, does it? All that matters is that Billy stuck his own sword into Steve’s back and left him to the creatures, only “rescuing” him once the damage had been done. And it did not matter what Steve said, or that there was a mark that clearly belonged to a sword on his spine; Billy, who was shortly knighted by Steve’s own father soon after, emerged the victor, flawless and golden.)

He was no longer the handsomest man in town (not next to Billy, not with scars all over his body.) He did not know a useful trade, given that he was not trained to have such. If he was the best at anything, it was at being a disappointment. An embarrassment. So much for the Harrington name, people still said on his infrequent ventures into town. Such a shame, such a waste.

So no, Steve formerly-of-House-Harrington was not particularly special in any way. If he had had some wit, or maintained some beauty, or was able to discuss the latest tales from court, perhaps things would be different. Perhaps he would have been accepted by the town. Instead, he lived in a small thatched cottage a morning’s ride away from the rest of Hawkins (the only thing his father gave him before taking his name, his money and his protection) and spent his days working in his garden, caring for his few elderly animals, and entertaining the children of the neighboring shepherds.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he did also work on his sculpting.

(The stone was from Robin, a traveling student. She had run into some trouble with her horse while passing through and Steve might not have been a knight anymore, but he still knew how to care for horses. Robin had offered to pay him for his help, but he would not accept it. It was payment enough to have someone his age to talk to. It was nice, to spend time with someone who did not know him as the former knight of Hawkins, as the disgraced noble he truly was; she just knew him as Steve and she saw a potential in him that he didn’t see in himself.

You are good with your hands, she had written in the note that had accompanied the massive piles of stone, delivered straight from the royal quarry. And you have much love in your heart. May this inspire you to see your own strength and beauty once again.)

She had probably expected him to use it to build a well, or perhaps some sort of fence for his small piece of land. But when he looked at the stone – a beautiful, shining white, the likes of which seemed far too grand for his small corner of the world – he could not see it serving such a purpose. No; this was made for something more.

He had never studied the arts; why would he, Steve of House Harrington, future knight of the realm, have had any need to learn what his father believed was woman’s work? Formal training, then, was something he did not have. But he did have fine tools, given to him by Madam Byers; he had a pair of crystal glasses, lent to him by Dustin, his favorite shepherd; and he had ample amounts of time to go slow, to focus on the task at hand. (Not that he really knew what he was creating, just that he was creating something.)

And so the months flew by: summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter, and when Steve was not doing his chores or tending to the young, he was slowly and patiently chipping away at the block of stone that he kept safely sheltered inside his small home, next to the worn-down hearth.

It wasn’t until he had knocked away the final chip of stone, until his bones had rattled with knowing that it was done, it was finally done, that Steve had finally realized just what he’d created.

It was a man, one near his age. He had the long hair of nobility, curled tresses that cascaded down his bare shoulders; he was clad in a simple robe much like the masters of old; large rings adorned his fingers, rings that proclaimed the man in front of him to be of royal blood. His feet were bare, as were his legs, and they were strong; he felt that if he looked closely enough, Steve would be able to see defined muscles underneath skin.

But the most striking part of the statute – aside from his royal dress and stature – was his face: a royal, aquiline nose above lips that were flushed with life and there, nestled under a noble brow, a pair of large, soulful eyes. The eyes were the same color as the rest of the statue, of course, but Steve found that the longer he stared into them, the more he felt that this statue, this man was staring back.

It didn’t seem possible, the longer Steve looked at it – at him. It didn’t seem possible that someone like Steve – the disgrace of Hawkins – could create something so beautiful, so ethereal, so entirely arresting as the man in front of him, because this man was the most beautiful man – human or statue – that Steve had ever seen.

And suddenly, Steve couldn’t bear to look at it. Couldn’t bear to live in a world where the thing that he was most proud of, that he had poured all of his time and attention and love into, was something that could never possibly return it. And even if the statue came alive, somehow, even if this perfect man was human, what would he possibly see in someone like Steve when there was a world of better, smarter, handsomer men out there?

Steve turned and reached for his hammer, the one blunt instrument that remained unused from Madam Byers' gift. He turned back around and, with a mighty cry, swung the hammer at the statue and sent it shattering into a thousand different pieces.

He expected that he would have to spend the rest of the night cleaning up the ruins of the one wonderful thing he had ever done.

He did not expect the stone to shatter and reveal a flesh and blood man standing before him.

The last of the stone fell to the ground and the man took a deep breath. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes alighted on Steve. The moment their eyes met, the man’s formerly taciturn expression transformed into the brightest smile Steve had ever seen.

And it was a smile that was aimed at him.

“There you are,” the man said. He stepped forward and took Steve’s hand in his own. “I have been waiting a long time for you.”

Steve cleared his throat and looked down, unable to bear the enduring warmth in the man’s eyes. “I – I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord.”

“No,” the man chastened him, and a warm hand tucked itself under his cheek, pulling Steve’s eyes back to meet his. “You are everything I have been waiting for.”

“I'm afraid you must be mistaken, for I am just Steve. I can offer you nothing.”

“And I am just Eddie, and you are not just Steve,” the man – Eddie – replied firmly. “You are a kind man with a good heart. You care for other people and expect nothing in return. And most importantly of all, you dedicate your time and your love to everything, even things that cannot love you in return. Those are qualities sorely lacking in this world, and that makes them all the more valuable.

“I foresaw you long, long ago Steve of House Harrington,” the man finished quietly, a small smile now on his face. “And I would consign myself to thousands more years behind stone if it meant that one day I would find you.”

Steve did not know when he started to cry, he just knew that he had tears in his eyes. “You do me great honor, my lord.” Reaching for Eddie’s hands, the hands that oh-so-gently held Steve’s face, Steve drew them to his mouth and pressed watery kisses against his rings. “I will spend my life to be worthy of that. To be worthy of you.”

“Dear one,” Eddie said, and he laid his forehead against Steve. “You already are.”

Steve knew that he wasn’t good at a lot of things. He would never be the smartest, or the strongest, or the handsomest, or the most clever man in the world, or maybe even in Hawkins. But as Steve kissed his Eddie – his Eddie, who had travelled across time and magic to reach him – none of that mattered anymore. Because he might not have all of those things, but he did have love. 

And what could possibly be more important than that?

[mikhailwrites]

The fire in your eyes / Ghost x Soap

Kinktober #19 - Uniforms

Military Parades. Everyone hates them. Instead of doing something useful and productive, you need to dress up and march in front of staring crowds. Nobody cares if it’s so hot the road is melting or so cold your eyes are freezing over. However, there might be a silver lining to this one: Johnny fucking MacTavish proudly displaying his Scottish heritage.

I'm writing this at 3AM, terribly sorry if it's even less coherent and has even more mistakes than usual. Btw did you know SAS has its own tartan? Well, now you do.

The door to the rec room opens, Ghost immediately checks them. And has to look away and back again. As if to make sure he’s truly seeing... that. Johnny. In a kilt. Not just the kilt, in fact, the whole getup.

Gaz whistles, eyeing the other Sergeant. “Looking sharp, mate! Got a date? Some pretty bird to impress?”

“Damn right, I do,” Johnny smirks as he momentarily looks at Simon. Oh, he likes to play with fire. But he does look sharp, Gaz is right about that. “But we gotta address the elephant in the room. Ghost in a uniform? What did you bribe him with? And the chest candy, too? Had to be expensive.”

“That would be classified, Sergeant,” Price appears out of nowhere, rivalling Ghost’s namesake. “I hope you boys are ready to make a good impression today.”

“Yes, sir!” they answer him in unison. They don’t have to like parades, but they all understand why they must be at their best.

It all goes smoothly; they’ve rehearsed it, after all, for countless hours. Even the weather takes pity on them and graces the parade with an overcast and reasonable temperature. They march, they do the show, people are applauding, a few are shouting some profanities as if a good portion of the parade doesn’t have a near-death experience. As if they didn’t hear the whistle of a bullet flying way too close to their head.

Ghost keeps his mind carefully clear. He performs as is expected of him, enjoys the fleeting moments he gets to see Johnny and tries not to count passing minutes. Then there’s a hymn, another march, and, yes, finally, they’re free. He needs a drink, as do the rest of One-Four-One. Drink, and then he gets out of the uniform. Every time he catches a glimpse of himself, he startles a bit until his brain catches up. God, he hates this.

As Simon nears the pub they had earlier agreed to meet, there is an unusual amount of noise and ruckus coming from inside—the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood, shouts and thuds. Ghost tags Price standing a little out of the way, leaning against the wall and smoking one of his usual cigars.

“Someone already managed to start a fight?” Simon asks as he comes closer, mildly impressed.

“Uh-huh,” Price nods. “We did.”

Ghost blinks a few times. Alright, he didn’t see that coming. “What happened?”

“Someone insulted Soap’s kilt and, if I got it right, even went as far as to say something about his mother. And you don’t just insult SAS soldier’s mum, do you?” Price asks a wholly rhetorical question. Ghost only nods, but then he looks around the deserted street.

“So, why aren’t you inside?”

“Plausible deniability. If I go there, I’ll have to clean up the mess and employ some disciplinary measures. You know the drill.”

“Want me to sort it out, sir?”

“Please do.”

That’s the only permission Ghost needs. He takes off the jacket, handing it to Price. He might not like it, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to get his measurements taken again for a new one.

It’s an absolute chaos inside. Luckily, Ghost thrives in chaos. He sweeps the pub from left to right, taking a quick and rough account of the situation. Gaz is to his right; two men are holding him up as the third takes a swing at him. It’s not a bad punch, Gaz’s head jerks to the side, blood from the split lip dripping on his uniform. As the assailant prepares for another swing, Ghost intervenes. This is his teammate right here, the man who’s saved Ghost’s life on numerous occasions.

Ghost moves quickly, sliding behind the man’s back and grabbing him by the collar, slamming him into the overturned table. The two blokes holding Gaz up look at Ghost, then at each other. There’s a hint of recognition. They let Gaz go immediately and try to charge Ghost, both of them at the same time. Not a bad thinking.

Ghost dodges one fist aimed at his stomach and trips the man. The other one lands a hit on Ghost’s kidneys. It hurts, but he’s used to pain. However, before Ghost can react, Gaz is there, kneeing the bloke in the stomach before sucker-punching him. Okay, that’s one-half of the job done.

“Where’s Soap?” Ghost barks out loud enough to be heard over the racket.

Gaz looks around. Numerous fights are going on, as is expected. There’s tension and rivalry between the military branches and the units. This sort of gathering is a powder keg. “I don’t…,” Gaz starts, trying to find their other Sergeant. “Oh….”

Ghost follows Gaz’s gaze, and… yeah. Oh.

Soap is lying on the ground, one guy’s neck held between his thighs while simultaneously doing a proper fist-assisted dentistry on another bloke who’s struggling to crawl away. Johnny looks like a rabid dog.

“You gonna need help with him?” Gaz asks, not making even a single move.

“Nah, get out of here, Price is waiting outside,” Ghost shakes his head, loosening his tie, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and tucking the sleeves up.

First, he frees the half-choked bloke before he kicks him further from Johnny. Then he grabs Soap and forces him to his knees, thus letting go of the second guy in the process. Ghost quickly glances at their uniform. Royal Marines. Of course. Ghost almost wants to kick them some more.

Instead, he does the reasonable thing worthy of an officer. He takes Soap and, much to the Sergeant’s protests drags him away. Soap is loud, cursing Ghost in that incomprehensible language of his, but even he isn’t so out of it as to hit Ghost, who also happens to be his commanding officer as well as a partner of sorts.

Ghost pretends not to notice and appreciate the searing heat in Soap’s blue eyes. Johnny doesn’t lose his shit nearly as often as many would think, yet when it does happen, it’s an absolute masterclass of carnage. And Ghost loves it. However, he can’t be thinking with his prick right now. They need to get out before someone with actual power shows up.

The ride back to Hereford is a short and quiet one. They stop at a petrol station and get some ice. Gaz is nursing his split lip and bruised jaw, Soap is pressing a handful of ice on the back of his head, where he claims someone hit him with a chair. He’s bleeding from the shallow cut on his forehead, and his left eye is beginning to swell. He got a thorough beating, but Ghost can’t help but think that he didn’t really save Soap. If anything, he saved those two poor bastards Soap was beating up. The Sergeant would probably eat them alive if someone didn’t stop him.

They get out of the car, Ghost immediately grabbing Soap and dragging him away. Price sighs, and Gaz chuckles.

Ghost is leading them to the barracks, to his room. The door closes, lock clicks in place. Johnny is dirty, bruised and bloody; his uniform is ripped in several places, too. He’s a damn mess, but Ghost has always had some seriously crossed wires. He’s been hard in his trousers for a while, and there’s no way he’s waiting a minute more to do something about it.

“Uh… Listen, LT, I’m sor…,” Soap doesn’t get to finish his apology before Ghost is on him, damn near devouring his mouth while his hand clutches at Soap’s thigh over the thick layers of tartan. Johnny lets out a slightly exasperated laugh as he backs up and falls onto the bed. Ghost follows, never allowing more than an inch of space between them. The new position allows him to reach under the kilt finally. He kneads at Soap’s bare thigh, remembering that he nearly choked a man with it. Fuck!

Ghost quickly undoes his belt and shucks his trousers down under his arse. “Lube,” he growls at Soap because the Sergeant is closer to the nightstand. Johnny does as he’s told, fishing out the bottle and handing it over with the same practised move as if he would hand Ghost a magazine.

“Prep?” Ghost asks, clipped and right down to the business.

“Fuck it, want you in me thirty minutes ago,” Johnny smirks. The fire in his eyes is back now. He didn’t get to rip the Marines apart, but now he might get that anger channelled in a different way.

“Wanted to be in you the moment I saw you in the morning,” Ghost retorts.

“You tell me the sweetest things, Simon. Hurry up!” Soap smiles, licking his lips as he watches Ghost fumble with the lube.

It burns a bit at first, then it hurts a bit more, but Soap is no virgin. Ghost is holding back a great deal, trying to go reasonably slow. Soap groans, but instead of pulling away or making any attempt to stop Ghost, he nudges him closer, whining as he forces himself to take more. Ghost is mesmerised, completely lost in him.

Johnny writhes under him, unable to stay still. Ghost’s prick halfway in is both too much and not enough, and it’s frustrating. Finally, he makes up his mind, hooks his legs behind Ghost’s back and demonstrates just how much strength there really is in his legs.

Ghost gasps and moans, Soap whines, arching his back off the bed, struggling to take a breath for a few seconds. “Christ, Johnny,” Simon wheezes, struggling to control himself and the situation. Scratch that; he doesn’t control the situation at all. Soap does, especially once he adjusts and simply uses Ghost to take what he needs.

Simon doesn’t mind. He would be willing to give this man anything he could desire. Anything at all. Simon would cut out his own cold, cold heart and gift it to him. He would burn down the world. For now, it seems that his cock will suffice.

Soap, for the lack of better words, fucks himself on it, and the kilt, rumpled and tucked up, leaves exactly nothing to the imagination. Johnny shivers as the glistening glans of his hardon rubs against the wool, but Ghost does nothing to help him.

If he did, it would’ve been over way too quickly. Instead, he leverages Soap’s hips, changing the angle significantly. Soap yelps before hissing an ecstatic “Yes!” Soon enough, more words follow. Please and harder are especially frequent, and Ghost does give it to him.

Snapping his hips forward at a punishing pace, he gets a lovely gasp each time he bottoms out. Johnny is clawing at the sheets with one hand and at Ghost’s forearm with the other. Come morning, he will probably look like a wild cat mauled him.

It’s a sweet kind of pain. Johnny will feel him for a few days; it’s only fair Ghost will, too. Simon feels the tension build up inside him; his thrusts are slower but firmer, forcing a breath out of Soap, who looks like half of his mind is wandering elsewhere. Eyes hooded, mouth hanging open, face slack in that special way only a good shag can do.

“’M close,” Ghost warns. Or maybe it’s a promise, what with the way Johnny’s legs hold him tighter, trying to force him deeper. Simon blindly searches around until he finds the lube, pouring a little into his palm before he grips Johnny’s neglected prick. It’s hot and hard, velvety, with prominent veins that make Ghost’s mouth water as he remembers how it feels in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue. How Johnny tastes, how his hand in Simon’s hair feels. Simon cries out, a broken sound of utter relief, as he pumps into Soap with each pulse that wrecks his body, coming inside him for what feels like an eternity but is mere seconds.

His hand slacks, but Soap covers it, tightens the grip and continues to fuck into Simon’s fist with quick, erratic thrusts. He’s close, his breathing ragged, his brow furrowed with desperation and concentration. Simon moans as Soap rides his oversensitive cock.

Even in his post-orgasmic state, Ghost feels the faint rush of excitement as he watches Soap coming undone and, a few seconds later, actually coming, soiling his uniform, jacket, kilt, shirt, all of it. Ghost lets them both breathe for a few seconds before Johnny lets go of his hand; Simon, in turn, let’s go of Johnny’s cock, and brings his hand to his mouth. Johnny makes a small, helpless noise as he watches Ghost lick the cum off his fingers and palm.

Simon collapses on the bed next to Johnny, exhaustion catching up to him quickly.

“You’re beautiful,” Simon whispers, unable to stop himself.

Soap stares at him for a moment before he snorts. “Aye, damn right I am, what with the black eye, all bloodied and bruised.

“You’re prettiest when you’re bloodied and bruised. And angry, I like you angry,” Ghost continues, his filter completely fried. Johnny would probably tease him about it later, but for now, he can say whatever he wants.

[eldritcmor]

A Grave Mistake

Featuring: taskforce 141, storm, they

Warnings: mention of the dead and depictions of violence.

Grave had betrayed them. Locked the gate and hunted them like animals through Las Almas. They and Storm ran for the desert. Listened in fear and heartbreak as one by one, taskforce 141 was captured. Dragged, Kicking, screaming, fighting back to Graves grasp. The man wanted to take them all out in one fell swoop so now it was a hunt for the last two.

Storm sucked a harsh breath through their teeth as They threw them down in the dirt.

"I have to go back!" Storm scrambled to their feet only to be met with the harsh resistance of They tossing them right back into the dirt.

"Please." Storm begged as They crouched next to them. They dragged a claw lightly down Storm cheek as they leaned into their shoulder. A thread of thought and instinct rung at Storm's mind. A simple plea. A plea and an offer.

Storm breathed in sharp and even, a fire burning in their eyes.

"Fine. What is it I need to do?"

The town of Las Almas was silent. Graves felt accomplished as the sound of gunfire and screams died down. He had nearly every single member of taskforce 141 tied to chairs before him. Stripped of their gear. Their weapons. Their tags. Six holes dug into the earth, waiting on two more dead men. A Shadow recruit ran into the room. Out of breath and wide eyed with panic.

"Sir, you might want to come see this." Graves frowned. Right, those two were still out there and now it looks like they wanted to play. He followed the recruit and harshly shoved open the door.

Only to be met with a field of bodies. Every single person that shadow company has shot down and brutalized throughout the town. Now laid out in neat rows. A parade for a traitor. And sitting among them, sat Storm. Storm was dressed down. Gone was their gun. Their heavier plate. Their go bag. Muted thunder rumbled overhead.

"Hello Phillip."

"Storm. Hopin' for a way in? I got the rest of your squad. If you come quietly, I'll make it quick. Scouts honor."

"We both know you have no honor, Mr. Graves."

"Really. Storm, you know that hurts."

"I hoped it would. But I'm just here as a messenger."

"What didn't come for a last stand? I'm disappointed, Storm."

"Well I thought about it, but then I remembered what I was good at. By the way, that message was-"

"Run! Run!" A Shadow shouted. "Something's flooding through the town!"

Storm smiled. A saccharin sweet thing of promised pain and cold hearted sin. "Well that. Adios Mr. Graves." And their body fell apart into bone and blood as the storm let loose overhead.

Rain pounded against the steel roof of the base hangar as something dropped down next to Price. He stiffened as a cold hand traced his arm before firmly grabbing his wrists and yanking a blade through the zip ties on his wrists. He stayed still as the cut through nearly every binding with ease.

"Why?"

"Is that tone anyway to greet your favorite subordinate, captain?"

That was Storm's voice. Price grinned.

"Bout time, kid. What happened?"

"Got the fuck out of town, and then had to round up a few friends." Storm continued to work as they spoke. Cutting free Soap, Ghost, and Gaz. They got a hug from Soap which they gratefully returned.

"I have the shadows distracted for now. But we need to move. They can't keep them from munching for long." Price and the others looked confused.

"What exactly did you do?" Storm rolled up one of their sleeves, revealing well it looked like something with claws tried to take his wrist and hand.

"I made a deal with the desert."

[pigeonwhumps]

Meeting

Operation Badger masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @augustofwhump

@fleur-a-whump

August of Whump day 14: dehumanisation | darkness | alone

Series inspired by @/i-eat-worlds (not bc I think it's in any way similar but bc I've been reading their Starcross and went "wait aliens and living weapons and what if humans trained living weapons against aliens and-" so this wouldn't have been written without them)

Josiah, a soldier and a handler for Earth Security, meets his new assets.

927 words

CWs: minor whump (aged 14 and up), multiple whumpees, dehumanisation, talk of people as assets, living weapons, talk of punishment, scared whumpees, brief mention of past death

Josiah skims the briefing for a final time before folding it into a tiny square and stuffing it in his inside pocket. It only tells him what he already knows. This is an asset team, usual make-up, previous handler lost in a solo mission. There's the usual photos and descriptions, but as long as none of them are malfunctioning too badly he'll do this on his own.

He raps on the metal door three times in quick succession. It opens shortly to reveal two teenagers standing at parade rest.

Only two are ready immediately. They can do better.

The one on the right is about 5', stocky, with pale skin and dirty blonde hair shorn short. The usual titanium plate replacing part of a mekanikisto's skull is painted with delicate, intricate flowers (not exactly what he'd class as acceptable decoration but he's not in charge of uniform, unfortunately). Pastel shorts are just visible under a very baggy t-shirt, and her eyes are narrowed slightly in a display of what's not quite outright hostility. This must be Ŝpalo. Youngest in the team at 14 years old, British mother, Texan father. Far too much spunk.

The boy beside her is a little taller. Dark and wiry, ginger locs flowing out from under a bright blue bandana, he doesn't take his eyes off Josiah. He's dressed in sweatpants and a tank top, but not from training, Josiah's pretty sure. He's just relaxing. This team has far too much unstructured downtime, and they're clearly not using it wisely. This is probably Viro. 17 years old, Grenadian, tradukinto.

There should be two more assets in here, and Josiah peers around Ŝpalo and Viro into the remarkably tidy dorm room. On one of the bottom bunks a third teenager is curled up, surrounded by bedding that doesn't quite touch them. Josiah can't see them very well, just the ends of a few dark, elaborate braids curling over their trembling shoulder.

The final asset is frozen, standing beside the bunk in overlarge fleecy pyjamas, holding a jug of water and staring at Josiah with large, wide eyes. They have light brown skin, short dark hair, and a port-wine stain on their left cheek. Josiah guesses this is Granda. Aged 19, Filipino-Chinese, the normie.

Which by process of elimination makes the person on the bed the mensoleganto. Luno. Aged 15 with DVD, Bangladeshi heritage, and they really should be better than this.

"At ease," Josiah mutters. Two out of four isn't too bad, he supposes, for a team that's just lost their handler, but really. They're old enough to know better.

Ŝpalo and Viro relax their stances, although Ŝpalo keeps her head high, jutting her chin out. "Who are you, sir?"

"Sergeant Wellsmith, your new handler."

Granda straightens suddenly and salutes, nearly dropping the jug. "Sir."

"At ease, Granda. Set that jug down before you drop it."

Granda blushes as they obey, setting it down beside Luno.

Ŝpalo and Viro exchange a loaded glance.

"What do you want from us?" asks Ŝpalo, fists clenching at her sides. "Are we starting training with you now, sir? Because–"

"Ŝpalo," Josiah says sharply, and she cuts off, chin tilting up, eyes narrowed, still looking angry–

No. No, not angry.

Scared.

Determined, and scared. Why is she–

Viro moves to block Granda and Luno from his sight. Oh. Huh. This is new. Assets aren't supposed to act like this.

"If you're trying to hide someone, you don't move to where they are," Josiah reminds him. It must be a reminder, mustn't it? He should've learnt that by now. It's part of basic training.

"They did nothing wrong," says Ŝpalo. "Punish me, not them, I'm the one who was defiant."

Very defensive. This is interesting. An unusual asset team, to be sure. And it seems his predecessor was very heavy on individual punishments. Unfair ones?

"If I was going to punish anyone, it would be a team punishment. But I've only just arrived, and I'm not." His gaze flickers to Luno again. "What's their condition?"

"What do you care? They're just a weapon, aren't they? So long as they're working why does it matter?"

"I require my assets to be in good working condition," replies Josiah stiffly. "And I want to know if they're not. Ŝpalo, if you don't want to earn your team a punishment then I suggest you rapidly improve your behaviour."

Ŝpalo looks off-balance for the first time, eyes darting around their teammates before she falls completely silent. Viro's eyebrows knit but he doesn't say anything. Good. Better.

Josiah's not impressed with his predecessor. Couldn't even get Ŝpalo's attitude under control. You don't want a mekanikisto with that sort of an attitude. Don't want to end up with another Omega team situation.

"They'll be in working order for their next training session, sir," says Granda quickly. Too quickly. Very eager to please. Does that rate higher than accuracy in this asset? He hopes not.

"Good. Do they need anything to assist with that?"

"No, sir."

"Right. I want to meet you all properly before we start training together. I'll give you ten minutes to sort yourselves out and meet me in the blue briefing room. You can wear civvies."

"Yes, sir," says Granda crisply. Ŝpalo scowls. Luno doesn't even look round and Viro just looks weary.

Good grief. He has a lot to train into these assets. Looking at their results so far they'll be worth it in the end, but they don't even have the right attitude. There's a long way to go with this team.

[pfhwrittes]

Okay, follow up to Gaz and Ghost razzing Soap over comms and he can’t respond:

This time, it’s Gaz’s turn. Soap determines it’s payback time and Ghost goes along with it. (Because let’s face it, he would.)

Gemma I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this prompt out. My brain went off in a million different directions before finally settling on this one. It's not my best work but it did make me laugh, hopefully it makes you smile too! 459 words of silliness (again). Also, I'm sorry for the earworm. “Ohhhhhh an’ I would walk 500 miles an’ I would walk 500 hunner mair jus’ tae be. the. man. watin’ at yer doooooooooor!” 

Kyle feels his left eye twitch in response to Soap’s godawful crooning. It’s been hours of the same fucking line sung over and over with different inflections and Kyle is seriously contemplating finding Soap’s overwatch position and beating him into a bloody pulp if he has to be subjected to the Proclaimers for even another second. Op be fucking damned. 

“Johnny.” Ghost snaps down the comms, and Kyle feels his shoulders drop in relief. 

Finally.

“Those aren’t the words.”

Kyle grimaces.

Here we fucking go.

“What’re ye on about Lt., of course those are the words!” Soap sounds delighted that he finally got a response out of the stoic Manc, which, in Kyle’s opinion, is the completely incorrect response to have. 

“No.”

“How no?” Soap shoots back, not deterred by Ghost’s blunt reply. 

“English Mactavish.” Christ, Ghost sounds downright fond of the prick. Kyle fights back the urge to make a disgusted retching noise in response. 

“Sorry, sir.” A pause, then “g’wan then. Give us a tune.” 

“Not a chance, sergeant.” 

If it wouldn’t give away his position, Kyle would beat himself into unconsciousness. Listening to Soap butcher “I’m Gonna Be” is less painful than having to witness the way he flirts like a teenager with Ghost. 

There’s another brief silence before Soap starts humming again. 

Fucking hell. __

(Bonus scene I just couldn't scrap, even though it doesn't quite fit)

“Gentlemen. I expect you know why you’re here.” Kate’s voice is smooth and controlled, not a hint of emotion bleeding through. Her body language gives away just as much as her voice, that is to say, absolutely nothing. Beside her Price is the picture of barely tempered fury. In any other circumstances Kyle would quietly marvel at the way she holds court in the small conference room, would probably shoot her a friendly grin to reassert himself as her favourite troublemaker.

As it stands (at parade rest no less, wedged between the ever fidgeting Scottish menace on his right and the breadth of his Lieutenant on his other side), Kyle doesn’t dare to even move his eyes from the point he’s chosen on the wall behind Station Chief Laswell and Captain Price. 

The silence stretches on and Kyle notices the faint tink tink tink of the ancient steel radiator as it blasts wave after wave of scorching heat into the room before his ears catch the sound of slightly off-key humming coming from his left. 

There’s a brief moment of near silence before Soap’s composure crumbles, clutching at his stomach as he bursts into only slightly hysterical sounding giggles. 

In his periphery Kyle watches a vein throb on Price’s forehead.  Oh, they are all completely and utterly fucked.

[infinityactual]

I must know about Roland’s fingerprint freak-out

Ask, and ye shall receive. Most of the time.

Context: Roland has a hardlight body now, and has been alone on the Intinity for months. That's really all you need to know.

---

As the ramp descended, Roland made sure he was standing straight and at a proper parade rest and briefly pondered why it suddenly mattered. Sure he'd saluted when he'd needed to in the past but…

"She looks like we never-" Captain Lasky stopped mid sentence in surprise, and Roland felt a burst of neon green joy at hearing Lasky's voice in the hangar again.

"Roland?"

"Yes, sir!" The AI replied, nodding once. He tracked familiar faces and IFF tags from neural interfaces as Captain Lasky and his Spartan entourage left the ramp and came to a stop in front of him.

"Is that really you?" The captain asked, surprise still evident in his voice as he gave Roland a once-over.

"May I answer that with a handshake, sir?" Roland extended his hand and waited as Captain Lasky's face broke into a smile, and he returned the gesture.

As soon as Lasky's hand gripped his, Roland yanked himself free and stepped back, his shoulders hunched in surprise at the almost searing burst of tactile data that seemed to flood him.

"Hey! Are you okay?!" The captain's concerned voice bled through the echoes of the data, and Roland straightened himself up.

"Yeah I'm fine but…wow!" Lasky's eyebrows shot up.

"'wow'?" He repeated. "Wow what?"

"Your hand!" Roland exclaimed as he dug through the new data with the enthusiasm of a Labrador retriever digging though an unattended trash can. "I wasn't expecting it to be so soft and so solid! And covered in weird tiny ridges! Also not as greasy as I expected…but the ridges were more unexpected! What are those even for?" Captain Lasky looked at him for several hundred milliseconds.

"My fingerprints?"

"Oh is that what they are..!" He felt like a new part of the universe had clicked into place. Being made for Astrogation, Roland never had any need to look up why human fingers all had a pattern on them, or what made the pattern in the first place.

"Oh come on Roland, you know what fingerprints are, they're on file for literally everyone who sets foot on the ship!" Sarah interjected.

"I've read the image data, but I've never touched them!" He said excitedly. Commander Palmer considered this for a few milliseconds and Roland turned his attention back to Captain Lasky.

"Can we try again??" He asked excitedly. Captain Lasky smiled again, and held his hand out toward Roland again.

He was careful this time, barely touching his palm against the captain's and gradually increasing the pressure. The flow of data was more metered this time, and he was prepared for the intensity.

"This is…nice. I can see why humans like to spend so much time together, especially when you're na-"

"OH-kay, changing subjects." The captain interrupted. It was now his turn to quickly withdraw his hand and look uncomfortable. "Uh…sitrep?"

Roland smiled and moved back to parade rest as his threads pulled up what little data there was to report. He could pester the crew about their fingerprints later.

[despair-to-future-arcs]

Are we going into a origin story?

...So, given your retiring after the trial next year; you really think leaving Kyosuke in charge is a good idea?

Well given the options we have, I really think I can trust him and he has shown how to run the foundation, but I do think he needs a bit of a tight leash on him.

But maybe you could keep a control of him? So far you seem like you can be able to talk some sense into him more then I do.

You don't need to flatter me, sir. You need someone to keep a level head to realize somethings and to make sure everyone doesn't lose their shit.

Still... I do remember when started Future Foundation it was only just you, myself, Koichi, Kyosuke, Juzo, Emiko and Seiko and... we were trying to save the other students...

I remember it as well... it was quite chaotic as well...

...

...

...

Date: April 28th, 2013

Jin: So... we got the doors block now...

Looks to the case but still, your planning to stay here Jin?

More then likely, given the Steering Committee is going to have someone to blame and I'm it's current headmaster, they'll likely aim for me along with Kyoko...

That's why me and Miss. Yukizome intend to stay here and keep those in Class 78-A safe.

*Is looking at his phone* It's getting pretty bad out there... you think we can find a safe place for the rest of them...?

*gets up* Koichi, what are you talki-...

*Koichi show the video to Jin, it shows numerous building destroy and rampage*

I see... looks like things aren't getting any better, aren't they?

Looks to be the case, I do wonder how this happen...?

I'm not sure either, all of this started when Class 78 enroll, maybe there's a mastermind that plan this all out...

Oh, is those skills from your dad coming in handy?

Don't bring up my father into this, I just figure that it might be the case and Kyoko did do an investigation so maybe I can figure somethings out too.

But I think it's best that you both take the remaining students out of Hope's Peak before the parade gets worse.

Heh, will be sure to do that - Jin now please be safe.

You got it, cheif. good luck... *the duo walk out and head to a secret exit as they close the door which standing at the door is Masa*

So... is the headmaster coming or is he staying?

He decided he's going to stay with Class 78-A and will take the rest of the students away from school grounds.

I see, well maybe it might be safer I suppose...

Right but anyway, is all the documents in the car?

Most of it, Miss. Shinogi is getting the last of it in there so we should be okay for now so let's go.

Ah good... then let's get going... *the trio head down the tunnel*

[spades4cards]

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧

There she goes again; yapping about Sentinel reports, about how I lost two deals to them as if she wasn't the reason. It's ironic, really: her wondering why I was so out of it as if she hasn't been taking over my thoughts and parading them like she owned them. I was one tick away from shutting her up and crushing those lips against mine until the rest of the world faded and it was just us. And if I listened to that sweet voice of hers any longer I just might. "Sentinel has-" "Thank you, y/n, please return to your other tasks." Every single crease of a frown on that beautiful face of hers fueled my flames of resentment towards myself until I was scorching with guilt. I can't control myself, so there I go, being rude to y/n. It was never like this before she came in my life. I was always put together and then I just had to go fuck it up by hiring her. A week was all it took for her to break down my barriers and, fuck, I'm still struggling to rebuild them.

"Of course, sir. Thank you for your time," y/n said curtly before leaving.

I can't tell if I'm relieved or disappointed that she left. What the fuck did she do to me? Usually, I'm rational about my emotions, and all rationality was lost when it came to y/n. I let out an exasperated huff before turning myself back to my computer. But no matter how hard I tried to concentrate, she flooded my mind and took over it.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

What the fuck was I doing so wrong I had to leave mid meeting? I don't understand; sometimes he prolongs my stay, and other times he acts like I'm a bomb about to explode that he has to get rid of. I was here to do my job, not bet on my boss' actions like I was in a gambling den instead of an office. I worked like a dog, following him around every meeting as if he was my owner. At least the pay is good, though, even if I spend it all on clothes. And, occasionally I could go on his Interational meetings. I was a travel girl, so how could I turn down the job offer? Even if he suspiciously hired me without an interview. After attending all his grueling meetings and doing an impossible number of organizing files, it quieted down in the office until it was just Christian working on his computer, and me standing awkwardly behind him since I was done with my work. It was only ten p.m., but my eyelids felt like dumbbells and the flimsy dam holding my yawn back finally broke.

"If you're done with your work, you can leave," Christian said in his dark velvet voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harper, but in my job description it states I cannot leave until you do," I responded in a clipped tone.

"Well then, too bad I'm your boss and you have to listen to me."

I opened my mouth to snap back but gave up, grabbing my work bag and walking off. God, why did he have to be such a bitch about everything? As soon as I got home, I quickly brushed my teeth and changed into my night suit. Fuck my boss, all I need tonight is some good sleep and I'll be ready to kick some more ass tomorrow.

[lamentingwclf]

The Howling Commandos - what a name - but as it gains momentum, they scoff less. It doesn't make the amount of press and coverage any less annoying, especially when they are on a mission and Bucky's trying to focus. They tried to get a shot of him sprawled out on the cold ground, scope to his eye, and it took him blaming them for the hypothetical death of Captain America to get the camera out of his face. Brooklyn accent thick, and rude gesture following. But for the most part, they were used to it, and it was necessary to show folks at home that everything was under control.

But what no one saw, what Bucky would never tell, is the conversations that happened behind closed doors. The first being after the formation of the team, and a logistics meeting to review the plan of action prior to setting out. They'd just concluded and everyone started filing out, but Colonel Phillips, Peggy Carter, Senator Brandt, and Howard Stark remained seated. It was Phillips that called for him - "Sergeant Barnes, stay a moment."

Steve hesitated, brows tenting, and Bucky could read the concern there. It was fear of being left out and sidelined again. But he was dismissed again, and told to shut the door behind him on the way out.

"Sir?" He prompted, hands moving to rest on his belt buckle in a relaxed parade rest.

"You are are aware what's at stake here, yes?" It was Brandt that spoke, and Bucky's eyes cut to him, though he continued facing forward. He knew that their dreams of a super soldier army went up in smoke after the death of the doctor that developed the serum. His brow rose, the only indication seeking clarification. "This is a war, and though we agreed to let Steve out, to lead these missions, what he is representing as Captain America goes beyond the scope of that."

"He is meant to be a symbol of hope, the shield of the allied forces." Peggy adds.

"Okay."

"What they are saying, Sergeant," Phillips interjects, and Bucky's glad for his ability to cut through the bullshit. "There are certain things Steve is not going to be able to do while he's representing this country. We can't have Captain America out there killing people, and racking up a body count."

Bucky cocks a hip, and his first two thoughts are, this is war, what did you expect and so don't have the cameras out there, let us do the job and get home. Instead, what he says is, "I've known him my whole life and all he's wanted to do since this war started is to serve his country, like anyone else, a real soldier. You gave him that, and now you just want him to, what, sit by and watch? Pretend? You want me to ask him to sit this one out?"

"Not exactly." Peggy at least had the decency to look uneasy.

"We're aware of the training you received after basic. Beyond that of excelling as a sniper. We know you received more well 'rounded' intelligence training. Scored high on all aptitude tests and are in excellent physical condition despite your time spent at the camp in Austria." As Phillips talks, reviewing the file in front of him that he now realizes is his the gravity of what they are actually asking sinks like a pit in his stomach. They don't want Steve to kill, they want him to.

"So," Howard starts, always uncomfortable with tension, and tries to make a light of the situation. "Steve's the shield, and you're the sword."

Gwen, You know oysters are an aphrodisiac - that's why they were teasing you about them. You should probably have learned by now that if there's a hill we make a stand on that seems to come out of left field, there's a double meaning that none of us really have the heart to tell you. It's not your fault you grew up sheltered, but please tell me you didn't buy them from Tommy Ringfield down at the docks. He's going to run his mouth and spread all over south side that you've got a trick up your sleeve.

The letters finally reached them after the second successful mission. They'd been able to clear out two Hydra facilities and release more prisoners of war. He'd responded quickly to his sisters, who were understandably equal parts relieved of his survival and furious for the disappearing act. They, too, spoke of the media coverage and how their mother seemed to hang on every word. He knew it was good for them to draw some hope from it; but if they knew the truth of his role in this group - if Steve knew the full scope of it - would they look at him differently?

Would it give more credence to his mother's words, meant or not: God knows the type of man you are, James. He will judge you when your time comes.

It's the coverage he blames for the other surprise letter, one full of provocative language and promises of what is to come should he return. That Cheryl Mullins sent it at all causes his stomach to clench and he burns it without finishing it.

I think you'll be happy to know that things are better. Steve's doing better - he can run without getting winded now. Actually, all the ailments seem to be gone completely. And yes, there is a woman, but I think he should be the one to tell you about her. We don't really get much news from home out here, but I'm curious about the baseball league, you'll have to tell me about when I get home. I knew women were having to pick up more since the men are being sent overseas, but baseball? Who'd have thought? I taught you to throw, maybe you should go out there and try for yourself - tell your dad it'll be good for you and a great way for you to also represent your country. I'm sure he'd love that. I can't really say a whole lot about what's going on on our end - which is ridiculous considering they have cameras in our faces every time we turn around, but Army orders. I have been thinking a lot over the last few weeks, though, about everything, and I wanted to say I'm sorry. I haven't really been fair to you, and the burden I left you with, it's not really excusable. But even before then. I bottled everything, and it started to take its toll. I'd like to talk more about it, in person, when I get back. Then, whatever you decide, I'll support you. Yours, Buck

"America, we've got Cap." Dugan muses, "And Germany, they have the Nazis, and Hydra, if you think about it. But what do the Soviets have?"

Why they are stuck on this topic of conversation, Bucky has no idea. He'd honestly stopped listening twenty minutes ago when he'd crouched down in the snow with a stick to draw a visual for himself of what was to come. He found comfort in the mundanity of meticulous planning. If he had to guess, it was nerves - as this was the biggest mission they'd had to date. But it was more than that. It was the goal of the mission that had all but Steve on edge. It wasn't his eternal optimism, but he was missing a key component this team shared - trauma.

"Look around you, Dum Dum." Bucky drawled, finally standing and tossing the stick aside. The nickname was a two-fold, what they called him, and an insult. He crossed back over to the group, coming to a stop on Steve's left side - looking out over all the white down towards the stilted train tracks. "The Soviets have Winter."

She bites her lip when he directs his disagreement towards her father, and she can only imagine what he said to him. It wasn't that George disliked him, Gwen knew he didn't, but...there was a threat. Bucky was charming and Gwen always figured it was the way her mother and her friends swooned over him- never had it occurred to her that he could have been threatened by Bucky being able to take her away...but would it have been such a bad thing? "Don't doubt me Barnes," Gwen whispered, but he was right. She'd never be able to get on that plane.

Brown hues widen when he starts ending their conversation, already aching from his departure as panic begins to set it. "What? No- no just wait. Wait. Please, don't go yet, I-" Need to keep talking to you. "Bucky I need to- What about Steve?" But the phone clicks...and his voice is gone and the loneliness creeps back in. Despite this, however, she can't help the small smile that comes to her lips. The two Brooklyn boys...they were going to watch out for each other- and they were going to win this war.

A letter is wrote the very next day to Steve, once again cursing him for going to war and even more now for ditching the USO tour and going directly to battle now, but once she gets it out of her system she gives him one more scolding for not saying hello to her over the phone then her words get softer. She tells him to look out for Bucky, to look out for himself. That she misses both of them and for the love of God to quit being so reckless.

It's only four days later before the first headline of Captain America and the Howling Commandos is plastered all over the streets of New York. Radios boom their names and their heroics- their victories. It's a newfound triumph for all of America again and while a letter from Bucky or Steve is yet to come in the weeks as the headlines continue- each one of them is their own personal assurance that they're alright.

Proud couldn't even begin to do what she was feeling justice.

Finally a month later Gwen ships off her first letter, as well as another box of goodies from "Senator Adler".

Bucky- You wouldn't believe what we're seeing back home. You and Steve are plastered across every block in the city. It's starting to make me quite annoyed actually. I get it. You're heroes. They don't need to keep showing it. It will go to both of your heads. I'm serious though, Bucky. Your picture is in the paper, your name even more- Steve too. Every day we're getting new updates about you guys on the radio and even at the cinema there are videos of you. It's almost like you're here. June scoffs and rolls her eyes, but she never looks away. I've even seen her smile. She's proud of you. So is Rebecca. Even your mother saw you and Steve in a picture on the front page. She noticed Steve first of all things, which is quite strange because Steve hardly looks like himself anymore. Even is hair has gotten neater. He tells me there's a girl? Always, once your mother spotted you she stared for the longest time but then she laughed. She laughed Bucky and she keeps the paper in her bed with her. Sometimes I catch her smiling at it and she always always always reminds me that that's her son in the paper. I know celebrating these things probably doesn't ease what you're going through. I know it likely makes light of everything you've seen and been through. I won't talk about it anymore if you don't want me too. I still worry. Every moment of every single day but you two morons being together makes me feel better. You're not going to let anything happen to him and he won't let anything happen to you. To a fault almost. Seeing you everywhere has only amplified the space you take up in my head. I can't get you off my mind. I hope you enjoyed the items from the bakery. I know they get there much quicker than an envelope does, but I surely hope they're not stale by the time they arrive to you. If you get a chance, would you mind sending me some choc. Anyways, now you definitely don't have to give some of your share to Steve. Things are still being rationed here, but I make sure to get your family a little extra items that well I guess I'm privileged enough to receive. I made them a chocolate pie for Thanksgiving as well as some oyster stuffing. Rebecca didn't say anything about it, but June told me oysters are foul and to never bring that again. They like my pie though, which you know. The tree is up at the plaza. There's snow and Christmas is here, though it feels quite different without you and Steve here. Your gifts are in your apartments, you're not getting out of it. I don't know if this letter will reach you before or after, but regardless, Merry Christmas Bucky. I hope wherever you are there's something that makes it feel just a bit brighter. I miss you. I wish you were here. Take care of yourself, I promise I will do the same Oh! I forgot to tell you, but soon after you left for the war, a large group of women formed an All American Girls Baseball League! Can you believe it? They don't quite hit like the boys but it was incredible to watch. I can't remember how many games I found myself attending this past summer into the fall. Many scoff about it, my family included, but I think it's brilliant. I even took them in August. They were surprised. Wayne enjoyed it because they wear skirts and as you can imagine sometimes they come up. Sometimes I forget how dreadful boys are. I knocked his hotdog on his jacket. Mother scolded me, dad smiled, and Russel laughed so hard he dropped his soda. We'll have to go to a game when you get back. Sincerely Gwen

That very night, nervous fingers fiddle with the edge of her cocktail dress as a photographer sets up their camera. A quick glance is taken at a mirror and swiftly one more layer of red is painted on her lips. The photo was for her fiance. And of course, she'd sent one....a few weeks ago. But this...this photo was for Bucky. It feels as if the whole word is watching as she places the new photo in an envelope and places that in the mailbox the following morning. In fact she's so paranoid, she runs to her apartment to find one of the many photos she has of the three of them, places it an envelope, this time addressed to Steve, and rushes it to the mailbox as well. They were just photographs for her friends...right?

[jude-thedude98]

There was one thing left unsaid and I wanna talk about it with many moons of passing sorries and apologies the redemption shot I got wasn't to fuck fight or friend you it was and is to feel neglected by another you. Another human being letting me down. God save me now because I'm all cried out and the emotions I'm pushing down are festering now. And I'm trying to keep from crying But touching you was the sole thing that broke my soul. God I need you. I almost want to stay celibate for the rest of my life. I don't want to touch another soul body heart or person. No mind can keep me from feeling this way in time. I feel that I don't want to be touched ever again either. I feel like singing a song breaking the song in barriers of breaking the physical record just so I can hear the synonymity of how my heart broke today. May 22, 2023. And how appropotingly funny because that's the exact date that I poor two twins to die. A story I write is my own nightmare in my eyes. I'm scared that I'm writing my own demise so whoever sees this and if I'm not alone by this time whether death by tonight or many many many more awaying nights. Know that I promised I would fight. Know this that I also tried to be the shining armorous knight. Fighting everything from inside to outside. This world is and has been set aside to watch you fall apart in decrepidness and die. Ehither away in time. With no one wondering why. Or worse memory and memorabilia passing by. I try and I tried. I just wanna dry. I just wanna die. I just wanna fly. Fly away in the sky and never come down. A balloon with extroverted helium. I feel the draining drum of banging numbs as I tap keyboarding pain with each thumb. Strategically finding out how dumb I really was. To think that I could love you. Or. You could love me. Or. We could love each other. Be in love. How stupid that really and truly was. But I was young and sir these tracks that I lay will always be my priding parade. It will be my out standing moment ro be gay. And I mean that in every sense of the word from then till today. Happy and happy in loving men. Happy that I'm speaking out from what has been within. Speaking in what I have been feeling left without. Rights. Civilly acting in this activist concentrating more on the healing then the entire cist. And I hope and pray it will decay. Because I'm not sure of about how much more or this I can take. I didn't mean to rape you and I didn't mean for you to rape me. I guess this is that rare and pure meaning of equality.

[writercole]

Tensions

Summary: Things get tense in the air as well as on the ground.

Squares: Friends with Benefits @anyfandomangstbingo

Words: 1959

Warnings: Blow job, male receiving oral, tension, someone knows.

A/N: Coyote is one of the best wingmen ever.

Tag list is done. Please follow @coleslibrary and turn on notifications for story updates.

Things in the air were almost as tense as on the ground. Maverick had been pushing them to their limits every day, making them review where they went wrong and forcing them to try and come up with an excuse that would make the families of the ‘lost’ pilots feel better. All it did was put more stress on the aviators and push them to lash out.

Things came to a head when Hangman pushed a little too far about everyone else’s flight problems. Maverick tried to get him to shut up, but Jake had to run his mouth. “We’re going into combat, of the likes no one has ever seen. Not even him.” Bob warned him to shut up, Fanboy agreed and Payback, near enough, threatened to end him. The bickering and yelling echoed from the high ceilings as all the pilots started standing and pointing fingers in anger. Maverick dismissed them for the day afterwards, seeing how badly everything had turned.

“Valkyrie, a word,” Maverick called across the hangar, stopping her in her tracks. Coyote assured her silently that he’d keep an eye on her friend while she stayed behind.

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged as she stood in front of him, snapping to parade rest out of habit.

“This isn’t a formal meeting, relax,” Maverick insisted as he leaned on the table at the head of the makeshift room.

She took a seat facing him, leaning her elbows on her knees and waiting for him to continue. She had no idea what she could possibly have gotten in trouble for; her jet was the one lost in the last training maneuver, causing Payback and Fanboy to be reprimanded.

“Valkyrie, I know we’re not exactly friends, but I’d like to think we have a relationship that traverses the usual ranking bullshit,” he started, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s why I’m coming directly to you with this.”

“Whatever you’ve heard, sir, -”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted. She nodded at him and sat back, sighing as she did so. “I’ve seen pilots like Hangman before. He’s arrogant, abrasive, and tends to leave people behind. He’s ditched everyone on his teams while we train dog fighting - everyone but you. I know there’s a history there and that the two of you are close. I need you to knock some sense into him.”

“Sir?” she questioned, her eyebrows furrowed together and her head tilted to the side.

“He’s going to wash out if he doesn’t get his shit together. And you’re his last chance to get his head right,” Maverick explained.

“Yes, sir,” she sighed, “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you, Valkyrie,” he nodded as he stood. “Dismissed.”

Valkyrie headed back towards the common area, finding everyone but the one pilot she was looking for. She glanced over at Coyote, who stood and walked over to her, standing with his back to the rest of the aviators.

“Hangman told me not to let anyone back there. But seeing as how you have a certain…way with him,” he muttered, sending her a suggestive side eye, “I’m going to pretend you snuck by me. I know you’re close and all but I’ve never seen him this wound up.”

“I got it, Javy,” she mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and patting his shoulder. “You’re the best friend a gal could have.”

He pretended to swoon at her words before shooting her a wink and walking in the opposite direction, heading out of the room. 

Valkyrie slipped down the hall quietly, tapping on Jake’s door before letting herself in. He was laid back in his bunk, earbuds pushed tightly into his ears and his eyes shut. She could hear the heavy music from across the room, his head nodding along to the beat almost imperceptibly. She smiled softly to herself, remembering all the times she’d found him in the same position, the room different but the music the same.

Her boots squeaked across the linoleum as she approached the bed, climbing atop him in one swift motion. His eyes popped open and his body tensed as he felt the movement, relaxing as soon as he processed what was going on.

“You realize I could’ve taken you for a threat and actually hurt you, right?” he scolded her as he put his earbuds back into their case. 

“Right, Seresin,” she scoffed, “like you’d ever get the jump on me.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but why exactly are you straddling me?”

“I needed your attention and there’s really no better way to get it than the only unattainable woman you’ve ever known sitting over your cock,” she smirked as she laid her palms on his chest.

His hands traveled up her thighs resting lightly on her hips as he gazed up at her. “You’re not exactly unattainable but you do have my attention, darlin’.”

She took a deep breath and looked down at his face, a soft smile playing on his lips. She almost didn’t want to tell him what Mav had said; she selfishly wanted him to wash out so that he’d be safe and not have to go on this mission. But she was a woman of her word and he was her best friend.

“Maverick wanted to talk about you,” she blurted out, watching his face go from peaceful to confused. “He said you’re being too reckless. That you need to learn to work with your squad and not leave them behind.”

“He said that?” 

“In so many words, yes. I may have paraphrased a bit to save time,” she admitted. “Bottom line, Jake, you’ll wash out if you don’t get your shit together. That’s a direct quote.”

“Great,” he groaned, his hands dropping from her hips. “Let’s just cap off a shitty day with shittier news.”

A smirk danced across her lips as she watched Jake think and overthink. “You know, I might have an idea of how to fix that,” she whispered, moving between his legs and letting her hands trail down his chest, unbuttoning his uniform as she went.

He kept his eyes on her as she moved lower, licking his lips when she pushed his undershirt up over his abs. She teased her way down with warm kisses and sharp nips, his breathing getting shallower and his cock getting harder as she made her way down to his belt. His eyes fluttered shut as her hand cupped his bulge over his pants.

“Is that a jet in your pants or are you happy to see me?” she winked.

“Oh, that’s definitely me happy to see you,” he panted as he pressed his head back into the pillows.

She worked the button open and zipper down, her hand slipping in and pulling his cock out, positioning herself to comfortably take his length. Her tongue traced the prominent vein along the bottom of his shaft, her eyes not leaving his face as she wrapped her lips around the tip, running her tongue through his slit.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he gasped, “that mouth is good for more than talking shit, ain’t it?”

She hummed in agreement, slowly bobbing her head up and down his length, taking more of him in her mouth with every pass. She let her eyes shut as her nose nestled in the trimmed patch of curls at the base of his shaft, enjoying the feeling of him filling her throat with his heft.

His hand rested on her head, more of a grounding technique than attempting to control the speed and depth. He opened his eyes and watched as her mouth worked him over, one hand stroking what didn’t fit in her mouth while the other fondled his balls. His moans were soft, his subconscious still keeping him quiet to keep them from trouble.

She took him in her mouth in his entirety and hollowed her cheeks as she pulled back, her soft cheeks dragging the sides of his cock. Saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth and tears spilled down her face quietly. 

“You look so good stretched around my cock,” praised Jake as he wiped the dampness off of her cheeks. “Are you gonna be a good girl and take it all? Swallow everything I give you?”

She hummed in response, nearer a high pitched whine than an actual hum. The vibrations were all he needed to tip over the edge, his cock twitching in her mouth as he shot hot ropes of cum down her throat. 

She sucked it down greedily, only pulling off when he was overly sensitive, each sensation causing his entire body to twitch. She sat back on her heels and wiped the corners of her mouth as she maintained eye contact with him, enjoying the sight of him completely wrecked because of her.

“Feel better?” she cooed as she shifted off of him, cupping his face gently to make him face her.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, “yeah, you could say that.”

Maverick had some interesting training planned the following day. He had the entire squad meet up at the beach for something he called dog fight football. He split them up into two teams, Hangman and Valkyrie playing opposite each other. The trash talk was flowing back and forth, a fun time being had by everyone. 

Valkyrie caught the ball and started running towards their ‘endzone,’ dodging players left and right, Hangman right behind her. His arms wrapped around her waist just before she crossed the line, ruining her touchdown.

Hangman continued to block any attempt at Valkyrie scoring, even scoring a touchdown himself despite Valkyrie on his back. The game ended and the team separated, some of them heading back towards the dorms and some going straight to The Hard Deck.

Valkyrie and Hangman dusted the sand off of themselves before they stepped into the nearly empty bar, just a few of their squad mates and a couple of regulars sitting around the counter. They grabbed drinks and headed to the tables where their friends were.

“What’s going on with you two?” Phoenix questioned as she looked between Valkyrie and Jake.

“What? Nothing,” she denied quickly, her voice rising an octave and her eyes darting between Jake and Phoenix.

“I know that’s bullshit,” Phoenix scoffed. “You think we wouldn’t notice the way the two of you just disappear randomly and come back smiley and relaxed?”

“Honestly, no,” Jake shrugged, “it’s not like the team is filled with people who are obsessed with gossip.”

“Jake!” Valkyrie exclaimed in a whisper, trying not to draw attention to the table.

“What? It’s not like it’s a secret anymore,” he replied and sipped his beer.

“Well, it’s just Phoenix who knows. It’s still pretty secret,” she insisted, “I don’t need everyone finding out!”

“And Bob,” Phoenix added with a smirk.

“What about Bob?” she pressed as her face fell further, looking around the room to see Bob hanging around by the pool table with Payback and Fanboy.

“He knows,” Phoenix elaborated. “He’s the one who noticed first, actually. Asked me if I knew anything.”

“Oh my god,” Valkyrie groaned as she hid her face.

“It’s not a big deal,” Hangman offered, “it’s just sex. We’re not really seeing each other.”

“Friends with benefits never ends well for anyone,” Phoenix cautioned, a sorrowful look in her eyes.

“That won’t happen with us,” Valkyrie told her.

“Yeah, it’s not a permanent thing, just until the mission is done,” Hangman explained. “Besides, we’re not exclusive and if we were going to catch feelings, don’t you think it would have been when we were teenagers?”

“Look, all I’m saying is be careful. You know the admirals would have a field day with the two of you if they found out,” Phoenix warned as she stood.

Everything: @thelastpyle @deangirl93 @evergreencowboy @katelyn--renee @fictional-affairs @paintlavillered @buckys-zomdoll @polireader @b3autyfuldisast3r @welcometothefandommultiverse @mlovesstories @supraveng @xoxabs88xox

Top Gun: @princessmisery666 @evansrogerskitten @bradshaw-fanclub @saiyanprincessswanie @luckyladycreator2 @princessphilly @ahockeywrites @clints-lucky-arrow @wildbornsiren @shanimallina87 @fuckyeahhangman @blue-aconite @hope-love-equality2 @peachiicherries @marvelousmermaid @therebeccaw @green-socks @imjess-themess @jostystyles @mayhem24-7forever @callsignaries @a-reader-and-a-writer @ahopelessromanticwritersworld

[ragingstillness]

Aleksander’s lack of self-preservation is legendary and previously most of the oprichniki were too intimidated by him to call him out on it. Alina on the other hand…SIT YOUR STUPID ASS DOWN SASHA NO YOU CANNOT WORK YOU WERE POISONED TWO HOURS AGO!

Both Mal and Alina are kind of horrified with how easily Aleksander takes assassination attempts in stride. Like they clearly still bother him but he moves forward like he stubbed his toe every time. Aleksander tis-a-flesh-wound Morozova.

Shot in the leg? I can do my work sitting down

Shot in the torso? My arms still work I can read reports?

Shot in the arm? I think my toes are nimble enough?

Paralyzed? Hey could someone read me that report?

Mal and Alina are inches away from tying him to his bed.

It also doesn’t help that he’s self-sacrificing as hell. Like someone takes a potshot at his retinue and he sees the projectile go for Mal and like dives in front of him to take it. Mal is like wtf you understand how this bodyguard thing is supposed to work right? I protect you

They become so comfortable around Sasha and he around them that he starts dropping real sus information without thinking. He gets poisoned once and Alina’s losing her shit when he’s like oh yeah this’ll pass my mom served me [insert poisonous plant] a lot in my youth, I think I’ve got immunity now.

Mal’s practicing some new move he learned from a traveling mercenary, Sasha comments that it’s been ages since he saw that move, he didn’t know they still taught [insert obscure name here]. Mal looks it up in the library later, that term hasn’t been what the martial art was called for 500 years.

Alina: why do you sleep with the window open

Sasha: so I can hear the song of the trees

Alina: how many times has someone almost killed you that way?

Sasha: I think the tally’s at 57 now

They both are well trained and appalled at how often Aleksander sacrifices safety for glamor.

Alina: you realize that as general you have to be protected

Sasha: but I have to be a beacon for our people otherwise they’ll never know they can be strong

Alina: but if you’re killed they have no beacon right?

Sasha: surprised pikachu face

Following what someone else said, Mal is the type to get his revenge on someone at a later date without anyone knowing it was him. Alina will throw down at the slightest provocation.

Someone calls Ivan a bloodletter?

Alina: feral cat up in his face trying to bite his throat out

Mal: gonna trip him face-first into a bowl of boiling soup later

Now I’m just imagining their first meeting lol.

Mal’s standing there normally at parade rest like it’s an honor to be part of your service sir. Meanwhile skinny tiny Alina at his side is like we’ll protect you with our lives you don’t have to worry anymore, you’re safe. Sasha is charmed at first sight.

au where mal and alina become oprichniki and take the darkling’s safety way too seriously, like they are just obsessed. and as a result he begins to take notice of them and starts bringing them basically everywhere until eventually he of course falls in love with them. which is to say: bodyguard au