#Sgt. Steel

[donnatroyprincessofthemyscira]

This made me CACKLE with glee🤣

[gijoe-forever]

[classicprowrestling]

Bob Backlund vs Sgt Slaughter / Steel Cage - 1981

[lanabuckybarnes]

So bit of a weird scenario I have in my head that I wanted to share with you all.

Once again I’m writing more of Sgt Barnes but can you blame me.

Pairing: Sgt Barnes x reader

Warnings: None I believe.

-

Back in the 40s, before the world went to shit, you, Bucky and Steve were an inseparable trio. Where one went the others followed, although most of the time it was Steve third-wheeling you both. You and Bucky weren’t together, no, you were just close friends. Steve would scoff whenever they’d both say it, you’d both be wrapped up in each other’s arms and deny it.

The truth was, both of you were idiots, Steve had been the guy you’d both turn to when it came to gushing over each other. He still couldn’t figure out how you two never saw the heart eyes you’d give each other. You never got to confess your love to Bucky till much later, you lost him for 70 years after he fell from that train, after you were captured by Hydra also. When you finally met, your feelings for each other were far too much and you spilt over a bottle of old fashioned whiskey, life was good after that. Then you lost him again.

-

Tony, Steve and you return to the past to retrieve the stones, unfortunately Loki steals it before any of you were able to grab it. You’d have to travel much further back, to around 1943, before Bucky’s capture.

Since you were familiar with the area Steve and Tony trusted you to scout out ahead before they moved in. You never expected a group of drunk men to corner you into an alley and just your luck, your comms had stopped working making you unable to call for backup. You’d have to fight them yourself.

You’d gotten the upper hand for the most part, 3 of the 4 men lay nursing wounds but the 4th man had caught you unaware, when your back was turned he’d grabbed a pipe raising it high above his head as you turned to watch, your eyes closing at the impending attack- only for the pipe to not hit you at all.

“You think it’s cool to hit a woman punk”. The words were polluted with rage. The alley reverberated the crack of fist against bone, a howl following after. the man who’d almost broken your skull lay blubbering on the floor, blood pooling from between his fingers.

“You alright?” The man asked, you finally raised your eyes from his pale green pants to his face.

Your beating heart stopped, heaving breaths caught in your throat and tears welling in your eyes. It was him, those steel blue orbs unmistakable. It had been so long since you had seen that colour.

His brows quirked in confusion at your gawking face, he felt exposed.

“Hellooo” he tried again, this time it was enough to break you from your trance. You took note of his outstretched hand and grasped it gently, allowing him to pull you up close to him.

“Hmm doesn’t look like theirs much damage” he hummed his thumb running over a graze on your cheek, his mouth frowning slightly at your wet eyes. You wondered what the repercussions would be if he recognised you, or if you ran away with him.

“Are you ok?” Steve's voice broke out through the small earpiece but you couldn’t reply, still entranced by Bucky’s deep blue eyes.

“You know it’s crazy, I feel like I know you” Bucky laughed his hand fell from your face to tuck itself into his pocket. Oh shit, play it off, play it off!

“Oh yeah heh… must just have a normal-looking face” you retorted while looking away, desperately trying to conceal your face without it looking obvious. Bucky just hummed through pursed lips, unconvinced at your explanation.

After a beat, you cleared your throat and pulled away from him. “Well I gotta go, thanks for helping me” With one last longing look you left him in that alley. Rubbing at your eyes to hide the tears from Tony and Steve.

‘What a confusing woman’ Bucky’s head shook at the encounter before a flicker of gold caught his attention. With ease, he squatted down to have a look, at a pendant, a very old-fashioned-looking one. Picking it up he rolled it around in his fingers, inspecting its fine detail, suddenly it popped open.

Two photos laid delicately inside it, Bucky and you in the 40s, one he recognised instantly and a much more recent one taken by Sam when you weren’t looking. You were both on a fancy looking motorbike, your face contorted with laughter while Bucky’s eyes watched you from over his shoulder— even from the photo he could tell his eyes were swimming with love, that same love he felt for the other version of you.

How did he not notice before. He mentally kicked himself at his blindness, only a fool would completely miss something like that.

Tony and Steve were waiting for you when you got back to your meeting spot, their brows furrowed at your dishevelled appearance, wondering how you’d got into a fight so quickly.

Just then Steve noticed something.

“Your pendant”

Your hand shot to your neck, it wasn’t there, they’d grabbed at it during the fight but you hadn’t expected it to fall off.

“I have to go back for it”, you begged but Steve only shot you a sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry, we have to go”

“But—”

“Are you looking for this?” His familiar voice vibrated your bones, your body reacting to it in the same way it always did.

He had his pendant dangling from between his fingers, a small smile decorating his features.

“My pendant” you sighed under your breath stepping forward to Bucky’s large structure, he tutted in response, pulling the pendant back.

Instead, he delicately turned your body and placed the pendant around your neck, fastening it once again with gentle fingers.

Spinning you around again his eyes met yours, the deep blue twinkling with specks of love. His fingers moved up your body till they found their spot on either side of your face. You were frozen in place.

“I'm glad he- I finally said something” his honey-toned voice broke the silence between you, a blush making its way onto his pale face as he contemplated whether or not he should go through with what his heart was telling him to do.

‘Fuck it’ he thought, pulling your face close to his. Sealing his plump lips over yours in a tender kiss.

With one last look into your eyes, he pulled back, hand still grasping at your own as he smiled.

“I’ll see you around” and with that, his hand slipped from yours as he turned. He’d left again with a promise— a promise that he’d fulfilled when he stepped through that gold circle of Strange’ and was back in your arms again, the cool metal fingers brushing over your face. You couldn’t wait to tell him about what had happened.

-

I’ve got so much smut in my drafts it’s actually unreal, who wants some?

This is a little thing I keep thinking about but idk if I’ve fleshed it out really and I’m having a little trouble with getting my emotions across in writing just now but meh.

Enjoy x

[brewed-pangolin]

Is Captain MacTavish also a gym rat? If so, please explain...in detail 🫠😉

Captain MacTavish is absolutely a gym rat. But unlike the maniacal menace that is Sgt. Gym Rat Soap, this beast is much more refined, disciplined, and methodical.

And the best damn eye candy you've ever seen while you focus on your own routine.

Just a sprinkle of NSFW at the end...

Pulled a bit from this post by @obligatoryghoststare

--

Wardrobe

First of all, he'd rather be caught dead than wear a pair of high thigh gym shorts. This man is always well put together, even while pumping iron at the local fitness center.

And he is a walking billboard for Under Armor.

Prefers more natural colors for his outfit; black, grey, royal blue, forest green. Nothing eye catching or brighter than an earthy hue. Doesn't need to draw more attention to himself. His sculpted body does that enough.

Compression shorts are a must. Pulls the sweat, keeps him dry, and holds everything in place. (Man's got a healthy Lorne sausage to contend with)

Topped with a fitted muscle shirt, of the same color. The Captain must have synchronization with his wardrobe. Always. (Well put together, like previously stated)

He's always going to wear darker tones with the compression fabric, mainly because he likes to overlay that with something more lose fitting and in a softer hue (think whites, light grays, may dabble in some soft blues or greens)

And while not technically wardrobe, will always have a half gallon steel water bottle within reach. Hydration is key.

Routine

Captain MacTavish is the epitome of methodical routines when it comes to gym. He's like clockwork.

His mid routine will change depending on the week (leg day, arm day, chest, back, weights, you get the idea) but his beginning and end are always the same.

First and foremost, stretching. The most important part of a workout.

Next, treadmill. 30 minutes. No more, no less. And this beast looks majestic while he runs. Perfect strides, breathing heavy yet measured. Just a beautiful sight to behold.

And this mofo sweats. Not an obscene amount, just enough to make him glisten. (Sparkling sexy beast)

Now, bulking up. Weights. Soap uses both free weights and strengthening machines, for obvious reasons. Free weights for compound movements, machines for isolating certain muscle groups.

You'd think he'd be loud during his weight training, but no. He's classy. And he's not rude. He may let out a few heavy breaths and an occasional low growl, but nothing too audible. He's already got countless eyes on him, no reason to bring in more attention.

Enjoys his time on the rowing machine. Prefers it after a his weight training. Aids in recovery, calms his mind. Builds his endurance. (And this man's all about endurance)

Lives for the circuit.

[2min/station, 1min rest b/w, 2 loops]

[Pull ups, planks, tire/sledgehammer, kettle lifts]

Pulled straight from his journal

The Captain is in his natural environment when perfecting and strengthening his mind and body. Goes into a daze. Movement remiscent to a skilled predator. It's a sight every gym enthusiast pushes to achieve, and every casual enjoyed drinks in to the fullest

Recovery

His recovery will change depending on his core routine for the day. Sometimes he finishes with a light jog or brisk walk on the treadmill again.

Perhaps even go another round on the rowing machine. Helps him clear the daze and focus his mind in preparation for the next phase.

But it culminates to a relaxing session of yoga because this man knows the benefits of centering himself post pump and grind.

And this is where you come in. He's more than happy to assist in perfecting your downward dog in the process while he lets his body recover from a rough workout.

Expect to be pulled into a private room once he's all limbered up after his full exercise session. Nothing quite like finishing his routine by emptying himself in your needy little hole. (Post endurance high nut is his favorite, afterall)

Captain MacTavish Masterlist

[thetravelingtyper]

One and the Same pt 1(Wolf!Simon X Gn! Sgt! Reader)

After a mission goes haywire and Simon is killed you and Riley escape into the woods...

Warnings! Angst, mentions of wounds, general violence, and hint of a character death...

AN! Just a little multi-part story to have some fun! Might be 2-3 parts!

Masterlist!

You had been running for hours, sweat and blood mingling sweetly down your face as you perked up at every sound in the forest—evergreens and oak, with warred and scared bark rough against you. To say you were in trouble was an understatement, but you made it out. Your tactical vest was long gone and the one weapon you had made you want to cry, the last of Simon's knives. Tears burn your eyes before a bark calls out like a signal of the end. Before you can climb a shape bursts through the darkening leaves and you are about to scream when the form barrels into you. 

You thought it was the end as your eyes closed, but a warm lick to your face has you crying out in joy.

“Riley! Thank Christ!”

The German Shepard, having torn free of her restraints cries into your side in excitement.

“Good fucking girl.”

You huddle into the dog a moment more before there is a far-off shout. 

Shit! 

It was starting to get dark but you needed to move. You check your right leg, the cuts weren't deep as you had struggled out of the man's grasp but he had gotten you good with his knife. You suck in a strangled breath as you get up and wrap your overshirt tighter around the wound. Riley jumps to attention. 

“You gotta lead me somewhere girl.’

She barks lowly, tips her head in the air, and looks back at you with sudden attentiveness. As she looks at you her ears perk up where there is a lone low howl somewhere behind you. You freeze as you suddenly hear the sound of yelling and gunfire. 

“We need to move, now.”

Riley takes off in the brush and helpless to the sounds of terror coming from the compound you take off after her.

-----

The sounds of terror go silent after about 10 minutes. You gulp as Riley barks to alert you and you blink when see a growing light.

It was a cabin! You ready the knife and whistle lowly for Riley, she returns to your side as you circle to the back of the building. You see a water hose that cheers you up, a bath sounds fantastic. But as you edge to the only door you find the cabin just opened and in a state of rushed abandonment, there is still a meal on the table.

After a quick scan and round of the parameter, you usher Riley inside quietly before shutting and barring the door.

All you can help yourself to do is find a quick meal and pass out on the thick rug.

---

You are woken a few hours later by a low growl circling the cabin. Riley is awake and alert, a low rumble in her chest as you jump up, grasping for the knife before deciding you need to investigate.

You slowly make it out the front of the cabin at the edge of the light when you see it.

You yelp, It has found you. Before you was a beast of another age, a large timberwolf, drenched in shadows. It looks to you with burned ember eyes, face pulled into a snarl when Riley comes bounding from behind you. She makes no move other than to approach almost submissively, putting herself between you and the wolf. This flips a switch and a low growl reverberates from the beast, its enormous form ruffled and…slick? You gasp, you could see now there was blood soaking its course fur.

“It was you.”

The wolf goes silent when it hears your voice and you think you see something…change in the beast. Riley whimpers before barking at the wolf and its head tilts a fraction. There is a glint of steel and then you see the wire, through the light at the edge of the cabin, and the full moon, prickly wire has tangled itself in the wolf’s fun.

“Well fuck me buddy.”

You groan to yourself still tense, the wolf turning to you as you make up your mind.

“I better get some good karma for this shit 'cause God knows I need it. Alright, buddy-” you gesture the knife to the wolf and its eyes focus on the silver metal of the blade, glinting in the moonlight. A glint of recognition and the wolf does something that scares you shitless, it pounces.

One moment it's there then the next its lunging at you and you scream, dropping the knife in shock as a canine larger than an Irish hound comes at you. You scramble back as you hear Riley yelp, but? The next second you refocus you are on the ground with a heavy weight blanketing your form as a furry head burrows into your neck, a deep sniffing sound before there is a low whine.

You hear Riley scamper over in the dirt before you can turn your head to the side, she's fucking play-bowing! A puppylike enthusiasm that Simon always scoffed at, 

“She spends too much bloody time with Johnny.”

But now you about cry in relieved laughter. You test your sanity a little more by reaching a searching hand and brushing the wolf, at your touch the beast only whines more, digging further into your prone form. The whines almost sound like cries and it's eerie hearing and seeing such a reaction from a wild animal. But you weren't one to look a gift wolf in the mouth.

“Hey, can I get up big guy?”

You turn your face up and are met with a scarred canine face with brightened umber eyes that dilate when they make contact with yours. You open your mouth again to speak but are met with a warm tongue dragging across your face frantically as the woll lifts itself off you and about licks you half to death. 

You gasp out before wiggling under the beast. 

“What is wrong with you mutt? Jesus stop!” 

And it does with an alarmingly amused-sounding huff. The wolf steps backward, letting you up before it sits on his haunches. In the low light, you make note of something else, a strange white and grey tinted marking over the wolf's face, you pull yourself up and find that the wolf comes up to your stomach. Riley pads over to it and sits beside it as the wolf's head dips to hers and nudges it with a low growl. She just whines, pressing licks to the wolf's face as you finally approach.

A shaking hand reaches for the wolf's head and there is a tear of fabric as something comes loose in your hand, you gasp.

Simon’s faceplate!

You look down at it in shock, tears filling your eyes at the remembered sight of his lifeless body tossed into the cell next to you, whatever they injected him with taking him quickly. As you clench the faceplate tears run down your tipped-down face, gathering blood and dirt before hitting the ground. SImons knife glimmers at your feet kicked to the side during your confusion, and as you silently reach for it a large paw covers the handle. There is a low whine before a snout comes into your vision as the wolf dips its head in your way. You try to reach for the knife but your hand is bumped by its head. You reach again only for the same thing to happen and you can’t help the frustration welling up in you.

On the third attempt you snap,

“WHAT!?”

The wolf freezes and you hear Riley whine, leaving her place to nuzzle at your side as you drop the faceplate to ball up your fists as untethered grieving rage barrels through you. You give a clenched scream before kicking the face plate and swinging around as you give a pained wail, finally able to safely cry. You drop to just sit in the dirt, putting your head in your hands as you cry. There are a few minutes of you just sobbing, getting the trauma and pain out before a large form approaches and the face plate is dropped in your lap. You look up.

The wolf stands staring at you, umber eyes dark in the moonlight. It just stares at you and you gape at it.

“I never got to tell him I loved him.” You just mutter a blank stare past the wolf, through it more as you disassociate, hands grasping for the skull like a lifeline. The words are barely a whisper but the wolf’s eyes widen as there is another shock of recognition, the wolf stumbles backward and you look up as it just sits and stares at you, its eyes dilated and wide.

You just numbly acknowledge the sight as Riley pads over and nuzzles into you. You just clutch the mask tighter before spotting the knife. You had one thing you could do. You push the feelings down into the back of your mind before scooping up the knife and mask. 

The wolf just watches you as you approach it and run a hand through its fur, not even flinching as you cut and untangle the wire. It is only when you move back, finished with the bloody task does it move. As you wrestle with the wire you curse when you cut your hand before tossing it at a bush, the branches effectively trapping the wire. You move to leave for the cabin when there is a gruff bark. You look to the wolf as it stands shaking itself off before looking into your eyes, some strange resolution set in its eyes. 

“You can go free bud. Come on Riley.” 

The shepherd hops up at your call and looks to the wolf before racing towards the cabin. You turn to follow but there is a padding of feet and the wolf comes to stand alongside you. You move forward into the light flittering through the trees, but the wolf only follows.

“Why are you following, you need to go you are free now.” You think of Simon and swallow down your tears, the emotion bleeding into your voice but the wolf only pads forward and knocks into your hand, the plate bumping up its snout so the mask rests over its eyes. 

The eye holes are not wide enough but in the growing warm light, one umber eye of the wolf shines through the wide empty sockets and your heart freezes.

You know those eyes.

You drop the mask and it tumbles to the ground as your hands shake, knife clenched between tense fingers. The wolf looks back up at you before digging its head into your chest as your heart pounds and realization lights up like a starburst.

“No, I saw you die, they locked you up, then they-” There is a low growl, deep from the wolf's chest as it, no he curls around you, haunches raising. 

Don't you dare say that. 

You could hear the warning as clear as day in the growl, what they had done to you. Your cuts were clear through the shirt you wore and the drenched overshirt around your leg. 

“Simon?” You breathe it out and the wolf rumbles, head turning into your chest as you drop the knife and latch onto him.

“What have they done to you? But you're alive!” You sob into the neck of the wolf as you feel him rumble. You think then, the strange realization before you freeze pulling back almost ashamedly, looking away from Simon, whose eyes focus on you.

“So about that confession, can we just for-”

Wolf Simon growls lowly and you feel a blush run up your face, he tucks his snout into your palm before butting both against your frantically beating heart. The action speaks wonders and steals your breath as you gape at him. Your head dips as fresh tears run, but there is a bark from the cabin and a sound of thunder above.

“We better get inside and clean up.”

Simon looks up to you before dipping his head in a nod and moving back, but he remains close enough to brush along your side as you both make it to the safety of the cabin before the storm unleashes a torrent below.

[rare-clone-fic-exchange]

Blindsided (Hound x reader)

Summary: When you're tackled by a massiff on your morning commute, you never could have predicted it would end in a date.

Pairing: Sgt. Hound x reader

Rating: M but minors DNI

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Grizzer being the bestest girl; reader nearly gets stood up but it works out in the end; Hound being somehow suave and put together and also a mess; suggestive/fade-to-black; first kisses

A/N: This one is for @idoubleswearimawriter ! Hope you enjoy, babes. This was super fun and I know am an Official™ Hound simp. I hope I did him justice!! 

“Grizzer! Ke’mot!” 

The harsh command shouted across the busy Coruscant square makes heads turn, yours included. Just in time, too—there’s a flash of muted browns and a streak of pink before you’re tackled to the ground. Your belongings scatter, and you just manage to avoid cracking your head on the steel walkway. Dull pain blooms everywhere else, though. For a moment, anger flares inside you. Who let their pet off its leash? 

Then, a warm, sandpapery tongue licks the side of your face. Giggling, you hold your hands up to ward off the obviously dangerous attack, anger fizzling into delight. You push yourself into a sitting position to find yourself face-to-face with a very wiggly massiff who, upon realizing you’re not hurt, turns her entire body to thump her rear against you. The look she gives you over her shoulder seems to be pleading: C’mon, give me scritches! And who are you to deny such a request?

Glancing around, you discover with belated embarrassment that you’re the center of attention. At least bystanders are beginning to lose interest and drift away, resuming their commutes. A single person being knocked prone by a K-9 massiff is barely enough to result in petty gossip on Coruscant. 

Hang on, K-9? You do a double take—sure enough, on the massiff’s harness are the two letters emblazoned in bold white font. 

“Am I in trouble, huh, girl?” you ask the massiff.

“Grizzer!”

Snapping your head up, you locate the source of the gruff voice. Cutting through the crowd like a vibroknife is one of the Coruscant Guard; helmeted, but the design is unlike any of the other troopers you’ve observed from afar. The side plates extend down, painted in the visage of a snarling massiff; a red stripe runs down the center of his visor. He halts a few feet away, fists planted on his hips. 

You clack your jaw shut, realizing you’re staring. “This your dog?”

The massiff, Grizzer you assume, whines quietly. She takes her weight off of you but remains close as she snuffles at your pockets.

“Grizzer,” the trooper repeats, his voice cold and unforgiving through the vocabulator, “gev.”

Reluctantly, Grizzer trots to her handler, her head hanging low, tongue lolling between her teeth. She settles at his feet, her eyes trained on his helmeted face. 

The trooper raises his head so his visor fixes you with a blank, impersonal stare. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you say. A groan slips from your throat as you stand, pain flaring in your tailbone, but you wave away the concerned way the trooper takes a step forward. “I’m fine, just took me by surprise.”

“She’s normally well-behaved,” he says. “I don’t know what got into her.”

Chuckling as you rub your sore coccyx, you shrug. “Whatever it is, I promise I’m not carrying anything illegal.”

“I should hope not,” he says, “otherwise I’d have to arrest you.”

Your laugh turns awkward. “It might just be the massiff treats in my pocket.”

“The—what? Why do you have that?” The tone of his voice is incredulous and suspicious, like he’s never met someone else who carries the specially formulated treats.

“I work at an animal rescue,” you explain.

“Right,” he says. “Understood.”

Silence slithers between the two of you for a long, uncomfortable moment. Your skin prickles where you imagine the trooper’s gaze to be trailing over you. 

You clear your throat. “Right. Yes. Well, I should—”

“Of course. I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” you assure. Plucking your bag from where it fell from your grasp, you give the trooper a little wave, then glance down at the massiff. Fishing a now-smushed treat from your pocket, you toss it to her. She snaps it out of the air with lightning-quick reflexes. “Keep an eye on her.”

“I will,” he says with a curt nod.

And that’s that. You gather the rest of your belongings and watch as the trooper leads the massiff away without a second glance. Sighing, you turn away, putting the incident from your mind as you hurry to work. 

--- 

A week later, standing in line at your favorite caf shop, you huddle beneath your umbrella as rain cascades from the sky. It’s your day off, the first one you’ve had in weeks, and of course the weather has to be shitty. You’re doing your best to not let it affect your mood. You don’t want to spend the day wallowing. But, you reflect with a sigh, moving with the line, that’s easier said than done.

The wind is cold as it whips through the narrow street, but the rain is colder where it mists onto your exposed face. Shivering, you turn your head away from the breeze—

And catch sight of a familiar duo. Motionless beneath the neighboring shop’s awning, stand Grizzer and her helmeted handler. You glance away, hoping your moment of ogling went unnoticed. By the time you reach the front of the line and order your usual hot drink and pastry, you think you’re in the clear. 

“Five credits,” the barista says. 

Fishing in your pocket for your money, you fail to notice the armored presence sidle up alongside you until he speaks. 

“Bill that to the Chancellor’s office,” he says.

Behind the counter, the barista pops her bubblegum and gives a shrug, while you gape at the trooper. 

“I— What—?”

“I never said sorry last week,” he says, like that explains everything. 

You frown. “You did, though.” 

“Did I?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the gesture makes your stomach squirm pleasantly for some reason. “Hah. Coulda swore I... Well. Grizzer didn’t apologize, now did she?” 

Arching an eyebrow, you fix him with a level, deadpan stare. It’s cute, actually, the way that he’s trying to be nice, and while his technique is certainly interesting, you’re unsure of his actual motivations. He fidgets under your gaze. Fiddling with the loop of Grizzer’s leash, he drops his head. 

“Thank you,” you finally say, putting him out of his misery. 

Cradling the umbrella in the crook of your arm, you accept your items from the barista with a grateful smile. The trooper hurries to get out of your way as you step out of line, not wanting to make yet another scene. At your hip, Grizzer nuzzles you, an intelligent light shining in her eyes.

“Oh, ah.” You fumble for a moment but you manage to get your pastry tucked beneath your arm so that you can lean down awkwardly to give Grizzer a pat on her head. “Hey, girl. I don’t have any treats on me today. You been good? Have you tackled any more strangers?” 

She pants happily and licks your hand. You snort.

You can feel the trooper’s gaze heavy on your face while you lavish affection on the massiff, and you suppress a shiver. While you’ve never really interacted with the clone troopers much, you’ve heard second- and third-hand accounts of how helpful the Coruscant Guard is in particular. Clearly, they train well not only in combat but also in manners, if your mystery man is any indication. 

“What’s your name?” you ask, still keeping your attention on Grizzer. 

“Hound,” he says, and his tone makes you think no one has ever asked him that before. No civilian, anyway. 

“Hound,” you repeat, a smile ghosting your lips. When you give him your name in return, he nods once. 

“I should let you get back to your day,” he says. 

You’re about to agree, about to make some lame joke about how he’s probably got more important duties than babysitting you, but something makes you pause. Maybe it’s the way that Grizzer leans her body against your leg, or maybe it’s the butterflies that continue to beat against the insides of your stomach after Hound’s display of shyness a few moments ago, but you find a giddy kind of warmth well up in your chest. 

So instead, you say, “Do you— I mean, are clones given time off?”

His helmet snaps to you; you have his full attention. “Why do you ask?” 

“I was just thinking that...” You chew at the inside of your cheek, suddenly bashful. “Oh, I dunno. I was hoping maybe I could buy you a drink to say thank you.” 

“You already said it.” His voice sounds reserved, cautious.

Throwing your own caution to the wind, cold as it is, you flutter your eyelashes, ignoring the way your heart pounds in your chest. “Sure, but I didn’t tell Grizzer, did I?”

He seems to get the hint. “Oh. Well. Yes. I mean, no. I mean— Kriff. Yes, clones get time off. I’m off duty tonight, around 7.” 

“Great.” You smile at him, wide and genuine, and he seems to relax. “I’ll meet you at Dex’s at 8, then.” 

---

Eight o’clock comes and goes. You’d arrived to Dex’s early to snag a good booth, not one that would give the impression that this is anything more than a light-hearted get-together with a man whose face you’ve never seen (because no, you don’t count the fact that they’re clones—they’re unique individuals), but also not one so close to the front door as to give the idea that you want an easy escape route.

The server droid had only waited so long before prompting you to order or get out. So you ordered. May as well make the most of the situation, right? At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself as you pick at your meal. Normally, Dex’s is one of your favorites, a guilty pleasure. But tonight, the comfort of the greasy food does little to quell the sting that pulses through you with each beat of your heart. 

Foolish. Stupid, silly, naive of you to hinge any expectations on this meeting. It had been a spur of the moment decision, certainly not one that you’d normally entertain for yourself, so why does his absence leave such a bitter taste in your mouth?

Not wanting to go back to your apartment, though, you sigh and spend a few hours scrolling on your datapad. Grateful you’d thought to bring it with you, you’re able to catch up on the latest holoforums you’re a part of. By the time the clock reads 10, you sigh, locking the device and leaving a handful of credits on the table for the server droid. 

At least the rain has let up. Where the ground is still slick and puddled with rainwater, you trudge through, splashing yourself. The sky remains heavy with pregnant clouds, oppressive in their proximity to the city. 

The bright neon lights of Dex’s sheds illumination for dozens of feet, and you’re still within that radius when a voice calls your name. You pause, frowning. Again, your name echoes to you, and when you turn, your eyes widen at the sight awaiting you.

Hound—because it can only be Hound, being the only clone trooper you’ve ever talked to—jogs through puddles, his heavy boots thudding on the permacrete ground. Gone is his armor; instead, he wears a tight-fitting black tee (is that a tattoo you see peeking out on the inside of his bicep?), muted green combat pants, and, draped over one arm, a black leather jacket. His dark curls coil nearly to his shoulders, bouncing with each step as he stumbles to a halt in front of you. Panting, he peers up at you through his eyelashes, hands on his knees. 

“Hound?” you ask, equal parts confused, bewildered, and hurt. 

“I’m so sorry, mesh’la,” he says. Without the filter of the helmet, his voice is deep and rich, with the barest hint of gruffness, an old engine turning over for the first time in years. “Huge security incident right before my shift ended. I couldn’t get away.” 

You wait until he catches his breath to respond. Once he stands up straight once more, his weathered and lined face pinched with concern, you sigh. 

“S’alright,” you say. 

He shakes his head. “Next time, I’ll need your comm so I can let you know.” 

“Next time?” you say, the barest hint of a grin tugging at your lips. 

“If you want there to be one,” he immediately says. “Kriff, I— I’m not good at this.”

Warmth surges through your fingertips at his admission. Shaking away the funk you’ve been in for the past few hours, you offer him your hand. “C’mon.” 

He blinks at your outstretched palm. “What?”

“Come on,” you say again. “I don’t think I can sit in Dex’s any more tonight, but I’ve got food at home if you’re hungry.” 

Tentatively, like he’s afraid you’ll explode into smoke when he touches you, he reaches for your hand. His skin is rough and hot against yours, his fingers calloused from years of training. Adding to the texture is a massive scar that travels from his palm all the way up to the outside of his forearm near his elbow; he must see the way your eyes widen when you spot it because he chuckles breathlessly. 

“I, uh, got that from a training accident,” he says. “Over-eager massiff puppy.”

Nodding, you can only tug him along with you as you lead the way back to your apartment. If he were anyone else, you’d never even consider bringing him home like this; but he’s a member of the Coruscant Guard. And besides, you’ve already thrown out any expectations for this to be a normal night. 

The air is humid and thick as you walk, both a promise and a reminder of rain. Your skin feels sticky. Next to you, Hound seems lost in thought, impervious and oblivious to the world around him. 

You nudge him gently with your shoulder. “Credit for your thoughts?” 

He blinks at you. “Sorry. Just... can I be honest with you?”

“Sure.” You keep your eyes facing forward, perplexed by his question. 

“I’m glad Grizzer clobbered you.” 

You laugh, loud and genuine, your head thrown back. And once you start, you can’t stop, the giggles bubbling up your chest without end. Tears dew at the corners of your eyes. Hound digs his heels in and stops walking, pulling you to a stop as well. 

“I’m s-sorry,” you gasp out. “That’s a very apt word for what she did. And not at all what I expected you to say.”

His wounded expression softens slightly. “Well, what did you expect?” 

Hiccuping, you shrug. “I dunno. Not that, though. I apologize for laughing. Please, continue.” 

He squints at you like he’s unsure of whether he should believe you, but then he sighs. “Alright. I was saying, that I’m glad she did that, because then I wouldn’t have been able to meet you.”

That sobers you up. Biting at your bottom lip, you smile, but say nothing, sensing there’s more he wants to say. 

“My vod’e—brothers, they teased the hell outta me for letting Grizzer get loose,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck, the same gesture that first endeared him to you earlier today. “But if it means that I got to buy someone as attractive as you their coffee, worth it.”

“Technically, you charged it to the Chancellor’s office,” you remark, smile turning wry. 

“Have you never heard the phrase ‘it’s the thought that counts’?” 

You snort. “Point taken.”

The two of you begin walking again, palms still pressed together. Against your skin, his heat is a comfort, holding at bay any chill the night air seems determined to impart. You sneak a glance at him. In the yellow glow of the streetlights, his tanned skin glows, ethereal, beautiful. 

“Hey,” you say, voice soft, “I’m glad I met you, too.”

The look he gives you makes your breath catch. Swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat, you tug him along, walking faster. Your apartment isn’t far from here, and you want as much time as you can afford getting to know this man.

--- 

You make him a quick dinner, nothing fancy, but he wolfs it down with voracity and gumption, a look of bliss scrawled over his features. As you lean your forearms on your kitchen counter, you can’t help the small spark of attraction that kindles to life deep in your belly. He looks so...at peace in your small apartment, tanned skin glowing in the incandescent lights caged above the kitchen island.

A thought occurs to you, and you startle into action. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

Hound hums his curiosity, mouth still full of food. 

“I promised you a thank-you drink,” you say over your shoulder. Rummaging through your cabinets, you snag two dusty shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of dark whiskey. You rinse the glasses, then, with only a few spilled drops, pour two shots. 

Hound places his empty bowl in the sink. He crooks one eyebrow at you. “When was the last time you drank this?” 

Squinting in thought, you pause with the small glass perched between your fingers. “I...honestly couldn’t tell you.” 

“Well,” he says, a warm, teasing smile ghosting over his features, “suppose I should feel honored.”

Clink. Knocking back the shot, you shudder at the burn of the alcohol as it slides down your throat. It settles with comfortable heat in your stomach. Hound grimaces, sucking his teeth. 

“Kark,” he mutters. “I can see why you don’t drink it often.” 

Chuckling, you shake your head. “C’mon. I’ve got some sweets we can wash it down with.” 

You retrieve an unopened box of chocolates and rip open the packaging as you lead the way to the sofa. You settle into one corner of the plush couch, and Hound curls into the opposite corner; you perch the chocolates on the cushion between you. He looks...good, relaxing into your couch the way he is.

Emboldened by the strong alcohol now coursing in your system, you gesture to the sweets. “Wanna play a game?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“The rules.” 

You snort. “The rules are that you only get to eat a chocolate if you answer a question the other person asks. If you don’t answer, you don’t eat.”

Hound’s eyebrows twitch upward as if in curiosity. “What kinds of questions?” 

Shrugging, you gesture vaguely around the room. “Whatever you want to know.” 

“I already know what your job is and where you live,” he muses. “And what pastry you like. What else is there to know?”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if he’s being facetious or if he genuinely just has no interest in learning more about you. Kriff, have you misread this entire situation? Your palms begin to sweat. 

Then his face breaks into a sly grin. “I’m kidding. C’mon. Ask me a question.”

“Dick,” you mutter, giving him a playful glance. Then, you sigh. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Really, that’s what you want to know?” He rolls his eyes, giving an exaggerated head roll to go with it. “Of all the questions you could possibly ask—”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable question!” you interrupt, outraged. “Let’s see you ask something better then!”

He huffs. “Fine. What was the name of your first massiff?”

Suppressing an eye roll of your own, you sigh and pluck a chocolate from the box. “Spike.” 

“How original.” 

“I was a child!”

“So was I.” A grin plays at his lips. 

“Yeah? What did you name yours?” you challenge, then pop the chocolate into your mouth. 

He’s silent for a few seconds too long, his eyes looking everywhere but at you, and a victorious grin curls over your lips. 

“You named yours Spike, too, didn’t you?” 

“Maybe,” he grumbles.

Laughing, you nudge the box of chocolates towards him. “Technically, that was a question.”

He inspects the box. Once he chooses his first sweet and bites into it, his eyes slide shut and he groans in appreciation. Your core pleasantly lurches at the sound. 

And so the game goes. You swap stories about your youth: his training on Kamino, your upbringing in the Coruscanti upper levels. You tell him about your dreams for the future, and he muses, however briefly, on what the end of the war might bring for clones. At some point, the chocolate supply dwindles, until there’s only one left.

Mostly you talk about massiffs. His eyes light up when he recounts memories of Boomer, Tusk, and Spike, and his early days with Grizzer. His enthusiasm and passion for the creatures is infectious; you find yourself entranced by the direct gestures he uses, the sweep of his tongue over his lips when he pauses between sentences, the sparkle in his eye when he recalls a particularly feisty massiff. In your chest, your heart pounds. You’ve never been able to resist a man who is good at his job and passionate about it to boot.

“There’s that look again,” he says softly, drawing you out of your thoughts. 

Heat flushes up your neck to your face. “What look?” 

“The one you just gave me,” he says with a teasing smirk. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Which is, of course, a lie. If you had to guess, you were giving him bedroom eyes.

“That so?”

You hum in affirmation. 

His topaz gaze holds your own for a few moments longer than necessary. The uncomfortable, embarrassed heat in your face morphs into something more pleasant, more aroused. Letting your gaze wander, you catch the shallow breaths he takes, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips yet again, the fist he clenches along the back of the sofa. When you meet his eyes again, they’re darker. 

“Hound?” 

“Yes, mesh’la?” 

A shiver dances up your spine, his voice taking on a rumbling quality. “One more question for you.” 

“Ask away.” His gaze searches your features. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He blinks at you, full lips parting in surprise. Then, quicker than you can react, he snatches the very last chocolate in the box and stuffs it in his mouth. “Yesth,” he lisps around it.

Heart leaping up into your throat, you carefully set the now empty tray of sweets on the coffee table, then crawl across the couch cushions to him. He watches with half-lidded eyes and shifts to face you, stretching his legs beneath your form. Straddling his hips, you gently, uncertainly, rest your hands on his broad shoulders. His hands find home at your waist—not low enough to touch you anywhere you don’t want, but their solidness and warmth make you shudder with delight. 

“If that’s okay, I mean,” you breathe out. This close, you can see the flecks of darker brown in his golden eyes, and count the freckles on his nose. 

“Please,” he murmurs. 

Tilting your head down, you brush your lips against his, testing. A groan rumbles out of his chest; his arms slide around you in an enveloping embrace, hugging you closer. His mouth moves against yours softly yet no less intensely for it. You whimper, head spinning. 

When you pull away, you don’t move very far, Hound’s arms still wrapped solidly around you. He gives you a soft, timid smile—so unlike the gruff, sarcastic trooper who’s been trading quips with you all night. Rubbing your thumb over his cheek, you return the smile. 

Ignoring the surge of need in your lower belly, you sigh. “I need you to know I don’t normally do this.” 

“I believe you,” he says, tone as quiet as yours. “But I want you to.”

Searching his eyes, you find nothing there but sincerity and the beginnings of lust. Capturing his lips in another kiss, you give yourself to this strong, stolid, snarky man. He carries you to your room, undressing you reverently, lavishing your skin with kisses and praise. His hands are everywhere, grabbing, squeezing, feeling you; in return, your own hands roam his toned body, delighting in the rippling muscle beneath his skin. 

And when he slides home within you, you both sigh, fingers twined together. He draws you, slow and languid and breathless, to the edge again and again, murmuring sweet praises in your ear.

After, pressed to his sweaty skin, chest heaving with exertion, you kiss each of his fingertips. Under your ear, his heart beats loud and steady; slowly, its rate lowers as you both unwind. He trails his hand over the expanse of your back. Rubbing in methodical strokes, his touch lulls you to the brink of sleep. 

You startle yourself awake. “Hound?” 

“Yes, mesh’la?” he murmurs. 

“Remind me to give Grizzer extra treats,” you say, voice thick with sleep. 

He chuckles, the sound rumbly and smoky beneath your ear. “I will, mesh’la. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mmkay.” Yawning, you curl tighter against his side, and drift to sleep, your dreams filled with playful massiff pups and Hound, the steadfast trainer.

---

Mando'a: 

Ke'mot - "halt!" (used as 'heel' for Grizzer)

Gev - Stop it! Pack it in! (more severe a command than ke’mot for Grizzer)

[gorgeousundertow]

@riddlersboyfriend Hi Luke, it's your summer exchange fic!! xoxoxoxo

Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul

Cross-posting on A03 since it's, ya know, long.

First Battalion

CO: Lt Col. Billy Turner. West Point. Demands fawning attention. Shouts. 3/10.

Charlie Company

Capt. Albert Hassenzahl. 

From Cincinnati, Ohio. Worked in steel mill.

27 years old

Sometimes brash or impetuous, leading to friction within the unit. 

Sufficient. 6/10

Sgt. Roy Speake Jr.

From Birmingham, Alabama. Foreman in cotton mill. 

30 years old, yet willing to take orders from younger men.

7/10

Sgt. Mariano Sanchez. 

From El Paso, Texas. Family owned a small grocery.

28 years old, difficulty conforming to protocol. Falls behind on runs.

5/10

T/5 John Davis. 

From Detroit, Michigan. Janitor.

20 years old, works hard but talks too much. 

6/10

Cpl. Harvey White. 

From a small town in rural Kansas, farmer. 

Age: 19. Inept and unreliable. Poor aim, shirks duties. But could improve if properly motivated.

4/10

Pfc. Paul Devoe. 

From New Orleans, Louisiana. Line cook. 

Age: 24. Charismatic and optimistic. Keeps spirits up, though impulsivity is an issue.

7/10

Schedule

0600 Reveille                                                                        

0610 Formation                                              

0630 Tidy barracks                                                    

0700 Calisthenics     

0800 Wash up                                                                      

0900 Barracks Inspection                                                   

0930 Currahee or obstacle course                       

1045 PT drills                              

1115 Outside lecture                                                           

​1200 Lunch                                  

1330 Mail Call                

1345 Lecture/Classroom 

1500 Parachute training                       

1700 Drill

1800 Supper

1900 Lecture/Classroom

2100 Return to barracks            

2300 TAPS

Notes September 1942

Dislike Lt. Col. Turner intensely.

Training is more difficult than anticipated.

Seems that what was true in Boston remains true here. Cannot seem to join conversations with the other men, continue to make them uncomfortable. Thought it would be different here than it was back home.

Notes October 1942

Lt. Col Turner is incompetent, stupid, and worthless.

Perhaps other companies have it better; consider orchestrating a change? Investigate.

Notes November 1942

Chose E Company, 2nd Platoon at random, for observation.

Capt. Herbert Sobel

From Chicago, Illinois. Attending University of Illinois.

30 years old

Would be a close friend of Lt. Col. Turner.

2/10

1/Lt. Richard Winters

From Lancaster, Pennsylvania

26 years old, effective. Has the respect of his men. Commands from the front.

8/10

Sgt. Carwood Lipton

From Huntington, West Virginia. Worked in mother’s boarding house.

22 years old, quiet. And yet the men listen.

8/10

Cpl. Donald Hoobler

From Manchester, Ohio, three siblings, joined National Guard.

Age: 20. Young, but works hard.

6/10

Pfc. Joseph Liebgott

Born in Michigan, moved to San Francisco

Age: 27. Cab driver. Speaks German. Easily angered, needs focus.

7/10

Pvt. David Webster

From New York City. Harvard grad. Writer

Age: 20. Lazy, whiny, as bad at talking to others as I am, in a different way.

5/10

Will continue to observe

Notes December 1942

Col. Sink insisted we march 118 miles, from Toccoa to Atlanta. It snowed. It served no function but to boost the egos of men who did not march alongside us.

Companies became disorderly, and by the end we were not marching in our own battalions. As such, I was marching mostly with E Company.

I spoke with Winters, as he was willing to speak with me. For some reason, he does not seem put off by me as others are–perhaps that is because, apart from Lt. Lewis Nixon III of Nixon, NJ, of HQ Company, no one wants to talk to him, either. Nixon certainly does; he made his way all the way over to E Company from the very beginning of the march, and stayed there, right at Winters’ side. By that token, I spoke with Nixon, as well. The march was miserable, but I believe I enjoyed it more than I have enjoyed any other time here.

We did not talk about much of anything of consequence–Nixon ensured that. I think the man is incapable of serious conversation. You would think someone as thoughtful as Winters would dislike him for that, but clearly he does not. It is odd. They are odd.

I observed the other members of E Company as we marched. They are a tight-knit group, more so than C Company by far. It is not because of their CO, that’s certain; he does everything he can to drive them apart, and clearly loathes Winters. 

Winters does what he can, but his resources are limited serving under a tyrant, an experience I can sympathize with. In truth, it is the NCOs that hold the Company together. To a man, they work tirelessly to keep spirits up, assisting those who are exhausted, making sure they eat and drink and sleep when they can.

Sgt. Lipton in particular has an interesting way about him. He doesn’t lead like the others, shouting at them to haul ass like Sgts. Guarnere and Martin do, in the time-honored tradition of NCOs. He gives orders, but he does so in a way that is almost friendly. I can’t wrap my head around it.

Notes January 1943

Continuing to observe Sgt. Lipton. 

Pvt. Webster is improving, partly because of Sgt. Lipton. (It seems that Pfc. Liebgott has an influence as well, though I can’t fully understand it. To a casual observer–which I do not believe I am–Liebgott bullies him, but in such a way that it almost seems affectionate. It is puzzling). Sgt. Lipton’s approach is different. He encourages Webster (and others, I do not mean to suggest that his efforts are limited to one man–he supports the entire Platoon. Hell, the entire Company) in subtle ways, walking with him to help him keep the pace up, but letting Webster think it’s because he really wants to hear him talk about Impressionist painters or Romantic poets. Perhaps he does. It is difficult to tell; he seems so genuinely engaged.

Capt. Sobel chewed him out for an imaginary offense (a not unusual occurrence in Easy Company) and Sgt. Lipton accepted it with stoicism. But when Sobel turned his back, Sgt. Lipton smirked. He rolled his eyes. There is steel in him.

Notes February 1943

Went for a run with Winters this morning, came across Sgt. Lipton. Winters invited him to join us. Winters runs like a maniac; running with him allows me to push myself, now that we are now longer running Currahee. I expected Sgt. Lipton to decline, particularly given my presence–no NCO has ever wanted to socialize with me–but he did not. He kept pace with Winters easily. He runs very well.

When we finished, we headed for the showers before Reveille, and Sgt. Lipton grabbed towels for each of us, even though it was unnecessary.

Notes March 1943

Have continued to run with Winters every morning. We have not encountered Sgt. Lipton again.

Notes June 1943

Have ceased running with Winters, as it’s too hot and I have concluded that Winters is a lunatic. We have plenty of PT; there’s no need to add on more. I don’t know why I bothered.

Notes August 1943

Couldn’t sleep, as usual. Went out walking through Fort Benning, found myself by the NCO barracks. Stood and smoked for a while. Went back to bed.

Notes September 1943

The S.S. Samaria is miserable. Am crammed into a cabin with Winters, Nixon, Lt. Harry Welsh, Lt. Heyliger, Lt. Roush, and Lt. Meehan from Baker Company. We have to wear life jackets at all times, and Nixon won’t stop talking about how the Titanic didn’t have enough lifeboats, and the Samaria definitely doesn’t.

Sleep is impossible, so have taken to walking the deck at night. Came across Sgt. Lipton, offered him a cigarette even though I know he doesn’t smoke. He described the racks the enlisted men have, and I decided to shut up about my sleeping situation. 

He was there the next night, and the next. He didn’t seem to mind my smoking. If he wasn’t on deck in the same place, I would have left him alone–I wouldn’t have gone looking for him. But he was always there, as if he was waiting for me. He didn’t say much, though neither did I, I suppose. We just looked out at the black sea.

Notes November 1943

Sgt. Lipton–and the other Sgts from Easy Company, I suppose–have mutinied on Winters’ behalf. It was brave. It was the right thing to do. It could force Sink’s hand, push him to realize how incompetent Sobel is. (We should try it in First Battalion). 

But I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. To him.

Notes December 1943

It’s all right. Two Sgts. were punished, neither of them were him.

It is clear that my interest in Easy Company is not beneficial, and no longer necessary. I am not gaining anything. I should not be more informed on the goings on in a Company that isn’t my own–that isn’t even in my Battalion. I’m going to stop taking notes altogether, anyway–loose lips and all.

Notes May 1944

Have been transferred to Dog Company. If I see Lt. Col. Turner in combat, I’ll kill him.

This is all pointless, anyway. In all likelihood, I am going to die. We are all going to die. Even…even he is going to die.

Notes June 1944

Sgt. Lipton was injured at Carentan, I do not know how badly.

I was also injured. I will recover. 

There were some incidents at Normandy. I shot an NCO; he was drunk and endangering the men. I shot six POWs. They were my first kills. I have killed more, since.

The looks men gave me, before we came, as if they weren’t sure what I was capable of. 

They know, now. I know, too.

Notes July 1944

Sgt. Lipton was wounded in the groin and on the face. He is in the hospital here in Aldbourne, recovering. He is several beds down from me. He receives visitors throughout the day.

Now that he is up and about, he comes to say hello sometimes, as I am not yet able to walk. He does not avoid me, as the other men do. 

He ought to; it would be better if he did. It’s useful that they fear me. It will make me a better leader.

Notes August 1944

Have been transferred to HQ Company, working alongside Nixon. It’s for the best.

Notes December 1944

Have been transferred back to Dog Company, as they are short on officers. We will be needed, I am told, for what’s coming in Belgium.

Notes January 1945

I couldn’t stop watching 1st Sgt. Lipton. With Winters leading the battalion and Lt. Dike as the empty shirt they’ve put in his place, Lipton has been the Company together. He is exhausted–we all are, of course, but it hurts somehow to see it on him. His eyes are shadowed, I could see it even from a distance. I patrolled the lines of Dog Company often, to catch a glimpse of him. I insisted that our medics share supplies, food. I wanted him to eat. To be safe. I was at the edge of the line when German artillery rained down, and I swear I heard him laughing. It was beautiful.

I would have gone across that field at Foy even if Winters hadn’t sent me. Someone had to go, and I was glad it was me. It was the easiest decision I ever made–it wasn’t even a decision, my feet were going before I even had the thought, as soon as they had Winters’ permission to do so. 

And now, I’m in command of Easy Company. It feels…right. Like I should have been with them all along. I know these men. I know what they need.

I knew what 1st Sgt. Lipton needed–he needed to know that someone had watched him, had seen what he had done. Had seen the man he is. And so I told him, in a church, while a choir of girls sang in golden light. It was…a risk, because letting him know that allowed him to see me, as well. To an extent. 

He still does not seem frightened of me. If anything, he seems a little amused. I don’t know what to make of it, exactly. But I don’t dislike it.

Notes February 1945

I’ve been promoted to Captain. One would think this would be welcome, but it is not. I couldn’t stop thinking of the men who have died, while I’m still here. I tried getting drunk–it’s what everyone else does, Nixon, Welsh, all of them. I’ve never really seen the point, but last night I thought, what the hell, it’s worth a shot.

I’m sharing quarters with 1st. Sgt. Lipton (he should be Lt. Lipton, but it hasn’t come through yet. Promotion won’t ruin him as it has me). I stumbled there, and I was…I couldn’t…I wasn’t as in control of myself as I would have liked to be. 

In truth, I wasn’t anything close to control. I came into the tent so drunk I couldn’t see straight, and I was crying. I hadn’t cried before, not once in the entire war. Not with all the deaths. Not for the men who died or the men I killed. But I cried when I got my fucking captaincy. 

Lipton was in bed, and I sat down on his cot. Aren’t you supposed to forget things that happen when you’re drunk? Why do I remember all of this? 

I remember I tried to kiss him. At least, I think that’s what happened. It is a little fuzzy. All I know is that I was sitting there on his cot and he was in bed, lying down and listening to me, and then I was half on top of him. I think I remember my mouth on his…fuck, you’d think if I’d gone and done something so colossally stupid I would have the decency to be sure about it. You’d think it would be seared into my brain, something I could go back to sometimes, in the privacy of my own thoughts. But there’s nothing, really. Just a vague sense of closeness, of Lipton, right there.

I got to my own bed, somehow. He must have put me there–by that point, I was too drunk to know my own name. And in the morning he greeted me with his usual smile and a cup of extra strong coffee. As though nothing at all had happened. So I guess nothing did.

Notes February 1945

Lipton is sick. He’s been sick for a week or so, but he’s getting worse. It won’t stop. He won’t stop–just keeps acting like he’s fine, even though his fever is running so hot Doc Roe keeps trying to get him off the line. It’s pneumonia, and we’re out here in the cold, and he still won’t go. I’m so furious with him I don’t know what to do. 

I can’t watch over him every minute, so I’ve put Luz on him. Luz has the right approach–firm, but with a smile. Lipton doesn’t respond to direct orders; I’ve tried that.

He remains infuriatingly competent, even when he coughs so hard I worry he’s going to drop a lung on my jump boots. Easy is running on fumes, and yet Lipton has it as organized as can be. And I can’t help coming to him for advice, to discuss options, even when he should be resting–because his advice is invaluable to me.

This town, Hagenau, has been blown to pieces. Is still being blown to pieces. We barely have roofs over our heads, though of course that’s practically a luxury, considering some of the places we’ve been. Easy CP is in a building with only one bed, and I’ve put Lipton there. It took some doing–I thought I was going to have to carry him there, and frankly he’s bigger and stronger than I am. Well, maybe not stronger, with pneumonia. 

I could sleep in another room, of course, but I’ll be sleeping on the floor, in the same room. I want to be able to hear him if he needs anything, if he takes a turn for the worse. 

Notes February 1945

Something happened last night. I don’t…I’m going to write it down, to see if that way I’ll understand it.

At 0230 I went to bed. The patrol did not go well. Two prisoners is not a fair exchange for Jackson. I was…upset. But I still moved quietly, so as not to disturb Lipton–only he was awake. He called me over, asked how the patrol went. I told him. 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“It should never have happened,” I said.

He shrugged, his muscled shoulders moving in the low light from the fire I’d had Luz light in the hearth, and the cooler light from the moon.The room was warm, and he wore only his undershirt. “Lots of things have happened in this war that shouldn’t have, sir.”

I couldn’t argue with that. He slid to the side, gesturing for me to sit down on his bed, as I’d sat a couple of weeks ago, drunk off my head. I obeyed, but I frowned at him, unsure. “What are you doing awake? Can’t sleep? Should I get Roe?”

Lipton shook his head, a little smile on his face. “No. I’m feeling much better, sir. I wanted to see how you are.” 

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I…I’m fine?” It sounded like I was asking him for the right answer, but how I was wasn’t something I’d considered in…well, in years, I suppose. Since well before Normandy. 

“Good,” Lipton said, taking me at my word. “Would you like some of this?” He held up a bottle and I blinked at it. It was schnapps–I’d taken it from a German couple next door, along with some kind of pastry. Apfelstrudel, they’d called it. 

“I don’t really drink,” I said warily, thinking of that other night. 

Lipton grinned. “Neither do I, but I figure you got this for me for a reason, right, sir?”

“The woman said it would cure you.” 

Lipton held out the bottle to me expectantly, so I took a small sip. It burned going down, too sweet. I handed it back to him, and he took a sip himself, placing his mouth where mine had been. I watched his throat as he swallowed. I was so close to him, I could hear the sound his lips made as they left the bottle. “Another?” he asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t understand what was happening–maybe nothing was happening, maybe this was all perfectly ordinary–but I sure as hell wanted to remember it clearly tomorrow. Lipton took another sip, made a face, and closed the bottle, setting it down on the floor. “Have you had a lot of that?” I asked.

Lipton shrugged, loose. “Some.”

“Enough to cure you then,” I said, and he laughed. 

“I guess so.”

I could feel his hip against my leg, and the room got a little brighter with the light of an explosion from a couple of blocks away, and I could only hope it hadn’t done any more damage than we’d already sustained tonight. His eyes are so soft. “I should let you sleep.”

I didn’t stand up, though. I meant to, I meant to get up and go sleep on the floor like I’d insisted I would. I was going to, any second, but I hadn’t yet when Lipton said, “You could sleep here with me.”

I try not to let my emotions show on my face, but I must have looked surprised (I was more than surprised), because Lipton added, “We’ve all slept in tighter quarters than this, in Bastogne. There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor, sir.”

And it’s true. I slept as close as I could to other men in foxholes, because otherwise we would have frozen to death. But this room had a warm fire. There was no reason to. And yet, Lipton slid to the side, making a little more room for me–there wasn’t a lot, it was a small bed–and so I…lay down. 

I didn’t take off my boots, or my jacket or anything. I didn’t want to risk taking the time, in case he changed his mind. I lay on my back, but that didn’t quite work, it was too close, so I turned onto my side. I should probably have faced away from him. I didn’t.

His face was right there. I could have kissed him again (did I even kiss him, before? I’ve never been certain). He blinked at me in the darkness, but I didn’t move. Eventually, his eyes closed, but I lay there for a long time, long enough to feel him relax and curl into me. I pressed my lips to his shoulder, and I thought I felt his breath against my hair, but I couldn’t be sure. 

When I woke up in the morning, he was gone.

Notes February 1945

I haven’t known what to do with myself all day. Lipton has been hard to pin down–now that he is feeling better, he is working harder than ever. Winters canceled the second patrol, but we still need to act as though it is going forward, which means the same amount of work, plus I needed to make sure Lt. Jones is squared away. 

I had Liebgott and the others firing across the river, while Webster and Sgt. Martin hid in the house. By the time I got back to the CP, it was 0300.

Lipton wasn’t in the bedroom waiting for me. He was awake and working with Luz, sorting through the supply delivery. I stopped in to say goodnight and when he said goodnight back, he…well, he smiled at me. But Lipton smiles at everyone. 

I don’t like this. I don’t like being uncertain. 

Notes February 1945

It’s Lieutenant Lipton now, at long last. Welsh caught up with us, and he had Lipton’s bars with him. I was there when Winters pinned them on, when Lipton shook his hand. There were so many of us there–Nixon, along with Luz and Webster in the other room. Hell, even Lt. Jones was standing there. What felt like it ought to have been a close moment, something for just me and him, wasn’t, couldn’t have been, with so many men around. But of course it wasn’t just for him and me–why would it have been? I’ve only been his CO for a month. Of course he would want to share this with men he’s known for years. He’s earned that and more.

But I was impatient. I couldn’t…after spending yesterday so uncertain, I didn’t want to spend another moment that way. And we were equals now, or almost. We were both officers, at least.

So I took him by the arm and brought him into the other room. It wasn’t private, by any means–they were all still right there, Harry and Nixon drinking from Nixon’s flask, Winters watching them in that amused way he has. And we were going to be heading out soon–I’m writing this in the back of a jeep as Winters drives, in fact. But I couldn’t wait.

“Yes, sir?” he said, expectantly.

I had absolutely no idea what to say. “Um. Yes. Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

He smiled, wide and sincere, that smile that spreads so far across his face that it lifts the downturned corners of his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

I had to think of something else, some reason to keep him here away from everyone else while I thought of a way to ask what I needed to ask him. “And you’re sure you’re feeling better? Because we could go to an aid station.”

He reached out and squeezed my arm, just below the elbow. It was a little thing, something I’d seen the men do all the time. Hell, Winters and Nixon were never not touching, it seemed. “I promise, I’m fine, sir.”

Just a little thing, but it seemed like I could feel his hand on my skin, even through my coat. No one ever really touches me. “I…” I cleared my throat. “I’m glad to hear that.” His hand slid down, so that his fingers touched the bare skin of my wrist, just resting there. From the other room, it wouldn’t have looked like anything, but it felt like everything. “Lieutenant Lipton…”

“You can call me Lip, you know, sir,” he said. “Everyone else does.”

“Lip,” I repeated, quietly. It probably came out as a whisper. I don’t think I will call him Lip, in front of other people. I think I’ll keep that close.

“Sparky!” Nixon called from the other room. “We’re moving out in an hour, think you can manage that?” 

Lipton’s fingers tightened on my wrist before letting go. “Yes,” I said, without looking away from him. I heard the sounds of the other men leaving, of Winters talking to Jones, of Luz giving Webster a hard time, of Welsh and Nixon bantering back and forth. Lipton stepped back, and I felt the moment slipping away, as if this was my only chance, and if I didn’t say something right then–though I still didn’t know what I should say–I would never get another try.

So I reached out and grabbed the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and soft, tasting of coffee and stale bread. He kissed me back, and the relief in that was enough to make me dizzy.

We broke away to catch our breath, and he smiled against my mouth. “Ron,” he whispered. 

We had to leave that room, then, and that house full of broken walls and rubble, to gather the men and move on to another house in another town. But he’ll call me Ron again, I believe, when we’re alone. And I’ll call him Lip. And maybe there isn’t anything else that needs to be said, for now.

[the-unspeakable-tsar]

Superhero Timeline.

10th Millennium

First appearance of humans. Some super powered. 

Proto Avengers (heavily altered humans, primordial gods, and mutant). Celestial tampering happens on countless planets. (Tamaranians, Skrulls, Kree, Eternals, etc) causing multiple humanoid aliens to exist.

Myths concerning “Elders of The Universe” and proto-tangible beings are formed by early life.

Vandal Savage, Immortal Man, Anthro, King Kull, Kyra Arg, Gnarrk. Hippolyta (first life).

Grak (neanderthal politician)

Cotati, Kree, and Skrulls discover eachother.

Atlantis forms.

“Ulysses” Bloodstone

50,000 B.C.E (Thurian Age)

Inhumans created by Kree scientists. 

King of Atlantis, Kull.

Doctor Mist.

Darkhold creates some of the first vampires.

Atlantis and Lemuria Sink.

Amazon Race born.

Selene Born.

Hyperborian Age.

Conan

Kulan Gath

Red Sonja

753, 785- BEC

Ancient Greece

Ancient Rome

Golden Gladiator

Alpha Centurion.

Rome forms a colony in South America. Nova Roma.

Rama Tut

En Sabbah Nur was born.

Wizard Shazam empowers Teth Adam.

Mad Pharaoh discovers an alien Scarab and claims to have created it.

6th Century

One of the Camelots (for there are many and they are nebulous)

Etrigan

Merlin (Merlyn)

Arthur

Shining Knight

Silent Knight

Black Knight (Sir Percy of Scandia)

Mordred the Mystic (not arthur’s mordred)

Earth was briefly invaded by Klyntar. 

New Genesis and Apokolips forms, set in a higher plane of dimension.

7th Century

Tang Dynasty was contacted by aliens the likes of Fin Fang Foom. They take advantage of their advanced technology

Jong Li Green Lantern

Viking Prince

8th Century

Brotherhood of the Shield was formed in 750.

9th Century

Diablo (Estaban De Ablo).

12th century

Crusades, the mutant Bennet Du Paris meets Eobar Garrington and clan akkaba.

Belasco born at the tail end of the century.

14th Century

Mutants immune to the black page die in the sea.

X’Hal ascends to godhood.

15th Century

Intelligent gorillas form Gorilla City.

Manhunters deviate from original programming.

Zemo barony formed

16th Century

The Black Pirate

Andrew Bennet becomes a vampire.

17th Century

Gotham City founded

Romeyn Falls founded

Metropolis founded.

1700s-1800s

Tomahawk

Uncle Sam

Frankenstein Monsters

Jonah Hex

Atlas City formed.

Hellfire Club formed

Trigger Twins

Rawhide Kid

Carter Slade

Red Wolf

“Firehair”

Irene Adler and Raven Darkholme

Sherlock Frankenstein

1859 Nathaniel Essex begins experimenting on Mutants.

1882 Wolverine Born

1900-1920s

Morpheus Imprisoned.

Tom Strong born

Balloon Buster

Mister Cakewalk

Jazzbaby

Enemy Ace

Freedom’s Five

Cult of Blood formed in Zandia

Krypton destroyed

Kal El Lands in Kansas

Doc Steele, Tazara, The Crimson Fist

Ghost Hunter, Baron Von Fang

1930s - World War 2 

Batman appears

Superman first appears

Wonder Woman appears

Captain Marvel (Billy Batson) appears.

Invaders. Captain America 1-3

Based on Project Rebirth, Vought develops Compound V, empowering Soldier Boy. Germany empowers Stormfront using a duplicate.

Justice Society of America was formed.

Seven Soldiers of Victory

Freedom Fighters

Liberty Squadron

Black Hammer Squadron

Doctor Star

Abraham Slam

Sgt Rock

Sgt Fury and the Howling Commandos

Haunted Tank

GI Robot

The Losers

Albrecht Strong born.

Magneto

Charles Xavier

Golden Gail (spawn of a shazam protege)

1950s (Silver Age Beginning)

Billionaire Oliver Queen is stranded on an island.

Hal Jordan inducted into the Green Lantern Corps

Astro-Naut dies and Astro City is named after him.

William Burnside and Jack Monroe become Captain America and Bucky.

Hero Licensing Agencies were formed in Japan, one of the first being formed by Dragon King. “Former” villain of the JSA and Acrobat.

J’onn Jonnz teleported to Earth.

Barbalien, a contemporary of J’onn’s arrives on Earth.

Colonel Weird.

1960s

Peter Parker was Bitten by a radioactive spider

Blue Beetle (Ted Kord)

The Confessor

The Midnight Mink and Chippy (Short lived Batman inspired criminal)

Jessica Jones falls into a coma.

The Question

Fantastic Four

Challengers of the Unknown

First Family

Max O'Millions

Suicide Squad.

The Flash (Barry Allen)

Black Canary II

JLA formed

Teen Titans formed

X-Men founded

Captain Marve (Mar-Vell)

John Stewart Green Lantern

Avengers Formed

SHIELD

Black Rapier

1970s

Luke Cage.

Iron Fist (Danny Rand)

Shang Chi

Silver Agent framed and is executed

Outsiders

Glamorax

Putrid Punk

Black Lightning

Black Hammer I

JLI formed.

Aaron Aikman becomes a doctor and is murdered by Morlun.

Doom Patrol

Winged Victor

Original Batman Dies

Mister Unknown, inspired by Batman becomes a vigilante crimefighter in Japan.

1980s

Suicide Squad II

Checkmate

Spiral City is almost consumed by eldritch Anti-God.

Gangbuster

Daredevil

Nightingale and Songbird

All Might receives his Quirk.

The Samaritan prevents The Challenger Disaster.

Tesla Strong born.

1990s

Vought America begins to push its corporate superhumans. Their minds are twisted by Compound V. Vought refuses to seek alternatives.

Jon Kent, Cir-El Kent born. 

Christopher Kent adopted

Superman Dies.

Unteens (not super long-lived)

Hal Jordan goes evil and dies.

Kyle Rayner.

Spider-Girl

A-Next

Stormwatch

X-People

Skulldigger

First superhuman reality TV show, Youngblood.

They’re immediately met a year later by Vought’s onslaught of Superhuman reality TV shows.

2001-2019

Black Hammer II

The superhuman civil war in america.

Japanse Military creates Big Hero 6 in response to Hero Agencies.

The Super Young Team forms an act of social rebellion by the children of Japanese superheroes who reject the Hero Agency route while despising government work like Big Hero.

Little do they know, they are integral to humanity's further evolution into the super-world.

Peter Parker dies. Mantle was taken up by Miles Morales.

Skrulls invade earth.

Black Hammer II

Black Rapier retires

Jiro Osamu, the replacement for Mister Unknown becomes "The Batman of Japan"

Young Avengers Form

The Authority was formed after Skywatch and IO were exposed to the world

 Izuku Midorya receives the One-For-All quirk

The hero agency system in Japan has cracks forming and they’re big.

Green Door Opens.

Miss Marvel (Kamala Khan)

Multiverse opened up.

China formed the Justice League of China, followed by its very own Lantern Corps.

2020s

Izuku becomes a superhero once again.

Black Hammer II becomes a mother.

Miles Morales becomes a vampire.

Team Titans

First Krakoan age. Mutants who have been dead for decades return.

Hulkling unites Skrull and Kree to form a new galaxy-spanning empire.

2030s

JLA Beyond

Bishop Born (Good Timeline).

The Future State. Corporations begin to create private security to crack down on superhuman threats. Especially in light of corporate superhero projects repeatedly failing.

Superman’s dynasty ascends to the stars. 

2099

Corporations Dominate the World.

Age of Heroes is Over.

Spider-Man 2099

Avengers 2099

Franklin Richards ascends.

Superman’s Dynasty returns to Earth. It’s an ancestral land. It is in ruin.

Compound V-descended humans begin to activate their powers en masse but after 100 years of development, their minds can handle it.

30th Century

Legion of Superheroes

Centuries of Mutants, Compound V Descendants, Inhumans, Metahumans, and alien-influenced humans have fundamentally changed the definition of a baseline human.

Humanity is almost there. The rest of the universe is inching toward it too.

Golden Lantern

853rd Century

It’s a superhuman universe. 

The Justice Legion, influenced by their literal and metaphorical ancestors patrol all sections of the known universe. 

[roachsideblog]

COD GORETOBER DAY 10! Woo, still only a day late.

Blacklist tinyduckies goretober 2024 and tinyduckies kinktober 2024 if youre sick of this <3

Prompt: Surgery (thanks, @nonsenseafterdark !)

Words: ~1k

TWs: Insects, gore, body horror, medical horror, burns, torture, blood, insect/animal death, being drugged, gangrene, decay, emetophobia/vomit. No human death though. But maybe that makes this worse <3

Summary: Makarov tried playing surgeon and kidnapped Captain Soap to show off his results.

Shit's fucked up. I'm not kidding. Dead Dove, babes.

~~~

Smoke from the blast obscured Soap’s vision as he climbed through the hole he just made in a cinderblock wall. Makarov’s base of operations—the heart of everything they’d been fighting for so long, the final barrier between him and avenging two of his best men. It was quiet compared to the facility’s perimeter lined with guard towers but he dare not think too hard about the ‘Q’ word. He steeled himself, crouching below the black sooty clouds, smelling thermite even through his filtered mask. A faint buzzing sound emanated from down the hall.

Lt. Simon Riley and Sgt. Gary Sanderson. Ghost and Roach. Shot dead by General Shepherd, their bodies burnt to a crisp. All they wanted was to defeat Makarov. To ensure weapons of mass destruction never made it into nefarious hands.

He crept along the concrete floor. The buzzing grew louder. There was nothing. No one. Not until a staircase appeared, leading down into a dark room. Descending, the air was stagnant and sickeningly sweet with the smell of decay growing stronger and stronger with every step until Soap’s eyes watered.

Through the threshold. He checked his six and—

A sharp pain pierced his upper arm. A goddamn blow dart hung from his flesh by its needle as if he were a wild animal. His heartrate began to slow immediately, dizziness taking hold.

Footsteps.

Soap jerked up, saw Makarov emerge from the abyss ahead, then collapsed before managing to fire a single round.

…

He woke tied to a metal chair. The buzzing was louder than any explosion. It was deafening in the tiny, dark room. The walls, floors, and ceiling were painted black.

A corpse fly landed on Soap’s nose. He shook it off, only to startle thousands more into the air.

Only upon further inspection did Soap realize all the dark surfaces were actually coated in insects that wriggled like ferrofluid.

He gagged, mask nowhere to be seen. The stench of death was unbearable but if he breathed through his mouth the flies sensed its moisture and flew in. Breathe through his nose and the smell brought tears to his eyes that the nasty things landed on his cheeks to lap up. He scrunched his eyes, forcing air out of his nostrils to keep curious corpse flies out.

The walls were light gray concrete.

A floodlight turned on and they all went mad, nearly blotting out its intense light. They rammed into its glass case, shoved themselves inside to fry on its bulbs.

“Captain MacTavish!” called a familiar Russian accent. Makarov. He had to yell over the roar of wings. Lucky bastard had a hazmat suit with a face shield as he appeared from the glare of the light, every footfall crushing flies.

Soap couldn’t reply lest a fly crawl down his throat carrying remnants of whatever attracted them here. Rage filled his veins.

“You've been such a pain in my ass. A pest, if you will.” He laughed and gestured around. “Seems you fit right in. Tell me, why are you here?”

Soap’s nostrils flared.

“Yeah, yeah. To put a bullet in my brain. I know. Show some introspection skills. Because I think you’re here for the same reason all these fucking bugs are,” he spat, grinding his toe on the floor. Flies fled but it was too crowded; an unlucky handful were mashed into paste. “You’re confused, I bet. Don’t worry. All will be revealed.”

With Soap silenced by disgust, Makarov disappeared again, though not for long. He came back holding a rope that disappeared behind the light. He stopped walking when it grew tight. Faintly, Soap could hear someone shambling. Something dragging. The rope went slack and Makarov yanked it tight again, causing whoever was on the other end to stumble forward and pick up the pace. Their movements grew louder. The humid, rotten smell got thicker. Ragged wheezes could be heard, as if their lungs didn’t inflate fully. They groaned in pain.

Flies cleared the area near Soap and raced for Makarov’s victim. He gulped hard, on the edge of his seat wondering what the fuck was about to reveal itself.

Suddenly, a massive frame blocked the floodlight.

A wide set of shoulders. A torso about two men across. Yet the person was average height, if a little tall. Makarov leaned on Soap’s shoulder and yanked them closer. The silhouette became clear. It had three legs. Two heads.

Ghost and Roach shambled into the light. They were sewn together with thick leather thread, sutures not quite healing as their burned skin remained in active decay. About half their flesh remained pink and red, the other half varying shades of blue bruises, pale bloodless patches, and green gangrenous bits. Veins bulged. Roach was missing his right arm, leg, and that side of his face. Ghost’s legs did the walking, the right and middle two, while Roach’s left leg dragged limp on the ground as if his ankle weren’t fully attached.

Soap gasped at the horrific sight, coughing up flies.

“Had to fit them together like puzzle pieces. Sanderson’s one half was burnt to a crisp; I didn’t even need to cut anything off. Pulled him apart with my bare hands like pulled pork. Wearing gloves, of course.”

Soap vomited into his lap. It couldn't be real. There must’ve been something more in that tranquilizer.

“You don’t appreciate art,” that fucking bastard scolded. “Anyway. Ghost’s left arm had to be amputated so their shoulders could connect. I think the burns acted like pottery slip—they fused together like two pieces of wet clay as they healed. Ha, ‘healed’ is such a funny word.”

Ghost’s eyes welled with tears. His polyester balaclava had melted into his face.

Roach groaned. Maybe if the skin around his mouth wasn't simultaneously stretched and sloughing off, Soap would hear him pleading for death. Goggle-shaped burns cut into his cheekbones and nose bridge.

“Care to join them, MacTavish?”

[donnatroyprincessofthemyscira]

I love her vibe here SO much.

[gijoe-forever]

[classicprowrestling]

Bob Backlund vs Sgt Slaughter / Steel Cage - 1981

[himitsusentaiblog]

Well, I learned an important lesson on tonal whiplash this weekend at Ushicon. Saturday night was my second Tokusatsu block starting at 10pm. For the first two hours, I showed the first five episodes of Ohsama Sentai King-Ohger.

It's a fun Super Sentai entry with a very intriguing premise and some great characters. Once we had gotten through the initial story arc and that chunk of episodes, it was after midnight so I decided to switch to the new Garo series Heir of Steel Armor.

Folks seemed pretty onboard with the spooky vibes of the show until we got to the scene in episode 1 where the construction foreman was being pressured to take the fall for a shoddy job by the mob who convinced him to cut corners, gets possessed by a horror and takes a hammer to the head of the mob boss. Three people just got up and left. For context, Ushicon is an 18+ only convention and we're a little bit more free in what we show there than we would be at an all ages event (heck, I showed the first Hentai Kamen movie one year) but perhaps swapping from all-ages colorful fun to blood, guts and horror filled early morning Tokusatsu drama was not the right choice. Other things I found out at Ushicon: 1) I need to watch more Kamen Rider Gotchard. I showed the first two episodes without having watched them myself in advance and now I need to get caught up and have this show in my life.

2) Laverne and Shirley in the Army was way worse than I remember it being and just one of the worst cartoons I have ever shown.

Whoever came up with the character of Sgt. Squealey needs to be charged with crimes against comedy for coming up with such a loathsome animal mascot.

[holmesillustrations]

Vote for your favourite, the top 9 will proceed in the bracket. Since theyre all different shapes and sizes, make sure to click into the full views!

Paget Eliminations

Other Artist Eliminations

Full captions and details for each illustration below the cut:

"He examined with his glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness." DH Friston, A Study in Scarlet (Beeton's Christmas Annual 1887) Characters L-R: Watson, Holmes, Lestrade, Gregson

"The man, with a convulsive effort, tore the plaster from his lips." WH Hyde, The Greek Interpreter (Harper's Weekly) Characters: Sophy Kratides, Latimer and his associate, Paul Kratides, Mr Melas

"There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes." FD Steele, The Norwood Builder (Collier's) Characters: Mrs Lexington (Oldacre's housekeeper)

"It was a dog-grate, Mr Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from the back of it." Arthur Twidle, Wisteria Lodge (The Strand) Characters: Watson, Holmes, John Eccles, Gregson, Insp. Baynes

"They bundled him into a cab that was beside the kerb" HM Brock, Red Circle (The Strand) Characters: Mr Warren and his attackers

"Holmes examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it." Frank Wiles, Valley of Fear (The Strand) Characters: Holmes

"For an instant i could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile flickered over the woman's lips." Arthur Keller, Valley of Fear (1915 US Novel) Characters: Mrs Douglas, Cecil Barker, White Mason, Holmes, Insp MacDonald

"Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed that he had found what he expected." Alfred Gilbert, Thor Bridge (The Strand) Characters: Holmes, Watson, Sgt Coventry

"It only needs one more Garrideb — and surely we can find one." JR Flanagan, Three Garridebs (Collier's) Characters: Nathan Garrideb

"See here, Mr. Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks' business." HK Elcock, Three Gables (The Strand) Characters: Watson, Steve Dixie, Holmes

" 'Cut out the poetry, Watson,' said Holmes severely." Frank Wiles, Retired Colourman (The Strand) Characters: Watson, Holmes

" 'If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one,' said the vicar angrily." Frank Wiles, Retired Colourman (The Strand) Characters: Vicar, Josiah Amberley, Watson

[muzaktomyears]

Studio 2 It was all done very clinically, that's the joke. We were in this big white room that was very dirty and hadn't been painted for years, and it had all these old sound baffles hanging down that were all dirty and broken. There was this huge big hanging light, there was no window, no daylight. It was a very clinical, not very nice atmosphere. When you think of the songs that were made in that studio it's amazing, because there was no atmosphere in there, we had to make the atmosphere. After a number of years we asked them could we have some coloured lights or a dimmer or something like that; after asking them for about three years, they finally brought in this big steel stand with a couple of red and blue neon lamps on it. That was the magic lighting they gave us. The refrigerator had a padlock on it, so if we wanted a cup of tea we'd have to break open the padlock on the fridge to get the milk out. We had to do that every night for five years, it wasn't like they realized, Oh well, they drink tea after six o'clock, so we'll leave the fridge open, oh no, they padlocked it, all the time. It was weird.

George Harrison on The South Bank Show, in Summer of Love: The Making of Sgt. Pepper, George Martin with William Pearson (1994)