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[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 2 - Adjustments

Summary: You're struggling a bit in your adjustment to your new life, and you're finding some of them are easier to get along with than others. Luckily you're not in it alone.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I'm so just overwhelmed with the attention this fic has gotten, but not in a bad way I promise! I'm just surprised is all. Thank you everyone that has read and reblogged and commented. I love all of you and so, since I have no self control, here is Chapter 2. Lots more world building and dialogue in this part, but I promise good stuff is coming.

Also I promise Soap will get his time soon. He's just the hardest for me to write, and you'll see why in this chapter.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“She was lying.” 

Price doesn’t bother looking up as a dark figure leans against the wall next to him. He stares out at the empty space between the barracks and the mess hall, not much traffic between the buildings during this time of day. 

“About how she got to the institute.” 

“Or at least not telling the whole truth.” Price says, turning to look at Simon. “Something tells me she’d talk if we asked.” 

“She’s soft.” Simon says, letting his gaze drift off into the distance. 

“She’s a civilian.” Price counters. “The CIA did a little training, but she’ll need some work. We can’t leave her completely defenseless...” 

Simon turns to face him again. “There’s something else.” 

Price pushes himself off the wall, heading back inside. Simon follows, the two of them making their way down the hall to his office. “There’s hundreds of American military bases across the world, thousands of regiments they could have chosen from, and yet, they sent her to us.” 

Simon closes the door behind him as Price sinks into his desk chair. “You think it was deliberate?” 

Price pulls open one of the drawers, pulling out the file Kate had given him. “Laswell said the CIA has had eyes on her for years.” He slides it across his desk to Simon. “There’s a lot of why's in this situation, and a lot of how’s. Like, if what she’s saying is true, how did a Staff Sergeant get his daughter into FIOT practically overnight?” 

Simon glances up at him over the top of the file. “You think there’s something else going on with this Initiative.” 

Price nods. “I do. I think there’s more than one experiment being run, and we’re the guinea pigs.” 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror as you run a comb through your damp hair. You look tired, the dark circles that have plagued your face for the last few weeks looking even darker now. It’s been a long day, so long it’s hard to believe it’s only been a matter of hours since you boarded the helicopter in London. 

Your new pack had made themselves scarce after dinner, leaving you to your own devices. You had been left alone after lunch too, and you had spent that time laying in bed, resting after the overwhelming scenting. 

You’d played back the last few hours in your mind. Leaving London in the helicopter, meeting your new Pack Alpha, Laswell leaving, meeting your new pack, the scenting. You had plenty to think about, to stress over, and you had been surprised when the knock came at your door for dinner. You were equally surprised to see Gaz and Soap waiting for you. 

You’d been sandwiched between them again as you walked to the mess. It was busier for dinner, and the eyes weren’t quite so quick to look away with the alphas missing. You know they have to be curious, with an omega on base following around two members of a SpecOps team, smelling like them. You know what they were probably thinking of you, what they were thinking your presence means. 

You’ve begun to understand Price’s rules a bit more. 

Price and Ghost had joined you as Soap said they would, coming in late from whatever they had been busy doing. You had been seated next to Soap, Ghost taking his other side while Price sat next to Gaz. It hadn’t gone unnoticed to you how close Soap and Ghost sat, and you remembered the look in Ghost’s eyes when Soap had approached to scent you. How his defensive stare had turned icy, threatening even, when he’d gotten close to you as if you were capable of hurting Soap. It had been a silent warning. If you tried anything, you’d have him to contend with. 

Ghost is territorial, more so than most alphas. You had seen it just a bit in Price, but only because you had been watching for it. Ghost was silent in his claim, but his gaze spoke of his territorialism. As you sat at the table with them, you slowly felt the stares lessen, the curious alphas and betas around you slowly turning away from your table until you were left in peace. You knew it was all thanks to a well-pointed glare from the second alpha at the table. 

They’d escorted you back to the barracks before disappearing again, leaving you alone. You’d opted for a shower to try and clear your head, exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs but your mind was racing too much to really get any rest. You haven’t been told what their normal schedules entail or even what they look like, but you expect an early morning tomorrow. Since Price had said at least one of them needed to escort you around base, that likely meant you were going to be constrained to their schedules. 

You know even when they’re not away, their days are probably full of training and briefings, much like yours had been for three months. They’re probably up early, earlier than you’d like to be, and then they go non-stop all day. 

You wonder if they ever get a break. 

Maybe this is a break for them. 

You sit on the edge of the bed after you finish your routine, eyeing the pillows and blankets stacked at the end. They’re military issue, not as soft or as plush as you might have preferred. This is your new normal, though. Comfort isn’t exactly going to be a high priority. 

Tears prick your eyes as you run your hand over the comforter. You know it’s the exhaustion, the stress of the day beginning to weigh on you. You’re worn out, and that’s causing a slip in the tight reins you keep on your mood. Omegas and alphas were both prone to being moody, and those who were unrestrained could lose control quickly. Alphas were quick to anger, while omegas could get depressed very easily. Exhaustion drives both to being grumpy, though alphas will descend into irritability and anger, while omegas will get whiny and weepy. 

You hate it, how easily you can be driven to cry. How easily you can lose control. It makes you feel weak and helpless, but that’s partially by design. It was supposed to be your pack’s job to fix that, to give you that support and take care of you. 

Except you don’t know your pack. 

What would they do if you approached them like this, all teary and needy? Would instinct take over and snap them into their roles? Or would they give you an awkward pat on the back and leave you to take care of yourself? Gaz would help you, you think. He had slipped into that role so easily during the scenting. Your fingers twitch on the bedspread, your mind telling you to seek him out, track him down, even if it’s only to catch a whiff of his scent again.  

Your phone screen lights up where it’s sitting on the nightstand, drawing your attention from the door. Kate had given you the phone just this morning before you left the hotel. It had her number on it, as well as your pack’s. You’d half expected to find messages already from them when you’d turned it on, but there had been none. They had kept that boundary of meeting in person first. 

You pick up the phone, checking the message. It’s from Price. 

Breakfast is at 0700. I’ll take you to see the Omega Specialist after. 

Seven o’clock. It’s not terribly early. You’d eaten around the same time at the institute. You’ll get to meet the Omega Specialist as well tomorrow. You’ve met plenty of them in your time as an omega, but something about the idea of having someone there who knows, who understands is comforting to you. 

You send a reply in acknowledgement for tomorrow’s plan before setting an alarm for tomorrow morning. There’s an uneasy feeling under your skin, a tickling in the back of your mind that you can’t seem to relax. Your eyes are drawn to the desk where the shirts still sit, and before you know it you’re moving to the desk, letting your fingers trail over each one. 

You grab Price’s shirt, taking it back to your bed. You curl up with your back facing the door, holding the shirt against your chest, letting the scent of tobacco smoke and whiskey fill your nose. Silent tears slide down your cheeks, your face pressing into the pillow to muffle your sobs. 

As you try to muffle your tears, you miss the sound of boots pausing in front of your door, the person on the other side standing there for a moment before continuing down the hall. 

You let out a groan as your alarm pulls you from sleep. You had drifted in and out for a few hours before finally managing to get a couple precious hours of sleep. You’d woken when the others got up. You knew they were trying to be quiet but you had heard them shuffling around, talking quietly amongst each other. You’re normally a fairly deep sleeper, but in a new place you always struggle. 

A new place surrounded by almost complete strangers. 

You turn off your alarm, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. They’re burning a bit, the exhaustion still weighing heavy on your shoulders. You pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to try and make yourself at least look more alive than you feel. The last thing you need is them getting worried about you. That’s attention you’re not sure you want right now. 

You blink sleepily at your closet, trying to decide what to wear. Were you allowed to wear anything? You didn’t have much besides the basics, since the only thing you had been allowed to wear at the institute was its uniform and the clothes they provided. Then when you were with the CIA, they had provided clothes for you to wear as well. The things you have now had been bought by Kate before you left D.C. 

Everyone on base wore similar variants of the same uniform. You’re not military, though, so you don’t think those rules apply to you. No one had said anything about your state of dress yesterday. You opt for comfort, knowing you’d likely find out soon if you were going to be forced to dress differently too. 

You’re tying your shoes when the knock sounds on your door. You had heard the others moving around, footsteps in the hallway, opening and closing doors, quiet voices talking and Soap laughing at something. You know it’s one of them, yet the nervous tickle at the back of your head is back. 

Soap is leaning casually against your doorframe when you open the door. His face lights up in a smile as he sees you. “Morning, bonny. Sleep alright?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Tossed and turned for a while.” 

“We didne keep ye up did we?” He asks, his smile faltering just a bit. 

You shake your head. “No, I never sleep well the first few nights in a new place.” 

“Well, our beds are always open if ye need something more comfortable.” He winks at you playfully. 

Your face warms at his words, the double meaning not lost on you. You were right, Soap was going to be the one to push your boundaries the most. 

Gaz elbows him in the ribs as he passes. “She’s been here a day, mate, don’t go scaring her off now.” He leans on the other side of your doorframe, giving you a smile. “Morning.” 

“Morning.” You say, your face still warm from Soap’s teasing. 

“You hungry?” Gaz asks. 

You nod. You do feel hungry this morning, likely a side effect from your emotional night last night. You step out of your room, the two betas stepping back to give you space as you close the door behind you. Ghost is leaning against the wall next to his door, his eyes watching with the typical cautious disinterest that seemed to be his default setting. 

Gaz and Soap sandwich you between them again, close enough their arms brush yours as you walk. It was almost as if they could sense your inner turmoil, the neediness still tugging at the back of your mind. If Ghost hadn’t been trailing the three of you, you might have been tempted to give in and grip their sleeves, or slip your hands into theirs. How would Ghost respond to such a bold move? The mental image of your body flying through the air as he punted you into next week almost makes you laugh. 

Price is already seated at a table frowning at his phone over a cup of coffee. Gaz and Soap load up your tray for you, something you’re getting used to rather quickly. It was expected from the alphas, or at least Price, to coddle you a bit, but it seemed the betas were more than happy to get in on it as well. 

The thought makes something flutter in your chest. 

You’re seated between Gaz and Price again once you reach the table, Price greeting you with a tired smile. “Morning. Sleep alright?” 

“Not really.” You say honestly. “New place and all. I’ll settle in eventually.” 

“Maybe the Omega Specialist can give you some ideas to help.” He glances at his watch before looking at you as you spoon a heaping spoonful of porridge into your mouth. “Take your time. We have until 8.” 

You listen to the conversation at the table as you eat, Gaz and Soap talking about a football game that’s on tonight. You feel eyes on you, your skin prickling a bit. You glance up, half expecting Ghost to be glowering at you again, but his gaze is focused on his eggs. You cast a quick glance around the mess, turning slightly to look behind you. 

Three tables over, you find the gaze of some soldier focused on you. You haven’t paid much attention to anyone else on the base, but then again you haven’t had much time or reason to yet. You can’t read the expression on his face as he stares at you, but you feel a shiver run down your spine as your eyes meet his. 

He stares at you for a few seconds before his gaze moves slightly past you, quickly dropping back to his plate. You turn around, finding Ghost staring just past your head. His eyes are narrowed, his scent coming off stronger than it had been. You can practically see his hackles raised, the warning clear in the air. You feel the urge to curl in on yourself, the threatening aura radiating from him makes you want to cower. 

It doesn't go unnoticed by those at the table either. 

“Easy, Ghost.” Price says calmly, Gaz turning to follow his line of sight. 

“Bloody wanker.” Ghost grumbles before rising from the table. 

You turn back around, but the soldier that had been staring at you is gone. 

You nervously pick at your sweatshirt sleeves as you sit in the plastic chair next to Price. You’re still on edge a bit from what happened at breakfast. It wasn’t so much being stared at that bothered you. After now three meals in the mess, you’ve almost come to expect it. It’s Ghost’s reaction that has your mind still reeling. 

“I’ve always hated the medical center.” Price says with a sigh as he leans his head back against the wall. “It smells too sterile. Makes my nose burn. Reminds me of too many close calls.” 

His words jar you a bit. You hadn’t even thought about that aspect of his job. He’s used to getting shot at, to getting into fights, running head first into danger that would send most running the other way. You wonder how many times he’s been the one with the close call, and how many others he’s had to watch have their own. 

You wonder how many times he’s had to make that trip to tell someone’s family. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the door across from you opens. Price pushes himself to his feet, and you follow as a kind looking woman steps out. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. You don’t have anything against male Omega Specialists, but you were already surrounded by men. Sure you have Kate, but she’s half a world away. 

She’s tall, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Despite being a doctor she’s dressed casually, no white coat or gloves to be seen. Her eyes are light green and crease in the corners when she smiles. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Keller.” She introduces herself, shaking Price’s hand. 

American. You think, silently breathing another sigh of relief. Kate really had pulled some strings with this one. 

“Captain John Price.” He says. 

You introduce yourself when she turns to you, shaking your hand. Her voice is soft and gentle, the scent of beta coming off her in waves. 

“Come on in,” She says, leading you into the office. “Sit anywhere you like. Make yourselves comfortable.” 

Her office isn’t what you expected either. Instead of the harsh fluorescents, the lighting is softer, warmer. There’s paintings and posters all over the walls, along with several plants. There’s a desk covered in books and paperwork in one corner and a bookshelf with several books packed into it in the other. There’s a couch on one wall, and a couple plush looking chairs on the other. 

You move to one of the chairs, sinking down onto it. It envelops you in softness, and you feel as if you might sink into it and never be able to get out. After a day of hard plastic and stiff blankets, it nearly makes you weep. 

Price takes the chair next to you, Dr. Keller sitting on the couch across from you. The office smells good, a light, neutral scent in the air aside from the pure almondy scent of beta. 

“Alright,” She says, holding a tablet and a stack of files in her lap. “I always like to start by introducing myself and telling you a bit about me, then we’ll get into the important stuff.” 

She jumps into telling you about herself. Where she grew up: California. Where she studied: UC Berkeley. What institute she did her residency at: West Coast Training Academy. Where she worked last before Kate called her in: some poor inner city institute in LA. 

“Now, on to the more important stuff.” She says, turning on the tablet. “I got your medical records yesterday. You’re quite the healthy girl.” 

“Yes ma'am. I have good genes. That’s what my mom used to say.” You respond. 

Dr. Keller smiles. “Hardly even been sick. Your heats are all normal, too, correct?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You say. “Except for a three month stretch two years ago.” 

“Yes, the heat sickness epidemic that hit America.” She says. 

You nod. “FIOT locked down completely and everyone was supposed to quarantine, but I heard a rumor that it was one of the beta food workers. She snuck out to see her alpha boyfriend and brought it in with her. We only think it was her because she disappeared not long after the first omega got sick.” 

Dr. Keller hums. “I know not everyone was so willing to take it seriously. You made a full recovery, though. No lasting side effects, I’m sure thanks to the state of the art medical facilities that FIOT keeps.” 

“Yes, ma’am. We were lucky it was just a mild case.” 

“That is lucky.” She flips through something on the tablet. “Your lab results all look phenomenal. I like to do checkups monthly, just to ensure everything is working as it should. I know the CIA gave you quite the cocktail of vaccines while you were with them.” She turns her gaze to Price. “Captain Price, I’ve sent in a request for your team’s vaccination records as well. I’m sure you’ve had everything under the sun, but I’d like to ensure there’s no risk of any accidental exposures.” 

“I don’t see a problem with that.” Price says. “If RAMC gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll get them for you myself.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” She says. “One last bit in this part and then we can move on. I see FIOT issued an implant before you left, as is standard practice.” 

You nod. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. You’ve had more than enough time for it to take effect so we won’t have to worry about any accidental slip ups during your next heat.” 

Your cheeks warm at her words a bit. You’ve been trying to avoid thinking about that inevitable side of things. 

“And your next heat is roughly six weeks away.” She says, looking at the calendar. “Don't be surprised if it comes a little earlier now that you’re being exposed to alphas again.” 

Your stomach twists nervously at that thought. It was common for heats to be triggered early after exposure to alphas, especially after such a prolonged period without exposure to them. It wasn’t likely to start tomorrow, but you knew it could jump a week or two due to the natural pheromones alphas put off, and the instinctual call for the alpha/omega bond. 

“You’re planning for the claiming to take place during the heat?” Dr. Keller asks. 

“Yes, that’s the plan.” Price says. 

“That is the most natural time for it.” Dr. Keller says. “Of course, it is always up to omega preference in the end.” 

You don’t miss the way her eyes dart to you for a second. 

“Now that that’s over with,” She says, putting the tablet to the side. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to do this next part with just the two of us.” 

A beat of silence passes before you realize she’s asking you. Her eyes are on you, and so are Price’s. She’s asking you. She’s asking you what you want. 

“I-I guess...yeah.” You stutter over your words, not quite sure how to answer. Is there a wrong answer? Would Price be upset if you said yes? Would Dr. Keller be upset if you said no? Your eyes turn to Price, trying to gauge his reaction. 

“It’s up to you.” He says softly. “We’re here for you.” 

You sit up a little straighter at his words, nodding your head. “Y-Yes. That’s okay.” 

Price pushes himself to stand up. “I’ll be right outside.” 

The air inside the room seems to lighten as he leaves, Dr. Keller reclining back on the couch as the door clicks shut. She pulls out a stack of papers and a pen before she looks at you. Your palms are sweating, and you’re starting to think you’d like the chair to swallow you whole. 

“This next part can feel a bit personal, but I just want you to know that everything you say in here is as confidential as you’d like it to be. Captain Price is right. I am an Omega Specialist, I’m here for you. I’m not just a doctor, I’m here to help you in all aspects of being an omega. I know FIOT teaches a lot, mainly obedience and compliance. I want to make it clear that you can be honest with me.” She holds up the stack of papers. “No one is going to see these papers but me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

“You don’t have to be so formal with me.” She smiles. “You can call me Dr. Keller, or Doc. You could even call me an evil bitch if you want, it won’t phase me any.” 

You can’t help the small smile that forms on your face. 

“I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you. They’re a sort of tracker to measure how well you’re settling in and bonding with your new pack. I’d like to meet once a week until your next heat just to see how well you’re settling in. After that we can meet as often as you’d like. Sound good?” 

You nod in approval. It sounds like a lot, but you also know you’re going to have a lot of downtime, even with your pack on base. 

“Alright, let’s get started. How are you settling in? I know it’s barely been a day, but I want to know how you feel here.” 

Your heart begins to pound in your chest. How do you feel here? How do you feel after being pulled from the institute and taken to a training facility where you found out you’d be moving halfway across the world to be a military pack’s omega. 

This wasn’t what you had expected when you reached the age where you became an available omega. Most omegas at FIOT came from rich, powerful, important families and your purpose there was to be groomed into the perfect omega to return right back to that world. 

You thought you would be chosen quickly. You had expected it. With your scores and your high ratings and your status, you were what most alphas dreamed of. Yet, the years had passed and though there was some interest, nothing had ever come of it. You weren’t alone in it. There were others like you, those who excelled at being an omega, but then seemed to stall in the selection once they came of age. 

Of course, now that you look back on it, you can’t help but think it might have been done on purpose. The Omega Initiative was new, you had been told during your first briefing explaining why you were taken to a remote building somewhere outside of D.C. and greeted not by your new pack, but swathes of CIA agents. Military packs were nothing new, but they wanted to utilize the naturally formed packs and make them stronger and more stable by adding in omegas. 

Only highly skilled omegas were considered for the program, but of course you had no say in whether you were going to partake or not. They chose the omegas and they decided where you would end up. 

It wasn’t that dissimilar from being chosen from an Institute. At FIOT there was a screening process packs had to go through to be determined eligible to have access to omega files. Then the pack would have to send a neutral emissary, usually a beta, to meet the omegas in person and choose on behalf of the alpha. Most institutes don’t have that strenuous of a process, and some don’t have a process at all. In some, alphas themselves could walk in and choose an omega without even so much as a background check. 

Omegas never got a say. As soon as you were handed over to an institute, the ability to choose was taken from you. Whoever your caretakers were as a pup signed over their rights to you and the institute became your legal guardian. They dictated your life up until you joined a new pack. 

You had hoped it would be someone rich. If nothing else, you’d get to live a cushy life and you’d never have to worry about anything. When they told you what was really going to happen to you, you had almost cried. You did cry, late at night curled up in your bunk after hours of training and briefings. 

Kate picked you for this pack specifically because she knew them and she knew you could handle them and their world. 

Maybe if you had been worse at being an omega, things would have been better for you. 

Or maybe they would have been worse. 

“It’s...different.” You finally say, picking at your sleeves again. “But in a lot of ways, it’s similar to The Institute. It always takes me time to settle somewhere new.” 

“Me too.” Dr. Keller says, writing some things down. “And with the time change, it’s just so much harder. I feel like I should be in bed right now, but it’s 8 AM. Have you started nesting?” 

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even feel the urge to.” 

“That’s fine.” She says, writing something else down. “In truth, I’d be more concerned if you were.” 

Your eyebrows raise a bit. “Why?” 

“During an adjustment period for an omega, especially in a new pack, there can be something that happens called false instincts. The sudden urge to nest, a drive to bond with pack members too soon, false heats. It’s usually brought on by a sudden change in environment, like when omegas are taken from a place where they’ve spent sometimes years with no exposure to alphas and are suddenly thrown into a space with a lot of alphas. It’s more common in larger packs where you have alphas, betas, and other omegas.” 

“Could it happen in smaller packs?” You ask. 

“It’s possible, though rare. It can cause some serious issues down the line when those instincts are actually supposed to begin to show up, like adjustment sickness. I’d say if you’re starting to feel the urge to nest or bond before the first week is up, then come talk to me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

She smiles, turning the page. “How far have you gotten with the bonding process?” 

“Just the scenting yesterday.” You answer. 

“And how did that go?” 

You pick at the loose thread on your sweatshirt. “Fine. It was...overwhelming.” 

“They can be.” Dr. Keller says. “The new members of your pack, how are you getting along with them?” 

“Fine, I guess.” You shrug. “I like Soap and Gaz. Price, he’s...he’s nice, and Ghost...” You trail off, not sure how to answer. If she’d asked before breakfast you might have said he doesn't like you. He doesn’t want you to be part of his pack, but after what happened at breakfast...

You can’t be sure he did it for you. He could have thought that soldier was staring at Soap or Gaz or even Price. He could have thought the soldier was staring at him and was annoyed with it. He had scared off the stares at every meal you’d eaten together, but how often did they get stared at? You couldn’t know if that was a daily occurrence and he was just growing sick of it. 

He could be annoyed with you because you’re drawing in the stares. 

“I don’t know what to think about him yet.” You answer. 

She writes something else down, going through a few more questions with you. How is your appetite? How are you sleeping? Are you taking care of your needs? Do you have any concerns? 

Before you know it the hour has passed and you’re walking out the door into the fluorescent, sterile hallway of the medical center. 

“Remember, you have my number. If you need anything, I’m here for you.” Dr. Keller says as you part ways. 

You walk with Price out of the medical center, glad to be out in the fresh air. It’s not particularly warm, and the sun is hidden behind a layer of clouds, but it’s better than the medical center. 

“What do you think?” Price asks as you follow him back to the barracks. 

“I think it went well.” You say, mind still reeling from an eventful morning. You’re beginning to feel your restless night. 

“Do you like Dr. Keller?” He asks, probing a bit. 

You nod. “Yes, sir. She’s nice.” 

“Good.” He says, opening the door to the barracks for you. “I have to leave to oversee training for the next few hours.” He glances at his watch. “One of us will come get you for lunch.” 

You nod. Of course you’d find yourself alone again between meals. You’re beginning to notice a pattern. “Yes, sir.” 

His hand is warm as it settles on your shoulder, squeezing gently. You’re surprised by the touch, as small as it is. Were they too fighting the urge to get close to you, like you had this morning? 

You can still feel the warmth of his hand even after it’s disappeared and he’s gone. You head for the rec room, deciding to avoid the constricting feeling of being shut in your room for the time being. 

The TV is on when you enter, but the room is empty, playing some morning talk show. You move to the bookshelf against the wall, letting your eyes scan the titles. There's a surprising lack of military-based books shoved into the packed shelf. Of course there's a handful of old manuals and handbooks, nothing that you're particularly concerned about needing to read. You let out a sigh, standing on your toes to reach a Brandon Sanderson novel. 

You look around the room but the remote for the TV seems to be missing, and it’s too high on the wall for you to reach the power button, so you leave it on, curling up on one corner of the couch as you begin to read. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed when something moves in your peripheral. The sun has come out briefly, shining in through the windows. You look up from the book, suddenly feeling very small under Ghost’s gaze. His eyes are narrowed as he stares down at you, a thousand things flashing through your mind. Are you in his spot? Is this his book? Had he come to the rec room hoping to be alone and here you are infringing in his space? 

“Come on.” He says, his voice rougher than it had been this morning. “Lunch.” 

He’s already turned and heading out the door as you scramble up, leaving the book on the coffee table as you hurry to catch up to him. His steps are quick and wide, and you find yourself having to almost speedwalk to keep up with him. 

Your thoughts are jumbled as you follow him out of the barracks and off towards the mess. Why would they send him to get you? Was he the only one available? Yesterday they had time before lunch to return to the barracks, or had that only been because of you? Or were they perhaps hoping this might offer a chance for the two of you to bond a bit? 

Or were they entirely blind to Ghost’s disinterest in your existence? 

Perhaps they were used to it. After so long together, perhaps they just thought it was normal. If you were brave enough to bring it up, would you get a “oh that’s just how he is” in response? 

You can’t see the others as you enter the mess, Ghost leading you to the line. He stands behind you like a hulking shadow, his scent covered by the smell of gunpowder and sweat. You fill your own tray for the first time, grabbing things that look appetizing. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, even though the others insisted on doing it for the time being. When they’re not here, you’ll have to do it yourself. 

Ghost leads you to an empty table, and you opt to sit across from him. You begin to eat, taking big bites to avoid the need for conversation, not that you really thought Ghost would strike up a conversation with you. Your eyes flicker around the room nervously, glancing over the entrances time and time again, waiting for the others to arrive. 

“Stop twitching. They’re on their way.” 

The words cut straight through you and you snap your head around to face Ghost. He’s got his mask pulled up to his nose, your eyes immediately drawn to the exposed pale skin. There’s light stubble on his chin. You remember how that had felt on your own skin when he’d scented you. He’s blonde, you think, or at least has light hair judging by the color of the stubble. There’s a scar on his chin, almost hidden by the stubble. 

Your face warms as you realize you’ve been caught in your nervous fretting. Of course, you should have known he would take notice. There’s not a lot they don’t notice, you think. Though, when your survival depends on noticing even the smallest detail of anything or anyone...

You jump as a tray is set down next to yours, your eyes snapping up to see Gaz with a smile on his face. You turn back to look at Ghost, his mask pulled back down but you see a slight shake to his shoulders for a second.

Was he...laughing at you? 

Your attention is drawn from him as Gaz takes a seat next to you, sitting close enough his arm is almost brushing yours. Price and Soap taking their usual spots as well. You’re beginning to pick up on the patterns that existed around them, and their own patterns. Perhaps that will make it easier for you to fit yourself into their lives. You knew from the start they weren’t going to change to fit you into their lives. They couldn’t. You were going to have to find a way to fit into their lives. 

Gaz walks you back to the barracks after lunch, abnormally quiet as he watches you warily. He walks you to your door, leaning on the doorframe as you step inside. 

“You alright?” He asks, big brown eyes shining with worry as he looks you over. 

“Yeah.” You nod, shifting on your feet. “Just tired. I think I might take a nap.” 

He nods, and you’re sure he doesn't quite believe you, but he doesn’t press any. “Alright. Happy napping.” 

You close the door as he leaves, sinking down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. It’s been a long day and it’s only lunch. Between the probing questions from Dr. Keller and the few minutes you had spent alone with Ghost you feel exhausted. It was good to know you weren’t entirely broken in your lack of nesting instincts, and perhaps your turmoil with belonging in this place wasn’t quite as abnormal as you thought. 

What to do about Ghost.

He’s said more words to you today than he did in the entirety of the previous day. In fact, you think today might be the first time he’s spoken to you at all. You know he doesn’t approve of you, and you’d go so far as to say he doesn’t like you. You can imagine he fought the hardest against you being added to the pack. They were fine without you. It didn’t take a genius to see that. 

You’re an outsider. A civilian. A risk. 

An unneeded disruption to their lives. 

You pull your phone out of your pocket, staring at the dark screen. You know Ghost might never accept you. He won’t want to claim you, he won’t mate you, but...perhaps you might just get him to tolerate you. 

You unlock your phone, sending a quick text to Kate. 

“Can you get a book for me?”

You regret your decision momentarily as you step into the rec room. Gaz and Soap are lounged on the couch, beer bottles open on the coffee table. The TV is playing ads, their attention on each other. You almost feel as if you’re infringing upon a private moment as they laugh, half tempted to race back to your room and hide until your hunger draws you out or someone breaks down the door to get to you. 

“Hey!” Gaz’s face lights up when he sees you, Soap turning to look at you.

“Hey, bonny!” His face lights up with a smile. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. 

“Not at all.” Gaz says, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. “You want a beer?” 

You shake your head. “No thank you. Never could get past the taste.” 

Soap throws his head back as he laughs, slapping Gaz’s shoulder. “I keep tellin’ ye!” 

“Yet you keep drinking it!” Gaz attempts to defend himself. 

“Cause it’s th’ only thing we got!” Soap argues, leaning around Gaz to stare at you. “So, ye a football fan, bonny?” 

“Well, I watched the World Cup a couple times as a kid.” You say. “My household was more of an American football and baseball household. Two of my older brothers played soccer, though they never were very serious about it. Mostly just did it to fulfill my dad’s physical activity extracurricular requirement.” 

“What did you do to fulfill that requirement?” Gaz asks as he takes a sip of his beer. 

“Softball. I was...not good at it.” You laugh. “I could catch and throw, but I don’t think I hit the ball a single time I was at bat.” 

Both of them chuckle, turning back to the TV as the ad ends. “Don’t worry, we’ll turn you into a proper football fan yet.” Gaz says. 

You watch the game with them, and it doesn’t take you long to realize they’re rooting for opposing teams. They explain things to you here and there in between yelling at the TV and each other. Despite how loud they are, you find yourself relaxing further and further, the tension from the last two days easing away, even as the two betas yell at each other over a soccer game. 

Gaz tenses for a second as he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly, noticing you’ve fallen asleep, your head drooping onto his shoulder. His lips quirk up in a smile as he gently nudges Soap. 

“Wha?” Soap asks, turning to look at him. 

He jerks his head to the side, leaning back just slightly so Soap can see. A grin breaks out on the younger man’s face and he pulls out his phone. “Aww, look a’ that. Think we should wake ‘er and get ‘er tae bed?” 

“Nah.” Gaz says. “Let her sleep for now. She probably needs it.” 

You sleep soundly through overtime, Gaz not moving until the post game is over, letting you sleep as long as possible. He knows you have to be tired, after the last few days and the time difference. You looked tired today, with dark circles and droopy eyes. He hates to wake you, but he knows you can’t sleep on the couch. 

He nudges you gently, trying to rouse you. “Hey.” He nudges you again, your head finally lifting off his shoulder. 

You blink sleepily, rubbing at your eyes. You make a quiet sound in protest of being awake, eyes drooping closed again. 

“Come on, love.” He says, keeping you upright. “It’s time for bed.” 

You cover your yawn with your hand, blinking at him sleepily. “Bed?” You murmur sleepily, Gaz smiling softly at how adorable you are in this state. 

“Yeah, you’ll be more comfortable in bed.” He pushes himself to stand, hands on your arms to pull you up. 

You make another sound in protest, nearly falling against his chest when he gets you on your feet. He wraps an arm around you, letting you lean on him as he guides you back to bed, Soap cleaning up the mess they had made. 

You’re more awake once you get to your door, blinking up at him with bleary eyes. “‘S fun.” You murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Should do that more often.” 

“You’re always welcome to join us.” He says. “Get some rest. You’ve had a long week.” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Night, love.” 

He waits until your door is closed before heading back down the hallway towards the rec room, a small smile on his face. 

NEXT ->

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[iwpacademy12]

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[jellyfishsthings]

WARNINGS: this is quite angsty...no actual smut happens just a tiny scene. Also I messes around with some scenes so I feel like it doesn't follow the storyline in the series... that's about it... (should a do a part 2?) part 2 here, part 3

He was nursing a long drink of whiskey on ice as he stared at the blank wall. The year was 1963, and he was currently sitting on a lousy couch in Dallas. The apocalypse was going to take place once again mere days away. He felt bone tired, no one around him understood the stakes and the pressure he was under. He got out of his jacket a black and white photo. A young woman in her early twenties had a huge smile plastered on her face, her head was slightly cocked to the side and loose hair from the messy bun that rested at the top of her head framed her beautiful face. She seemed radiant, her eyes were crinkled from her smile and she seemed like a goddess to him. A piece of heaven that he left behind.

“Who's that?” Klaus whispered in his ear and Five jumped from the sudden sound and he glared at his brother. Out of all his siblings, Klaus was the only one who would understand him. “She is beautiful.”

“She is my wife.” Five said quietly. His voice was soft and colored in an emotion that Klaus couldn't recognize.

“Your what?”

“Are you deaf? I said she is my wife, or at least she was.”

“What happened?”

Five had been at the Commission for several years. After a failed experiment he had turned back to his twenty-year-old self. He had heard whispers of the Scarlet Angel all around him, everyone seemed to talk about his rival, especially in his presence. It was supposed to be the deadliest assassin of the Institution besides him. One gray day he was called into the Handlers office. That was when he saw her for the first time. A tall woman was seated on a chair, her beautiful face turned towards him as he entered the room. Five had never been one to find in someone's physical beauty but at the moment their eyes met he could swear that his heart skipped a beat.

Their first assignment together had been such a success, that they were stuck together permanently. Throughout the following years, Five found himself falling for her harder every day, with every word she said, with every laugh she caused from him, the way she always had his back and defended him whether she agreed with his actions or not. Their fights were the best thing that ever happened to him, she always found ways to leave him speechless, with her smart comebacks, the way she was animated when she got angry, her hands flew around her, her face got angry red and her hair bounced with her movements. He had never seen someone look so exquisite when they were yelling at him. She made him feel alive, adrenaline coursed in his veins. She always got the better of him. She was so… infuriating. On one of those occasions he finally had enough.

He grabbed her face and smashed their lips together to silence her. She was breathless when he distanced himself from her. Her eyes were wild and her hand flew to his cheeks, slapping him. Before leaving him frozen on his spot. They were supposed to be undercover as a married couple at the gala of their target. They had been discussing tactics and strategies when things escalated.

With a deep breath, he tried to calm himself down and headed back towards the ballroom, searching for his supposed wife. They stayed together all night, dancing and acting like a couple. It seemed natural to him to be this way with her. Having her in his arms, and showing her off. Finally a few minutes shy of dawn, they tiptoed towards a huge room where their target hid diamonds. Diamonds they were going to steal after killing him, so the crime would seem like a robbery gone wrong. Just at the last corner, they were almost caught. Five quickly hoisted her up before he pinned her to a wall and he placed his face on her neck. Her skin flashed and her heartbeat was rapid beneath his mouth.

“Play along.” He whispered sweetly to her skin but she was shocked by his actions. So he had no choice. He sucked at her pulse point receiving an immediate reaction. Her legs drew back on his hold, her back arched, her eyes closed and her lips released a quiet breathy moan. At that moment he knew he was already addicted to her. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. He bit and sucked on her neck and her hands tangled into his hair as she tugged at the short strands on the back of his head. She was moaning in his arms and her hips rolled against his. He raised his knee and she started riding his leg shamelessly. He wanted to be inside of her or he was going to burst. He wanted to shut her smart mouth so it would no longer fire comebacks at him. He unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants before pushing her underwear to the side and he waited for a confirmation to continue. She could ask him to kneel, to beg and he would gladly do so. Just to steal one moment with her.

A loud bang echoed through the walls and they snapped out of their daze. But the damage had already been done. Their partnership had been blown to proposition forever. And the rest was history.

Several years later, and many happy years together after being married in secret. It happened, their big bang, the thing that embodied the doom of their relationship. Five had always been a pessimist, even in his early childhood. He was a firm believer in Murphy's law, which stated that when something could go wrong in a situation, always expect it to go wrong. They had traveled in Germany during the Second World War. Five posed as one of the ranking officers in Auschwitz as his wife was expected to do the same. Only, she had been compromised and now she was one of the prisoners. The terrible labor that she endured every day was the thing that would plague him for years to come. After completing their mission and several wounds later they managed to get back to the safety of their home.

“Why didn't you listen to me?” Five snap in frustration and terror. His hands shook as he tried to stitch a big guss on her stomach. She looked paper thin, her bones were visible and her veins along with her arteries stood prominent against her pale skin that lost its color.

“I did. I disagreed with your plan either way. And we had to do something drastic. I took a risk and I lost. It happens.”

“And did it have to happen in one of the most terrifying places that ever existed on this Earth?”

“Snap out of it. You would have done the same. And always where we are atrocious things have happened. So you don't get to lecture me. I am my own person. I made a call and it happened to be wrong. But if I hadn't done that we would have eventually failed this mission. And you don't get to lecture me when you have done nothing but be untruthful to me since the moment this started.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?” Five whispered, his voice quivered with unshown emotions. He could see the inevitable impact between them before his eyes, he had just hoped he could have a few more moments with her. A few more minutes, a few more hours, days, or years. Anything really.

Her eyes were hard and full of hatred. She pulled herself to her feet. The pain that consumed her must have been blinding. The open wounds leaked with blood that stained her skin. She moved towards her coat where she retrieved a dark green notebook and she slammed it against their kitchen table, before placing her hands on her hips and firing a challenging look towards him.

“You know I want to get back to my family, sweetheart.”

“Don't sweetheart me. These equations are only for one person. So is there something you want to tell me, dear husband of mine?”

“Please let me explain…”

“Explain what? That this meant nothing to you? You are an egoistic son of a bitch Five. And I am done with you. And you know why? You made the mistake of placing a date when you started. Our wedding date. You have already shown your true colors. You can leave now. And you can take this, I don't need it any longer. Either way, it was fake and it meant nothing to you.” She said before throwing her wedding ring at him. It thudded against his chest and he caught it mid-air, as he watched her walking away from him and slamming the door of their bedroom in her way. He stood frozen in his place. It was done. The one thing that made him feel alive, the one thing that made him happy left him. He lost it under his own hands. The same night, he left a letter behind him before he traveled back in time, back to his family. To them, he seemed a shy seven years older than when he disappeared. But they didn't know about the two things he carried with him from his last life. Her picture in the breast pocket of his smart jacket and her wedding ring on his collarbones as it hung from a golden chain, both hidden from the world.

“Five. That is just … I don't know what to say.”

“Then don't. It is already hard to think about her.”

“How long has it been since -”

“Six years, eight months and twenty days. My early attempts to get back to you weren't really successful.” He whispered as he toying with her ring. It was gold and smooth to touch, his name had been engraved on the inside. It had been a blast to convince the person who made them that his name was actually Five. And he smiled at the fond memory.

“Will you ever see her again?”

“I don't know. The selfish part of me wishes that, but another part of me knows that it is better this way. Because she is free and safe from me. Klaus, if you don't mind … no more talk please.”

Klaus looked at the pained expression on his brother's face. He had never heard him utter the world “please”, at least not to him. So he simply nodded and stayed with him in silence before their peace was disturbed by their reality.

words: 1.781

[theresascove]

guitar lessons

ellie williams x f!reader

ellie—your guitar instructor—shows you how to play guitar, and you show her your own personal talents in the practice room

tw: not proofread, SMUT, modern!au, guitar instructor!Ellie, top!reader, bottom!ellie, fingering (e!receiving), oral (e!receiving), loser!Ellie, sort of exhibition? (Sex in a practice room), hand over Ellie’s mouth to quiet her, overstim

wc ✎ 1.1k __ I wrote this to give more content to bottom!Ellie, I personally believe there’s WAY too little

You’ve been attending her lessons for some time now. You had scanned the QR code offered to you and put your information in. About a week later you got an email back and here you are now—a month and half in. The institute was about a fifteen minutes drive, the building being one smooshed between other smaller companies.

First applying for these lessons, you had no expectations—but each time you’ve opened that front door you have to shake off your nerves. The first time you came through this door and saw her, your instructor, you had to do a double take. She looked about your age, hair short and hanging around her shoulders. Her guitar was set beside her, one you recognize from a popular and reputable brand. She was on her phone, looking up at you when you signaled your arrival by opening the door. She shook your hand, introducing herself before taking the both of you back to the practice room in the back.

You barely knew chords then, only knowing the basic G and C major. She’s taught you a lot, and now you’ve begun to play a few songs, understand a few more chords, and you can even pluck a few songs. Sure you’ve learned a bit, but at the same time there were lessons where you didn’t pay any attention. It was the ones when she’d lean close, her fingers covering yours—showing you how to press tighter onto the guitar so it doesn’t buzz. She always had to show you a few times because the first time you never “got it.”

Now you grab the guitar from your car, moving into the building with the same old deep breath, preparing for whatever’s to be shown. She was in the back practice room, eyes raising to yours as you open the door.

“Hey,” she leans to set her phone down on the ground, “you practice at all this week?”

“Uh,” you laugh, sitting across from her.

“Shit yeah of course, you didn’t.”

You bring your guitar out of its case, setting it your lap, “I’ve had a lot going on, I promise I will this next week.”

She sets her pick in between her lips, humming and reaching behind her for her own guitar. As she pulls it out again, you watch each movement—eyes locked on her lips.

“I don’t believe you, but anyways.”

The lesson kicks off. She tries to pick off where you two left off, but it proves difficult with no practice. It started out with re-going over the song before she tried working on the parts you were messing up on.She’s showing a newer chord, one that has your own fingers struggling to grasp—slipping between the bars. She had moved her guitar beside her yet again, her eyes watching you try and get this and fail miserably each time.

“How’re you getting it?”

She rolls her eyes, “skill.”

With a huff she leans in again, closing the distance between you two. Her callused fingers brushing yours and pressing them, moving them where’s needed. Your pupils pretty much dilate, breathing turning sharp. She’s so close, you can count each freckle on her face and describe her eye color exactly.

“Did you grasp any of what I just said?”

Her voice’s so low, raspy—it drives you up the wall. Holy fuck you wanted to push her against the wall. Her voice, fingers, lips, eyes, body. Maybe you were too overly obvious about your attraction to her physically because she reacts. Her eyes widen just subtly, body stilling at the look coming upon your face. She looks a little taken aback, but she doesn’t move away.

You slide your fingers on top of hers, “can I kiss you?”

As she comes to nod, you’re sliding your guitar off your lap and pulling her in. A hand on her jaw, angling her to start the kiss off deep. You reconnect your lips again, not caring to try and really breathe because all you want to do is breathe her in. You’re desperate.

The angle is awkward, reaching—so you ease it on the both of you. She ends up pushed against the wall just as you’ve imagined so many times. Her hands grappling to hold onto the sponge-like walls, gasping between each kiss. Each sound escaping her drives your mind into a lust-hazed frame of mind.

“Is this okay,” you huff, “will you tell me if I go too far?”

“Yes.”

You pull at her sweats, kissing along her jaw as you drag them down and off somewhere. Right after you’re hiking her leg up, drawing it to rest on your hip to spread her further. Her eyes open to find yours and her focus is gone, she’s already under the effect of your touch. She shivers as you draw your hand down, breathing heavily when you reach her cunt.

“You’re intoxicating—shit.”

With a tug you pull her underwear to the side, rubbing before thrusting a finger in. She moans, head hitting the wall behind her—eyes still looking at you. There’s barely anytime set between when you first insert your first between moving to three. You have her moaning to a concerning volume. With your free hand you cover your mouth, feeling her hot breaths against it.

“Shh, can’t have others knowing.”

She’s whining behind your hand, hips jerking when you hit a spot that throws her over the edge. Everything is exactly how you’ve been imagining, quick flashes of how you’ve wanted to take her whenever she got close to you. She shakes when she reaches her high, covering your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, unsympathetically. She looks confused until she sees you lower yourself to your knees and kiss her inner thigh. She singsongs when you kiss her overstimulated clit. Your name falls from her lips as you do so, almost a hiss before she covers her own mouth to try and keep quiet. Just beside you are piano sounds and singing, most likely a kid learning his scales and warming up for his vocal lesson. Here you have Ellie in another kind of vocal lesson, voice coming out pitchy and whiny.

“I’m going to—again.”

You hum against her, grinning at her tone and licking her completely to see the reaction she has. Each thing she does really is intoxicating, it fills your own mind with nonsense—nothing but her. Her tattoo’d arm is gripping you, the other set upon her face. Her eyes are shut, squinted and trying to calm herself. The second after she comes again, you’re licking her clean—savoring each moment.

“You’re nasty,” she huffs.

You stand, meeting her in a passionate kiss, “maybe, but you enjoyed it.”

“Maybe.”

[vaspider]

An important definition of terms:

As far as I'm concerned, an assimilationist is someone who believes that queer people must assimilate in order to advance the cause of queer rights. An assimilationist creates a dress code for marches like the Mattachine Society did, fights against queer self-expression at Pride because "it holds back the movement," and believes that the only way for us to move forward is for all queers to live as cishet people do, but with little rainbow flags taped on.

An assimilationist is not "someone who wants the functions and institutions of cishet society to be available to queer people." It's someone who believes the only way to live is assimilated into cishet society, and anything else "holds us back." It's someone who wants Sylvia and Marsha to march at the back, and who prizes cishet aesthetic over practical liberation.

A liberationist is someone who believes that queer liberation is not contingent upon public performance of identity.

Let me repeat that, so we're absolutely clear: a liberationist believes that queer liberation is not contingent upon public performance of identity. ANY IDENTITY.

That means a sufficiently cishet identity and a sufficiently "respectable" identity, but it also means a sufficiently radical identity. If you actually believe in queer liberation, you don't just believe in liberation for people who look, act, and believe like you. You believe in liberation for people who genuinely want to get married, have babies by IVF and live in the suburbs as well as for people who want to live childfree on an anarchist trans commune/Llama farm.

I hear people use the term "Assimilationist" and "Assimilationist Victories" to dismiss as meaningless those victories that are insufficiently radical for their tastes, and that to me is only proof that those people are not actually liberationists in any meaningful way. In liberation, there must be room for people who actually do just want to get married and live quiet, content lives going to their kid's baseball games.

The difference between Assimilationist thought and Liberationist thought cannot be simply replacing "we need to blend in" with "we need to stick out." It cannot simply replace "we must be integrated into cishet society" with "we cannot ever integrate into cishet society and anything which permits us to do that if we so choose is insufficiently liberationist." That's the organizational equivalent of yelling YOU'RE NOT MY REAL DAD, and I'm fucking over it, y'all.

My liberation doesn't have to be your liberation. Your liberation doesn't have to look like mine. What matters is that we are helping each other up the mountain and making long-term plans to get to where we can, and that we recognize that every choice we make is going to leave someone behind, and we account for that and plan for that so we don't leave them behind forever.

We cannot regard gay marriage or gays in the military or instituting a nationwide right to transition or any of our future goals as an endpoint. They are only goals part of the way up the mountain.

We don't get to the top until we are all free to live as we choose without government or societal interference or sanction, and without having to perform an identity for those rights and respect. The freedom to be ourselves must include the right to "blue hair and pronouns" but it also must include the right to "your kid's school plays and a duplex in a suburb." The latter is not an assimilationist lifestyle unless you try to enforce it on everyone.

I'm so, so tired of people acting like they're radical thinkers for poo-pooing the civil rights advances that the community has achieved through literally decades of work as "assimilationist victories." That's not clever, cute, or correct. Every. Single. One. Of those victories is written in tears and sweat and blood. Every single one is wrapped in the funeral shrouds of people who died fighting for it. Every single one was achieved not by assimilationists alone, but neither by people who think the only true victories are the ones sufficiently pure in their leftist credentials.

It is extremely possible and indeed likely that if you judge queers by their aesthetic, you will miss partnering with some of the most radical people and shackle your movement to people who cloak regressive politics in radical language. I've heard some truly noxious words come out of mouths framed by snakebites, and I've known extremely radical thinkers who look like your grandma. And I gotta tell you, in those local elections which keep school boards free from Moms For Liberty? The latter are useful people for liberationists to know and have in our camp, those people who think like liberationists but look like your grandma or your auntie.

Enforcement of aesthetic as a condition of liberation is assimilationist thought. It doesn't matter if the assimilation is to pink hair and tattoos or polo shirts and khakis - enforcement of aesthetic and philosophy as a condition of liberation is assimilationist thought. It's just replacing one kind of demanded conformity with another, and when we say "none of us are free until all of us are free," that also means free to be fucking boring if we want to, full stop.

We talk a lot about how much work goes into being disabled, how much work we have to put into making appointments, and fighting bureaucracy, but this is also true of queer life. Freedom comes with ease, with being easily able to update paperwork, with being easily able to find employment and housing, with being easily able to create the family structures we want to live in. When all of us can wake up in the morning assured of security in our beds, food in our bellies, meds in our med trays as needed, and a day ahead of us filled with chosen purpose and chosen meaning, which ends with us back in the bed of our choice at the end of the day, fulfilled in purpose and secure in our homes and chosen families, then we are free, and not before.

You may notice a seeming contradiction in this, in that my liberationist philosophy has room in it for the very people who are currently annoying the fuck out of me by demanding allegiance to a leftist aesthetic over practical liberation (that is, a movement based in harm reduction and long-term strategy over adherence to leftist purity of thought).

This is not a contradiction.

It is not a bug. It is a feature. My liberationist ideals mean that people have to have the right to be wrong without their liberty hinging on being right, that's all. :)

[ghostwritermia]

Mia love, i came over from Mothers post and your call for Jegulus.

I have this DESPERATE need to bite Jamies hipbone. I have to excuses, but i realllllllly wanna 😭

So, what about Reader and Reggie who just bite Jamie all the time at random amd while James has just bevome accustom to it, Siri would be so HORRIFIED and try to progect sweet Jamie everytime and it kind of just becomes a game to Reggie and Reader: Operation Bite Beefy Boyfriend!! Alternatively how many times can we bite James before Siri has a meltdown.

I hope you get all your Jegulus wants!! 🫶

sorry if this sucks and that its so short, I tried 😭

It had started as a joke really, between you and Regulus. A game to see how long James could go without saying something about it. But he never did.

You and Regulus, both sorted into separate houses, had found your way to each other in 5th Year, and then during summer break between 6th and 7th Year, the two of you had fallen in love with the sweet sunshine that was James Potter, though you two would never admit that you fell first.

You had been neighbors with James for as long as you could remember, but had never actually visited his house until Regulus took up refuge there, therefore, you spent more time there. Hence, the blossoming of feelings and the addition to your relationship.

You were laying on the couch in the Gryffindor Common Room, your head in James’s lap, while Regulus sat in an armchair next to James’s seat on said couch. Absent-mindedly, James moved his hand to stroke through your hair when he then felt the gentle nip of teeth sinking into his forearm, stopping his movement.

Where James had gotten used to the game you and Regulus had started, some had not. Example being, Sirius screeching from his place in Remus’s lap on the opposite side of the room.

“Get your teeth out of my precious Prongs you demonic piranha!” he leaped from his place in Remus’s lap and strided over to you two and rolled you out of James’s lap and onto the floor with a thud.

Hearing the sudden commotion, Regulus’s head perked up from his book and looked to see you on the floor, simply laying there on your back, staring at the ceiling.

He sighed, placing his book down before sliding out of his armchair to reach a hand out to you. “Are you alright, Mon Amour?” he asked as he pulled you up. 

“I’m fine. Your brother, however, needs to be in a mental institution.” You hiss, rubbing the back of your head.

“Trust me, I know, Amour.” he sighed, and you two looked over to see Sirius curled into James’s body gently stroking from the top of his head down his face to his chin.

You, Remus, and Regulus let out a collective scoff before Remus makes his way back up to his dorm, and you and Regulus grab your things before leaving James and Sirius to be.

~~~~~~

It was lunch and today you and Regulus had decided to sit at the Gryffindor table with James. You sat on the right side of James whereas Regulus sat to the left. However, Sirius saw something before you did. Regulus biting into James’s shoulder. 

“Prongsie is not your chew toy, Regulus Black!” You hear Sirius squawk. You look past James’s chest and see Regulus simply lift his eyes from James’s shoulder to roll them at Sirius before looking over to you smirking, yet to remove his teeth from James’s shoulder.

"Well that would make sense, seeing as how you're the dog in the family." You retort, laying your head on James's shoulder.

James looks to each of you, smiling before affectionately leaving a kiss to each of your foreheads, much to Sirius Black’s protests.

[tiredandoptimistic]

Genuinely one of my favorite details in MASH is how every character manages to display their unique identity through clothes, despite the uniform. They've all got a couple personal garments of civilian clothing mixed in with their preferred ways of modifying their fatigues, and that's so cool.

Hawkeye wears his undershirt untucked and his overshirt unbuttoned, plus he removed his epaulettes (Trapper is more or less the same). Radar has his overshirt unbuttoned but still tucks in his undershirt, and he wears that iconic hat that's definitely not standard regulation. Henry has his fishing gear or college sweater, and only pulls out the proper uniform shirt and hat if big brass are coming to camp. Frank and Charles both button and tuck in their shirts, but Frank usually wears his hat while Charles does not. Potter buttons his shirt, but never tucks it in. Margaret starts out dressing pretty uniform standard, but by the later seasons she usually replaces her shirt with a sweater or sweatshirt of some kind. Klinger, of course, has a variety of iconic fits.

BJ is definitely the most dramatic example, and it feels very intentional that by the later seasons the only part of his uniform he wears are the pants. He's got his iconic pink henley, plus an army shirt he made into a vest or a pair of red suspenders. He never even wears combat boots, it's converse all the way for him! To top it all off, he's got overlong hair and a goofy mustache; that man is showing disrespect for army regulations in every aspect of his physical appearance. It's very similar to Klinger, in my opinion; except BJ skipped right past the veneer of trying to prove he's crazy to "this is what I want to wear and I won't let this fuckass institution police how I'll present myself"

There's just so much character in how all of them choose to express themselves, despite living in a situation intent on stripping them of their individual humanity! I could do individual character analysis for all of their outfits, even though they're supposedly wearing the same thing.

[inkdrinkerworld]

can you do a logan imagine where we’re waking up for the morning and it’s raining and it’s fluffy or smth??

I think this is a little ooc but I like it

Waking up to the rain is a feeling that is unmatchable by many others.

The slight chill, the sound of the raindrops falling against the roof and windows, the grey clouds that reinforce your love for a simple day in.

Top it with your boyfriend holding you right up against him and there’s little else you could ask for.

“Morning Lo,” you whisper, stretching and relishing in the way that your limbs crack.

“Morning,” Logan stamps a kiss to your cheek and then hides his face behind your curtain of hair. “Don’t even think about it.” He gruffs when he feels you moving and you giggle.

“Just wanna look at you, wolf boy, m’not leaving.”

You feel his teeth sink into your shoulder lightly and know that’s your punishment for the wolf comment.

“What do you wanna do today, bub?” He asks, his hands crawling up the back of your sleep shirt that he’s sure is his sweater from the institute a couple years back.

They trace an invisible track up and down your spine and you find it a little hard to keep your eyes open- it’s soothing the way he does it so slowly and with just the perfect amount of pressure.

“Lay in bed? Watch movies? I have a feeling the rain is gonna last all day.” Your hands comb through his hair as you speak, fingers twisting around the fluffy strands.

“Good,” he mumbles, voice sounding even more tired than before and you can tell he’s falling back to sleep- honestly so are you. “Two more hours and then breakfast.”

[nanaarchy]

Hey chat !!!! I'm going insane.

Ever since my first listen to TMA, I've had a huge question that NEVER got answered.

Never. Not in the whole series, not Q&As or the wiki or anything. I thought I would never find answers. I thought it would be forgotten. I thought it was a small insignificant detail and I'd have to live with never knowing the truth about it.

Now with TMAGP 19, I might finally know the answer.

Maybe. Maybe maybe. But It Could Be. And now I'm losing my mind at the implications.

((For the record, I know that the stories and worldbuilding are inherently separate - hell, there are even timeline differences in the cases I'm using as evidence. But the overlap might be important, especially when it comes to the Web.))

Spoilers for both shows below!

Its branches were exquisite, and delicate, swaying slightly from small eddies in the liquid, and they shone with every spectra. I must confess that to look upon it, one was – (sigh) filled with profound wonder at its exquisite elegance. [...] Even I, steeped in worldly matters as I am, recognized The Lord’s words to Adam, and was much dismayed at the implication. Isaac then plucked the delicate fruit with ungloved hands and held it before me. [...] The creature was taking root. Strands of its mottled brown hair were extruding downwards between the floor, seeking the dark earth below. Then, too, its back began to sprout, radiant branches unfurling and thickening before me, reaching upwards towards the sunlight with a seemingly insatiable desire. [...] I tell you here, Robert, it saw me, and it knew me. (TMAGP 19 - HARD RESET)

It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole. Graham noticed me staring, and told me that interesting antique furniture was one of his few true passions. Apparently he’d found the table in a second-hand shop during his student days and fallen in love with it. It had been in pretty bad shape but he’d spent a long time and a lot of money restoring it, though he’d never been able to figure out what was supposed to go in the centre. He assumed it was a separate piece and couldn’t track it down. (MAG 3 - ACROSS THE STREET)

Re: Magnus Institute Ruins. By RedCanary on Saturday April 23 2022 12:17pm. The photos from the spelunk seem properly gone, but I did find an old wooden thing with a bunch of similar symbols on. Some kinda empty box, not really sure what for, though. Gonna see if I can get the light right for a decent pic. Edit: No dice, I’m afraid. Must be something up with my phone camera. Really not helping the whole paranoia thing either. Anyone know anything about photographic distortion? Gonna see if I can borrow my dad’s SLR tomorrow. (TMAGP 1 - FIRST SHIFT)

Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. (MAG 78 - DISTANT COUSIN)

Now... Now I get it. I get it. I finally gave an answer. Or, at least, I think we'll get a concrete answer soon. But I think I get it.

I think I get where the web table comes from. I think I know what it's made of. why it glows. why it had a hole in the middle. I think I might know how the web gained control and sentience so much faster than the other fears. and, if it still manifests in the same way in the Protocol universe, how it also quickly became "the manager" of other fears, as theories suggest.

More importantly, I think I know what was up with the mysterious tree from so, so long ago.

Now I have an answer.

Why was there an apple buried in Hill Top Road?

I opened the box and sitting inside was a single green apple. It looked fresh, shiny, with a coat of condensation like it had just been picked on a cool spring morning. I picked it up. I wasn’t going to eat it, I’m not that stupid, but more than bleeding trees or phantom burning, this confused me. As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crowbar, and threw the remains into a skip. (MAG 8 - BURNED OUT)

And now I have an answer. Maybe.

[mdilip948]

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[superbhandarihospital]

[aphrogeneias]

𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 — 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: during a quiet afternoon, you and eddie discuss (hypothetical) wedding songs.

author's note: it feels right to repost this the day before valentine's. i hope you all have, or someday find, a love that makes you feel the same way i do when i listen to the song referenced in this story <3

"Have you ever thought about what song you're gonna want to play at your wedding?"

You were both sitting at the old brown couch of the Munson's front porch, the afternoon breeze blowing through the unusually quiet Trailer Park. There were no dogs barking, no kids running, no yelling coming from a neighbor's trailer. Only the sun, the late autumn chill, and the gentle breeze.

Eddie was lying down, his head on top of your crossed legs as you played with his hair. Your question caught him off-guard, looking up at you with raised eyebrows.

"You mean at our wedding?"

He could tell you were flustered by the way you hesitated to answer, brows furrowing, trying to disguise it. The urge to lift himself up and give you a smacking kiss on the forehead was temporarily buried inside, waiting to hear what you had to say. "I don't know. Like, a hypothetical wedding. With a hypothetical bride."

His answer was earnest, though.

"The only bride that's ever come to mind is you, babe."

"Just answer the damn question!" You exclaimed, rising both of your hands in the air.

"I just told you I don't know! I've never thought about getting hitched, never mind what song I'd want to play at the ceremony."

This bit was earnest as well. Eddie had never, in his twenty years, thought about getting married. His parents' disaster of a relationship made sure that he'd never seen marriage as something healthy, let alone an option. There were also his beliefs that marriage was a failed institution made to subjugate people, and that the church and the state shouldn't have a say in people's relationships.

Eddie thought he'd be like Wayne and live his life without a partner, just go through with it by himself. It was much less complicated, even if lonely.

He was seldom lonely now, with you in his life — and though you were way too early in your relationship, or too young and inexperienced, to think about marriage, if he was to think about it, it would be with you. Every one of his other thoughts ran to you, this one would be no different.

"Not the ceremony. A first dance kind of song, you know?"

He considered a few options for a moment, in silence, but he was still curious to know what you were thinking. "If you're asking me that question, that means that you already know yours, don't you?"

"You don't know that. I'm just asking." You shrugged, lowering your voice, suddenly vulnerable. "Forget what I said."

"Sweetheart…" Eddie laid fully on his back, looking up at you. "Tell me what's the song."

Narrowing your eyes at him from above, you grabbed his chin, squishing his lips for a second. "You're gonna laugh at me."

"When have I ever…" Remembering all the times, in the early days of your blossoming friendship, where he followed you around the record store with the sole purpose of laughing at your music choices, he stopped, scoffing at himself. "Don't answer that."

Gently, you pushed him off of you and stood up, silently going into the house.

"Just tell me! Now I want to know." Eddie protested as he followed you inside.

He watched as you went into his room, bent down at the waist — and what a view that was, he thought to himself, not trusting to make a lewd comment to distract you from the moment — and quickly looked through his records, finally pulling one from the crate.

Trying to think of what it could be, because he had no idea what song in his large collection of tapes and long plays could possibly be enough of your taste to be played at your (hypothetical) wedding. When he saw it, though, it clicked.

It was a copy of The Beatles' "Revolver". His only copy of an album by your favorite band. You had gifted it to him after he told you he found the experimentation, and all the drug references, in it "badass". He really did, and he was happy to own it as long as it made you happy.

Still silent, you put it in the record player above his dresser, and selected a track without looking at the listing in the back cover, most likely commiting each one of them to memory. His heart swelled as he watched you turn around, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, struggling to meet his eyes as the song started.

"To lead a better life

I need my love to be here…"

Paul McCartney's voice and the two-voice harmony that accompanied him was the only thing that could be heard in his bedroom for a moment, until you started explaining yourself.

"When I was younger, sometimes… Actually, I still do that…" you started, "I listen to this song when I'm alone, and I feel like swaying to it. Like I'm slow dancing with someone, you know? Two steps to the left, two steps to the right." You did a little dancing motion, lightening up the mood. "It's the perfect song to dance to, but I'd never had a partner to dance with me. So I'd dream about it, about the day I'd have someone who'd love me enough to dance with me."

Your sad smile broke his heart, but what put it together was knowing he could be the one to dance with you.

"It's such a simple song, really. Just a guitar and the vocal harmonies, but it's… it's beautiful. Makes me feel like I'm floating, or something." You continued.

Eddie approached you, then, pulling you forward by both of your hands and making you stand flush to his chest, where he held you by the waist with one arm, the other raising to hold the hand that wasn't resting on his shoulder.

"I'm not much of a dancer, but I'll dance to any song you want to."

It was a murmur, a promise whispered by his lips touching your hairline. You chuckled, your head resting on his collarbone, and began swaying the two of you just as you said before. Two steps to the left, two to the right.

Eddie added his own flair, spinning you around, and it was worth it just to see the you giggled. The song wasn't long, a little over two minutes long, but it was long enough to trap you in your little world, your hypothetical wedding dance, in his very real, very messy bedroom.

"So… is that our wedding song?" He teased, still holding you, after it was over.

You slapped his arm lightly, but he could feel you smiling against the soft fabric of his t-shirt. "It could be."

"I like it, baby."

Then, you look up, wrapping your arms around his lean waist. "Really?"

"I like whatever makes you feel like you're floating."

"Do you wanna know what else makes me feel like that?"

"Weed?"

"You."

At that moment, Eddie still knew he didn't want the church or the state to be involved in your relationship, but he wouldn't mind throwing a party just to make the most beautiful girl in the world float around the room for one night.

[ratbastarddotfuck]

it doesn't erase our specific experiences to acknowledge there's nothing we face that trans femmes don't also, plus they have to deal with misogyny on top of that. acknowledging that men are privileged over women under patriarchy doesn't erase specific people's experiences, that's not how axes of oppression work.

there's nothing that we experience that trans femmes don't? are you shitting me right now? have you memory holed Abigail Shrier's irreversible damage and the entire wave of terfism that came with it, reproductive healthcare access, rape statistics? does the name Brandon Teena mean nothing to you? I'm not trying to give an exhaustive list, people have been detailing these things for a long time. I'm not going to sit here and list out every possible thing I can think of. you can find that all if you want it. I believe @genderkoolaid is keeping an archive of transmasc-targeted violence.

if you believe that there are transfem specific experiences with transphobia, why can you not also believe there are transmasc specific experiences?

seperately, to address the other point:

trans men also have to deal with misogyny. many of us are still treated as incorrect women. i still have noticeable g cup tits, which people are happy to point out in an attempt to trigger my dysphoria or discredit my masculinity. I was forced to wax all of my body & facial hair monthly, while my stepmother and her beautician friend sat in the room and laughed at how ugly and mannish my pubescent body was from age 12 until I moved out of my family home at 17. do you think these kinds of traumatic experiences with misogyny just stop existing once one decides to transition? trans men and mascs experience extreme misogyny, daily. you're being obtuse if you think we don't.

men are priveliged over women in a vacuum, yes. do you think that no man can ever be "as" oppressed or "more" oppressed than a woman? what institutional power do trans men have as a group? I'm trans long long before I am a man, and even if I'm ever viewed as a man by the cis, I'm still seen as a faggot and thus as incorrect by the cisheteropatriarchy. do you think there are no experiences worth talking about, there? do you think trans men can't have a unique perspective? why do we need to defer? why can't we be on equal footing and just talk?????

[samwise1548]

Archivist moment

------

[ID: A Magnus Archives comic drawing set in season one, in the Institute Archives. Jonathan Sims is a short brown man with short dark hair with grey streaks and square glasses.

In the first panel, he walks brusquely forward, head down looking at some files in his hands.

In the second panel he bumps into something with an "Oof!" Papers fly out of his hands.

In the third panel, Jon rubs the back of his neck and stutters "O-oh sorry." with a sheepish smile. Drops of sweat radiate around his head.

The next panel shows the silent tree that he had accidentally bumped into.

In the fifth panel, Jon stares at the tree out of panel, with a neutral expression, realizing that he's apologizing to an inanimate object.

In the final panel, Timothy Stoker and Sasha James are laughing at their awkward boss. Tim is a Puerto Rican man with white skin, brown hair bleached at the bangs, and a blue Hawaiian shirt. Sasha James is a black woman with dreadlocks that fade from dark brown to golden. She's wearing yellow tinted glasses, a brown skirt, and an orange top. They're both seated at Tim's desk. Tim let's out a loud "Bahaha!" laugh, while Sasha tries to muffle hers. Jon, to the right with the plant, looks back at them scornfully. The remaining papers crinkle in his hands. The plant stays silent, but feels the embarrassment radiating off the Head Archivist. \End ID.]