#brit is stronger

[opera-ghost]

if you listen with headphones it feels like the phantom and christine are circling around you in the boat on the lake

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: Memory of a Gauntlet (1.3, LWT, 1972)

"I understand this must be a little embarrassing for you, Mr. Bruchner."

"It doesn't embarrass me in the least, I assure you. All this happened over thirty years ago. I, like so many others, was a young and stupid man; I did a lot of immature and stupid things, like becoming an SS trooper."

"Immature?"

"Yeah, of course. I dressed up like a soldier, I had shiny boots, I wore a pistol; I had an elegant uniform, money in my pocket, a little of authority. Plenty of pretty girls. Am I shocking you, Inspector?"

"Just a little, sir."

[shadowvalkyrie]

There are a lot of things about Taskmaster that feel very... culturally British. That mixture of extreme silliness with occasionally very dark humour for example.

Or the particular tone of affectionate bullying and the way it's (mostly) taken in good humour. (And expected to be taken in good humour, even when it hits a nerve. Something that caused quite a bit of bad blood between the Brits and the Germans in my former workplace, because we generally don't shrug off insults that easily.)

But I think one difference is sort of... simmering under the surface in ways that aren't immediately obvious to international audiences (and makes me wish I was still writing uni papers, because it would be a GOLDMINE), is how much of the humour is based on the British class system.

I mean, the basic premise of "tyrannical taskmaster makes people jump through arbitrary hoops for his favour and then belittles them for doing so" is already something only an audience with a slightly monarchical bend would accept unquestioningly. Add to that the way the Taskmaster/Assistant relationship is set up... Let's just say it fetishises a social dynamic that doesn't exist in quite the same way elsewhere.

Which I think may partially explain why so many people seem to be oblivious to the D/s undertones. -- Of course it's often kink-blindness on the part of non-kinky people, but I strongly suspect it's helped along by the cultural perception of what constitutes an acceptable power differential acting as a buffer to seeing anything off about it. The threshold for when it becomes weird is different.

Now, I think (and since I'm not British, do correct me if I have it wrong!) a key part of what makes the basic premise funny to British audiences (and differently from how it's funny to international ones) is the way cultural expectations of power vs submission are subverted.

Purely based on accent? Alex is the posh one. By miles. And Greg -- very pointedly! -- doesn't do the matching Fauxbridge that most viewers would probably expect from someone presented in a position of authority (or even just a "neutral" BBC accent). It seems bizarre from a foreign point of view, but I've found that this kind of discrepancy immediately and viscerally registers with Brits. (It's uncanny how little it takes, too -- ask your favourite non-TM-aware English person to just listen to the different ways they say "taskmaster" and they will extrapolate things you cannot even imagine.) Instead of just the regional connotation, there are always implications of class and social status to an accent that are absolutely baffling to the unaware.

Add the fact that Greg Davies is from Wales, and a lot of English people have a weird colonial superiority complex towards Welsh people to this day... It's enough to make all these obvious gestures of devoted subservience from Alex very unexpected and therefore funny.

(Also notice how it adds interesting layers to Katherine Ryan buying Greg a fake lordship title? And makes it funnier in a way she may not even have fully been aware of herself, being Canadian? It's delightfully irreverent and pokes fun at the whole system.)

My guess is that this is also why the studio audience's reaction to linguistics-based jokes is always so strong. Lets take the recurring bit about Alex correcting Greg's grammar. To an international audience, the main joke is that Alex is a nerd and cares too much about grammar, with maybe a side of him being a smartarse towards his boss in a potentially ill-advised way. But to a British audience, the level of audacious insubordination implied there? Much stronger. Wildly offensive thing to do. (And a level of arrogance that is extra hilarious coming from someone shown to be sleeping in a dog bed.)

The same mechanism also puts Alex's snide little asides towards contestants with regional or "urban" accents into perspective. Offensive dick move on his part? Oh yes, extremely. But the audience is very much not supposed to be on his side in this. He's being a bigoted little bully, and either the contestants get to humiliate him in retaliation (it's certainly not a coincidence that the Welsh and Irish contestants are generally the ones having the most fun putting him in his place) or Greg calls him out on it in the studio. In a society in which Alex's brand of micro-aggression is still incredibly commonplace and accent discrimination a widely accepted default, it's actually very cathartic to see it openly acknowledged and condemned.

I mean Tumblr obviously loves Alex, because he's cute and funny and we love the Greg/Alex D/s thing (I'm definitely guilty of this as well), but we have to remember that -- in the context of the show's premise -- his character is supposed to be pathetic and ridiculous, so when Greg does the "next to me a man who once told me while drunk that he thinks regional accents are inversely correlated to intelligence" intro thing, we're meant to see it as an asshole opinion that is actually unacceptable to hold and no one in their right mind would openly admit to. So Greg is humiliating Alex by (supposedly) exposing him as someone who would spout that kind of opinion. (Same as the jokes about Alex's misogyny. I see people criticise these jokes all the time, but I think that's because they refuse to understand how the underlying mechanism actually works and take them at face value as the real Alex's actual opinion, rather than something deliberately assigned to his in-show character to make a point about them being terrible.)

[artificial-transmutations]

Welcome to the Harem

"Are you quite alright, Sayyid?"

Liam woke up, startled. In front of him, blocking the sun stood a tanned young man with dark hair, looking down at him.

"Excuse me?" answered Liam, still not fully awake. His accent revealed his origins. He was British.

"I'm sorry, Sayyid. I have noticed you have fallen asleep in the sun, and I am worried you might burn your skin."

The other man was probably a few years younger than Liam, possibly in his early twenties. Unlike Liam, who was a tourist visiting this sun-kissed region of Hurghada, he seemed to be from around here: his skin was dark and his body lithe and strong. He had a slight Arabic accent, which added a certain exotic flavor to his words.

"Uh, I guess I dozed off a little."

It was hard to rip his gaze away from the young man in front of him, since he didn't even look half-bad, but Liam knew better than show any signs of homosexuality here. Even coming here, to a resort, as a tourist wasn't entirely without risk, but the British man had made a pact with himself not to let anything stop him from relaxing for the first time in years. And what better place could there be to escape the endless rain of the kingdom than the beautiful, sun-drenched beaches of the Red Sea.

"Ah, Sayyid, I fear that I have noticed too late. Apologies."

Liam was confused for a moment until he looked down on himself. And really: his exposed upper body had turned a bright shade of red.

"Bloody hell", he cursed, before smiling back at the native apologetically. "Sorry for that. You are right, I shouldn't have stayed out in the sun for so long."

His conversational partner seemed to look all over Liam before he smiled the same thin smile from before.

"Do not worry Sayyid, it happens a lot. The sun here is stronger than where you are from. If you want, I can offer some soothing lotion against the burn."

"Well, I'd appreciate that, thank you. What did you say your name was?"

"I am called Hassan." Hassan said. "Please allow me to apply the lotion."

Liam felt a bit uncomfortable, as the young man produced a glass bottle filled with a milky white substance and unscrewed the lid. He knew a bit or two of the Arabic language and knew that the name was rather fitting: Hassan meant 'handsome' in English, and Hassan was, indeed, rather good looking. Liam feared that it might be just a tad too exciting being touched by a handsome guy with lotion, but it was probably exceedingly rude to reject the offer.

"Sure, thanks a lot."

He just had to control himself a bit.

However, nothing prepared him for the feeling when Hassan carefully began rubbing the white substance onto his skin, with careful, almost tender touches. Liam felt the heat radiating off the young man's body while his fingers massaged the lotion onto his body, which, in contrast, felt cool and soothing, and he had to fight an erection forming. It didn't help at all that Hassan seemed to know exactly what he was doing, massaging his skin just the right way.

"There you go, Sayyid. You will feel much better soon."

Liam was fighting very hard but despite his efforts felt himself chubbing up in his tight speedo. Damn it. He should have worn something less revealing. Now he could only pray that Hassan wouldn't notice.

That hope was short lived. With skillful hands, he massaged the lotion into all visible skin, even right next to his tented speedo. While Hassan didn't acknowledge the show of indecency per se, he did take his time on the sensitive skin there, gently rubbing the lotion, and Liam knew exactly what the Arab was doing. He was teasing him, and it worked. The Brit was painfully hard and was glad when Hassan finally pulled away.

"There you go Sayyid. That should allow your skin to regenerate." he said, still with his thin smile. By now, Liam's head was at least as red as his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to directly look at Hassan.

"Ehm, thank you. That was very kind of you. What... kind of lotion is it exactly, by the way? It sure smells interesting."

The question was mainly to change the topic of the conversation to a safe territory, but Lian was also genuinely intrigued. Most suntan lotions he knew smelled fresh and flowery - or not at all. But this one... The smell was strong, and herbal, but with an interesting undertone. It smelled somewhat musky and manly, like a gym or a locker room. And there was something else, something familiar that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Ah, I'm glad you asked. It is a special recipe from my boss, Sheikh Tariq, himself. Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's... pretty intense."

"Sheikh Tariq's recipes are always very... powerful, you know. You shouldn't have any problem with your sunburn anymore, but if you want, I can check on you again tomorrow."

"Sure."

Lian felt a strange pull from the handsome Arab and couldn't bring himself to refuse.

"Very well, Sayyid. May I ask your name?"

"Eh, yes, sure. It's Lian."

"Liam, is it?"

"No, Lian, with a 'n'." This was hardly the first time people confused his name, so Lian was used to it by now. Something seemed wrong about that, though, even though he couldn't say what.

"Very well, Lian. I shall return tomorrow."

With a final nod, the young Arab walked away, and Liam watched his toned, muscular body moving before he lay back down. The lotion did feel nice, and he felt his muscles relax and his burning skin soothe. Still, to be extra sure, he moved to the shade before he dozed off again.

Lian was surprisingly hungry at the evening buffet this day and wolfed down plate after plate of local food, which was delicious. When he went to his hotel room afterwards, he just felt wonderful. He decided to take a shower before bed and was amazed to find the redness had disappeared completely, leaving his pale skin smooth and soft. Except... it wasn't quite as pale anymore. Instead, he had acquired a slight tan. It looked good on him, he decided, as it complemented his lean definition and sparse body hair nicely.

That night, Lian had strange dreams. He dreamt that he, somehow, was pale as a piece of paper, thin like a stick figure and, of course, completely smooth all over his body. That was of course nonsense, Lian laughed about himself when he woke up. He probably had some distant ancestors from a sunnier region of the world, since even in winter, his skin never really lost its tan, and was often compared to a surfer's.

It was a good day for sunbathing again, and, secretly, Lian wouldn't mind meeting Hassan again. He packed his towel, his sunglasses and his book, and went outside. However, it wasn't long until he had dozed off again, and when he was woken by Hassan again, it was already afternoon.

"Ah, good evening, Lian. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, yes, a lot. Thanks again for yesterday. You really saved my vacation."

"Don't worry, Sayyid, this is my job."

He looked at Lian with an appraising look but was apparently not too happy with what he saw.

"Would you like another application of the lotion, Sayyid?"

"Yes, thank you, Hassan. That would be lovely."

The Arab was just as good with the lotion as the day before, and as soon as his skillful hands touched Lian's body, his dick grew hard again. However, since it didn't really pose any problems yesterday, Lian didn't even try to hide it today. Besides, it was probably normal, right?

He half registered that the tent in his underwear was much larger than yesterday, but that was probably imagination.

"Do you know what ingredients the lotion contains, Hassan?"

"Yes, Lian. We use a special extract of the Aloe Vera plant, as well as essential oils of local herbs. And then, there are some secret ingredients that only Sheikh Tariq knows about."

"Damn, that Sheikh really knows what he is doing. Are you Bedouins?"

"Yes, in a way. However, we no longer live the traditional nomadic life. Instead, the Sheikh founded an island resort that is open to the most exclusive guests.

"So, he is kind of a businessman then?"

"Yes, that is a way of putting it."

"Wow, that sounds fascinating. I'd love to see that."

Hassan smiled his thin smile, as he carefully massaged the area around Lian's throbbing erection. It was almost like he was amused about a secret joke.

"I can ask him, if you want. Your name was Lian, right? And you come from...?"

"Layan", corrected Layan. "And I'm from the United Kingdom, although my dad immigrated from the UAE."

"So, a man of mixed race then. Very good. I'm sure that will please the Sheikh. If you excuse me, I'll have to make a phone call."

"Sure", Layan agreed. His own slight Arabic accent felt somewhat alien all of a sudden, but it was probably just because he noticed the way Hassan spoke. After all, Layan had it all his life now: Even though he was born and raised in the UK, they only spoke Arabic at home, since his father refused to learn English, even now.

The smell from the lotion was even stronger today than yesterday, and it mixed so well with his own body odor. Layan's tan skin was sweating a lot, like usual, and the small pelt of black body hair was always soaked with his manly smell. He liked it that way: If he didn't have to, he didn't use any deodorant at all. And now, the smell of the spices completed his own odor nicely.

It didn't help that his dick was so hard, and his balls ached. His speedo was obscenely tented and for a moment, Layan feared someone in the resort might find it offensive. Truth be told, the conservative atmosphere in the resort was one of the few reasons that held him back from rubbing one out right here and now, seeing as a wet patch of precum already stained the tip of the tent.

Before Layan could think more about that, however, Hassan came back.

"Good news!" he said, and it took Layan a bit to notice that he had switched to Arabic.

"The Sheikh would be delighted to have you in his resort. We can leave immediately, if you want to. It also might be a more private atmosphere on his island."

The last comment was obviously aimed at Layan's throbbing rod, but Layan surely wasn't one to be easily embarrassed by his own masculinity.

"I would love to come. Let me just grab my stuff." he replied in the language of his father and got off his deck chair. Hassan nodded and waited politely, while Layan hurried to his room to pack his stuff. However, once he had arrived in the privacy of his hotel room, he couldn't help but admire himself in the mirror: He was a fine specimen of man, really:

His skin was a beautiful golden color, his black hair was short and shiny, and his dark, stubbled face gave him an exotic and masculine air. Not to mention his defined chest, his ripped abs, his well-trained arms, and his powerful legs, all covered with a layer of soft, black hair. And in between those powerful legs hung the pride of Layan, a heavy, uncut Arab dick, surrounded by a bush of the same black pubes.

He just couldn't help it. Hassan would have to wait a few minutes longer, he decided, as he closed his fist around the erect shaft and started to pump. He really needed that! He hadn't shot his load since... this morning. No, he was a man, and he needed release every few hours! In a few minutes, his large dick was shooting a stream of cum all over the room, and he sighed happily. He would leave that to the room service to clean up, as he didn't want to delay Hassan any further.

However, once he left the room behind him, he suddenly realized what the smell of the lotion had reminded him of: Cum. Was that the secret ingredient? Well, it probably wasn't, but it was a nice and naughty thought, in any case.

Together with Hassan, he boarded a private yacht that set course to the Sheikh's island. He couldn't help but admire the young man's physique as he steered the boat and licked his lips involuntarily.

Finally, they arrived. The island resort was luxurious, even more than Layan had anticipated it to be: Palm trees lined the white sand beach, and several servants awaited the two guests, who were led to the main building. It was a modern, western style house, but with some traditional middle-eastern touches, like the intricate wooden window panes and the colorful tiling. What Layan noticed, though, was that everyone they met, the many servants and the very few guests, were men, in their prime. There were no children or elderly, and certainly no women. In short: Everyone was hot!

"Sheikh Tariq will be expecting you, Sayyid", Hassan told him, and led him into a private room.

"But before you meet him, let me apply the lotion one more time."

"I'd love that, thank you!", Layan said with a grin.

He was a bit surprised but didn't resist, when Hassan grabbed his speedo and pulled it down, exposing all of Layan's body to the handsome man. His cock was quickly getting hard again.

"I need to apply the lotion to your whole body, this time." Hassan explained and, without hesitation started to work, as the totally nude Layan stepped out of his speedo and widened his stance until he stood legs shoulder-width apart, in his typical power-stance.

This time, Layan was prepared for the wonderful feeling of Hassan's strong hands and his teasing ways and could fully enjoy the sensation. He smirked and let the other man do his work, enjoying the touches with closed eyes.

Due to these, he missed the fact that his body changed drastically under the repeated effect of the lotion: Even more hair sprouted, and his frame quickly packed on more muscles. He even grew a bit taller, still, now significantly bigger than Hassan in every way.

As Hassan massaged his hard cock, a soft moan escaped Layan's lips. The cum-like smell, mixed with his own body odor made him even more horny, and his dick grew even bigger in the skilled hands of Hassan, until it was positively massive, both in girth and length. His old, unimproved, British cock would have fit twice over into that monstrosity.

Layan didn't think much about it, though. In fact, as Hassan progressed, he thought less and less. His thoughts became even simpler and more and more focused on nothing than his body, and his need to *fuck*. Yeah, that was right. Layth was a pure-bred piece of Arab prime beef, created for nothing but one thing: Bringing pleasure to men, and fucking them senseless. His name meant "Lion", and, true to that name, he was nothing short of an animal in bed.

Only when Hassan withdrew his hands, Layth opened his eyes. The smaller man had an obvious erection in his pants, but nodded politely, while licking his lips.

"I'm sure the Sheikh will be pleased with his newest addition to his harem. I can't wait to play with you, once Sheik Tariq had his turn."

Just like that, a vacation can turn into a calling for life. I'm sure the Sheikh will be impressed! You can enjoy a few additional versions of our newest addition to the harem over at my tip jar.

[yzzart]

we need more tom and y/n interviews! and if you can and want, can you write an interview where they're answering fan questions? ❤️

"According to fan questions..."

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader.

summary: invited for another interview, you and Tom answer some questions that fans asked you.

word count: 1.095!

"Are we really cliché?" — Tom questioned, looking down, probably getting distracted by a fixed point, and then raised his eyes to you. "Hm, let me see…" — You crossed your legs, holding your elbow with one hand and the other rested on your chin, pretending to think of a promising answer and your boyfriend's laugh exclaimed in your ears. "Oh, yes, we are!" — Your voices rose together at the same time and more laughter settled in the decorated and comfortable room.

"Hi, i'm Tom Blyth." — Tom introduced himself, raising his eyebrows, in an inviting and dynamic way; quickly, turning his head with a shy smile in your direction for your introduction.

"And i'm Y/N!" — The brit's smile widened when your eyes met his.

"And we're here to answer some questions asked by you, the fans." — He explained, looking at the camera and, again, at you; it was, technically, impossible not to be excited about what was to come and even more so because of the suspense of the questions that would be presented.

The questions were about random topics, of course and obviously, you could expect anything. — From behind the scenes to your personal tastes, but, without going beyond the limit. — In fact, it would be fun.

During the editing of the video, frames and excerpts of the questions would probably be shown; making it more explained and organized. — For you and Tom, the people who were working behind the cameras said and repeated the questions.

The first was… — "What was the best thing about this movie?" — Referring to "The ballad of songbirds and snakes."

"The best thing about film was working with Y/N." — He responded quickly, making his british accent even stronger and moving his fingers; you laughed, feeling your cheeks burn a little.

"Ah, the best thing about this film was working with…" — You made sure to form a suspense, having fun with your boyfriend who tilted his head towards you, waiting for your enthusiastic answer. — "…Tom Blyth!"

Tom could no longer contain his bold and bright smile, even biting his lips, and poking your leg with his hand; passing your through the delicate and fascinating fabric of the clothes chosen for the interview. — You tried to pay attention and look for words to extend your answer.

"I guess i can also include how fantastic it was to work with Francis Lawrence…" — You continued. — "…and it's impossible, really, impossible to find words to describe how magnificent it was and acting in a Hunger Games movie was like a dream." — Tom listened with attention and passion, focusing on every word that came out of his mouth. — "The connection we had with the cast was something so precious, they are the best people in the world." — And it was the purest truth. — "Not to mention how intense it was to live in my character."

It was a dream, strongly, fulfilled and conquered for you; and a sentimental wave, of the purest emotion, weakens when seeing what, in fact, you has achieved and won around you. — How many incredible, sweet and important people have come into your life and will remain in it; and you had no words to explain how grateful you were.

Including having met Tom in your life. — God, you could say how grateful you were to have him for hours and hours, reaching the long duration of the video.

"Oh, yes." — Tom leaned on the back of the chair, settling in a little. — "I think playing Coriolanus was, like, really deep and steady because we're talking about a guy who has two faces and acting him being really good knowing that later he will turn into something evil." — He thought about his words. — "But, it was good working with him, on him and with the blonde wig...." — You laughed, together with the people behind the cameras.

The second question was… — "Were there many recording errors?"

"Oh yeah!" — Laughing and shaking your head in affirmation, you responded, ready to recall various behind-the-scenes moments and factors. — "There were so many that i can't name just one or two." — You said. — "But, one of my favorites, and i think they already posted it, was during the harvest scene and Tom was laughing nonstop at Peter."

"Please, everyone was laughing!" — He stuttered. - "Including you!" — You supported your hand on his arm. — "He was funny, the way his character spoke was funny, so i couldn't concentrate properly." — Tom reported looking at the camera, remembering the aforementioned moment and laughing; joining with you. — "One of my favorites was all the times you called me by my name." — He directed his head towards you, who placed a hand on his face.

Not many times, at most, just three times; garnering laughs and recordings from the cast and film crew. — Rachel had already posted two videos where you end up getting confused, a little nervous, and calling your boyfriend by his name. — A normal thing, it didn't need exaggeration or a big alert.

"Come on, it was only three times." — The softness, almost embarrassed, of your voice ran through Tom's ears; he removed your hand from your face and picked her up, giving your a brief caress and admiring the rings that were present. — "And i remember Josh and Hunter called me a loverbird."

"I ended up forgetting this fantastic little detail." — Tom commented.

The third question, — "Is it true that Y/N is going to act in 'Billy, the kid'?"

"In my dreams, yes!" — You crossed your arms, dramatically, and faked a frown for the camera. — "I've already asked a lot, and at least to be part of the supporting actors or just to appear for at least nine seconds!" — Tom laughed and you moved your shoulders, wanting to keep your face serious. — "Do you think i'm joking? I'm not!"

"You really aren't, sweetie." — The oldest confirmed. — "Please, Michael." — He mentioned the director. — "Even i'm begging for it."

And the fourth question... — "What word would you describe each other?"

"I think defining you in just one word is one of the most complicated jobs for me." — Tom's hand removed some kind of stubborn thread, which was stuck in his clothes. — "Is it really just a word?" — He turned, towards the people who worked behind the cameras, who confirmed his question. — "The word enchanting fits you easily."

Blyth leaned back on the back of the chair again, but now leaning his body towards your; facing you completely. — His deep, exuberant blue eyes meet, for the countless time, with yours in that interview. — And your lips formed into such a beautiful smile, shyly showing your teeth against his answer.

You fell in love once again with Tom Blyth, in a full interview.

"Thank you, my love." — The attempt to hide your face and an embarrassed voice failed completely. — "The first thing, word that comes to my mind that can define you is fascinating." — Tom pursed his chin, listening carefully. — "Because everything about you is fascinating and manages to leave me speechless, most of the time, and captivate me too." — Now your boyfriend's arm was holding the back of your chair. — "Everything, everything about you fascinates me and even the discreet gray strands that must be growing in your hair."

"Excuse me?" — Tom questioned, with his mouth open and not expecting your last words, and looked at the camera with a surprised look; already you were laughing at his euphoric reaction, clapping your hands on your knees and almost slouching in your chair.

[last-starry-sky]

Simon constantly teases you about how short/small you are. It upsets you, makes you feel singled out, weak, incompetent. Turns out he’s just dying to know how well you can fit him, how big his cock would look next to your hands and feet. Won’t shut up about it during sex either. A dash of mean Simon + his untapped size kink

eeeeee im gonnafuckining explode OKAY FOR REAL I WAS DYING WHEN I SAW THIS. thank u, beautiful, patient anon, for blessing me with this prompt!! I hope I did it justice!

ghost x petite!f!military!reader

(MDNI - NSFW uhhhh grossly inaccurate military stuff, creeper, bully simon :), i’m using “petite” as in “shorter and smaller than the average woman” trying to keep everything as open and vague as possible, oral, deep throating, ghost has a raging size kink, unprotected piv, also this is LONG (5.6k) 💀 i'm sorry!!! skip to the end for smut if that's all you want!❤️) 

It’s been the same fucking comments from your lieutenant all week. Day in, day out and it’s starting to wear a sore spot into your hardened skin. 

“Muzzle up. Arms tired already? ‘s a big rifle for someone your size to carry.”

“Keep pace with the group. Your short legs aren’t their problem.”

“Shoulders back! Chest out! Some’ve y’ need all the height you can get!”

All you can do is grit out a “yes, sir” or “no, sir” and push yourself even harder to keep up with the taller and stronger men and women around you. The massive Brit in charge is running your training group. While you expected this to be hard (your CO hadn’t been mincing words when he pitched it as “advanced”) but you never expected this. 

First of all, from the very beginning, he seemed to have a problem with you. Only you. There were a handful of women in the group, but you were unfortunately the shortest and smallest. Not that it bothered you. You’d spent your whole life this size. You were used to it. It was everyone else, especially the wanna-be, alpha males that flocked to the military like flies, that gave you grief over it.

The second you all lined up off the transport, you could feel his eyes on you. You tried not to stare back while the other Brit, Captain Price, gave a short introductory talk. You hadn’t heard a word of it. He stood there, flanking the captain, in a black, skin tight t shirt, with his obscenely muscled arms crossed over his ridiculously broad chest. A buzzing filled your ears as his black eyes bored into you. His stare so hot and heavy it made you sweat. His eyes were all of his face that he left uncovered, the rest was hidden by a skull mask and balaclava. You tried to ignore him, but you swore you saw the ink on his arm flexing as the captain introduced him: Lt. Ghost.

From the first training exercise, a simple one on one spar, he pulled you of all people from the women’s group to demonstrate on. What could you do? Refuse? He had at least a foot and close to one hundred pounds of muscle on you. You tried not to shake as you squared up at the opposite end of the mat. 

He told you to rush him, to “show him what you got”. Well, you tried. Once he gave signal to start, all you could do was try to fake him out. You ran at him before quickly darting to the side, trying to get behind him using your short stature to your advantage. Unfortunately for you, he was crazy agile for a large guy. He pivoted on his foot, watching you as you tried to fade to his left. You steeled yourself when he caged you in his arms, sweeping your feet off the mat. Your world was a blur until he slammed you roughly down onto the mat. Your breath was knocked from you, your vision spinning. You heard the crowd around you let out a collective “OH”. It took you a moment to realize he had you pinned. Your legs and hands held painfully down with his own. 

“‘sat all y’ got? Givin’ up already?” he grunted out with a gravely laugh while he stared down at you. He leaned down until his chest was pressed to yours, that stupid mask just grazing your face. “Or y’ got some fight left in y’? 

Hell yeah you still had some fight in you. You managed to slip out one leg from under him, jamming your knee quickly into his side. A kidney hit was dirty, you knew that. You wouldn’t dream of doing it in a normal spar, against an evenly matched partner, but he deserved it for picking on you; for picking a woman when he could have easily dominated any of the men in the room. He reacted exactly as you expected: crumpling forward in pain. You didn’t waste a second pulling your hands and legs from his grip. Another cry rang out from the crowd when you rolled out from under him, ready to jump on his back and make the pin.

“Olright, olright,” he said rubbing at his side, sitting up with a grunt before you could pin him. “I yield, y’ cheatin’ lil’ git. Next up.” 

He pointed at one of the other soldiers to come forward and take your place. The man gave you a fist bump as you left the mat and you told him “good luck”. You knew he would need it. When you turned around you saw that Ghost’s gaze had never left you. 

-

You walked back to base on Friday with your blood boiling, failure weighing heavy on your psyche after a long, hot afternoon of sniper training. You had given all you could; had put up with extra hard, extra long training, with comment after comment about your size and strength. 

Shorty. Shrimp. Rifle looks like it weights more than you. Gonna manage that?

Up early, in late everyday, almost too tired to eat and shower by the end. You had a mind to march right into Price’s office and tell him you were leaving that night. You’d made it a week, that was good enough for you. You would rather face hell from your CO back home than endure another hour of this. The second you sat down on your bunk, however, you passed out.

The exhaustion must have snapped something in your brain. You woke up a few hours later groggy and sweaty, your bunk mate snoring away. You were half on your bed with your feet still in your boots. You rolled onto your back with a groan, wiping the dried tears and dust from your cheeks. 

You let your weak arms fall over your face. You felt pathetic. You honestly wanted to just lay on your thin mattress and cry in the dark until the day started. Another day of enduring that British cunt with a superiority complex calling you short and weak, of singling you out in front of your peers, of making you question your career up to this point. He was eroding the very core of your person at this point, and you didn’t know how much long you could take it. 

You let out a sigh and, with more than a little effort, pull your sore, battered body out of bed. What you really needed was to shower, to think this out, and then find Captain Price to talk. No good would come from rushing into a decision in this state. 

You enjoyed your shower. It was nice to have all of the hot water and the whole communal space to yourself. You took your time getting dressed back into your rumbled clothes in the empty locker room. Nothing but the sound of dripping water echoing off the tile around you. 

Leaving the showers, you looked up and down the bare corridors, only enough of the overhead fluorescents left on to avoid a safety hazard. Your hair dripped onto your shoulders while you stood in the center of the hall. Price’s office had to be somewhere around here.

You wandered out of the barracks, down hall after hall of the same, painted block walls and plain tile floors, until you started seeing name plates posted haphazardly on the wooden doors. Your eyes wandered from door to door until you found what you were looking for: a sheet of 8.5x11 paper taped crookedly outside an office with Cpt. Price scrawled across the middle.

You let out a sigh of relief as you brought up your hand to knock on the door. It was almost over. The captain seemed like a reasonable man. He would surely be willing to listen to you, maybe give you some sound advice on whether you were actually cut out for this level of training. Before your hand could land on the door, a gloved hand came out from the shadows of the hall in front of you to rest above yours.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he whispered harshly.

You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. You closed your eyes in annoyance, balling your hands at your sides. Of fucking course he was here. Right at the last hurdle. Right before you could seek relief from a superior, his superior too. You let out a long breath through your nose before you opened your eyes to face him.

“I came to talk to Captain-” you started speaking with a wavering voice before he cut you off.

“Not in. Not yet, at least. Had a long night.” 

He leaned against the door, starting down at you again. God, he fucking annoyed you. You’d never had a CO that frayed at your nerves like he did. How dare he come off so cool, gripping his oversized biceps with his stupid skeleton gloves. 

You stepped back from the door. “I’ll come back when he’s in then. Sorry-”

“Can help you if you need somethin’” he interrupted you again, casually canting his hips forward, moving his hand to the door handle. 

You shook you head. While you really wanted to give him a piece of your mind, you would prefer not ending this with a disciplinary, so you bit your tongue. 

“I don’t need anything from you,” you answered with just a bit of venom.

He heard it, you were sure of it. He clicked the door open, letting it fall open to reveal the dark room inside. 

“No. I think you do, small-stuff.” When you didn’t make a move, just let another angry breath out your nose and furrow your brow deeper, he shifted to the side and pointed inside the room. “In. Now. That’s an order.”

You clenched your teeth and did as you were told. Not that you had an option now. 

-

You walked up to the desk at the back of the room. Price sure did keep his office in a state. Papers and folders were piled across his desk. A landline phone and old desktop computer were shoved to either corner of the desk. More folders and binders piled over the keyboard and hid the keypad of the phone. You heard Ghost’s boots squeak lightly on the tile behind you, then the door shut with a click. Another, soft click followed. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the spot right above you with hazy, yellow light. 

You turned to face the man who’d gone out of his way to made himself your nemesis for the past week. He silently sauntered up to you, stopping behind one of the chairs in front of the desk. You crossed your arms defensively over your chest and tried to make your face placid while he pulled the chair out. He took a seat, well, he tried too. He could barely fit his massive fame in the little chair. It groaned underneath him as he mirrored your pose, arms crossed and legs spread. 

You sat silently staring at each other before he asked, “Well?” with a roll of his shoulders. 

You picked over your words, trying to detangle everything you had thought up in the shower. Ghost bouncing his knee pulled you back to reality. It was like the threatening hiss of a rattlesnake's tail. Better to just get it out than keep him waiting.

“Do you have a problem with me?” you squeaked out, eyes on you boots. The direct route it was, then. 

“What?” he asked, confused.

You looked up at him, exhausted, eyes pleading. “Look, I know I’m short and not as strong as the other guys . . . especially the guys, but the way you talk to me-”

“Don’t have a problem with y’,” he said throwing his arm across the back of the chair, readjusting while he raked his eyes up and down your frumpy form. Probably looking for something to complain about. “If’m bein’ honest-” he started before cutting himself off and turning his head. 

You uncrossed your arms, letting them fall to your sides. “What . . .” you questioned, gesturing with your hands in front of you. “Then why do you-”

He jiggled his knee a few more times before turning back to face you. “Little thing like you,” he said darkly, so deep and low you almost didn’t hear it. He clenched his fingers on his pants as he cleared his throat. “You keep up with the rest’ve ‘em well enough. Ain’t got a problem.”

“Little thing,” you whispered, repeating him sarcastically. 

Ghost groaned at that. Honest to god groaned in front of you, sending a shiver up your spine. You froze as his heavy eyes found their way back to you. 

“Yeah. You sure are,” he said scraping his fingers down his pants. “Spunky, too. Used t’ fightin’ for your place. Like that. Makes me wonder-” he trailed off as his large eyes wandered down from your face to your chest. 

You were shocked. No way. You had to be misinterpreting this. Maybe you were still sunstroked from yesterday, because there was no way you were reading him correctly. 

“Wonder what?” you piped, blush pinching at your cheeks.

“Wonder . . .” he said rocking his head back and forth, trying to tie a sentence together. “Wonder if y’ can be sweet, too.” He let you stew in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment as he gestured at you. “Wonder what you look like underneath all that.” Your stomach clenched as he tilted his hips forward, spreading his legs wider, to palm is cock through his pants. “Wonder if it matches what I’ve imagined.”

You would be lying if it was just your stomach clenching after that shameless display.

It was crazy how it all made sense now. The constant attention. The names. You thought he was being overly hard on you, picking at you, trying to get you to drop out. You rubbed a hand over your heated face. He was a grown man (a large one, too) that was acting like a little boy with a worm on a stick, chasing the girl he liked around the playground. You thought he hated you and all this time he was actually getting off to you. You felt like an absolute moron. 

“Doesn’t have t’ leave this room. If you’re interested,” he said in that deep gravel, still trying to keep himself together. 

You let him sit in silence for a long, tortuous, moment. 

“And if I’m not?” you finally asked. 

He nodded to the door behind him with his head. “Then leave. Talk t’ Price in the morning. No harm.”

“No foul,” you finished his phrase, running your fingers over your bottom lip. 

Silence hung between you for a hot moment in the cold, stale air of the office. You had a hard time believing he would just let you go at this point. Not that you planned to, the danger intrigued you too much to walk away. This line of work had made you a wholly different animal, it’s why you were here. You ran into war zones, battlefields, hostage negotiations, the places others couldn’t run out of fast enough. You’d been dealing with the people that most couldn’t stomach, the ones that couldn’t function in civilian society, for so long that they had worn a place under your skin. This lieutenant, Ghost, he had been in this just as long, if not longer, than you. He had to feel the same. Fuck, he had be worse.     

“What . . . what do you want?” you finally managed to ramble out. 

He let out a rough hum of satisfaction. You hated how you responded to it. You rolled your thighs together and, fuck, you were wet. You let out a small, shuddering breath. You’d gone a week with no praise, no kindness, and now here he was, the big, bully Brit who’d made your life hell practically purring over you. 

He trained his hungry eyes on you and motioned up with a flick of his fingers. “Wanna see ‘em. Don’t even have’t take your shirt off.”

A part of you wondered if this was all a trick as you slowly rucked your t shirt up to expose your stomach. That would track with how your week had gone so far. He was so blatant and open though, gripping the chair beneath him like he was about to launch out of it at a moment’s notice. He groaned as you pulled your shirt up to reveal your plain black sports bra. It was nothing special, standard issue, but it kept you strapped down. Not that you really had all that much to contain. 

He ran his hand over (what you assumed) was his mouth under the balaclava. He waited a moment for you to continue before urging you forward. 

“Come on, love. Don’t get shy. Wanna see ‘em.”

You slipped your fingers underneath the wide band at the bottom, hesitating only a moment before you pulled everything, shirt included, up over your head. You stared down at your chest while you balled your clothes in your hands.

“Not much to see,” you whispered, watching your nipples perk and skin pucker under the AC.

“Fuckin’ hell” was all he said. You dared to look up. “Fuck,” he continued, “Fuckin’ . . . get over’ere. Just fuckin’ dyin’ t’ get my hands on you.”

You dropped your clothes on the floor, closing the few steps between you quickly before falling forward into his grasp. You weren’t sure if you were ready for what this desperate, mountain of a man was about to unleash on you, but fuck did it excite you. Once he had you between his legs, gloved hands scraping up your back and around your waist, testing his fingers as he held you, but he didn’t do anything but look. He stared at you like you were made of glass. 

You stared at him, too. You hadn’t been this close since he’d pinned you on the first day, and you were pretty sure you’d been half-concussed then. You could see where he had eye black painted carefully around his eyes to fill the holes in his mask. You could see his long eyelashes, clumped together with that same oily black paint. It made the whites of his eyes stand out vibrantly. His large dark irises darted back and forth over your chest. You wondered what he was planning, what he was thinking. 

He didn’t leave you wondering for long. He pressed you forward, mouthing at your nipple through the mask. You let out a short whine, pussy clenching as his large hands kneaded at your waist. The feeling was like nothing you’d felt before. The fabric between you muted the translation between his actions and your pleasure. You could feel how eagerly he bit and sucked at you, but you were denied half of it. It made you dig your fingers into his shoulders in frustration.

“Want more?” he said haggardly, pulling off of you. He tugged at your belt, not waiting for an answer. “Then get these off.”

You did your best to undo your belt and pants despite your shaking and moaning while he dove back in, working harder at your other nipple. Once you’d dropped your pants down to your ankles he pulled you forward to step out of them, wedging you into the spread of his legs. You toed out of your shoes and then he kicked everything behind you, your boots banging loudly against the steel desk. You heard papers shift and fall, but couldn’t find a reason to care. He held you, running his gloved hands over your exposed skin while you shivered in font of him in nothing but your panties. 

He palmed his cock again before fumbling around to find his belt. You heard him click it open, the metal jangling as it went slack. 

“On your knees,” he ordered breathlessly. “Wan’ see what that little mouth can do with this.” 

You complied immediately, viciously curious as to what he was packing. If the tent in his pants was any indication, you had your work cut out for you. He popped open the button of his fly and then slowly unzipped. You couldn’t see anymore through his briefs than you had in his pants, but still, you leaned forward. You curled your hands on your knees, biting your lip, willing him to give you permission. 

“Go ahead,” he said giving himself one lazy, squeezing pump.

You put your hands on his inner thighs, right above his knees, testing the waters. When he didn’t say anything, you slid your hands up his legs, a soft, swishing sound following. You stopped at his crotch, pulling yourself forward before tentatively, gently, smoothing up his clothed cock. 

He groaned, covering your hand with his, forcing you to grip his girth. Your thumb just barely met your ring finger. 

“Fuckin’-” was all he could get out before pulling your hand off. 

He used his other hand to pull his dick out before pressing your hand to his hard, burning length. You gave him another pump, feeling how the skin stretched beneath your hand, then squeezing to feel how goddamn rigid he was. The tip of his cock made your mouth water. 

It was crazy. On you knees in front of him like this, you weren’t a competent soldier, a woman who held herself with poise and respect in front of her colleagues. He wasn’t an expertly trained, battle-hardened, special operative of the British Army. You were both human. Both hungry. 

You tipped his cock toward you to lap at the underside of the head. You met his eyes just as you closed your mouth around him, sucking the salt from his slit. He shut his eyes with a groan, letting his head fall back for a moment as he reached his hand up to grip at your skull. He opened his eyes to watch as he slowly bobbed your head down his cock. 

He gripped himself at the base, forcing your mouth to take him until you met his fingers. You did. Just barely, gagging as his head slid against the roof of your mouth to the soft palate at the back of your throat. He didn’t let you pull back. Instead, he traced the inside of your lips with his thumb, drool coating his black gloves.

“Lookit’ that,” he groaned as your throat pulsed and burned around him. “Little thing takes it all s’fuckin’ well.”

He let go of your head, letting you pull off of his cock. You stared at it with heavy eyes as your head spun from lack of oxygen, it glistened with your spit in the harsh light. He gave himself another languid stroke, watching you force air into your lungs while you sat practically naked on the floor between his knees. 

“Think you can take it in that little cunt a’yours like that?” he asked, stopping his stroke at the head.

You bit your bottom lip as you looked up at him. You gave him a slow nod. Any fear or paranoia you had before was long evaporated. You were wet, horny, needy. You needed him to give you something, and if he was going to give you a choice, you could do worse than getting railed until you couldn’t remember your name. You clenched, hands clawing at your thighs, as you watched him pump another stroke up that monster cock of his in front of your face before grunting out his order.

“Get up then. Against the desk.”

You scrambled up to your feet. He followed you, rising quickly from his chair to tower over you, pressing you backwards into the steel desk. Your hands reached out for purchase as he roughly gripped your thighs, throwing you on top of Price’s paper-laden desk. Folders and binders clattered to the floor, papers swirling across the tile as he shoved you down, ass right on the edge. 

He stood between your legs, hips flush to yours, his cock laying across your standard issue panties like a weapon. He pressed the weight of it against your skin with a groan, head spreading precum into your stomach. Quicker than you realized, he reached behind his back, coming back with a knife. It was almost invisible palmed in his large hand, only the tip of the blade winked from the tip of his thumb. With two quick flicks, he cut up the side of your underwear. He slid the knife back to wherever he had taken it from, like it was the most normal thing in the world, before pulling the now useless scrap of fabric from between the press of your bodies. 

He held the scrap of fabric in his hand for a minute, investigating it under the light before tossing it to the floor.

“Really are beggin’ for it, eh?” He said sliding his cock up the seam of your pussy. His easy, fluid movements as he rocked against you answered for you. “Fuckin’ wet just from that?”

You nodded, lacing your legs around his hips, trying to pull him closer. He pressed his hand into your stomach in response, squishing you against the desk hard enough to make you squirm. He pulled away enough to notch the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Needy little fuckin’ thing,” he said with a punch of his hips, nails biting into the soft skin of your stomach as his tip danced perilously on the edge of holding inside you. “Want it so fuckin’ bad? Want this inside y’?” 

He took himself in hand and watched as he pushed inside. You both groaned. You let your head fall against the desk with a dull thunk, eyes shut and legs shaking as he pushed deeper and deeper inside your slick hole. 

“Fuck.” He was breathless for the first time since you had met him. “Fuck are y’ tight. So fuckin’ small. Even gonna fit it all?” He rambled to himself as he took hold of your hips and watched himself fuck slowly in and out of you; hypnotized by the clutch of your greedy pussy pulling him in, resisting as he pulled out. 

You let out a small cry of frustration, tears pricking around your eyes. He was big, but that wasn’t the problem. You had taken your share of dick, you could take him. It was killing you how slow he was. He was lost in his own world, watching his cock slid in and out of you as you lay there silently begging for him to just fuck you already. 

“Quiet,” he whispered with a half-hearted harshness, hand trailing down to your pussy. 

You almost jumped as he began to rub a wide circle around your clit. Your slick barely dulled the rough texture of his glove. You shuddered, clenching around him, whining as he found a rhythm with his thumb and cock. Your clench punched the breath out of him. He fell over you, bracing himself with his arm. You could hear the hollow sound of his breaths behind his mask as he gave up trying to pump into your vice of a pussy. 

He nuzzled the cold plastic of his mask against your ear. “Not gonna’ last long doin’ shit like that,” he grumbled. He held himself up, pulling your face to look at him with a hand under your jaw. “Wha’d’y want?” 

You stared back at him with confusion. 

“Where d’y want it?” he clarified.

If you had a brain cell still functioning, you would have told him to pull out. It was the safer of the options he was giving you. 

But you didn’t. You moaned out, “Fuck. Inside me. Please,” like the absolute whore you had become once he’d whipped his cock out. 

Not one to question, apparently, Ghost was back in position the moment he heard you. He pulled your hips back to meet his, cock punching all the way in until you winced as the head hit your cervix. He took hold of one of your legs, hand running up the length of it, positioning it until it lay unfolded up his chest. He gripped his fingers around your ankle, starting at it as his other hand squeezed your waist.

“Lookit, fuck. Lookit that,” he said as he pistoned into you. You cut off the loud moan that he punched out of you. The change in angle was . . god it was like nothing you’d had before.  

“Like that?” he said, letting your foot dangle on his shoulder while he held your waist with both hands, driving into you mercilessly. 

If you could have answered, you would have spoke truthfully. You were sure. You would have moaned about how good it was, how he was so big and filled you so well. As it was, his powerful thrusts jarred you against the cool metal of the desk too much to do anything more than moan and hold on as more papers flooded the floor. 

“Got y’self off at all this week?” he asked, panting breathlessly.

You shook your head, a small whine of anticipation falling form your lips at the thought.

“Gonna nut just thinkin’ about you cummin’ on my cock,” he mumbled, trailing his hand back to your clit.

You let out a sad whine, bucking into his thrust as he touched you. You were close. So fucking close.

He began to circle your clit like before, finding that delicious rhythm with the pound of his hips that pulled you higher and higher, tighter and tighter, until dazzling sparks lit up your core. You reeled back with a cry, clenching his cock, arching as he worked you through your peak. 

His hand ripped away from you sooner than you’d like. He fell over you, both hands biting into the skin of your hips as he pounded into you as your pussy pulsed, any semblance of cadence or love-making gone as he chased his own high. You dug your fingers into his t shirt. The sweat drenched fabric was almost too slippery to hold on to. 

“Fuck! Too fuckin’ hot ‘n, fuck, tight. Fuck, ‘m gonna-” His weak series of sighs and groans, followed by the distinct feeling of his cock flaring inside you told you what he couldn’t.

He lay over you for a moment, panting as you both caught your breaths. You wondered if he was also stewing in the monumental realization of what the fuck you had both just done. You’d just broken so many rules. So much was at stake. He’d just cum inside a subordinate on his bosses desk, and you didn’t work for the same country. This was going to be a mess. You were sure of it. 

He pulled away from you, pulling himself out with a smothered whine. You crossed your hands over your middle as you watch him zip back up and adjust his mask. It was wild how he was back to normal within seconds. You half expected him to walk out the door and just leave you here like this. At least all of your clothes were here, save your sliced up panties. 

But he didn’t leave. He held out a hand to you, only letting you stare at it dumbly for a minute before he flicked his fingers toward himself, urging you to act. You took his hand and he pulled you up easily. He even let you slump against him after you sat up. You’d forgotten how tired a good lay made you.

Again, you expected him to leave you now that you were conscious and able to dress yourself, maybe leave you with a heavy warning (read: threat) to not talk about this. As you tried to shuffle to the side to try and get off the desk, he stopped you. His hands gripped both of your shoulders suddenly.

“The fuck y’ doin’?” he said, forcing you back in front of him.  

“Getting . . . dressed?” you answered with unease. 

“Funny,” he said with a single, dry, laugh. “You’re a funny lil’ thing, too.”

His hands skimmed down your sides before quickly seizing you by the hips, throwing you over his shoulder like a backpack. You gasped as your stomach landed on his solid shoulder, punching the air from your lungs.

“Think we’re done already?” he said, turning around. 

You watched as the desk, and the messy you had made on and around it, including your scattered clothing, circled back into view, then slipped away. He palmed a whole cheek of your ass in one hand, spreading you open enough for cold air to chill your leaking core, as he stalked toward the door. He probed a finger into your pussy, swirling the cum you felt leaking out across your folds. 

“Got a whole day off, y’know,” he said matter-of-factly as he opened the door. Completely ignoring that he had a naked woman slung over his shoulder like a caveman. “Think we should go back to mine. Relax. See what else that little cunt’ve yours can take.”

[witchthewriter]

𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

a/n: not a poly relationship - I just decided to have them both in one post. Let me know if you want more xx Also I went through the tags for these guys and there is nothing but SMUT. So I wanted some sweet sfw headcanons for the boys

Warnings: swearing, nsfw included (no one under 18 please).

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

INTJ

Ravenclaw

Neutral Good

Scorpio Sun, Capricorn Moon, Virgo Rising

𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲/𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭

・This man is fucking dangerous behind the wheel. And although he is a hot-head occasionally, it isn't when he's driving.

・Simon knows he's shit, so when people honk at him, give him the finger - he just stone-faces it. Let's them berate him because really, he doesn't fucking care.

・However he has lost his licence a few times ... and so you told him he could be your &lt;3 passenger princess <3

・Simon wasn't amused ...

・Very much the protective type, verging on possessive. Not in an abusive way, but he wants everyone to know that you're his. So when anyone flirts with you - or even when they're a little too nice, his jealousy consumes him.

・Scary dog privledges, with and without the mask. This man is intimidating as fuck.

・6'4, wide shoulders and big hands, so it doesn't matter how you look, how tall you are etc - Simon is bigger, taller and stronger.

・Yes he can be a hardass, but when he loves someone, that roughness is somewhat smoothened out. He'd hate to hurt your feelings.

・He only wears his mask to hide his identity; he takes it off when missions are done.

・And when he's home, he rarely wears it.

・Absolutely HATES being jump-scared. And his reflexes take over (you've learnt from the first and last time)

・This goes with random kisses as well, sometimes you just have to make yourself known before touching Simon

・He isn't huge into PDA, but when outside he will gladly hold your hand, bump his shoulder into yours when you make a crappy dad joke.

・The biggest misconception is that he's cold. Well, at work - obviously he is. But at home, with you, he has so much warmth. A lot of life.

・He has great banter. Absolutely has both of you laughing your asses off.

・Calls you "love," "sweetheart," (all in his gruff, chiselled brit accent). And when you're alone, he calls you names like "my love," "hun," "sweet cheeks."

・You're slowly learning about Simon's past, which he shares little by little.

・Too much information and he's scared you might feel overwhelmed and leave him

・There's some deep trauma there, but the army has therapists and everyone gets checked out before they're deemed mentally healthy enough.

・He does want kids, but only after he's done with the military. He would hate to be an absent father in any way. And he wouldn't want you to have that full responsibility.

・A lot of people characterise him as this traumatised man who can barely look after himself. But that is far, faaaaar from the truth. He's very competent. And he eats a LOT. But he also works out (to keep in shape, he actually hates the gym) (also he doesn't expect you to do anything of that stuff. He loves you for you.)

・I also have this headcanon that Ghost/Riley would love Metallica, Slipknot, Black Sabbath etc. It's one of the things that calm him down. However, if he's had an overwhelming day, he needs no noise whatsoever.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Teases Them (You) x About To End Them (Ghost)

The Moon and His Star

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Opposites Attract

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Say Yes To Heaven by Lana Del Rey

Arsonist's Lullabye by Hozier

Enter Sandman by Metallica

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, I bloody mean it. 

・There's almost like two sides of your s/o. The Ghost side, where the mask stays on, and he's rough, possessive, dominant. And then the Simon side, where he likes soft touches and when you gently stroke his face

・You've both discovered that Simon likes it when you wear his mask, gloves - nothing else - and touch yourself.

・Even with your cum juices on the mask, and gloves, he'll still wear them to work.

・It's the only kinky thing he brings with him while on deployment. You did want to take a naked polaroid for him but he didn't trust the other guys not to somehow see it.

・He likes keeping you as separate from army life as much as possible. Because you feel like home, and it gives him hope.

・Ghost loves taming your bratty side. He's short, demanding and can shut you up with one look.

"Keep on actin' like that, and see what happens."

・Of course you keep acting up, and when you get home, you pay for it tenfold.

・Ghost's hands are as big as a paddle, and when he has you over his knee, ass up in the air. He doesn't hesitate in leaving red marks (all consensual. He wouldn't do anything without having a conversation before hand).

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

ISTP

Hufflepuff

Chaotic Good

Aries Sun, Aquarius Moon, Leo Rising

𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠

・A 6'10 king, who suffers from social anxiety but has this soft, silly side that he loves showing you and only you (I will take no criticisms on his height. It is LAW. My law.)

・Because of his anxiety, social aspects of life are much harder than work. He's highly skilled in combat, and has a lot of confidence in his abilities to accomplish missions.

・However, when you tried to speak to him, all he could do was stutter.

・You allowed him to get the words out, but he was an absolute mess afterwards and went to go train.

・But this didn't deter you in the slightest. Hell, you had been trying to muster the courage to speak to him for weeks...

・It took a while for Konig to open up about his past, especially his adolescence.

・He's told you the jist of it, but there's details that you don't push him on.

・One of your favourite pastimes together is going to bakeries and eating the most delicious pastries.

・When you're feeling down, or there's something to celebrate, there's no cake but pastries instead

・Doesn't mind animals, but understands that when he's away you will get a bit lonely. So you surprised him by getting a pair of kittens!

・You showed him over video chat, one white kitten and one black.

"I haven't chosen names for them yet, but I thought maybe you could have some input?"

"Schatz! The kittens are cute but you have scratch marks all over your arms!"

"They're very playful!" And then you leant closer to the camera and whispered, "I leave scratches on your back ..." And with an innocent look on your face, you watched as Konig shivered.

・Likes to put you on his lap when he's cleaning weapons, or getting the marks out of his mask or shoes. Okay honestly, he just wants you on his lap all the time. Whatever excuse he can come up with - he'll goddamn use it

・Absolutely loves Kate Bush and Stevie Nicks. He thinks they have such a beautiful sound that you can find him with headphones on, swaying in the bedroom, silently in his feels

・All your pet names are in Austrian/German:

"Schatz", meaning 'treasure'.

"Maus," meaning 'mouse.'

"Liebling" meaning 'darling.'

"Hase" meaning 'bunny'.

"Liebe" meaning 'love.'

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Always Bringing Them Rocks They Think They Would Like (You) x Keeps The Rocks (Konig)

The Gomez & Morticia Adams

I Don’t Know What I’m Doing But At Least I’m Alive, Right? (You) x You’re Doing Great, Sweetie (Konig)

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Hidden Identity & Forced Proximity

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush

The Chain by Stevie Nicks

Dance of the Druids by Bear McCreary (he loves movie scores as well. It's one of his fascinations).

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, makes me feel weird if you read it.

・Konig is a bit awkward at first with the sexual interactions you guys have. He does have anxiety, but also, the build up of sexual tension had been going on for months.

・All he had during that time was his hands and the memories of how you looked, the way your eyes met his then flicked downward - almost like you had x-ray vision.

・There was no denying the heat.

・So when you first hooked up it was a fumbling mess of grunting, clothes ripping and fast hands trying to touch and grab at any bare piece of flesh.

・You did have a shocking revelation that first time however. Because this man's cock is not only thick, veiny but nearly 9 inches when he's hard.

・That first time wasn't a true first time as the look on your face told Konig everything - you weren't ready for that part of him ... just yet.

・Loves when you ride his thigh; they're absolutely huge. Just muscled and bulky and the first time you saw them (without the uniform) you audibly gasped.

・His body is absolutely divine

・Like it had been sculpted by the gods. Large biceps, long legs, small waist, large shoulders. His hands wrap your neck perfectly.

・You feel so safe with him.

・And you have to remind him that, because sometimes he worries he could hurt you without meaning to.

"I'm a grown up, Konig. I can handle myself."

"So when are you going to let me fuck you?"

"mmm... I think I still have to get used to that. Maybe we can do fingers first..." (his fingers are ... fucking huge).

[nightlyrequiem]

Thinking about how Valeria running away from 141 when they capture her, and stumble into your apartment which happens to be open (cause you always forget to lock the door ironically that u live in las almas) so your kinda freaking out but val is not having it so she shuts u up? Maybe things get spicy if u want to add?

-🦋🦂

She can stumble into my home any day 😛

A high-strung, stressed Valeria seeking shelter in your home? Forced proximity?? Maybe what occurs isn't accurate to how things would in real life, but nobody reads fanfiction for the realism.

Also sorry for leaving this in the inbox for so long!! Requests were closed and I was so busy, but I have the motivation to write despite my business. I really like this concept btw 🤭

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Home Invasion, Smut, Gagging, Scissoring, Choking (Not During The Smut.), Violence, Takes Place During The Alone Mission

Alone (But Not For Long.)

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Valeria feels a stitch in her side as she runs. She feels a quiet sort of rage at Diego's idiocy. She knew there was something suspicious the guy who calls himself Soap and wears a mohawk. Diego let him in. Brought him right to her. Fucking idiot. Her legs work hard to keep her ahead of both Alejandro and his little posse of Brits. Valeria makes sure to keep herself in shape. Keeping herself lean and toned. She absolutely hates Cardio though. 

She quickly ducks into an alley. Valeria has the advantage of having home field. She knows about every single turn and crevice. The gringos do not. She tries her luck with a doorknob and lets herself in. Surprised to find it unlocked. The heavens are smiling down upon her today. Gifting her an idiot that doesn't understand that you should lock your doors. Especially at night. Especially in Las Almas. She leans against the door. Trying not to breathe too loud. Heavy footsteps pound right by. The place is silent. Fairly clean apart from a few articles of clothing littering the ground.

There's a small, shriveled and honestly, sad looking houseplant on the table. It's leaves are browning and droopy. Valeria looks around. There's nothing luxurious or fancy about this home. The furniture looks old and outdated. There's a throw blanket on the couch with tattered ends and an ugly pattern. The art on the walls looks handmade. It's almost admirable to Valeria, who is so used to the... wealthier aesthetic of her own home and Diego's home. Diego. She scowls as she thinks of him. She'll deal with him later. Valeria silently walks around. Inspecting her surroundings. Down the hall she sees a bathroom. Catching a glimpse of bottles and serums on the counter. 

She pushes open a closed door and pauses. It's the bedroom, and sleeping in it is you, one leg peeking out from underneath the blankets. She's about to turn and leave when you open your eyes. You and Valeria stare at each other for a few long seconds. Valeria swiftly darts towards you and clamps a hand over your mouth. Cutting off a frightened wail.

"Be quiet or I'll kill you." She says straight to the point. Valeria stiffens as heavy footsteps run past the window. Shadows passing through the curtains. Orders are barked with frustration.

She gasps in pain as you sink your teeth into her hand. She jerks back and you take the opportunity to flee. Throwing yourself off the bed and landing with a thump. You grunt in pain and take a second or two to get back to your feet. Unfortunately for you, a second is all Valeria needs to pounce on you. You both struggle, you to break free and her to keep you under control. Valeria's hands work hard as they grip your forearms. Keeping them pinned to the ground. You're stronger than you look - she actually struggles to keep you down. She's had enough and wraps her hands around your throat. Applying enough pressure to stop your struggling. 

When she sees that you're about to pass out she lets go and listens to you take in loud breaths.

"Are you going to be quiet?" She asks darkly. when you don't reply she repeats herself more aggressively. "Are you going to be quiet, bitch?"

Your lips part as you stare up at her. "...Yeah." You rasp. Voice rough from being choked. She glares at you.

"Good." She grunts. Moving off of you. Valeria grabs you by the hair and pulls you to your feet. Strong arms wrapping around you to keep you from running off. She unholsters her pistol and presses it into your soft side. She presses her face up to the side of your head. "You're going to stay quiet." She whispers the warning.

The door Valeria originally entered through slams open. Valeria thinks quickly and roughly pulls you into the closet with her, keeping you pressed right up against her front, on hand keeping the gun pressed against your side, the other splayed across your lower back. Through the slits in the closet door, she watches as a man quietly steps into the room. Soap. His gun is raised, and he surveys the room.

"Fuckin' Shadows." He mutters. Voice thick with rage and pain. His radio crackles to life. A deep, gravelly voice speaks to him.

"Found anything useful yet, Johnny?"

Johnny grabs a thin, long-sleeved shirt on the ground and rips a strip from it.

"A shirt." He replies. "I'm in an apartment, looks like the owner fled."

The owner trembles slightly in Valeria's hold and she feels sweat on the nape of her neck. Stressed that you'll make a noise and alert Soap.

"Smart move on the owner's part." The man on the radio replies. She recalls who it belongs to. The big guy with the skull face. "Get what you need and head to the church. I'm holding out for you there."

Soap quickly ties the strip of fabric around his waist to slow down the bleeding from a bullet wound. He takes one last glance around before leaving. Valeria counts to sixty before pushing you out from the closet. She drags you to the bed and forces you down next to her. 

"We're going to sit here and wait.

"Wait for what?" You ask, confused. "what's going on?" 

"Be quiet." She snaps.

After a few minutes of silence Valeria relaxes a bit. Letting her guard down. An action that proves to be a mistake. You abruptly make a grab for her gun. Trying to wrestle it from her hands. You're surprisingly strong and in an attempt to keep it from you, she accidently knocks both of you to the ground. The gun slides out of her grip. You two grapple together. Trading blows and punches, Valeria's significantly more painful. She's furious at you but also a little turned on. It's been a while since someone's fought back like this. You land a hard punch to the side of her head, snapping it to the side. You both go still and she touches the side of her face, expression unreadable.

Valeria looks down at you. At your parted lips, heaving chest, wide eyes. Without thinking she leans down and captures your lips in a heated kiss. She expects you to pull away or push her off, but you do the unexpected and kiss her back. Valeria should be trying to figure out her next course of actions. But you spread your legs, and Valeria is slotted right against you. Valeria pushes her tongue into your mouth while your hands wander underneath her thin tactical vest. Smoothing her sweater over her ribs. You give the vest a small tug and Valeria complies. She sits up, leaving a thin string of saliva to connect your mouths. She fumbles with the clips and straps and slides it off, taking her belt off too. Both are pushed to the side.

Before Valeria can return to your lips, you're pushing her down and straddling her. Hurriedly pulling off your shirt. The cool air hits your chest and your nipples harden. You reach beneath you and awkwardly pull her pants off. You run your fingers through her folds, feeling the slickness against them. Valeria gasps and arches her back as you rub firm circles against her clit. She can feel more slick dripping from her cunt. The gun lies off to the side in her peripheral vision, forgotten about completely.

You shift lower to press your cunt to hers. Grinding against her. Your folds sliding together wetly. a mess accumulating quickly beneath Valeria. You ride her with a fervor. Her eyes focused on the tantalizing movement of your breasts. You lean down for a better angle, pressing close enough for your nipples to brush against her chest. You whine loudly and Valeria's hand shoots up, covering your mouth. She pushes you off and grabs the remains of the shirt Soap used. Gagging you. With your back resting against the bed, she slots herself between your legs. Closer than ever. With you at no risk of making noise she roughly grinds into you. Using your leg as leverage. Her pace is bruising and quick. A few, muted noises make it past your gag. Your eyes rolling back.

Valeria can feel your leg twitching. You're about to come. She groans lowly as she nears her own climax. Your head presses against her shoulder. Valeria's legs are getting tired, but she keeps at it. Her hole fluttering around nothing as your clits grind together. Finally, the tension snaps. Blood pulses in her clit as she comes, riding out her orgasm with your body.

She slowly pulls away, grimacing at the wet sound she makes as she does so. She rests beside you. Head next to yours. Out of the corner of her eye she watches you struggle with the makeshift gag. Finally getting it off. You wipe yourself clean with it. Collecting your combined juices.

"... Want something to eat?" You murmur.

[semischarmed]

Thread

Don’t blame me for this one, you guys voted for something diabolical.

= = = = =

The references were esoteric. In fact, I had to hide my true research from the university, under the guise of reclassifying “ritualistic” items. The irony did not escape me. I was actually looking to access a “ritualistic” item that was classified as mundane. 

Legends spoke of a god of flesh. One that manipulates the body as one would manipulate clay. Its name has long since been lost to time, but there are echoes of his work in the myths of old. We often hear of a creator god shaping man from the earth, of half-human hybrids and giants and other such peculiarities. Glimpses of this god of flesh. I had only read into such a figure from a blog by happenstance. A miracle of probability. 

I eyed the needle, now in my hand. It was unassuming but carried a supernatural weight to it, like the weight of time immemorial. I grinned, practically moaned as I pricked my finger with the needle. 

I expected some sort of magical fanfare, maybe a gust of wind but found none. I stared at my hands and then I noticed it. My hands. My flesh. I could feel all of it. I stared intently as I pinched the skin above my finger, I willed the pleat to hold its shape and smiled. I was ready.

- - - - 

I thought through the myths, now partial realities in my head. Though I felt myself brim with power, I knew the drawbacks- there had to be a reason the myths had not made it to present day. The answer appeared in my head. There is only so much one man can do, and being giftedoften made one a target. A word echoed in my head. “Protection”. That did seem to match my records. Humans of old would change their flesh to be stronger, more resilient, adapting to every circumstance thrown at them. But the weakness persisted. One prick to channel the same power as the god of flesh, and another prick locks you from that power again. I smiled to myself. I just needed to get… creative. 

Joey Cooper was well-known around the college. A fifth year senior majoring in Sport Science. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he always meant well. He had an air of confidence to him that often aided his statuesque form. Despite this, something else drew my interest even further. His unattainability. The man was often called by his nickname “old faithful,” having been in a relationship with his girlfriend Britney for as long as any can remember. Guys and girls from all walks of life have tried to tempt “Juicy Joe” (A nickname he wasn’t aware of). None of have succeeded. 

And then there was Charlie Cooper, his younger brother, a freshman with the face of an angel. He had unattainability in a different sense. Kind eyes and gentle curly locks framed a face that often wore a worried expression. Unlike his brother, he was timid, and a bit reserved. He had a lack of confidence that seemed to be a hindrance to his social life. Charlie would often shied away from conversation, despite others regularly visiting his dorm. Charlie roomed with Joey in the school dorms, a rarity for this campus. I overheard a conversation with Charlie once on this oddity. Beneath his unintelligible mumbling he mentioned something about being “faithful to Brit” and getting Charlie “out of his shell”.

I bit my lip thinking about the prospects.

— - - - - -

“Oh hey Joey!” I waved casually as I approached a Joey returning to his dorm room, face flush and covered in a sheen. He must have just come from the gym. He was consistent with his workouts, so it was no surprise he would still be in campus after finals to get one last pump in.

“Hey dude! Uh, sorry I don’t remember names to well”. He replied back in a friendly manner. I shook my head at that.

“No need to apologize. I don’t think we’ve ever formally met.” He looked back at me expectantly, hand outstretched to greet. I shook it as I continued. “My name’s gonna be Joey too”. He nodded and smiled politely but the man’s face couldn’t hide his visible confusion.

I clung onto the lack of rejection on Joey’s part as an invitation for myself. As he continued into his room, I followed, allowing the door to close behind us. The silence from the near empty dorm was deafening. He turned around, again making a polite smile. “Uh hey again… Joey… can I help you?”

I dropped all pretense, rushing to his bed and taking a whiff. “Fuck dude, you smell so hot”. Everything in the room carried a small sample of his scent. Like a gentle sweaty musk overlaid with his detergent. I looked to the sweaty Joey, inching closer and taking a whiff of his fresh personal scent. Divine. I felt my jaw unlock in a small moan. His post workout scent was like a concentrate of the pleasant musk I smelled before. Like raw testosterone and shallow breaths, and a hint of earthiness that exuded power. Juicy Joe. I was drunk on the scent, mind transfixed, until I caught him staring. He was starting to get upset.

“Hey bro, you should probably lea-“ He froze as he saw me extend a nerve out of my hand, like a red root outstretched into the air. “The fuck?”

He began stepping back but as soon as my nerve landed on his arm, he struggled back into stillness. I smiled in euphoria as I felt every individual root of my vein burrow into his skin and connect with his. Checkmate. He watched as more and more of my nerve rooted into his flesh, screaming as he felt the violation to his sense of touch. 

“No one can hear you bro, it’s after finals, remember?” I twirled the needle in front of him before setting it on the table. “Can’t have you taking a shower and removing your natural cologne”. Joey was still frozen as he saw me begin to undress. Juicy Joe had a body brimming with power, and I knew it would burst at any moment. I took care as I undressed, rooting and unrooting my nerves, and making sure to always keep at least one red thread of control on him at all times. 

Joey glared as he saw me finish placing my clothes in a neat pile on the floor. “Your turn”.

“What the fuck dude!? What makes you think-“ He was cut off as the red strings bridging our flesh began to writhe. In turn, he felt his meaty arms begin to move, and pull down his compression shorts. The feeling was altogether unfamiliar, as he felt his own flesh betray him and move to my will. I willed him to hand me the soaked shorts. Even with the power of the god of flesh on my side, I could feel Joey struggling for control through sheer willpower alone. I laughed a little in my head. There are other ways to break a man. 

I brought his heavenly scented shorts up to my face, gorging myself on the potent raw musk of man. Like a pungent blast of earth and humidity and testosterone. A Joey-concentrate. I could practically feel the potency of it clawing at my nostrils. A sweat-laden Joey reeked in the best way. I must have been lost in pleasure, because my eyes refocused to his pleading face. “P-please man, just stop whatever this is. What do you want?”

I laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s you. I want you. Every part of you.”

A few more nerves shot from my legs, and directly into his. With some new tethers in place, I pulled the threads connecting my arms to his, and quickly slipped under his sweaty workout shirt. I clung to his muscled chest for dear life. ‘Bless these stretchy workout shirts,’ I thought to myself. I felt along the ridges of his spine, across his shoulders which screamed power, and with my hands, I greedily caressed the flesh previously only touched by Britney. I gripped our embrace tighter. Joey was screaming and writhing, soaking the shirt further and my body in his struggle. I moaned as he screamed, as every turn and twist his body made also pushed my chest closer to his, confined by his own workout shirt. I sighed dreamily as his struggle compressed us closer together.

With the power of the needle, I made myself much more malleable and began to slip my arms to into the arm sleeves of his shirt. I spiraled them across his meaty biceps, possessively claiming every square inch of his flesh as my own. I did the same with my legs, wanting to bind us further.

The sight must have been bizarre- two men, naked from the waist down, both in the same sweaty workout shirt. And the smaller man, stretching and wrapping his arms and legs over the other.

“Now for some real fun” I stated, as I shot out as many of my nerves into him as I could. He screamed at the sensory assault as he fell unconscious. I merely continued rooting into him, relishing in being able to feel every inch of Mr. Unattainable. I slowly stumbled our bodies toward his mirror, making sure to have him grab his own phone.

= = = = =

When Joey came to, he saw my head hanging to the side in front of his, and his body enveloped by mine. He panicked when he saw more threads from my face rooted into his neck and mouth. “Fuck Joey, I can feel how strong your lungs are. Even your breaths feel like a top jock” I moaned. 

Like raindrops, I felt his tears stream down his cheek and onto my face. “L-Let me go man. Look I’m sorry for whatever I did to you. I swear I don’t remember doing anything.”

I laughed callously. “No need to apologize, bro. You haven’t done anything to me. I just want you all to my own.” I brought his phone up to his face so he could see the name on the call screen. Britney.

“Babe?” She answered. “What’s up?”

“H-HEL-“ He tried to holler. Instead, his neck swelled and throat strained as he my red thread began to writhe. 

“Joey? Is everything all right?” She asked in a worried tone.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Joey’s mouth laughed, while his eyes showed fear. I continued to use him as my mouth piece. “You’re so boring, Brit. Just called to tell you it’s over.” Tears began to well in his eyes. I could practically hear the tears in Brit’s eyes over the phone.

“Joey… I. Is something wrong? You never call me Brit. I told you how my dad used to…” She trailed, trying to rationalize the situation.

I continued the puppet show as Joey’s eyes continued pleading with me. “Nothing’s wrong, Babe. In fact, it’s finally all right over here.” He stated with a smile. Joey’s eyes winced at the venom spewing from his mouth.

Joey grunted as he tried to stop his free hand from fondling my ass. “Do you know how many girls and guys wanted in these pants, Brit? Do you know how hard is to always turn someone down. They all want a piece of Juicy Joe.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess you mentioned it once…” She sniffled. “But I thought we were fine” said a choked up Britney.

“Fuck no this isn’t fine. Look at me. I’m a fucking bull.” Joey was forced to say, while sticking his tongue out. I briefly stopped his hand from groping my cheek to force it into a biceps flex. He tried to squirm his head away but was ultimately forced to lick it and moan. I huffed and whispered in his ear. “I bet you taste fucking salty, Joey.” 

“Babe, what’s wrong? You never talk about your body that-“

“Brit, just shut the fuck up”. That seemed to shut her up. “Always fucking whining too…” I made Joey huff. The upper half of his head was sobbing now. I forced his free hand back over my ass, and used his other hand to set the call to speaker. “It’s over”.

Joey dropped the phone on the table- still mid call, as I willed his other hand to cup my other cheek. Squeeze. “Fffuuuuck” I moaned. “You’re fucking mine, Joe.” Like his musculature, I commanded my cock into a malleable state, snaking over his, encircling it like a fleshy sleeve. Then, all at once, my red threads of control stirred, as Joey fucked his thick jock dick into my makeshift cocksleeve. “I’m fucking yours”. I made him say. My eyes fluttered in drunken bliss.

“Joey- who is that?”

I felt his head struggle as he tried to stop his body from growing hard. At this, I made sure he had full control of his cock. His plump ass cheeks tightened as his body was forced to thrust into me. I saw him wince, but we both felt the change. Even without me controlling it, his cock stirred to life.

I willed my flesh puppet to answer. “Oh, him? I’ve been fucking him during this call, Brit. That’s how boring you are. Stupid too- we’ve been fucking for months and you never noticed” I make him say it to his reflection as well, topping it with a sleazy grin he never wore. I also made a point to moan, to force him to thrust his hardening dick into me in loud, boisterous grunts. “Fuck. Brit. You. Never. Felt. This. Good”. I make him gasp in between breaths. 

“So you’re fucking him, right now?” She asked, now turning to anger.

“Mmph… YES” I let him shout, as I tightened my fleshy trap around his engorged dick and milk his seed dry. To add to the injury, I released control of his mouth at the same time, so in that moment, he felt himself scream bloody pleasure and coat my flesh in his juices.

“YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD TO ME,” Britney shouts, before hanging up.

Perhaps it was due to the pleasure, or the bombardment of his senses, or the sheer perversion of the situation, but Joey’s eyes rolled back to its whites and his head slumped into my shoulder. 

I basked in the moment, coated in the sweat and baby batter of Mr. Unattainable. Breathing in sync with his unconscious form. With his head still slung forward, I willed his upright form to give my ass another squeeze. “Take me, bro. I’m your fucking meat puppet. Feel me. Use me. These muscles, this body. It’s all yours. I’m all yours.” I make Joey say. Mr. Unattainable wholly mine.

I kept him upright, facing the mirror without a care for how sore his post-workout body already was. I made sure he stirred awake, to still see himself playing and groping my fleshy form, bonded together supernaturally by the god of meat. He sobbed silently at our union.

With Joey whimpering and broken, I began to retreat into my original form, letting his arms and legs and chest free. All that connected our two naked bodies now was just a single thread of red. But just one thread was all I seemed to need. I no longer felt resistance from his body, as his sullen face just looked to me with defeat. 

I made him reiterate my will. “I’m all yours,” Joey mumbles. I puppetted him to close the distance, and pull my back towards his abs. Joey did not resist as body grinded into mine. He clumsily grabbed my head for a sloppy kiss. And once again, I tasted and experienced something only Brit previously had. His tears smeared into my cheek as I started making him kiss me. My eyes fluttered closed as I was in ecstasy. True pleasure. His lips slowly pried mine open, then the tip of his tongue touching mine. In our deranged intimacy, I savored the taste of Joey’s mouth and of his tongue now forced mine. I didn’t want this to end. Joey’s body pulled back from the kiss and began groping itself, repeating his new mantra. “I’m all yours.”

Still repeating his mantra, my eyes locked with his, before he grabbed the needle from the desk and pricked his hand with it. In that instant, I heard the door unlock. 

What were the chances? Another miracle of probability. There was a single late final on campus, for an upper div class that freshmen rarely took. And yet, it seemed there was one freshman that did happen to take such a class.

Just my luck. 

Charlie.

= = = = =

A two-parter. Could not for the life of me get usable photos of “Joey” in a compression shirt, so you’re gonna have to use a little imagination for that one haha.

[iifishizzleii]

i think most people forget that soap (from the reboot) is, like, really fucking strong. and i don’t blame them! lots of scenes with soap have ghost in it, and ghost dwarfs him. so, everyone’s immediate reaction is “oh, ghost is bigger, therefore stronger than soap”.

look at the amount of gear ghost wears, though. it’s his uniform, vest, then combat gear. he looks so damn huge because he’s really fucking padded. soap, on the other hand?

bro is only wearing a shirt and pants under his gear in some scenes, and he’s practically bulging in it. he’s also 6’2ft. idk why ppl write him off to having to “look up” at ghost, as if the brit isn’t only two inches taller than him😭

anyways, just a little reminder to some that johnny ‘soap’ mactavaish isn’t a twink!! neither are… any of the guys. yea. :D

[holdmytesseract]

Could you please do tom x reader where they are friends to lovers? Maybe the pretend boyfriend that turns real? Smutty and fluffy?

Hide & Seek

Tom Hiddleston x fem!Reader

Summary: Tom asks you to accompany him to Ben's birthday party. On the way there, you get stuck in traffic. A misunderstanding reveals long harboured feelings and things come how they had to come...

Warnings: mutual pining, thirst, fluff, jelousy? a misunderstanding, smuttish/suggestive stuff

Word Count: 3,1k

a/n: You guys wanted it and I am a woman of my words, so... Here it is! 🫡

I hope you like what I wrote for you @huntress-artemiss . 🥰 And I hope that everybody else enjoys it of course, too!

Tags: @lady-rose-moon @muddyorbsblr @smolvenger @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @jennyggggrrr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @evelyn-kingsley @vanilla-daydreaming @loz-3 @fictive-sl0th @lovingchoices14 @lokidbadguy @icytrickster17 @lulubelle814 @mandywholock1980 @november-rayne @chantsdemarins @simping-for-marvel @lou12346789 @lokiforever @multifandom-worlds @hisredheadedgoddess28 @vbecker10 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv @crimson25 @cakesandtom @buttercupcookies-blog @salvinaa @javagirl328 @dustychinchilla74 @frzntrx @coldnique

Masterlist °☆• Hiddles Masterlist

You heard the familiar 'ding' sound of your phone; announcing the arrival of a new message. With a hairpin pinned between your teeth and one hand in your hair, you quickly scooted over to your little make-up table, on which you had left your phone. Tapping on the screen, you immediately saw the message popping up.

'I'm here, darling. Are you ready? x'

You smiled, fixated your hair and quickly unlocked your phone; texting back.

'Almost. :) Gimme five mins, Tommy. x'

Not wasting any time, you applied some decent make-up, gave yourself a once over in the full-length mirror, grabbed the things you'd need and made your way towards the main door of your small, cosy house.

You had promised Tom - your best friend since you were teenagers, to accompany him to the birthday party of Ben. He didn't want to go alone - and you couldn't say no, of course. You never could say no when it came to Tom. Never. You'd anything for him. He was one of the most important people in your life. He was your sunshine on a rainy day. Your lighthouse in the raging storms. A safe haven to which you could always return.

A lot of people told you that this friendship wasn't going to last. After all, Tom was an actor. A famous actor. And you were just... you. But you proved them all wrong. The friendship lasted; survived every sharp turn, bump and crash on the way. A deep bond was formed; stronger than everything you ever experienced - and yet you were just best friends. Sure there had been opportunities to take this friendship to another level and turn it into something more, but neither of you took the opportunity.

You couldn't deny, though, that you had developed strong feelings for the handsome Brit over the years. Romantic feelings. How could somebody not fall for a man like Tom? He was a charming, kind, funny, talented, handsome gentleman with a heart of pure gold. You didn't dare to confess your feelings, because you didn't want to lose your best friend. Better have him as a best friend in your life than not at all, right?

So, the years flew by. Boyfriends came and boyfriends went. Just like with Tom. It was a heart wrenching pain whenever you met Tom's new girlfriend - and you hated it, but what were you supposed to do? All you wanted for him was happiness; but neither of you seemed to find happiness - at least when it came down to romantic relationships...

Another 'ding' of your mobile ripped you out of your thoughts. Shaking your head softly and trying to focus again; you opened the door and stepped out - only to almost stumble back inside.

A soft, cool breeze brushed past you; swirling your beige dress around your knees. The smell of rain hit your nose and some dark clouds hung in the sky; shielded the sun from shining down on you.

That wasn't what took your breath away, though. It was Tom, who stood not far away from you. Just a few meters; legs crossed, leaning casually against his black Jaguar with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit trousers.

Speaking of trousers... He was wearing a dark blue suit. Black dress shoes shone against the wet pavement; suit trousers hugging his long legs and hips snugly - held together by a black leather belt. The matching dark blue shirt wasn't any less tight; tailored perfectly for his lean yet strong upper body and forcing the small buttons to hold on for dear life. A tie and suit jacket in the exact same colour completed his look.

You swallowed a thick lump; had a hard time to control yourself and the rapidly beating heart within your chest. Luckily, Tom wasn't looking your way and didn't notice your distress. His gaze was directed to the street as he watched the cars drive by. The position showed off his ridiculously beautiful face; sharp jawline, high cheekbones - peppered with soft and fuzzy looking facial hair of his three-day beard. Tom's wild, blonde-brown curls had gotten so long; a hairsbreadth away from touching his broad shoulders. He looked like a prince, straight out of a fairytale book; combined with the perfect image of a photo shoot.

You bit your lip painfully hard; trying desperately to suppress the moan which threatened to slip past your lips.

It was insanely hot - and Tom didn't even notice the impact this had on you.

"Hey, Tommy," you finally greeted him; attracting his attention. Sure, you could've stared longer and admire the fine man he was, but you didn't want him to accidentally look and notice...

His head whipped around towards you; baby blues meeting your Y/E/C ones. "Hello, darling." A smile spread across his face, as he made his way over to you; giving you a hug. The hugs he gave his other friends didn't last quite as long as the hugs he gave you... You just didn't notice.

"Are you ready?" You nodded; smiling. "I was born ready. You should know that by now." You loved to tease him from time to time. Tom just chuckled; shaking his head. "I won't start now to recount the times you weren't ready. Let's go." You just giggled and followed your best friend to the car.

Being the gentleman the Brit was, he held the door open for you to sit inside his Jaguar. Once you were both seated, Tom started the engine and drove off towards the party.

Unfortunately, was the traffic on this fine Friday evening very bad; causing the both of you to get stuck. Like... Really stuck. Everything stood still. The little highway you were driving on was closed.

"Ugh, great... Now we'll be surely late to the party..." Tom gave you an apologetic look. "Apologies, Y/N/N... I should've taken the other route when I had the chance. Now it's too late... Can you text Ben?" He asked you, handing you his phone; gaze fixated on the cars in front of him. You shook your head, "No need to apologise, Tommy. You couldn't know. But yeah, I'm gonna text him." and unlocked Tom's phone as if it was your own. Not that you knew each other's password by heart... "Thank you, darling."

You tapped on WhatsApp, searched Ben's contact and entered the chat. Of course you tried hard to not read the last messages he received and sent to give your best friend some privacy, but when your eyes caught a glimpse of a text just above the text box you were writing your text in, you couldn't help but to look. You knew it was wrong, but before you were able to stop yourself, it was already too late and your gaze wandered...

Ben: So... You're gonna take her finally home then, right??

Tom: What, I- Ben stop that. I... I can't just do that. I don't think she'd want that... Me...

Ben: Friend... Are you kidding me? It's obvious she wants you.

Tom: You, uh, think so?

Ben: Know so. Shoot your shot, man, before it's too late...

You didn't have to read more. Swallowing hard, you stared at the messages for a moment. You knew exactly who Tom and Ben were obviously talking about... Chloe. A woman Tom had met on set a few months back. She was - well, is one of the costume designers and therefore saw Tom quite often. Someday, they started to talk during a break and well... According to Tom the sparks had been flying. He had told his best friend everything, of course - while you wished he hadn't. You tried to be happy for him - like you always did when he met a new woman, but... As much as you tried, your head never could win the battle against your heart. It was an undefeatable opponent. A invulnerable fortress.

You never met Chloe - and yet you despised her wholeheartedly. It wasn't fair, of course, but love had turned you into a monster.

"Y/N? Hey, Y/N/N."

You flinched and snapped out of your thoughts as Tom's soft velvet voice urged to your ears. "Is everything alright?" You blinked, nodded, "Yeah, sure. Sorry, I, uh, just drifted off." and sent the text. Giving him a fake smile, you exited the app and handed him his phone back. "Are you sure?" "Yep. Everything's good, Tommy."

You hated to lie to him, but you couldn't just tell him the truth now, could you?

'Hey, Tommy, I'm sorry but I spied on your texts and saw that one message, saying that you are going to obviously shag that bitch Chloe and now I'm kinda jealous, because it should be me instead!'

Nope, certainly not. But you also couldn't shake that thought of. It occupied you. A lot. Your brain thought about it non-stop; causing your heart to crack and shatter even more with every passing minute. You could not stand the thought of another woman in Tom's life. In his home. His bed. His heart.

You tried your best to put on a brave face, but your best friend wasn't blind. Neither stupid. He knew you better than you probably knew yourself...

At first the Brit didn't say anything. Given the fact that you clearly told and signalled him that you didn't wish to talk. But at some point, an undeniable, unpleasant tension started to built up between you both. Almost like an imaginary wall... It felt like every untold word, every unspoken feeling had pent up over the last weeks, months - years and were now about to culminate in the middle of an upcoming rain storm. Right here, right now; while being stuck in traffic.

Tom just couldn't take it any longer. He needed to know what had turned everything upside down all of a sudden. Why everything felt so wrong at this very moment.

"Y/N?" He asked you carefully once again. "I know you said everything is okay - and I feel that you clearly don't wish to speak to me, but-" "No, really, Tom. It's all good," you interrupted him once more; giving him another fake smile - and you could tell at the look of his face, that he had seen immediately through that fake smile. But before he was able to say something, you intervened; only digging the gaping hole in your heart deeper.

"Did you go on a date with Chloe?"

Tom frowned; was clearly confused of the sudden change of topic. "Y-Yes, but-" "Great. How did it go?" "Um, great, I-I guess, but why are you-" "Good. That's good. I'm happy for you Tom." You swallowed hard; feeling your heart scream in pain - but no matter how hard it hurt you, you just had to know what happened between them. You wanted to spare yourself the double gut punch. Might as well feel all the pain at once.

"But, Y/N... Why-" You chose not to leave him any space to question you and just get over with it. "Did you kiss her?" "W-What?" "Touch her?" "T-Touch her? Why would I-" "Sleep with her?" "I-" "Was she at least good in bed?" You kept on bombarding your best friend with questions. "Y/N-" "Was she, huh?" "Y/N, I-" "Did she made you cu-"

"Y/N!"

Tom suddenly exploded; screamed out your name and slamming his hands on the steering wheel of the Jag. He clearly had heard enough; couldn't listen to this any longer.

You went silent; didn't even dare to breathe for a second.

"I didn't sleep with her! I didn't touch her! Goddammit, I didn't even kiss her! Nothing happened between us! Nothing!" The Brit took a deep breath; trying to calm himself down again. You just stared at him; mouth closed shut.

"Yes, we met. Yes, it was great. But I wouldn't even call it a date. We talked and drank a glass of wine. Nothing more." You swallowed hard. "B-But, I-I thought you and Chloe were-" "A thing? No. We're not, Y/N." You blinked; were quite stunned at the sudden turnout of this situation - and once more was your mouth quicker to speak than your brain was able to think and so it came how it had to come...

"About who did you and Ben talk about then in your chat, if not Chloe?"

It slipped past your lips - and you immediately regretted it; afraid of Tom's reaction.

Tom's eyes widened to the size of plates; hands twitching to grip the steering wheel tight, while his cheeks turned beet red. The Brit had not thought about this conversation he had with his his friend - and now you knew.

"Shit, Tom, I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to spy on your chats, I-I just saw it a-and was wondering about who-"

"You."

You blinked once more. "W-What?"

Tom turned to face you again; oceanic blue eyes meeting your Y/E/C ones.

Now or never, Tom thought.

"You, Y/N. We were talking about you."

You could've sworn that your heart skipped more than just one beat at his words. "M-Me?" You squeaked out; pointing at yourself. "Me?" "Yes. You. And the party today." Your eyes widened; jaw slacking in disbelief. "Y-You wanted to... Me?" Tom nodded; smiling nervously. "I always just wanted you, darling. No other woman on this earth is able to compare to you. My heart fell for you a long time ago. It belongs to you. Always has. Always will. I was just too afraid to tell-" Before he was able to finish his sentence, you had pulled him closer by the lapels of his stupidly sexy suit jacket and literally slammed your lips on his.

Tom was definitely shocked and overwhelmed at first, but he immediately relaxed; sighed in the kiss and pulled you as close as somehow possible with the car interior being quite a bit in the way.

All suppressed feelings and emotions finally broke free and melted into that very kiss. It felt like getting hit by an 18-wheeler truck and floating through heaven at the same time. It was a beautiful, chaotic mess, which the both of you enjoyed every second of - and tempted you to indulge into kiss after kiss after kiss.

You felt how your heartbeat quickened at the feeling of love and desire for the man beside you, as they were finally able to flood your body; veins pulsating with a dangerous mixture of endorphins and oxytocin - and Tom's musky smell, combined with the fruity blood orange and leather touch of his perfume didn't help at all. It made everything worse, without a doubt. Resisting Tom had been always difficult - but now that the chains were broken, it was impossible. And why should you stop yourself? There was no holding back anymore. The cards laid on the table.

You pushed Tom back into the driver seat; catching him by surprise. Your hand started to play with his tie; quickly undoing it. Tom's eyes watched your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt; steadily wandering lower as he was swallowing hard. "Darling, w-what... what are you- Woah!" Tom had clearly anticipated that your hand would land at a place where he had often imagined it to be late at night, when he was all alone at home. But it didn't. You gave his belt a soft tug, but then moved your hand over his thigh and down to where the lever was, which allowed his seat to slide back; bringing even more space between him and the steering wheel.

Another thing the Brit hadn't seen coming - just like the next move you made.

Within the blink of an eye, you had slipped out of your high heels and elegantly swung yourself over; sitting on your former best friend's lap. It caused your dress to ride up your thighs - and Tom's eyes to widen. He literally froze in place; realising in which position you just brought yourself and him. You placed your hands on his shoulders, tugging at his suit jacket; trying to get him to shrug it off - what he did. "Y/N, w-what are you doing?" Tom knew of course very well what you were doing, but he needed to hear it. "What does it look like? I'm, uh, saving the car and riding you instead."

Tom's eyes almost popped out of his head at your bold words. Nevertheless, he couldn't deny that it stirred something deep inside him. And his dress pants.

"Darling, I-I don't know if we should do this here, I-" You raised a playful eyebrow at him.

"Oh, Tommy please... Don't be so shy now. You can't tell me that you never imagined doing this..." You leaned in closer; whispering into his ear: "Me. On top of you." The Brit couldn't help the moan which slipped past his lips. "I-I did, I-," he panted out; feeling one of your hands opening his belt; metal clinking. "See? Besides, the windows are tinted. Nobody's going to see this. Plus, we are stuck anyway, so... What are you waiting for?" You asked in a hushed voice; tracing your lips down his pulse point. "Touch me."

Another breathy moan escaped Tom's lips; big hands flying up to grab your bare thighs and working on slipping your dress even higher up your hips. His warm, slightly sweaty palms sent a shiver down your spine; nerve ends sizzling with desire.

"I-I've wanted this for so long, now, darling." Tom whispered; pressing his forehead against yours. "And now that I can finally have it - you... It's so surreal and- Oh fuck..." Tom's hands started to tremble; eyebrows slanting and mouth forming into a perfect 'o' as you lowered yourself on him. Only your lips messily entangling themselves with his seemed to bring him out of his haze.

"I love you, Tommy. I love you. I always have," you whimpered; body jolting with love and pleasure. His soft beard scratched the skin of your cheek, as he buried his head in the crook of your neck; lips marking you as his.

"I love you, too, darling. With all my heart. I'm yours." He lifted his head once more; glassy blue eyes gazing deeply into your soul. "Now let me love you. Let me make love to you." You smiled deliriously and raked your fingers through his long, blonde-brown curls. "I beg you to, Tommy."

And when he started to move, the world around you faded. All you could think and feel was Tom.

[bonefall]

I just read your response about how the Erin's didn't realise the colonialism themes of DOTC and now I'm wondering if it's because they're British - a big fucking colonialist country

I am also British and I have seen first hand how watered down the empire's negative consequences are in schools. I still remember being told, "the only ones that weren't having a great time were the slaves." when in reality no-one but the British was having a good time

It's unthinkable that the fact they are White British Authors of a Certain Age didn't contribute to it. Like... that's just how culture works, even if it somehow wasn't at all related to their formal education. It influences how you think.

(Also as an aside, even most of The British didn't like the whole empire thing. 3/4ths of Britain isn't England. 2024 is still young, come on guys, be hilarious)

I can't ENTIRELY pin this one on you guys though, the writers are English but their biggest audience is American. And the Americans also predictably failed to catch the themes. ALSO a big colonialist country.

(I happened to get a really good education though, especially for a public school. I don't know if My Fellow Americans even learned about the Whiskey Rebellion or the Banana Wars)

It's also hard to explain it, but the Erins also have a very British way of writing fat people. There's overlap between them, but Brit and American fatphobia has two 'trends.'

American fatphobia tends to frame weight as being funny, pathetic, and a sign of a lack of discipline. English fatphobia tends use it to make a villainous or annoying character appear even more vile, greedy, and unhygienic. American media has also had a stronger trend of body positivity lately, whereas I'm having a hard time even thinking of overweight English characters who are not mocked for their size.

These are just the two things I've noticed though. I'm sure there's more noteworthy trends about WC that's influenced by its authors coming from where they do.

[adventuringblind]

Drive with you Forever

Chapter Nine: Find me at your doorstep

Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc x Lando Norris x Reader

Chapter summary: summer break is interrupted, Guenther is exasperated, Seb is a father to four kids who can't communicate, and the reader reveals an interesting piece of information

Warnings: kidnapping, medical abuse, physical abuse, drugging, lack of communication, throwing up, sickness, blood, mild gore, Jos Verstappen and his great parenting skills, mentions of SH

Notes: Listen, Y'all, this is probably one of my favorites so far. It's definitely not as comical as others, but it's dramatic and has some action.

Previous &lt;-

Masterlist

She probably shouldn't have been alone. She got comfortable in the safety of their apartment. Her newfound willingness to not let her father get to her.

She shouldn't have left that day as she walked down the streets of Monaco. Pascale had invited her over for lunch, and although she could have driven, she wanted the fresh air.

It was stupid to leave the house, she thinks, as her body refuses to work. Her useless visions apparently don't show what happens to her directly, just what happens around her.

Now she's in a strangers car, her phone broken, and the energy that had doubled since her dad stuck her with the needle not working.

Her healing had gotten better, and she'd discovered how to make new things out of old things. Her visions are clearer and more consistent, and the telekinetic abilities made her feel more like a Jedi from Star Wars every day.

Again, it's all useless now.

~

"Has anyone heard from y/n?" Shouts Charles from the living room where he had been lazily lounging on the couch.

"No. Why?" Max pops his head out of the kitchen. It's grown on Charles to see the Dutch being domestic. He's protective of his kitchen and Charles being the number one threat is not allowed anywhere near it when he's cooking.

"She was supposed to be at my mom's house by now, and apparently, she's not there."

"She did walk there, so maybe she just took the scenic route?"

"But an hour late feels like a lot for that." The anxiety in Charles’ voice is evident.

"Let's not worry about it for now. She knows how to take care of herself."

~

Nobody had heard from her that night. Or the next morning.

The boys couldn't sleep. On the phone with anyone who might know where she is.

Nothing. It's like she disappeared off the planet.

"Do you think it's her dad?" Pipes Lando. The Brit had been pacing a hole in the floor, and both Charles and Max had made him slow down to breathe properly multiple times.

None of them wanted to consider the possibility, but it could be a likely option.

"god I hope not."

~

Her room hadn't changed. The small window is still letting in a cold draft at night. The only thing telling her how long she'd been here.

Five days. Five horribly long days.

The ties around her wrists ached. Her body hurt from being repeatedly drugged and tossed around like a sack of potatoes.

There were more people here now. More then she remembers there ever being at least. She knew there were people, men, who would come in and out but she was never allowed to speak with them.

For what it’s worth, whatever they were doing to her was making her stronger. She’d been able to transfer the wounds from one person onto herself. It’s keeping her captor at ease for now but she knows he wants more.

It’s not ideal and it’s painful. It’s like she can’t get past a mental block that will allow to simply heal. She can feel it somewhere deep within. She knows she can.

Bringing someone back from the dead however, that’s not healing.

Maybe if she’s able to bring back the corpse of her mother, they’ll trade places. Her soul finally giving into the peace of permanent unconsciousness. At least then her boys wouldn’t have to worry. They could move on without her. Find solace in each other.

Maybe, she thinks.

~

Sebastian is going to lose his mind. His daughter is missing and it feels like the only thing the journalists are writing about is how she probably ran off to be a slut for a different group of guys. He was going to have the heads of whoever wrote that if he ever sees them.

The boys had been staying in Germany with him. It hadn’t taken long for the authorities to determine she’s not in Monaco. They’d come here in hopes of reevaluating. Though they were at each others throats when they got here.

Seb had practically forced them to sit down and communicate. They started working together after that.

Hanna had been forcing them to eat proper meals. Seb made sure at least one of them slept at a time. Lando had recovered from four separate panic attacks over two days. Max is trying to look strong but his puffy red eyes give him away. Then there’s Charles; the monegasque had been blaming himself for not walking with her when he could’ve.

Seb had a feeling they were going to find her. She’s a fighter. The when part is much harder to figure out.

And for all their sakes, he hopes it’s soon.

~

Two weeks.

Two weeks of this nonsense.

She wonders if everyone is racing again. Or at lease getting ready too. This was not how she intended on spending her break.

She was getting closer to giving her father what he wanted. She was pulling herself to the edge of no return every time she worked in that rotting corpse of her mother.

Tonight, though, may be her only chance at escape.

They’d forgotten to drug her before leaving her in her room. The alcohol in their systems already taking effect.

She’d been able to slide off her restraints with ease. Her abilities strength coming in handy at the current moment.

Now she quietly is pulling out her window frame. It have never been sealed but she can’t help but feel satisfied when the screen pops out with a satisfying click.

She could care less how far the drop is. She’s two stories up with grass beneath her. She push herself out the window, her body facing the wall and hand gripping the ledge.

She swings herself outward and hits the ground with a soft thud.

Then she runs.

~

She had a destination in mind. Someone at the gas station she stopped at was nice enough to let her use their gps to see how far away she was under the guise of hers being stolen. Technically, she didn’t lie.

The walk to the Haas headquarters was six hours. But she didn’t stop until she got there.

Now she can’t help but lean herself against the front door, hoping someone notices her.

~

Guenther whistles a tune to himself as he arrives at work for the day. The sun is out and the birds are chirping. The definition of a great morning to him.

The familiar female figure slumped on the ground in front of the front door completely changes his tune. He quick to get her inside and find some fresh Haas shirts lying around for her to change into.

Once she’s awake and refreshed he sits her down in his office.

“Are you going to tell me why you spent the night outside the front door?” He sounds like a stern parent. She curls into herself. It’s reminiscent of how she was when he first got her when she was fifteen. Scared, shaking, and so quiet.

He’d known she went missing a little over two weeks ago. It was the reason the summer break had been extended. The FIA had been trying to get more security measures set in place.

“I need to call Seb, please.”

~

The boys were there the next day.

Guenther had taken her to his house despite her adamant refusal. The girl had been to tired to fight and eventually gave in.

It’s not long before she padding softly down to the dining room, halting in her tracks when she sees everyone. She doesn’t say anything. She can’t say anything. The boys don’t either. They don’t know how to approach her.

He led the four males inside and sat them down at his dining room table. “She’s sleeping right now.” Questions come flying at him from the three younger men. Seb shoots them all a look that says shut up and let him explain. “I’ll warn you that she’s a bit of a mess. Her father did a number this time around.”

after an hour of sitting, the anxious boys see the female peek her head around he corner. none of them know what to do. They don’t want to scare her away after what she’s been through.

Seb goes to her first. He approaches her slowly taking her in his arms. Then everything in her snaps. It’s just like when she had night terrors and was finally able to wake up from it. This time however, it had been real.

~

She spends the night in bed with Max. The house they're staying in lacks a bed big enough for all of them.

They had played a game of rock paper scissors, which Max won. He claimed his spot next to her with his signature winning grin.

Charles and Lando decided not to take a different bedroom and are curled up at the floor at the foot of the bed instead. Their soft snores confirm that they are, in fact, asleep.

Max holds her close. Every second with her precious. She'd been crying since they arrived. No matter what they did, she seemed to have a never ending supply of tears.

He'd been the first to assess the damage done to her body.

Diagnosis: terrible. He had half a mind to get Guenther to show him where the hell her father is staying so he can personally drag him to hell.

The cuts and incisions along her torso and chest are still red and puffy. The bruises that littered her skin are awful shades of blue, black, and yellow. Her eyes are dull with dark circles beneath. Her body seemed just as fragile as the day he first met her.

He felt himself slipping back into memories from years ago. Gentle touches so he didn't scare her, slow movements because she flinched away from anyone who moved fast.

Quiet until someone tried to say something mean to him or Seb.

Now she lays on his chest. Tears still fall onto his lightly colored t-shirt. And he finds himself wishing he'd have found her years before he met her, if only to tell her he'll be there for her. No matter what anyone says, he'll always find her.

~

Seb watches carefully as she picks at her piece of toast. According to Guenther, she hadn't been able to keep much down since he found her.

She protested eating anything, but Seb is a good negotiator. He promised that when she could keep food down that they would go home to Germany. Not back to Monaco yet because people are aching to get pictures of her.

"At this rate, I'll be old and wrinkly by the time you finish."

She shoots him scowl. "Aren't you retiring? Dosen't that mean you're already old?"

"Old is a state of mind."

She takes another bite. The taste could be that of a brick, but she's so hungry it would still taste delicious.

"I can't stop thinking about the car that got me."

"What do you mean?" Seb asks gently. She hadn't talked much about the whole ordeal yet. Little bits of information here and there but nothing to help him get a picture of what went on.

"The man driving the car. I knew him."

"But he wasn't your father? Or the man at your door?"

"No, he was older than my father and larger than the man at the door." She rubs her tembles in a struggle to remember.

"No need to think about it now. They're not going to get you again. Mostly because I think your boys might start a war if they do."

Their soft conversation is interrupted by Max speaking to his phone in angry Dutch. A clear sign of Jos being on the other end.

"je doet raar." (You're being ridiculous)

Her head perks up at the phrase. A familiar one Max uses with Charles when he is oblivious.

Max hangs of the phone in a huff amd site down with them at the table.

"Can you say that again?" She looks at Max. Her request odd to him, but he obliges. "je doet raar."

"He was on the phone speaking Dutch. He used that phrase." Her head gets a shooting pain, and lights dance through her eyes as she finds herself receiving the car ride.

This time watching scenes unfold in that past. This is new. Both with her and in the context of the situation.

She's in the passenger seat, and next to her is none other than Jos Verstappen.

~

Charles has never seen Max so angry. Which is saying something because Max is angry a lot.

The scene him and Lando walked into had been nothing short of catastrophic.

A female body tucked into Seb on the couch, the German attempting to get the attention of a specific Dutch. Max obviously is not listening and is letting the most foul things he's even heard him say about his father ring through all their ears.

It's interesting in a sense. The other three had never hesitated to show their distaste towards Jos, and Seb had managed to call him a poor excuse of a father to his face on more than one occasion.

There had been a time that Max had a tire malfunction and ended his race in the wall. Jos had gotten more aggressive then any of them would have liked and he is very lucky that nobody aside from Seb had been around to see it.

Seb has a sway with words. He knows how to make them stick. So when he saw Jos' hand land on Max's cheek, he didn't hesitate to step in.

The German gently tucked Max out of the way and faced the older Dutch with fire in his eyes.

"Didn't know a tire failure was deserving of a slap."

"This is between me and my son."

"As far as I'm aware, he's dating my daughter, which makes him mine also. Touch him again, and I'll take legal action."

It was one of the only times Seb had to hold Max comfortingly in his chest. Reassuring the boy that he did not deserve any of that even as Max explained why he did.

Lando is the fastest to act. His arms encircled around Max's body. He can visibly see him relax into the Brits hold.

"Jos was the one who took me originally." The female explains. Her knees tucked up to her chest, and her head rests on sebs shoulder. Charles makes note of how she looks more exhausted now the the last time he saw her.

The words didn't register with him. Not entirely anyway. It didn't make sense. How is it even possible that Jos is in kahoots with the devil?

It would seem they are both devils that somehow raised angels. Charles will only thank them for that, and only after he's killed them.

It's terrible really, the way they look at him. She is teary eyed and apologizing while Max looks clueless. And for the first time since Charles started dating him, Max is pleading with his eyes for help. The Dutch is clueless on where to go from here.

"Knowing that, Max, if you want to leave your dad out of this, we can." Mentions Seb. He knows that the way Jos brought up Max left him confused. His dad praised him and rewarded him one second, then hit him the next. It made thinking fuzzy for him, and since his father was never all bad, he told everyone that it was a good thing. He was attached to him regardless of the circumstances.

This was different.

"If he's going to kidnap my lovers, then he needs to be put away."

"That makes this easier. Know that my home is your home as it always has been, in case things get ugly."

Max nods his head at the German. Really, Seb had been his father figure since he was seventeen. Jos didn't have much say in his life anymore

~

After a third attempt at eating toast, she was finally able to keep it down. It was forced, and she had gagged multiple times, but it was still in her stomach after an hour.

They left soon after that, thanking Guenther profusely for , once again, rescuing her at her worst.

The perks of dating a world champion is that he now owns a private jet. They got home sooner than she expected because of it.

Hanna greeted them at the door and gently latched herself to her daughter. The relief coming in the for of salty tears.

She likes being at home in Germany. Seb had made sure to keep her old room clean. He even got a bigger bed once he heard Lando joined them.

The room feels comfortable and familiar. She's even able to fall asleep when she sits on top of the soft covers.

That is how the boys found her. Snoring softly, draped over the bed with her shoes still on. They carefully slip her shoes of and reposition her where she'll be more comfortable.

Then, they leave the room and shut the door behind them. Their conversation nothing but whisper right outside the door.

"Will she be able to drive next week?"

"I hope so. Maybe Charles will have a chance if she can't, though." The Dutch snickers. Charles hits his shoulder playfully. "I'm not sure how to move forward now. It seems like anything we do only prolongs the inevitable."

"We take it on day at a time then."

~

She managed to get herself to the race track. Driving may not be an option yet, but at least she was there. Christian wasn't going to let her drive until he got her physical report back.

Really it was Max telling him the truth about how she still can't keep down a full meal and is now dropping weight because of it.

She did eat some crackers and was fine. She's proud of herself for that one.

Despite Sergio driving the second redbull, she was happy to be back. The paddock felt similar to home in some ways.

The only new thing is that she's never alone. When free practice 1 comes around, Max dutifully places her on the pitwall next to Christian. She dosen't move until somone comes to get Her.

She feels mildly like a nuisance to them since they have to pay extra attention to her now.

She's stays in their hotel room the rest of the weekend until right before the race. Everyone in the garage is shocked to see her walk in alone.

All her boys end up on the podium, and it's the first time she's celebrated since she came back.

~

Three quarters through the season, and she's still not driving. Still training in more ways than one, but not driving.

She doesn't feel like she can. Her body is still physically decimated. She's able to keep down more then just toast now, but that's on a good day.

Her powers are at the strongest they've ever been. She's managed to learn more about self-defense in case someone tries to nab her again. But with that comes sticky note threats in Jos Verstappens' handwriting.

It's starting to look desperate.

Despite the state of her uncooperative body, she still went to every race. Attempting to be as supportive as possible from the sidelines.

It didn't feel as painful as when she felt as though she lost her spot the first time. This time, she still had purpose. She is doing her best to learn how to keep her family safe. That's all she could ask of herself.

All of them were glad she wasn't pushing to get back in the car. They all know about her aptitude for pain. Christian is amazed by how she's coping and fully supports her decision. Seb seems to be cheering her on in the pits even though he's the one driving.

She doesn't even bat an eye when Jos makes a vaugly threatening statement towards her. Because if she wanted, she'd have his head through the wall in a second.

She doesn’t let herself get comfortable this time. The nagging feeling that something worse is coming a constant in the back of her mind.

~

Next ->

Tags: @styles-sunflower @purplephantomwolf @boiohboii @reblog-princess-blog @jjsprobablywrong @jayda12 @faithm120601 @eugene-emt-roe @lpab @yaaadii @80sloverry @spongebeck3101 @eviethetheatrefreak

@chanshintien

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit Part Two on AO3

Contents

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

Normally, John settles into his human life like an old, worn blanket: cozy, familiar, the very smell of it relaxing. This year, his bear is slow to recede, grumbling in the back of his mind for whole days, eager and anxious by turns.

content warnings: alcohol consumption

The locals think he winters down south, tease him about Brits not being built right. He lets them, allows himself to remain a tourist in their lives, essentially. Just one more impermanent face in a sea of seasonal relationships. It's better that way. Less questions. Makes it harder, though, when he returns to town already on the lookout for someone. Normally, John settles into his human life like an old, worn blanket: cozy, familiar, the very smell of it relaxing. This year, his bear is slow to recede, grumbling in the back of his mind for whole days, eager and anxious by turns. He hasn't caught hide nor hair of the little rabbit about town, and he's distracted every moment. It's never easy preparing for the high traffic tourist season, but it makes his life particularly difficult when he can't properly taste this year's batch of bourbon for the cloying scent of rabbit which now lives in his maw. Simon says it's good which is good enough for John. He usually waits until May to open the pub so as not to tank on profits during the slower months, but the possibility she may wander in one day looking for a nice drink drives him to desperate measures. He mans the bar himself to save money. If Simon thinks it's strange, he doesn't comment; not that Simon ever comments on much, the brooding bastard.

Weeks go by without seeing her. John gets grumbly, only placated by her unrelenting scent in the air. She's here, somewhere. Hasn't skipped town yet. His bear rages every time the sun goes down without John having set off in search of her. He resists at first, not wanting to scare her further somehow, but bears are not known for their patience, and the very real fact that there's no way she could know he was the oversized grizzly that terrorized her eventually draws him out of hiding.

The bar is closed on Mondays. John usually spends them high in the mountains, reaffirming his turf, but when Monday dawns slow and golden, John knows instantly what he'd rather be doing with his day off. He starts slow, savors it. Spends his morning at a hole-in-the-wall diner which caters to locals more than tourists. Her scent is strong here, but not fresh. A dinner patron, maybe. Clever little rabbit, avoiding the pricier spots downtown. John sits at the counter where her scent is strongest and sips his tea, resisting the urge to ask the waiter if they served a sweet little lamb the night before. The last thing he needs is this local going around telling everyone their resident Brit is a creep. But his bear is discontent with the slow hunt so he moves on shortly after finishing his plate.

Next is the local gym. He doesn't have a membership so he doesn't enter but neither does he need to. The scent of artificial strawberries is stronger here and he surmises she's already showered and left. He finds no trace of her near any of the lodges, which makes sense if she's made a bed of her car, but makes his job harder. No matter, he's got all day.

NFS is less strict during the off season, but John doubts she will have gotten away with parking in the same place for weeks so he hops in his car and takes a long drive by all the roadside stops east of Lake McDonald. He finds her Jeep somewhere out by Fish Creek but she's nowhere in sight. That's alright. There's a short trail leading back to the campground nearby, mostly thawed out and muddy. John wanders along, lets instinct take control. She's here, scent subtle amongst the mud and heady smell of actual small game, like sniffing out an overflowing beehive amidst scraggly squirrel and pungent pine. Hard to come by, worth the effort.

He finds her scrambling along a small ridge, chest puffing with the effort of the short climb. Good girl, better suited for a slow hunt. Mate, his bear decides, and he has to bite his cheek to stop from chuffing at her.

"'Morning," He calls from the top of the rickety stairs NFS has kindly provided for soft creatures like her. He'd meant to announce his position so as not to scare her, but her head whips up at the sound of his approach like a deer that's caught his scent anyway. Smart rabbit.

"Uh, 'morning." She's short of breath, self conscious about it. John knows what he looks like in the spring, all lean muscles. He hates it, is embarrassed by it under normal circumstances but especially when it sets round little sows like her on edge. Human women who look like her aren't accustomed to men who look like him being nice, he's learned.

"Early start of it?"

She frowns up at the clear sky. "Not really?"

"Meant for the season, sorry. You local?" He's descended to her level now, the smell of honey and her exertion nearly lethal. His tongue grows heavy.

She raises a brow at him, doesn't answer the question. "Are you?"

He laughs, knows she's referring to his accent. "Seasonally. John, by the way."

She eyes his hand warily but accepts it. She introduces herself and John rolls it around on his tongue, testing. She must like the way it sounds with his accent because she blushes prettily at that. "What do you mean by seasonally local?"

"Winter down south," he lies, hoping maybe it endears him to her nomad way of life.

Instead, her grin borders on cruel. "Can't hack the cold?"

"Ah, so you are a local."

She laughs and John is instantly addicted. "Not quite, but I'm no stranger to a hard winter."

His bear can't help but appraise her broad figure again, appreciating how full she's kept herself despite that. Good mate, good girl. Fatted rabbit. It's hard to speak past the saliva pooling on his tongue. "Where you from, then, honey?"

If she finds the pet name odd, she doesn't comment. Probably not in her best interest, as his bear preens at that. "New York, originally," she tells him easily. "But like. Very far upstate. Up in the mountains. But I've been living in Dallas for… a while."

She's rambling. It's cute. "Missed the hard winters, did you?"

"Something like that. What brings a Brit up this way?"

"Money. Got a distillery, and a bar back in Columbia Falls. Tourists go crazy for that shite."

She laughs again. John tucks it away between the flavors of his favorite cigars and his mother's name. "Are you admitting your product is tourist trap trash, then?"

"Admitting it? That's what I named the company." His grin is all teeth, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, can't say I visited a place unless I fall into a trap at least once, can I? I'll have to check it out."

He can't deny the mental image has its appeals. "Look forward to it." He hopes his smile is more inviting this time. He's already planning what he'll serve her.

"Nice to meet you, John," she grins and then carries on her way. John can be patient when needed, but his bear is displeased by that.

***

He's even less pleased when a week passes without a visit. John falls to pieces a bit when he steps onto his roof one night and notices a distinct lack of honey on the breeze. When his bear demands a walk through the forest, he doesn't fight it, letting instinct drag him half across the park in search of the Jeep he'd marked. He doesn't find her. He opens the pub late the next day, too tired to make it in on time. Simon eyes him critically, but again doesn't comment.

The next day finds him nursing his hurt pride, consoling the upset beast which resides in his chest with a frankly absurdly large lunch in the kitchen when the bell announces a visitor. It is, however, redundant. John is already ferrying his food to the shop front, working a massive bite between his strong jaws to abate the hunger the breeze has carried in: honey and strawberries. She smiles at him shyly when she spots him, sidles on up to the bar and chooses a seat a safe distance from him, as if she's afraid he's going to pull her over the bar and eat her too. Smart rabbit.

He waits until he's worked through his bite before speaking, white knuckling his hold on humanity. "Nearly gave up on you," he says by way of greeting. His voice is gruff and deep; for a second he's worried he's slipped into his other form.

"Your own fault. Thought you'd given me the slip, giving me the wrong name," she teases. He's about to protest when she waves a coaster at him. Last Resort Bourbon Bar. Of course.

He smirks. "Turned out the other name was bad for business."

"And calling yourself a last resort option is better?"

"It's a pun! Cause we're-."

"So close to the border, yeah. Would make more sense if you offered lodging, though, eh?"

"You saying you wanna spend the night?"

She blinks owlishly, drops the coaster, stammers, "That's not - uh -."

John smiles indulgently, winking. "Right, I'll buy you a drink first," he offers as he washes his hands and pours her a glass. He picks a lighter line, sniffing out the sweet notes. "We recommend on ice for your first taste, that good?"

"Y-yeah." She's blushing up to her ears. He nearly growls in contentment.

"Lunch?" he asks as he supplies her drink.

She takes a sip like it's a lifeline. He gives her the moment to recover without comment, waits for her nod of approval before smiling back. "Sure. What've you got going on over there?" She asks, nodding to his heaping pile of meats, cheeses, and fruits. She's probably asking for a charcuterie board of her own but he chooses to believe she wants his. He desperately wants to share it with her, see her picking the food from his own plate, but he'd rather get her something more filling.

"Nothing good. You like fish?"

She does an adorable little wiggle: a motion with her head as if weighing her options, but carried on through her whole body. "What kind of fish?"

"Trout. Squash puree. Goes good with that lighter blend," he points to her glass.

She squints at him, feigned affront. "You starting me off with the easy stuff?"

"You don't seem like much of a bourbon girl," he shrugs.

She smiles, nods in defeat. "Not much of a drinker, to be honest."

"I can fix that."

She scoffs, surprised. "Well you'll have to do better than this," she teases, shaking her glass at him and he laughs happily.

"Told you it was shite."

"Let's hope your fish is more appetizing, eh?"

John can't help but grin happily, shoving a handful of grapes into his maw as he wanders back into the kitchen, savoring the way they pop under his teeth, coating his jowls in their juices. Simon is in the kitchen because of course he is. He leans back against a counter, arms crossed, gaze just as silent and skeptical as always. John gets to work starting the food.

"Thought you were supposed to be at the distillery today?"

"Why are you offering food if you didn't think I was back here?" When John ignores him, he continues blandly, "Bit early for the dinner menu."

"Repeat customer potential."

"Oh? She local?"

"Seasonal," John lies. Honestly she could hop in her mobile little burrow and disappear from his life tomorrow. The thought makes his chest hurt so he ignores it.

Simon hums noncommittally and moves to peek out the window to the bar. "She's cute."

John can't help the low growl that builds in his chest. Thankfully, it's too bass for human ears. "Yes."

"Want I should take over back here so you can get back out there, cap?"

Simon only ever calls him that sarcastically. Means he's teasing John's obvious crush. Well, jokes on him, John has no shame when it comes to the sweet little treat sitting pretty at his bar. "Sure do, thanks. Give a shout if you need help."

Hard to tell when Simon frowns behind that mask, but John takes sick pleasure in the way his shoulders fall the slightest bit. It's short lived though; Simon is never on his back foot for long. "Same to you, cap."

John bares his teeth at the man, passes it off as a nasty grimace when he remembers that's not a normal human reaction. Simon's laugh follows John out into the bar but any lingering annoyance he may have felt dies in his chest when he finds his sweet, soft girl picking at the plate he's left behind. She blushes up to her hairline at being caught, but it settles something deep within him to see her sharing in his feast, trusting him enough not to snarl and snap over what should be his, but what his bear is very rapidly designating theirs.

Good mate.

John's lived through plenty of rut seasons by now. He's been enamored many times, but this is different. Mainly because he isn't in a rut, sure, but also because his bear isn't usually so focussed on one singular potential mate. A parade of half the fat, fertile women in the state could wander by outside his bay window right now and John doesn't think he'd so much as lift his nose in beastly assessment. Why would he? He's got the juiciest rabbit he could ever dream of right here, eating off his plate like a good, docile little creature.

She's still flustered about being caught eating his food, poor thing. He doesn't really know what to say about that, brain still grinding gears, trying to climb up out of basic animal instinct. Instead, he smiles warmly and slides the plate closer as he comes to stand in front of her, leans into her space a bit as he shoves a pretentiously thin sliced piece of ham into his mouth. Honestly, if you're going to eat a pig, you'd best be prepared for a mouth full. Humans drove him crazy sometimes. The rabbit is blushing less by now, but doesn't make a move to steal another bite until he tells her to try the provolone. He's immensely satisfied when she does.

"You know, you said this was shit but it's pretty good."

"Better with company."

She blushes again. "Sorry about that. I skipped breakfast. Didn't realize how hungry I was until I was staring down a pile of berries."

John shakes his head. "I don't mind, honey."

She's wary again, though getting more curious. A deer with a salt lick, clever thing. "You said this place was seasonal? Aren't you open a bit early?"

He spreads some jam on a bit of bread and pushes it at her, preens when she nibbles at it. "Stumbled my way back a little ahead of schedule this year, figured I may as well be social."

"Hmm. Not much else to do, is there?"

"Still a bit early for most places, yeah, but the trails are usually pretty empty this time of year which can be nice. If you're into hiking, that is."

"I used to go all the time, back home. Haven't had much opportunity lately. Trying to get back into it, but I may have set my sights a bit high," she laughs, "Probably should've stuck with the bunny hills back east for now."

"Nonsense. I think you're in the perfect spot," he winks.

Her smile is warm, but maybe a little thinner than it had been. "It's been pretty good to me so far. You're a snowbird, you said? Where do you go in the winter?"

"Phoenix." It's the same lie he tells everyone. He's only ever been there once. He lives in constant fear of stumbling upon a chatty native one day blowing up his spot.

"Never been. Is it nice?"

He shrugs. "Well it doesn't drop to Mars temperatures so it has that going for it."

She just laughs, rolls her eyes at him. "You're a baby. I'd rather Mars temps than Mercury, personally. I hated living in Dallas. Not built right for those summers."

"Now who's the snowbird?" He teases.

"Never denied being a nomad."

He panics, thinking about how she could up and leave the state at any moment. "What brings you out this way, then? Just good trails?"

Suddenly, all the syrupy warmth he'd slowly been coaxing out of her freezes up. She's locked tight, a deer with his scent again. "Yeah. Never been, so, thought I'd give it a shot."

John frowns at her, is about to comment on the obvious lie when Simon rings the order bell about twenty times just to be an arse. John sighs, excuses himself. Simon doesn't grin as a rule, but he does manage to look quite smug anyway when John enters the kitchen. "Order up," he grumbles, and John inspects the dish critically.

It looks better than how he would've made it, honestly. "Thanks, Si."

The large man hums, nods at a bottle of white wine he'd placed on the counter by the door. "Recommended pairing." Then, in a quieter tone, "'Least for little babies who don't drink bourbon."

John isn't familiar with the label, but Simon has an acute sense for these things so he accepts it anyway. "Owe ya one."

Simon grunts. "We'll talk about it at my quarterly review, yeah?"

"Sure. You actually gonna sit for one of those?" Simon has always maintained quite firmly that if John ever had a problem with his performance, he could tell him right then and there instead of compiling a list for months. John, of course, had never needed to.

"Course not. Get back to y'bird, Price, 'fore she starts to think we're getting cozy back here."

"You just wanna get back to eavesdropping."

"Do love watching you crash and burn, yeah."

John splutters. "Am not."

"She was clamming up like an oyster with vaginismus 'fore I pulled you outta there."

"How long has this been ready?"

Simon shrugs. "Couple'a minutes. Didn't want to interrupt, given she'd basically told you to ask her on a date."

John blinks. "Huh?"

"Christ you're an idiot. She asked what there is to do around here socially, and you told her to take a hike."

"I didn't," John protests, but of course, he did in fact do that. Shit, since when was Simon better at socializing than him?

"You did. Now get out there, pretend the wine was your idea, and invite her to that fancy coffee place like a normal person, cap."

"You gonna be in here listening the whole time?"

"Depends. You plan on bungling it bad enough you need exfil again?"

John frowns. "Best stay on, yeah. She's got me reduced to animal noises out there."

Simon laughs, low and terrifying as always. He shoos John out the door but John can hear him lingering, washing dishes. It should be annoying, but Simon was right, he'd mucked it up. He'd put up with a whole peanut gallery if they could at least help him secure another meet up.

The rabbit seems less on edge when John returns, thankfully, though it looks like she hasn't picked at his plate anymore. At least her glass is empty.

"Smells good," she comments as he places the dish in front of her.

"Got the hoity toity ingredient source spiel if you wanna hear it, or a wine recommendation if you don't. Promise you'll like it better than the bourbon," he adds when she raises her brows at the bottle.

"Well it's about time you bring me something worth coming back for," she jokes, motioning for him to open the bottle.

John feigns hurt. "I thought you liked my plate of scraps?"

"Mm. It was better with company." She waits until he grins at her to continue with a blush, "That wine the same way?"

"Let's find out, eh?" John asks as he slides her glass to her and retrieves his own. Softly, he thinks he hears Simon say something about a good lad in the kitchen.

She stays for a few hours after that, gets good and flushed. He worries about her returning to her car, but of course he's not supposed to know she's living out of it so he can't comment. He asks if she needs a ride anywhere and is relieved when she says she'll hang out and sober up. He can't stay rooted in front of her the way he'd like because he does eventually get some real customers, but he lets her commandeer the remote to put some hockey match on. Playoffs, apparently. He asks her which team she's supporting and she tells him the one that is currently down three goals. "Well, they made it further than my team, at least," she laughs when he makes a sympathetic face at her. Eventually, she asks for her bill and pouts when John only shakes his head at her.

"Us early starters gotta watch out for each other, no?"

"I ate directly off your plate like an animal, at least charge me for a drink so I can tip you."

"Let me get you a coffee sometime and we'll call it even."

She gapes like a fish for a moment, recovers when the woman a few seats down gives her a look as if to say girl, get your shit together. "So there is sociable stuff to do around here, eh?"

"Had to go bounce some ideas off my chef cause I was so tongue tied earlier, but I got some things in mind now," he admits with a warm smile, and the woman down the bar makes a face like she just saw Richard Gere snap a jewelry box on Julia Roberts' hand for the first time.

The rabbit's blush is tamer this time, a light dusting as opposed to the deep stain he's seen creep up to her ears. "I'd like that."

He gives her the biggest smile he can muster, can't help it. He fishes out a sharpie from the tin by the register and writes his name and number on a fresh coaster. The rabbit smiles as she zips it into her breast pocket for safe keeping. He doesn't hide the way his eyes linger, and she doesn't seem to mind. "Have a good night, John," she says as she slides off the stool.

"Get back safe, honey." She waves sweetly and gives a friendly parting smile to the lovesick woman who can't stop watching their little display.

Simon has the grace to wait until the bell has announced her exit to emerge from the kitchen.

"Don't fucking even, Simon," John begs, but it's the woman at the bar who starts in first.

"Well, I'd best be invited to the wedding. That was more action than I've seen in ten years," she gripes, elbowing the sleepy man next to her.

"What?" The man huffs, just as Simon starts cackling.

Next>>

[highinmiamiii]

NO FEELINGS - ch. 02

🇬🇧 a prelude 🇬🇧

A/N: heeey yall, it’s been a second i’ve been feeling some of that good ol’ block lately. i wanted to make this second chapter a lot more detailed and maybe get a little nasty with it already but i fear my brain just wouldn’t allow me…so i hope you enjoy this flashback/prelude chapter with that tattoo scene in a little more detail that i had sitting in my drafts for what it is. leave a comment if you wanna be apart of my permanent taglist and any feedback or suggestions are welcome. thank you all so much for following and reading i love you so much! enjoy this while i sort out this blockage and come back stronger, better and hornier 😈 also i hope the switching back and forth isn’t confusing i attempted to differentiate for ya’ll

Her POV: back of steakhouse (present)

She leaned against the grimy counter, staring at the faded ink on her arm as her mind drifted. It hadn’t taken much—just one look at him sitting out there. The way his jaw clenched, cigarette hanging from his lips, the same damn way it used to back in London. She hadn’t expected to ever have to see him again, and now, as the memories came flooding back, it felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

London in the 90s. A wild, rebellious time. The city had swallowed her whole, but she’d been too busy chasing the dream to care. The music. The crowds. The life. And then there was him—Billy. She wasn’t sure what she saw in him at first. Maybe it was the same reckless abandon she had, or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t give a damn about anything, including her.

Butcher’s POV (Present)

He lit another cigarette, taking a long drag, eyes narrowing as the smoke curled up toward the dim lights. Christ, she’d aged, just like him, but the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed much. Still that spark, that defiance. But behind it, he saw something else. Pain. Maybe even a little bitterness. The last thing he had in mind when coming here was to dredge up all these old memories. If he’d known *she*, of all people would be the one serving him piss poor American whiskey in a tiny little white sheer tank top, he wouldn’t have dared to show up here…or would he?

But London… yeah, he remembered. He could still see her, standing there in that grimy club, screaming lyrics at the top of her lungs. The way her fishnets dug into the meat of her thighs, her big messy carefree hair to match her attitude. That night had been pure chaos—loud, electric, full of bad decisions. She’d been wearing some old Nirvana shirt, looking every bit the rebel without a cause. That’s what caught his eye. A Yank, lost in a sea of Brits, and still holding her own.

Her POV: Camden, London (Flashback)

The club was packed, bodies pressed together in the heat of the moment. The shitty Sex Pistols cover band’s rendition blared through the speakers, the crowd was a frenzy, and she loved every second of it. She’d never felt more alive, more free. And then, through the haze of booze and music, there he was. A cocky grin, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes dark and sharp. He looked like trouble, and that’s exactly what she was after.

They’d met by accident—literally, she’d spilled her drink on him. He’d smirked, tossed a sarcastic remark, and she fired one right back. That was how it started. The banter, the late-night pub crawls, the music they bonded over. Sonic Youth. The Clash. Pearl Jam. They’d spent hours talking about bands, trading tapes, dissecting lyrics. He was tough, but he got it. He understood the frustration, the rebellion that was running through her veins. And she loved him for it.

Butcher’s POV: (Flashback)

She’d been a live wire from the moment they met. Mouthy, sharp, full of opinions. But bloody hell, she knew her music, and she didn’t take shit from anyone, of course it didn’t hurt that she was the sexiest damn woman he’d ever seen in his life. They’d spent that whole night drinking and talking, getting lost in the chaos of London’s underground punk scene. She wasn’t English, not by a long shot, but there was something about her—something that felt familiar.

Maybe that’s why he stuck around. Maybe that’s why they became inseparable after that night. Camden was their playground, the pubs their refuge. They were both running from something—her, from a life that didn’t suit her, him from his demons, the ones that always seemed to creep in when the booze ran dry.

Her POV: Streets of London (Flashback)

They’d wander the streets of London at 3 a.m., talking about everything and nothing. She’d ramble about her dreams, how she’d saved up for years to get to London, only to find out that the dream wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed. He’d listen, nod, offer some witty remark, and she’d laugh, feeling lighter for a moment.

Then there was that night—the tattoo. They’d been drunk, of course, stumbling out of a pub when he saw the tattoo parlor.

“Go on, love, get somethin’ that sticks. Like us,” he’d slurred, smirking like the devil himself.

She rolled her eyes, but she was too far gone to resist. “You’re full of shit, Butcher.”

“Am I, now? Bollocks to it. Get the ink, love.”

And so she did. Never Mind the Bollocks. The same words that were now permanently etched on her skin, a reminder of those wild nights, of him.

Butcher’s POV: Tattoo Parlor, London (Flashback)

He couldn’t forget that night. Hell, he couldn’t forget any of it. She’d been so fiery, so full of life. He’d loved that about her, even if he didn’t say it. They’d been reckless, sure, but wasn’t that the whole point? To live fast, to not give a fuck?

But then Lenny died. And the whole world went to shit.

He’d shut down, shut her out. There were no more late-night pub crawls, no more snarky conversations over cheap pints, no more music. Everything that once felt like an escape, even her, turned into a reminder of what he’d lost. And what was worse, he couldn’t pull her into the darkness that now consumed him. She was too bright, too full of life—life that he no longer wanted a part of.

He’d ghosted her, plain and simple. He’d watched her from a distance, knowing she’d be heartbroken, but he couldn’t give her any more of himself. There wasn’t anything left to give. And London, once the vibrant backdrop to their wild love, became a suffocating city, drowning him in grief.

Her POV: Pub in London (Flashback)

She sat alone at their favorite pub. The one they used to haunt after every show, after every wild adventure through London’s underground. She kept checking her phone, waiting for a message that never came. The hours passed, the pint in front of her went warm, and still—nothing.

He was gone.

She didn’t want to believe it at first. But night after night, the calls went unanswered, and slowly, it started to sink in. He wasn’t coming back. Not for her, not for the life they’d carved out together. London, once her grand adventure, started to feel like a prison without him. The streets that used to be filled with music and laughter now echoed with silence. And every time she looked down at her arm, at the ink that now felt like a cruel joke, her heart twisted in pain.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

He snuffed out the cigarette, a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the smoke. Sitting here now, seeing her again after all these years, the memories were crawling back. The nights they spent in each other’s arms, the reckless abandon, the laughter… and then, the way he left her. Cold. Brutal.

He had his reasons, sure, but none of them would make a difference now. She hated him, that much was clear. And maybe she had every right to. He’d left her to fend for herself, knowing she’d have no way of surviving in London without him. But at the time, it felt like the only way to save her from the wreckage of his life.

Her POV: Backroom of the Steakhouse (Present)

She could hear the chatter of customers, the clatter of plates in the kitchen, but it all faded into the background. All she could think about was the way her life had fallen apart after he left. She’d had to scrape by, working whatever jobs she could get, barely keeping her head above water before finally fleeing back to the States.

And now, here he was. As if none of it had happened. As if he hadn’t left her stranded in a foreign country with nothing but a damn tattoo and a broken heart. She could feel her pulse quicken, her chest tightening with anger, with hurt. She wanted to storm out there, demand an explanation, shout at him for all the years she lost trying to pick up the pieces.

But instead, she stayed put. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d wrecked her. Not after all this time.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

He knew she was out back, probably stewing in her thoughts, just like he was. A part of him wanted to go to her, to explain, maybe even apologize for how things ended. But the other part—the part that still felt the weight of Lenny’s death, of everything he’d lost—kept him glued to the booth.

What was the point in dredging it all up? She’d moved on. She had to have. Just like he had. But then again, why did it feel like seeing her was pulling him back into that old life, back into those nights where it was just them against the world?

He reached for his glass, took another slow sip, eyes fixed on the dim light of the restaurant. Whatever they had back then, it was long gone. But seeing her now, it felt like a piece of him still lived in those London nights, still ached for the chaos and the connection they shared.

Her POV: Backroom of the Steakhouse (Present)

She pushed away from the counter, straightened her apron, and steeled herself. He could sit there and sulk all he wanted, but she wasn’t about to fall back into the past. Not with him. Not after everything. The memories still hurt, sure. But she wasn’t that same girl anymore, and she’d be damned if she let him drag her back to that place.

As she headed back out into the dining area, she caught sight of him again, sitting there like a ghost from her past. It was strange, how someone could look so different and yet so much the same. His face was more lined, his hair grayer, but that smirk, that swagger—it was all still there.

She had half a mind to walk right past him, pretend like he didn’t exist. But something inside her—maybe the part that still hurt, still remembered what they had—wouldn’t let her.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

And there she was, moving through the restaurant, that same defiance in her step. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret—just a small one, mind—but it was enough to remind him that they hadn’t been all bad together. They’d been wild, reckless, and young, but they’d had something real in the middle of all the madness.

As she came closer, his gaze locked onto hers. It was a silent challenge, like it always was between them. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him first, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to back down, either.

But the years between them? The ones filled with silence, with her hurt and his guilt—they hung in the air like smoke from a freshly lit cigarette.

And in that moment, Butcher couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, some things weren’t meant to be left in the past.

————————————————————————

current tags: @butchersdarkbird @scrmqwn

[boozenboze]

Tf 141 x Dancer!Male reader

@bunky101

Years had passed since M/n’s last recital.He could remeber how nervous he’d be before having to go on stage with his group.Despite the anxiety of performing in front of others he always nailed it,but after his coach left he decided to do something way out of his profession.

Danseur.....The perfect code name to represent what he used to enjoy.Why would he need a code name...well he needed one because of the new and more risky jobbed he was hired for.The h/c haired male had joined the military.You may be wondering why get a job that may cost your life?Well the answer is simple.There were and are many chances you could injure or be put 6ft under from doing ballet.You could’ve been told to break a leg, that has happened to most, some have even broken their necks because of them not landing properly.Knowing these things gave M/n an unnatural thrill.Knowing that he could get killed from something he loved doing gave him chills.Although he wouldn’t get that chill anymore......well....that was until he had to preform on the field.

It’s been a while since Danseur joined the military.His skills had been known to almost everyone and eyes were always on him.When he was on leave he would be doing his normal stretches in his pointe shoes, before doing a short routine that he remembered doing a while back.After that he’d go on with his day like any normal person.Though something had changed one of those days, a Task Force had heard about him and wanted him to join.He hadn’t known who they were but ultimately joined after doing a bit of digging, on who they were.

M/n had been part of Task Force 141 for a while now.He had been transferred to a new base and to make it feel a little bit more like home he had another studio made at the new base.Besides it was the least they could do, his skills were unseen by anyone else.

When you had first joined,Soap had his eyes on him from the beginning.He was always watching the male, attempting to catch any imperfection the male had.He found none.

Gaz was pretty happy knowing an ex ballet dancer was joining them.He has seen your agility and speed throughout training and on the field so he was impressed.He sometimes comes into the studio to see M/n doing a short version of a recital dance.He’d come in without announcing himself since he didn’t want to distract him.After a while of M/n being one of them he started to get obsessed with the sport and buried himself in tons of videos.

Besides Gaz being in the room, Ghost and Price would be watching from the door for the same reason as Gaz.When you danced you were in your own bubble, and nothing else was to surpass and take that focus away..This leads up to our current fiasco with Gaz and Soap.

“I don’t understand, how could ballet be a sport!”Soap argued with Gaz as the Brit answered

“Just look it up man, plus you can tell it’s a workout have you seen M/n’s calf’s.The mans ripped, if anything he has stronger legs.Soap hadn’t bought the males words as he slurped the smoothie that he had made beforehand.They were still going at it as they made their way to the studio.They noticed there were more people outside than usual, Ghost and Price being among them.A soft song was playing as they pushed their way through the crowd.

M/n had his eyes closed as he preformed an old group dance.As the music got a little more intense, his movements followed i pursuit.A beat drop made him do an ariel, and a low hum made him do a pirouette.Despite how intense and fast the song went, his movemnts never faltered and he remained graceful.As the music began to fade he went back to first position, before going to third position.He stayed like that for a moment before before lowering his arms, the music finally ended as well as the dance.

A whistle and claps were heard as M/n whipped his head around.He waved slightly, embarrassed at the fact he was being watched the whole time.Soap was just staring at the male in awe.He looked so elegant throughout the whole thing, and his muscles flexed under his leggings.The Scottish man was impressed but upset that he was wrong.All sports made you stronger in some way and it seems Ballet played its part with you.

Soap was wrong about Ballet not being a sport, he wouldn’t admit it either.That still doesn’t mean he’ll won’t watch you do your thing.Besides he already had a feelings for you in the beginning.

Side note-I accidentally deleted this :)