#carbs on demand

[llemonllama]

I will not be taking questions or constructive criticism

[thunderheadfred]

Why would my partner utter such cursed knowledge in the presence of my uterus

[clochanam]

okay send aisling questions while i prepare to make the two hour drive home!

[nicnacsnonsense]

Tried out a new primary care doctor today… Unfortunately it looks like we’re going to have to keep trying.

[ent-is-indecisive]

Juggling 4 sketches for sub eddie week weehoo

[stuckinstardewvalley]

idk who needs to hear this but if you keep brownies in a ziplock bag in your handbag while calling them special brownies. people will know they're weed brownies

[bbydoll18xx]

Guilty As Sin?

'We've already done it in my head'

Paige Bueckers x reader

I've never written anything, so this could very well be terrible, but I have a teeny tiny crush and it's killing me lol here we go!

word count: 3.1k

warnings: some naughty thoughts, ANGST, friends to lovers aka my fave

....................................................................................................

If there was one thing you had learned throughout your time at uconn, it was that it was pretty fucking difficult being Paige Buecker’s best friend. 

You had met her early in your freshman year when the boisterous blonde was partnered with you in an introductory biology course. You attempted to hold back a groan and an eyeroll as you heard your professor assign the two of you together for an upcoming lab project. You hated group projects, and even more, you could not stand the prospect of not getting a good grade in a class so important for your major. 

Paige, even as a freshman, was extremely popular. Her incessant smirk caused girls to blush under her gaze, and the boys basically broke their necks trying to impress her. She was the type of girl who knew she was hot shit.

Unfortunately, that was your type.

As Paige strolled over to where you were waiting for her, you tried desperately to ignore the uptick of your pulse. ‘Get it together,’ you thought to yourself. Girls like that should have no control over you.

“Hey, I’m Paige. I don’t think we’ve met. I would’ve remembered someone like you,” she murmurs flirtatiously, looking you up and down. Trying to keep the pink out of your cheeks and taking a deep breath, you hold out your hand and introduce yourself. 

That was the beginning of the wildly complex and intimate friendship you would build with Paige.

As a senior in college, you had learned many things: don't drink copious amounts of alcohol without eating some carbs first, avoid getting into ubers alone, do not, under any circumstances, hook up with your TA, and falling in love with your best friend is never good.

It started off innocently enough.

Paige was clingy and affectionate to those she was close with. You, being bisexual and surrounded by mostly straight people before coming to uconn, were hesitant with showing any sort of affection. You had always worried about accidentally giving your girl friends the wrong impression. Paige never cared, though, as she conditioned you into accepting hugs and tentative hand-holding. You grew to crave her warm, longer fingers wrapped around yours or her hand resting on your leg when she’s next to you at dinner or in the car. 

You had realized you were head over heels for her in your sophomore year, and the rest was history.

History you’d very much like to forget.

You were laying on the couch in your apartment. Music filled the room and you basked in the warmth of the sunshine. You rarely have moments of peace anymore, now that school had started back up.

Suddenly, the front door flung open dramatically, allowing several members of uconn’s women’s basketball team to enter as if they owned the place. 

“Hey girlie pop!” screamed KK. “We are going out tonight, and before you say no, you are coming with us.” 

“What happened to bodily autonomy?” You questioned with an eye roll. This happened all the time. Paige and her teammates had made it their personal mission to turn you into an alcoholic.

“Fuck that,” chirped Paige. “You had all week to chill, and I will not stand for that shit for another minute. Party P is comin' out in full force tonight, and I expect the same from yo' ass."

You let your eyes lock with hers. God that shade of blue made you want to drown in it, gasping for sanity as if it was air. 

“C’mon, you always do this. We’re going crazy tonight,” demanded Nika.

Pretending to think about it, you hesitantly agree. You didn’t have any control when it came to Paige. Whatever she wanted from you, she got. You chalked it up to being best friends, but your stupid brain always reminded you of the true source of power.

Paige, Nika, KK, and Azzi all celebrated as you acquiesced, already planning drink orders, outfits, and song requests at the bar they always frequented.

You sighed as Paige sat down next to you. You could handle this. You always did. Focused on anything other than her, you pick at a piece of lint on the soft green couch. Everything seemed to be a distraction from her. The heat of her body sends your pulse racing, just as it did the very first time you met. She really was an enigma.

“I’m glad you’re coming,” she murmurs softly. “Wouldn't be the same if you weren’t there.”

Taking a page out of the Paige playbook, you look her up and down and respond with an “I know.” She momentarily wears a look of shock, before her lips slide into that smirk again, and she laughs. The sound makes you want to run through a field of flowers and then jump from a building.

The pregame was, like always, chaotic, loud, and gave you anxiety. A drunk Paige was a clingy Paige, and you were not sure you could handle the extra touching tonight. One of the bottles of vodka that sat on the counter in the kitchen was beckoning to you, and you decided quickly that the only way you were getting through the night was with copious amounts of alcohol.

As you swallowed with a grimace, feeling the burn slide down your throat and settle into a warm pool in your belly, the door opened. Paige appeared, rubbing her hands together, looking like she was ready to fuck shit up. Your shit already felt ruined as you gulped at the sight of her. The black crop top she had on made you quickly spin around, shooting another shot in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from the hunger that was brewing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there. We don’t need you wasted before we even leave,” Paige taunts teasingly, as she saunters over to you.

With your cheeks pink and inhibitions already lowered, you licked your lips in a manner you could only hope looked seductive and put the bottle into her outstretched hand. For the second time today, a flicker of surprise graced her features. ‘Good,’ you thought. ‘Two can play that game.’ 

As Ted’s was close to the apartments you all were living in, it was decided that a walk would be more efficient than attempting to wrangle the numerous already drunk girls into ubers.

You cherished the warm breeze flowing through your hair, allowing it to briefly sober you up.  Walking alongside Azzi and Caroline, you let out another small sigh, catching their attention. Your feelings were evident to pretty much everyone except Paige, and her teammates often tried to coax you into admitting your feelings to her. 

“Try to have fun tonight. Find someone hot to grind on, and you’ll feel better,” Azzi said unhelpfully. You laughed, but it wasn't a bad idea. “You’re right. I need a distraction. And preferably someone who is not blonde,” You muttered, causing Azzi and Caroline to giggle. 

Paige’s head whipped around at the sound of laughter. She pouted for a second before bounding over to you. She secretly hated the attention you gave her teammates; she wanted you all to herself.

Paige was possessive, as well as mouthy when drunk, which could be a messy combination. But Paige did not care about being messy tonight. She wanted your attention and your attention only. She knew she could very well embarrass herself, but the desperation of needing your attentiveness was far more important. She could handle her anxieties in the morning. 

“There’s my pretty princess,” Paige announces loudly, taking your hand into hers, almost possessively. The pet name wasn’t unfamiliar. Paige called you every name under the sun except the one on your birth certificate, yet the sudden affection caused your heart to lurch dangerously.

You needed a drink.

The bar was already buzzing when you walked in alongside the girls, still being pulled along by the tall blonde. You were fortunate it was dark inside, allowing a sense of privacy to indulge in the intimacy Paige was supplying to you.

She places a hand on your waist, looking down at you. “Imma get you a drink, babe. Stay here with the girls, and do not let any creeps touch you.” You could tell the few drinks she had at the pregame were already getting to her. She was getting more proprietorial.

You nodded, but you wanted to see how far you could push her. You’d do anything for her attention, even if that meant flirting with a boring guy to test her. She was sexy when she was pissed.

You fantasized about the way her jaw clenches when she's angry, as you scoped out for someone to be the target of your favorite unhealthy game. A six-foot blonde with light blue eyes catches your gaze, and you smirk. ‘Game time,’ you think.

With a smoldering look in your eyes, and the alcohol in your veins to keep you feeling confident, you walk up to the guy and introduce yourself. You find out his name was Josh and quickly shift in closer to him, feigning intimacy you would only ever want with Paige. 

It’s not long before you feel Paige slide between you and Josh, creating the distance you wanted since you walked up to him. 

“Paigey!” you exclaim. “This is Josh. He wants to dance with me.”

You see Paige jaw clench in annoyance and she pushes the drink she brought you into your hand before wrapping her now free arm around your waist with her hand splayed against your belly. You shiver at the contact.

“Go away before I make you, bro. She’s mine,” Paige practically barks at Josh. He shrinks away with a weird expression on his face.

You weren’t sad to see him go.

“Thanks for rescuing me, Paigey,” you beam up at her and take a drink. Paige’s eyes never leave your lips as you bite them, looking around the crowded bar. Your lips are pink from the gloss you just applied, and she thinks about how they’d feel against hers. 

Paige would never admit it aloud, but she thinks about you. She thinks about your dimples when you smile at her. She thinks about your laugh. She thinks about how you taste. In her head, they are together. In her head, you are spread out underneath her, begging for her tongue, her fingers, for anything.

Paige is used to people throwing themselves at her, and the idea of rejection, especially from you, makes her shrink back in fear. 

Paige’s eyes are hazy as the dirty Shirley starts to float its way through her veins. She relishes in the feeling of lowered inhibitions and the perfect excuse to get closer to you. Paige pulls you into her to dance. With the alcohol fully in your system, as well, you giggle and seductively dance against her. You can feel the tight muscles of her abs up against you, and you swallow thickly. It's difficult to ignore the way it makes you feel hot and sticky. 

“God, P,” you mumbled against her pale throat. 

“You look so good dancin’ against me, you don’t even know, babe,” Paige replies with her signature smirk.

You could feel the boundaries of your friendship slowly stretching to accommodate the feelings of lust sparking between the two of you.

Between the dancing and the large amounts of alcohol flowing, the night flew by quickly. Soon, you were getting pulled through the door and back out into the chilly Connecticut air with Paige holding you steady. You were a notorious lightweight compared to the girls of the basketball team, and that hadn’t changed tonight. 

“P-paigeyyy,” you whined needily. “Need you,” you pouted up at the blonde. The other girls in your vicinity shared curious looks with each other. You had never acted like this before whilst drunk, and no one really knew how to respond, Paige included. 

“What do ya need from me, princess?” Paige asked with a chuckle.

You motion for her to lean down, and you whisper in her ear, “kisses.” 

“Oh? You wanna kiss me?” Paige questions, feeling all the blood rush to her head.

You nod with a dreamy look on your face. You were going to regret this in the morning, but right now all you could think about was how soft her lips looked and how much you wished you could be hers.

'We've already done it in my head,' you thought drunkenly.

Paige looks down at you with an unrecognizable look, but she presses a soft kiss on your forehead and says, ‘“let's get you home and to bed, doll.” 

As you stumble back into Paige’s apartment and onto her bed, you look up at her and raise your hands over your head, making grabby hands at her. Paige rolls her eyes fondly but helps you get undressed. Walking you into the bathroom, she lifts you up onto the counter effortlessly, helping you take your makeup off and brush your teeth.

It felt so domestic you could cry.

Climbing into bed, your drunk mind prepared itself to sleep next to Paige. It would never feel like enough to you. You wanted all of her. 

Paige lies down behind you, wrapping a long and muscular arm around your waist, caging you in just the way you like it. You are a second away from sleep enveloping you, when you think you hear Paige whisper, “I am so in love with you.”

Your heart stops.

You wake up the next morning with your head pounding. You squint your eyes and look around. Paige is still sleeping next to you. You gently smile as you gaze at her peaceful figure. You wish you could stop time to stay here in this bubble with her. Soon, you’ll go back to being just Paige’s best friend, and the relationship you’ve built up in your head will come crashing back down.

Soon enough, the blonde wakes up, ripping you from your daydreams. She smiles at you, and turns over to completely face your body. “Crazy night, huh,” she alludes slyly.

Your eyebrows crinkle in question. “Did something happen?"

“Uh yeah…you don’t remember what you said to me?” she asks.

You shake your head in confusion, but you start to attempt to recall the events of last night, and all of a sudden it comes back to you. You recall asking her to kiss you, hanging all over her, and the incessant pouting and neediness. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment, and immediately you jump out of bed to leave.

“Wait, don’t go please,” Paige pleads in a way that is startling unlike her.

You ignore her pleas, gathering your stuff and running out of her apartment. Tears burn your eyes as they threaten to slide down your face. You try to stifle your sobs as you climb the stairs two at a time and get to your own door. You throw yourself into your shower as you attempt to drown out your own cries. 

As you sat on the floor of your shower you could not believe how stupid you were. Drunk flirting with your best friend would be the end of your friendship. You could see it already. Paige coming to you, trying to let you down easy. You felt so humiliated.

You sat there until the water got uncomfortably cold, leaving goosebumps against your skin. As you toweled off, you replayed the events of last night in your head for the millionth time. The dancing in the bar, the walk back to Paige’s apartment, her helping you undress. You sigh at the idea of losing her before it all comes crashing back.

“I am so in love with you,” she had whispered into your hair. You still at the memory. Paige loves you? Sure it's common knowledge that you loved and craved her with all of your being, but a love that was requited? It was almost too much to think about. 

You grab your phone that you had left abandoned on the couch and see the messages from the blonde. Messages of regret and longing fill your phone. One more pops up as you scroll, saying ‘I’m coming over. I won’t let you avoid me over this bullshit.’ 

A few moments passed before there was a loud banging on the door to your apartment. You had never felt so appreciative that your roommates had left for the weekend. Your breath grew ragged as the door slowly creaked open, revealing a panting Paige. Her blue eyes looked almost wild as they met yours.

“C’mere, just let me explain,” she says quietly. You weren't used to Paige being quiet and almost solemn. It scared you, just as the thought of confrontation did. This was not a conversation you wanted to have. 

Fighting your own instincts to immediately bolt, you gingerly sit on the couch where she had already made herself comfortable. Some things never change.

“Listen,” she starts out cautiously. “I never want things to be weird between us. I never imagined I would be feeling this way towards someone who was just a friend, but…I think we haven’t been ‘just friends’ in a while.”

You finally allow yourself to meet her gaze, trying to search for any semblance of where this conversation could possibly be going. Surprisingly, she looked hopeful, as if she knew something you did not.

“I-i want you. Like, more than a friend,” Paige stutters out, “And I think you feel the same way. We’ve both been too scared to admit it, but I’m tired of ignoring how you literally make me feel whole.”

You blink back more tears in realization that the last three years of hell of being only Paige Bueckers’ best friend was finally coming to an end. She could finally be all yours and yours only.

Without thinking, you place a hand on her jaw, bringing her to your lips. They meet yours with such hesitancy you almost think you’ve ruined the delicate balance of what you are to each other at the moment. Paige lets out a breathy sigh and pulls you onto her lap. 

You were heavenstruck. 

As the both of you finally pull away from the drug of a kiss, you look at each other and giggle.

“So much for the dramatics, I guess,” laughs Paige. 

You smile, rolling your eyes. “Not my fault,” you pout. “I have no control when it comes to you, P.”

“Same,” grins Paige. “The only thing left to do is figure out how to tell the girls. They’ve all been beggin’ me to tell you ‘bout my lil crush on you.”

“Those bitches knew?” you ask incredulously.

“Well yeah,” Paige says. “I’m not subtle.”

You giggle at how stupid you felt. The signs were there all along, but the fear of rejection and the cloud of lust had obscured any indications of reciprocity. 

“Let’s just start making out the next time we’re in front of them and see how they react,” Paige suggests with a waggle of her eyebrows. 

You could hear the whoops and cheers already.

“Deal,” you say blissfully. 

She was finally yours. 

[steddieasitgoes]

Steve, Eddie, and Robin move into a house in Boston in the 90s. Their neighbors are a nice, older couple who Steve’s pretty sure used to be Olympic runners. Every morning they go for a jog around the city and it’s only a matter of weeks before Steve is joining them. As Thanksgiving approaches, the couple tells Steve about the annual turkey trot the city hosts.

Still new to town, Steve convinces Eddie and Robin that the turkey trot is a fun tradition that they have to attend. Taking the name literally, they agree because they want to see wild turkeys running through the streets of Boston

(“Let them run for their freedom!” Eddie chants.

"It's what they deserve," Robin agrees. ) 

Flash forward to an hour into the festivities, Eddie and Robin are sweating and panting, practically falling over each other. They’re glaring at Steve while trying to keep up with him, muttering that he’s a traitor and how they thought they would see turkeys not be the turkeys. 

At one point Robin shouts at Steve to “Save himself” while Eddie collapses to the floor in a dramatic fit shouting “Leave me here to die.” 

When Steve finishes the race, he has to double back to rescue the fallen "turkeys." As punishment for his scheme, they make him cook and clean the entire feast of dessert and carbs (no turkey in sight) they demand after participating in physical activity. 

The following year, Steve is the only one running while Eddie and Robin cheer him on from the sidelines in awful, homemade turkey outfits. 

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Hi! I had a twst thought that I wanted to share and hear your thoughts on! So you know how in vil’s chapter he has the sdc crew in ramshackle and is talking about the changes in diet they would be enforcing for the duration of the training? What if prefect had southern momma vibes and goes ape shit. Like ‘I am the prefect here, you are in my dorm. You will respect my rules! I am willing to compromise on lots of things but you wanna take away good food from these boys?! Ain’t no way.’ Maybe prefect knows a lot about nutrition and adds in stuff like ‘everyone’s bodies are different and need different things, some people need more food than others or need more protein than others. Diet culture doesn’t work for everyone and it is frankly harmful to even suggest that as the way to go. It’s unhealthy and even more unhealthy to block carbs and sugars completely!’ And being absolutely appalled by the notion of not seasoning the food. Possibly making jambalaya or gumbo for the boys. It’s not a fully fleshed thought but I can’t stop thinking about it. Thank you for listening, I really enjoy your work and hope you have a good day/night!

Foodie Reader SDC | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

I love your thinking 

The idea that Vil’s own warped sense of dieting makes him forget that you can eat healthy and the food still be good

Not to mention the way he starts demanding things in the dorm you practically run

Not in this house!

“Alright boys you can eat that and still be hungry or you can have some of this gumbo and sleep happy.”

Of course you win by a large margin and they’re choosing your food

Thinking of always wanting to cook for your friends and finally when you get them all together Vil just has to ruin it with his bland food options

“Will you let me do my job as the coach of this team?”

“If you let me run my dorm the way I plan to then sure.”

He hates you so much before his overblot

Constantly agonizing how the team has smiles all-around the second you offer sweet ice-tea during a break

You remind him too much of someone else he hates…Neige

But he still can’t completely ignore the flicker of pride when you compliment his dancing or his voice

Or when you actually agree when he picks a healthy side

And of course who could hate the prefect that’s just happy you liked to eat

“Mon filou, you’re cooking is amazing! Did you have an suitors lined up back where your from?”

Of course make sure you have enough otherwise theres going to be a lot more infighting than the dance group needs

[tanuki-voice]

Your body ballooned when you gave in to eating junk. There was nothing like the feeling of being stuffed, feeling the sugars and saturated fats crawling through your veins. You loved it, were given over to it, totally addicted. In the end, the thing that broke down your inhibitions wasn't their relentless advertising, or even the clever marketing. It was the coupons.

It began simply: you would come home from work tired and hungry, and order fast food. To expedite the process, you'd downloaded all the value apps for the places in your area. The promises of free stuff and quicker ordering was too good to pass up. However, you'd forgotten to turn off notifications.

Every so often, your phone would ding with a new deal, a temptation, a siren's call to get you to order in exchange for deep discounts. In the beginning, these were free fries, an upgrade to a larger soda, a cheaper sandwich. All the same, on those late nights, it sounded good. Why not treat yourself once in a while?

Of course, soon, "once in a while" turned into "every few days", then "every other day", until you found yourself becoming slowly dependent on the offers, a bit of elation from every little perk. The more you ordered, the more their algorithm could read you, serving you exactly what you desired, calling you each day at the proper time. As if trained, you would feel your phone buzz in your pocket, and your mouth would begin to water. It was time to order.

The algorithm, of course, was not entirely in tune with your identity. It was a being designed to generate profit. By ordering so much, so often, you had managed to convince it you were a large household, and it reacted accordingly. The deals changed to suit this belief, family size meals, multi-packs, pastries by the dozen. You ordered them all, gorging yourself without end to fuel your ravenous appetite.

What began as a dinner routine extended to other meals, and soon after that you'd even find yourself going through the drive-thru for a quick snack between meals. To live in such gluttony, messily pigging out without end, shoveling food into your mouth day after day, brought you such pleasure. You found yourself going back, again and again, every day, consumed by the desire for more. Tonight was no different.

Reclined into your sofa, you awoke from a potent carb nap. Your lunch, two large pizzas, half a dozen donuts, an order of chicken wings, and a 40oz soda, had truly taken it out of you. Your enormous belly strained your comfy pajama pants, barely covered by an extra large t-shirt. Your hands comfortably rested on its pillowy softness. Through the mountains of squishy fat, you felt it rumble. It was time for dinner. And right on schedule, your phone buzzed.

With potent glee you snatched it up. Today, if you ordered in the next hour, you could get a meal for four, burgers, onion rings and milkshakes. The kicker: order now and get two more burgers free. Your payment details had never danced across the screen faster, and thirty minutes later three greasy bags full of food were dropped off judgement-free at your door.

You brought them back to the sofa and began to chow down. It had become tradition for you to eat without a shirt on by now; your meals had long since become too indecent to go without dirtying your clothes. Your tummy bared to the world, you picked up a burger in one hand and a fistful of onion rings in the other, and devoured. Like an animal you ate primally, as if starved, not knowing when your next meal may come. There was no one to tell you you couldn't, only you demanding that you would. Each mouthful was calorie rich, and each was washed down with more food, more milkshake, more trash.

You spared one of your grease covered hands to rub your stretch mark covered stomach. As you teased gassy burps and wind breaks from your middle, it growled, pleased, yet still expectant. Rarely was it ever satisfied. No matter how much you stuffed into it, it wanted more. It commanded you to fill yourself, to bring yourself to the brink, feeling as if you would pop. Your appetite controlled you, but under its warm, pleasant, hazy influence, you were happy to be its willing pawn.

The joy of feeding took priority over anything else. You felt like you could eat forever. Your body would adapt to the gluttonous demon you had become, one whose mind lived in its stomach. To eat was so simple, so thoughtless, mindless. You just let your belly think for you as you ordered, and let it bring you to pleasurable, mind-clearing bliss. Your body, particularly your ample midsection, was a temple, a testament to the food gods you worshipped. You loved to see it grow, to see it flow over you, to see it bulge, swell and fill your chairs and mattresses.

A loud belch stirred you from your enraptured state for just a moment to see that you'd gone through a majority of your offerings. There was a slight sting as you realized your feeding was nearing its end. Suddenly, without thinking, your hand reached for your phone again. Your stomach rumbled. It wouldn't be satisfied with just this, but would you really go over that line? Ordering even more, without thinking? Was this who you had become?

A notification dinged. If you ordered in the next thirty minutes, you could get a dozen eclairs for half price. Your bloated belly purred. Maybe it was who you'd become, and maybe you weren't ashamed of it. You had been, at one point, but that reluctance had faded. This was who you were, an insatiably hungry animal given over to your muses, and you loved every second of it. Dessert wouldn't hurt. And perhaps, maybe, even a little after that. You smiled and confirmed your delivery. You had a long, gluttonous night ahead of you, and you were raring to get started.

[ghostieyanyan]

Yandere! Kalim x reader, but yandere but they're bad at their jobs au. Like one minute Kalim act all sadistic and dark then the next thing when reader asked if he wants some pets he went to his usual happy sunshine puppy that demands pets

yes~~ presious baby boi just wants love but he so spoil x3

what i also like to think about with yandere kalim is that he knows right and wrong but its so water down for him that "he just cant help it ^^

For fun, im making this into a modern mafia au ^^

~Just trying to help~

Yan!Boss!Kalim x Worker!mc

Warnings: power dymanmic, mafia mention, violence mention, nsfw hints, death?, manipulation

~~~~~

The Asim, they are known for their wealth and their trades. They're a super big powerful family with a lot of people (both loyal and not loyal) under them. They kind of give "untouchable kings" vibes. Theyre still really nice to their "people", you just don't see them a lot, or at all really. The only way to really "talk to them" is by talking to someone in their circle but there are layers into that circle. some people thinks that their family is shady, like the rich people act is a persona to hide something but no one really has proof.

But you really don't have to worry about that. You have your own stuff to worry about, like living expenses. You were basically living on the streets, barely living. You did side jobs to get by. maybe you'll clean or maybe you'll babysit. when you were a kid, you always wanted to help people. But with your home life, money, you couldn't really get to your dreams even if you tried. you stopped school pretty early and its a little too late for you to get back into it. plus what school will accept you. you lived in a community where rich gets richer and medium class becomes poor... I guess that's where you are, what your luck...

you were heading to your next "job" place. you had to clean for a really sweet old couple, the Wrights. They couldn't afford much either but they try to help you whenever they can. Example, you clean places that they cant reach, in exchange they give you dinner, as much as they can. you always wish them good health. they are too sweet for this unfair world.

you were lost in your head, enjoying the memories and conversation you had with them. But when you to their place, you see 3 grown men towering over Mr. Wright.

"please understand.. we aren't here for trouble but your son does owe us some money. were just here to collect."

"please.. we havent seen our son in months. hes not here."

"come on, blue carb! i wanna go home! if you dont tell us-"

"Floyd, we aren't here for threats."

"hmm..? oh my... what do we have here?"

the light hair man turn to you with a very scary smile. You didnt have time to take even a step when one of the men grabs you by the arm. he had teal hair with a black stirp. he had awful smile that showed off his sharp teeth.. the smile looked every threatening..

"were just here to talk about business, why dont you scram shrimpy."

you started to tremble and turned to Mr. Wright. he gave you a weak smile and moved his hand like to shoo you away.

"go on dear. it'll be okay."

you gulped in terror but you dug your heels into the ground. if you didn't, who knew what these shady guys would do to this kind old couple.

"h-he.. said he hasn't seen his son! n-ow get out of here before i call the police!!"

"..."

".."

"..."

everyone got quiet.. no one moved.. the men seem stun by your outburst. the man, that was holding you, didn't seem to like your outburst and gripped your arm, harder. it hurts..!

"tck.. im getting really annoyed, shrimpy... Should break your arm to show you-"

"actually Floyd, i have a better idea."

the light hair man walks up to you and hands you a card.

"i am Azul Ashengrotto. i run a cafe called the Mostro Lounge and Mr. Wright's son has owe us a pretty penny~"

The way he spoke gave you chills. You hated it. it was too sweet when you knew that the words he spoke are laced with poison.

"What if-..."

You had to take a long deep breath, you're risking a lot for even thinking this... but you had to. you were the only able person to protected these people who gave you more than you've asked.

"what if... i worked for you..? i'll work for you, pay off the owe money and you'll have to leave Mr. and Mrs. Wright alone! Deal..?"

the light hair man pauses.. then smiled. he put his hand out for a handshake.

"Its a Deal."

when you took his hand, that was it. you had to say goodbye to your home away from home. you gave mr.wright a smile and left with the strange men...

~~~

the next few weeks you learned what they did, kind of, and what they needed of you. they didn't tell you 100% of everything but you were supposed to be their servant, or an errand boy, or something like that?

the job wasn't bad at all. you cleaned, get anything they need, run things for them. sometimes they call you for... personal reasons. In exchange you get 3 meals a day and a comfortable room. which honestly, you weren't complaining. before, you would have one meal a day and even sleep on either a hard floor or a gross mattress. At this rate, after you finish paying off the Wright's debt, you might just stay here.

sometimes the job brings pretty scary people that show up out of nowhere. they often had big weapons to their side, some would have the weapons ready and loaded. Jade, Floyd, or Azul often gets you out of the way and most times tell you to cover your ears and close your eyes. sometimes they have you clean up their messes after these scary men... "leave." you knew better but you cant really say or do anything about it so.. you just don't question it.

after a month, you thought you get used to your new home life now but- you accidentally ran into someone or someone ran into you.

"oh my-! are you okay? im so sorry!! i-"

"no no! its okay. i should have been more careful."

the mysterious man helped you up. he had bright red eyes and white white that complement his dark skin every nicely. he had a black dress shirt and a red suit with gold accents, red dress pants to match. when he helped you up, you notice he's hands are really soft. big contrast to your hands.

"I'm sorry again."

he was about to run away but stopped and sheepishly turn and smile at you. it kind of reminded you of a happy teenage.

"actually... do you know where the Mostro lounge is? i... i think im lost. hehe." he scratched the back of his head. the embrassement on his face was slowly growing on you because he kept smiling.

it was kinda weird to see someone around here with such a bright smile..? like an genuine smile or maybe hes just a good actor or something..? you cant say.

"oh.. its a left then a right." you poked.

"kk! thank you~"

he turned and ran away again. you were about to leave but he stopped you again.

"can you actually walk with me there..? i asked directions before and got lost.. hehe~ pretty please?"

with his charming smile, you couldnt help but smile back.

"okay, follow me."

during your walk there, he asked a few question. they were harmless questions, enough. favorite colors? favorite food? favorite animals? where have you been? favorite places to go? etc.

when you got there a tall man with dark skin and long beautiful black hair rushed to your side, well more like to the other man.

He had the same outfit as the white hair man but they both wore it differently. which wasnt a bad thing. it compliment their personalities. Like jade, floyd, and azul do with their suits too.

"Kalim! where have you been?! we just left the elavoter and you were gone from my sights?! why did you-?"

"oh ya! i saw this pretty ocean theme pillows and i wanted to get some but you had my wallet hehe~ so... can i get them? they be perfect for-!"

"no. ugh..."

you felt really uncomfortable... it was like a mother scolding her kid... the black hair man looked at you. you shifted your feet uncomfortably.

"who are you? i dont remember you from our last visit?"

you raise your hands up and backed up slightly. people here are either very suspicious, they often come to see azul for his deals, or naive soul, that came for the ocean-like atmosphere.

"im just a-"

two arms snaked around you. you started to freak out. this is how you die--!!!

"shrimpy!! where's my drink~~? ive asked it for about... like 10 minutes ago~~~"

Oh! its just Floyd. he practicely moaned in your ear. it was a lot to get used to Floyd's mood swings. but you learn to avoid him when hes upset or just do want he says and not say too much. if he tries to tease you, he often gets bored and wonders to do who knows what.

"oh! hi sea snake! hi sea otter!"

"Floyd.. for the last time, stop calling us-

"hi Floyd!! haha!"

the white hair man jumped up and join the hug! you were getting crushed between these two... you were patting their backs in a way to say "okay thank you but-- that enough..!!! im dying! let me go!"

"jamil! Kalim! its great that you made it! a bit late but- i cant say im suprised."

"tsk.. hello jade... azul..."

the dark hair man, pulled the white hair man off you. it helped but Floyd is still squeezing you like he was trying to kill you, not literally... hopefully.

"ah.. its seems that you met our new hire. Jamil, Kalim, this is (mc)."

you, trying your best with the situation youre in with floyd right now, bowed your head as jade introduced you.

"hehe. we found shrimpy when we were at the Wright's place."

"did you get the money..?"

"no~ they were being stubborn but (mc) offer to pay off the money that was owed so i cant complain too much."

azul spoke and rubbed your head like a kid. you didnt like how they were talking about you like you werent there. or rather, talking about the Wrights like they were bad.. but you held your tongue. you didnt want to get them mad... especially when floyd is still holding you.

"ohh.. poor (mc). dont worry, well protect you from those mean people. im kalim, Kalim al-asim!"

"Kalim!"

"and thats jamil, Jamil Viper."

"Kalim! dont give our names to strangers! you dont even know them-"

"Well then~ we'll just have to just spend time with them!"

Kalim.. Kalim al-asim.... an Al-Asim.. Al-Asim! This smiling ray of sunlight is an Asim??

apparently your face paled because Kalim reached for your face and held your face into his hands. he gave you a giggle and smiled as he massage your cheeks in his hands.

"hehe youre so cute. after our meeting with Azul, i want to hangout with you on your break. when is it? hmm?"

you turned to Azul, he nodded his head in approval.

"i-its.. its in 2 hours from now.. sir.."

"hehe.. no need to talk so formal. just call me Kalim. And okay, on your break, meet me by the front door of the Mostro lounge, kk?

"y-yes.. kalim.."

he gave you a smile and all the 5 men started to head to Azul VIP room..

what did you get yourself into....

~~~

You've been spending a lot of your time with kalim as of late. To the point where you felt guilty for leaving work.. but you'd feel more guilty for saying no to kalim. You tried once. It was one too many.

You initially wanted to keep some distance. But with kalim's smile and charisma, you couldn't say no. Kalim always found a way to have lots of fun and he will always include you too.

Every time you came back to the Mostro lounge, floyd gives you a stink eye and a "why wasn't i invited~?" whine. Jade gives you his creepy smile and does a weird thing by leaning in and asking "did anything exciting happened~?", whatever that means. Azul doesn't seem upset at all. It made you anxious. Is he marking down your pay when you're out with kalim..? You checked your accounts and you were still getting payed for your work but.. you didn't do any work..?

You decide to talk to azul about it. You didn't want something like this be in the air, with someone as slimy as azul.. and with money no least!!

You knocked.

"Um.. azul..? Are you busy?"

You peeked through the door of Azul's office, and they vip room.

"... no. What do you need..?

he was working on some papers and he looked.. unpleased.

"I.. ill ask later."

You tried to take your leave befor-

"You wanted to ask about your pay..?"

You slowly turn to him. His face hasn't changed from that unpleased expression.

"Y-yes sir.."

Azul sighed, lend back into his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his face as he let's out another sigh.

"Kalim is... renting you."

What..?

"And he also requested for you to still get payed because, his words.. 'they're still working.'"

He started to stare at you. You didn't think he meant it to look intimidating, because he can't see you, he doesnt have his glasses on. But it still was very unpleasant.

You were at lost of words. Kalim al-asim... is renting you..? You weren't mad but you weren't happy too. Spending time with kalim is really fun and his personality is really refreshing. But being told you were 'rented out' feels.. dehumanizing. But with your life, you can really feel anything else..

"Is that all..?"

"Yes sir.."

"Good, you may leave."

You bowed your head and left, making sure to close the door softly behind you.

What do you do now..?

~~~

Now after every visit from kalim, the moment becomes a little sour. He's paying azul to spent time with you, but why? He's an al-asim. He could get anything he wants right? Why would he spend time with a common rat like you..?

What are you to him?

"(Mc)? You okay?"

You looked up and kalim was really close to you! You jolted and lean back

"I-im okay! Its just.. work. Heh.. work just be exhausting and im just.. I'm okay!"

You smiles, you didn't notice that kalim stopped smiling.. he was still looking at you but just not smiles. it would have scared you to your core if it wasnt for you trying to change the topic by looking at the scenery. A minute past and his smile came back, brighter.

"Why don't you come with me then?"

"huh..?"

"You could live in the al-asim estate and you don't have to lift the finger! Serverts will come to your every beckon call and you get to live.. like an Asim."

As you were staring at him, lost of words, he gently took your hand. You didnt even noticed it until he pulled your hands to his lips and kissed it.

"K-kalim! I-"

Before you could finish your sentence, he stood in front of you and got on one knee.

You felt sick

"(Mc)... "

You felt dizzy

"Will you-"

This has to be a dream!!!

"Be mine?"

He sweet innocent smile made you feel sick. How can can someone so dangerous be so naive?!? You bearly knew him! He bears knew you!!

"I.. i-i have to go!!"

You ran off, back to Mostro Lounge, back to your room, leaving a sad otter left on one knee..

~~~

You were in your room for 3 days..

You weren't payed for those days but you didnt care..

You felt sick and a little guilty. Kalim looked so sad when you left him. Maybe when you see him again... you could apologize and explain yourself..? By the seven! Would he still be mad at you? Will he order for you to be erased??

You felt nausea.

You needed to get some water.

Luckily it was night time, you wouldn't likely run into floyd, jade, or azul.. maybe?

You walked through the dark halls, only using your memories and the walls to guide you.

You were lost in thought and didn't realize a figure coming up behind you. By the time you did noticed, the figure quickly over powered you and you were imbraced into darkness.

~~~~

[Before the proposal]

"Azul!!? how much does the Wrights owe!?"

Kalim bursted into Azul's office, with a tired Jamil following behind.

"ah! K-Kalim! you know you have to make an ap-"

"i know i know! this is important though!!"

Kalim rushes up to Azul's desk, slamming his hands down on to the desk and leaned over to Azul. he was like a jumping dog..

"i want to ask (mc) to marry me!!"

everyone froze and even jade and Floyd, they were walking by, looked at Kalim like he was crazy.

"Kalim! I know your father has told you about being an Al-Asim and your responsibility to your family and making an hair but not like this!!"

"come on, Jamil~ they're perfect~ they're sweet and kind. they're responsible and hard working, like father wanted. they're just... perfect!"

Kalim goes through his phone and looks at pictures of you he took when you hanging out with him and even ones he requested from Jade and Floyd, secret cameras. They vary between you working and you when you think youre alone...

Azul rubs his face and gives a long sigh.

"look kalim. Even if your display of affection is definitely... something... (mc) is still working the Wrights' debt off. if they're not here then-"

"oh! that's another amazing thing about them! they were willing to help the Wrights without even knowing what they were getting themselves into. with the amount of debt the Wrights have, (mc) would be working until they're in their 70s. Thats why i need to protect them, do they even know about the Wrights 'situation'?"

Floyd lays on the couch in the VIP room, with candy in his mouth.

"nope! Jade thought it would help (mc) stay motivated to work. you saw how upset they got whenever we talk about the Wrights. they're so cute but so obedient that they don't even asked what they did to get in their situation, HAHA! silly shrimpy~!"

Floyd laughs and Jade chimes in.

"To be fair, we did get them out of a 'dangerous situation'. what the Wrights were doing to them was shameful.. Saying their debt was all because of their son, who has been dead for 10 years, and saying they dont have money but is found actively going to clubs spending more. the fact that they're living in the poorest town, and looking like weak old people. they're fooling everyone with the act. Everyone, including (mc)~"

Jamil turned and glared at Azul.

"wait-.. you didn't even tell them..? and you kept them working here?"

"think whatever Jamil, someone has to pay the debt off."

"i can pay it!"

Kalim looks at Azul, he was giving a determined look. Azul sighs again, why is everyone in his office. He has too much work to do.

"i know you can but you know-"

"in exchange, give me (mc)."

Jamil was about to stop Kalim but-

"(mc), yes, they work here under false pretenses but they have became a big asset to us. if you were to take them, it will take a long time to replace them."

Kalim walks closer to azul. with his serious expression, to say left everyone on edge was an understatement.

"i will pay 3x the Wrights' debt... as long as i get (mc)."

Azul looks at Kalim and a sick smile appears. He held out his hand.

"Its a Deal."

~~~~

This took so long! but i did it! i hope you guys enjoy it. if you guys like me to draw something for this, just ask, until then, back into my wips qwq

[seat-safety-switch]

There is a secret war happening in the heart of our world, friends. Combatants strive for absolute supremacy, a way to force their onerous new rules on regular human beings just like you and me. You only need to go to the cereal aisle at your local grocery store to see it for yourself.

When I was a kid, there were thousands of breakfast cereals. It was big business: fill kids with sugar laced corn byproducts. Quick breakfast, get them out the door. That was before the Carb Panic, which is not related in any way to carburetors, which remain a perfectly valid form of fuel metering and injection. Suddenly, breakfast cereal wasn't "cool" anymore. Sales dropped. MBAs freaked out. And a huge portion of our shared cultural history evaporated, just like that.

Even now, people of a certain age still have these brands woven into their sense of identity. You will lumber through the rest of your life, sleeper-like, until abruptly activated by a series of names that industrialists tattooed onto your prefrontal cortex. Post Oat Flakes, your brain will screech, we remember the titan it once was. A gentle frisson of nostalgia, followed by a haunting void and an awareness of the irreversible march of time.

Reduced competition means an easier time making money, right? Not so: as our civilization slowly looks down, Wile E. Coyote-like, and realizes that we actually stopped doing anything at all a couple decades ago in favour of moving some numbers around in Excel, people are cutting out things like Fruit Loops in favour of "eating actual food" and "paying my rent." This time, though, the cereal pushers learned their lesson. If the grocery stores don't want to stock their cereal because of low demand, they can simply hike the prices so that everyone gets their respective beaks wet. Seven bucks a box! Sir Grapefellow would have been ashamed.

Don't worry, though. I've got a plan. You see, the Canadian government stocked a bunch of anti-nuke bunkers with food and water and other supplies way back in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. In the 80s, they had kind of gotten used to the whole idea of being obliterated in a millisecond and largely stopped caring as much. All that cereal is still perfectly good. If you bring your dad's old bolt cutters, we can probably sneak out a couple boxes before the Mounties figure out we're there. Might be a little stale, but that's better than living under the whip hand of Bob Kellogg's. I swear to whatever deity is listening that I will once again sup of Count Chocula.

[translatemunson]

we play dumb but we know exactly what we’re doing • ttfd

chapter two of the tortured firefighters department

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

cw: fem!reader, afab!reader, no descriptions of reader, banter (because i love it), mentions of food, bobby almost adopting brains, proofread by my bye-lingual ass (let me know if i forgot anything)

Your sneakers made funny noises while you walked up the stairs to the communal room — the mezzanine with a view for the ground floor — at the 118 firehouse. The fresh baked brownies — that you baked the night before, just in time to put it on the blue tupperware and take with you for your shift — jiggled as you approached the top of the stairs.

You checked the garage again, looking for Chimney’s ambulance, when you found the loft empty. Well, not that empty.

“Good afternoon, Captain Nash.” You greeted the man. As a dispatcher, your voice was your most recognizable mark, only giving out your name when necessary. And in your job, it was your responsibility to know the names of the captains. You wished Captain Nash was just an occasional contact, but lately he has been the one on the other end of the comms.

“Afternoon, dispatcher.” He was preparing some lunch for his team. “How can I help you?”

“Is Chimney around? I have something for him. Actually, it is for Maddie and baby Jee.” You motioned to the tupperware.

“He’s gonna be back soon, got stuck in traffic after delivering a civilian to the hospital. But if you are in a hurry, I can give it to him.” The captain was busy with the pans on the stove and chopping vegetables for a salad, you supposed.

“Just left my shift, I can wait. I don’t trust firefighters with carbs and sweets, no offense.” You pulled one of the chairs and took a seat, still watching the man moving effortlessly in the kitchen. “She called in sick and I need to deliver these to her before I have a kid on my doormat demanding more than just brownies.”

“None taken. Can I get you some coffee while you wait?”

“Tell me where to find a cup and I’ll get it myself, don’t wanna delay your lunch.”

“Second cabinet on the left.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

You stood up and walked into the kitchen. You have to admit: they were definitely eating well because it had all the appliances necessary for any recipe, and the smell was divine. Even the coffee had a unique aroma. Who could you talk to in order to get half of what they had in the firehouse? 

“It’s the least I can do for the mastermind behind the calls after that huge traffic jam downtown last week.” He smiled. “How did you manage to divert the teams and the civilians so fast?”

“Just like ants follow patterns, so do the LA drivers. GPS apps can give up the fastest options based on their data, but it takes too much time when it comes to rescuing someone.” You explained as you walked back to your seat. “Glad no one was badly injured that day.”

“I’ve never got to an accident scene so fast. You’re really good with predictions.”

“I think my future could be bright if I used my superpowers for fortune telling and betting,” you joked. “I should be the one thanking you for all your work. And your team.”

“Bring us some of those,” he was clearly talking about the brownies, “any time.”

“Will do.”

As you finished your cup of coffee, you saw the ambulance entering the garage. Chim and Henrietta, his paramedic partner, left the vehicle and went straight for their lockers. A few more minutes wouldn’t kill you.

“Wanna stay and have lunch with us?” Captains Nash offered.

“Maybe another time. Thanks.”

It didn’t take long for Chim to show up upstairs. He looked surprised to see you in the 118 kitchen. You stood up and gave him the tupperware. “I told Maddie how many brownies I got her, so don’t fuck it up,” you warned him.

“Your package is safe and sound with me, Brains. Are you in a hurry?”

“Kinda. I have an important meeting with my bed.”

“Fair enough.” He patted your shoulder, acting like the big brother Maddie warned you about.

“See you soon, Chim. Thanks for the coffee, Cap!”

They waved goodbye, and you looked forward to spending the rest of your day sleeping. No calls, no traffic, no thesis: just you, your recently washed bed covers and fluffy pillows. The only thing in your way was a few miles to your apartment.

“I thought I’d hear you before seeing you again, Brains.”

It was scary how, after one meeting, you could recognize his voice anywhere. 

 “Guess it’s your lucky day, Buckley. Don’t get too happy, I’m already leaving.” You turned around to face him. The black firefighter uniform fitted him very well, even better than the white polo shirt and jeans he wore to the dinner.

“Is everything alright?” He tilted his head slightly, and kept his voice low.

“Yeah, just dropping off something for Maddie. Busy day?”

“Small domestic incident with light injuries, and a foundation problem.”

“So just a normal day in LA.” You knew about the banned Q-word, it was kinda a thing with every single 9-1-1 worker, including dispatchers. “Saved any cats from trees lately?”

“Ha-ha, you’re funny.” His voice was warm, but his face was dead serious. You were playing hot and cold, again and again. “Did moving go well?”

“My arms are sore, but it’s finally over. Thanks for asking.”

“You could start working out to help next time you move. Or if you decide to join the firefighters.”

Both are definitely bad ideas. Why would you need to add another activity into your packed agenda? You turned around and followed your way to your car. “I’ll leave the muscles for you, Buckley.”

“See ya, Brains!” He shouted on your back.

“Bye!” You motioned your hand in a goodbye, but didn’t look him in the eye.

Unbeknown to you, the rest of the crew was watching you both and placing bets on how long until one of you realized the banter was just the first step of something bigger.

author's note: first of all, thank you for all the love on the chapter one!!!! i think it was the first time a first chapter gets so much love, likes and attention on its first week! again: you can share some thoughts and request scenes and blurbs for this series anytime, feel free to be creative! see y'all next week

[ohtobemare]

Wild Ones, Miles Quaritch x fem!OC

summary: The avatar program has seen its changes in the decade since the Great War. And, waking up in a new evolution of an old avatar has its perks, sure. For her, or her other better half?

pairings: Miles Quaritch x fem!OC

warnings: established marriage, age gap, complete canon deviation, entry level fandom knowledge, a whole lot of made up futuristic tech, pro-human, Miles lives, accompanying fic to my upcoming AU rewrite, Kansas. my first official stab at Miles, Lord help us.

“.....you can hear me? Ruthaynne—Miss Carthier, you able to hear alright?” 

Waking from neural connection, usually, happens in a whirlwind—one of two ways, really. Many drivers reported a slow haze, akin to swimming. Time spinning backward as the crush of water rushes to fight you under, pulling at what feels to be your bones as you grapple for air, choking on hope and the claw for the surface. Smothering and slow. Others reported the  whiplash of being launched into a world of spinning color, cloud nine sounds, exaggerated tastes—acidic, sacchrine, umami in ways to make the head spin. The crash of a heartbeat, the lightning quick crash of senses coming online like from a coma. 

Lungs rise and fall rapidly, sucking in stale and thin air. Twice the size of what the human cavity would remember, not a stone’s throw from her alternate shell, locked away in some coffin box costing more than anything NASA would ever touch in three decades. Blood, rich with properties Earth could never fathom, rips through her veins—carrying foreign oxygens, CO2s cocktails to organs pushing hard, pistoning for life. Pores open and close like one never would think to acknowledge, hair stands up on end as the cool rush of conditioned air sets in. Her  hearing is the last to balance, deep and slow tones of the living settling into the brain like ripping off a wet, suffocating blanket. 

The weight of the sun may as well be resting on her chest—everything burns. Hot, like someone’s struck a flickering match beneath the epidermis that’s lit her up. Snapping and crackling in her blood, licking up whatever air is pummeling down her windpipe. Hunger claws somewhere in the depth of her core, starving and rapid with cold attention and steel tenacity that demands. She’d kill for a steak, or carbs—something savory, something salty. 

Synopses in her brain curl and flex her toes towards the floor. Muscles in her calves pull, twitch. Contract. They’re defined in ways Ruthie Carthier, her human body, would never feel; strong. Adept. Otherworldly, godlike. Adonis, reaching for the sun —flying too close to a feeling of power, of capability.  It was never how man was supposed to feel. Forever the creation, the taste of creator was never meant to flow through veins incapable of justice, purity. 

And this must be what Goliath felt like, high on adrenaline, drunk on power and iron strength able to bend hearts backwards. I Am help us, it was incredible. Magnificent in a twisting, serpentine way. Like a chilled, feverish sweat—cooling for the moment, but not everyday. Not stationary, not normal. Not organic. 

A snap of cold chases down the muscles in her back, the discs of her spine—chasing the heat crashing through her blood. And as her palms skip over whatever surface is beneath her, she knows why. It’s smooth, otherworldly smooth. Skipping through her fingers, she realizes it’s the medical berth. The labs.

“....heart level’s looking fantastic, o-sat is nearly perfect. Good respirations,” two heads suddenly appear above, looking down through rebreathers. They’re smiling, the wrinkles at their eyes and the sparkle of light are tells that not even a trained liar could hide. “Hey there. Doing okay?” 

Color fights for daylight from beneath the milkwhite collar of the woman’s labcoat—purple. It’s a purple something trying to hide, but it may as well be flashing neon on the Vegas strip—and it’s beautiful. The only scrap of living color, in the otherwise industrial steels and sterile whites of the ceiling and walls. Unable to look away from the rich promise of plumb for a few more heartbeats, movement flicks her eyes up to consider the light now passing in front of her eyes. 

“Excellent tracking response,” she chuckles. “Got some mighty blue eyes there, Mrs. Carthier—you’re clear to sit up, nice ‘n easy.” Stepping back from the table, the woman disappears from flat-back view and the beep of a monitor, the electrical whir of a correcting machine is the only noise. “You might be a bit disoriented, it’ll pass.” 

What once was the tech’s floating head becomes a pair of shoulders and a body as she works into a sitting position. The room spins, and it takes a squeeze of strong hands on the edge of the table to anchor the world, back as it was. Scribbling violently with a pen over a data screen, the tech’s eyes track the change; data hits the mainframe almost at the speed of light. Flicking between her patient and the screen, her smile is wire thin. She folds the plex over her chest, spinning the pen through her fingers. 

“Better?” Tapping the pen against her teeth, her head tips to the side. A nod satisfies her. “Figured. Takes a few seconds for all the neural pathways to wake up, the sleepy bastards.” The curse is short off a snort and foul, and Ruthie’s nose wrinkles in agitated disgust. Shooting her a sidelong frown, the tech has the nerve to roll her eyes. “My bad, Jesu—jeez. If we’re good here, you can stand up when you’re ready, hon.” 

For a second, Ruthie thinks she can feel the reinforcement in her bones as she slips off the berth. Bare fit hit the cold floor and she winces, recoiling as the heightened senses rush through her frame. Lifting her hands, she moves her finger, transfixed at the shallow bones flexing beneath her pale skin. Corner of her mouth ticking up in a small smile, she watches the back of her hands as she makes a fist, releases. Ball up, release, don’t tuck your thumb. 

Flexing a hand, she dips fast into low, and two sharp jabs feel like nothing, upsetting the air. She’s quick. Faster, maybe, than data suggested. 

Na’vi inspired carbon fiber marrows, mingling with red blood cells and whatever else I Am intended for the skeletal system. Giving her the strength, suddenly, of five men—and it’s remarkable. Beautiful, even. Reaching to card fingers through her hair, she glances over her shoulder to the tech. Even across the room, heightened eyesight makes out the small stitching of her name on her coat. 

Berg, J. The stitches are midnight black, a stain on the otherwise precise snow. Turning, a sweeping glance confirms it—she’s new. Ruthie’s never met her before, even before her other runs in the Eve program. Swallowing a breath of what’s beginning to taste like rancid air, she blinks and looks to the leads snaking along the berth, pumping fluids into the IV in her hand. 

“Miss Carthier—” 

“Quaritch, actually. Ruthaynne Quaritch, at your service,” unable to identify if the woman is a titled doctor or even military, she resorts to not identifying her at all. Basic manners, if you could say you needed them in Bridgehead. “But you can call me Ruthie, most people do.” Extended hand hanging there in thin air for a moment, unwelcomed, she finally just moves to brush the front of the medical gown.

Berg’s raised brow of confusion matches the yeah, right practically tattooed in her expression. And Ruthie would be more surprised at her lack of recognition, maybe, until she realizes after several seconds of trying to place her—she’s never made this woman’s acquaintance. Which isn’t unusual, new people float in and out of programs all the time as teams ship out, rotate. Eve was no different. Avatar Project attracted newbies like bears to honey. 

On cue, Berg’s attention trips to the monitor. Carthier, R. It blinks in solid, picked-by-some-underpaid-executive RDA standard font. Pen poised, she looks back to her patient, then to her plex—she swipes through screens, eyes scanning records. The transparent glass flashes Emergency Contacts, and Ruthie’s top teeth set to gnawing her bottom lip, waiting. 

A second, maybe, before the woman’s brows shoot almost right off her face. They would’ve hit the ceiling at almost the same pace as the color bleeding out of her face, if she didn’t drop her writing device from stupefied fingers. It hits the floor with a crack, Berg practically diving to retrieve it like she’s at Mach 10. And the way she fumbles through “Oh shit, oh fuck, how the hell—” Ruthie can’t help her snort of amusement. 

There it is, “I—oh shit—ma’am. My apologies. I didn’t—” This wasn’t the first time she’d been misidentified. Improperly ID’d. And it wouldn’t, certainly, be the last. 

A peacock of embarrassed heat fans up Ruthie’s neck and across her nose, a light shrug slipping from her shoulders in an attempt to shake some of the tension out of the air, “And you wouldn’t, Miss Berg—never bothered to update the mainframe,” a chuckle drops her gaze to the berth laid out before her like a tomb, “Paperwork, you know how it goes. Only thing that moves slower around here than molasses at Christmas.” Fingers pressing into the cool berth, she leans over the table a little to scrunch her nose, teasingly. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” waving between the two of them, she winks lightly, “Our secret. Scouts honor.” 

Berg’s mouth, hanging open on what could well become a swinging hinge of her jaw, snaps closed at the dismissal. “Oh. Well, uh—thank you, ma’am?” The look on her face matches the phrasing of a question, and the technician sits like that, staring. For moments longer than one or two. Until the monitor blips sharply, Ruthie turning her hand over to work at the IV stinging in the back of her hand. “Shit, shit shit—you shouldn’t—” 

“I feel fine,” Ruthie inserts softly with a crooked grin, “But you should probably let them know that.” Thumbing towards the one-way glass, her head gestures in that direction as she drops the IV to the berth, reaching for the monitor now screaming out an orchestra of alarms, chirps, and klaxons. “I’ll sit tight, you go do…whatever it is you techs do, hon.” A wave of her hand sends Berg hustling out of the room like a linebacker, Ruthie busying herself with quieting the monitor. 

Alone in the space, silence bleeds from the walls like sterile blood. Clinically white and oppressively bright, her eyes make out the room and its contents briefly, with disinterest. Another empty berth not but a few feet from her own, rolling trays of surgical utensils. Locked boxes and cupboards of what could only be medical goodies. The label beside the door reads Surgical Suite AVTR.EV, 12B along with escape routes. Fire protocols. Emergency contacts and dial outs. 

Pristine, overwhelmingly clean, it doesn’t even look like anyone’s been in here—aside from her discarded IV, dripping saline and minerals to the permastone floor. Picking it up, she drapes it over one of the arms of the monitor stand, fingertip lightly skipping over the surgical grade steel blade. Blowing aside a fallen curl from her face, she catches the movement of her arm in the reflection of the one-way, pausing. 

Smiling crookedly at the reflection, she chuckles and tucks a short set of curls behind her ear. It’s not the first time she’s actually seen her own avatar, but it’s the first time it’s been officially sanctioned. Since Eve’s kickoff, anyway. Avatar’s had been a regular faction of RDA for decades, even before the war and Sully’s insurrections. Augustine’s studies, and the data she herself had collected from the planet had given them more than enough edge to make perfections—and perfections, they were. 

Any avatar that could function at the same capacity as Na’vi without looking native and tapping into the demonic energy of the people was a step in the right direction. Direction that RDA, that humanity needed to successfully colonize. Establish roots that would outlast them all, give them hope. Second chances were rarely afforded, but this place—Pandora—was divine granted. Inspired, even. A second chance to course correct in a way the people of Earth never would. Hope in the high places, amongst the stars. 

And Eve afforded them all the luxuries navigation of a foreign, hostile world required. Na’vi avatars—the Adams—had been revolutionary at the time of the Great War; but nearly two decades later, nearly archaic. Prototypes for the big RDA push of the century, humanoid avatars. Avatars that looked like drivers, but functioned as natives. Extraordinary devices no longer reliant on the energy connection to the planet and its sentient  tyranny; precious luxuries afforded not everyone that passed through the RDA machine. Save a chosen few, soldiers and frontiersmen and pioneers of the sciences and human settlement efforts. Riches from amongst the ashes of the lost, the reaping of the war. 

Sweet fruit, indeed—at a million and a half a pop. Hers had been the first of Eve, the first humanoid avatar analyzed and genetically coded to her own DNA. One per driver, ever, and irreversible. Adam avatars, too, were permanent fixtures to the DNA of their drivers—Weinfleet, Mansk, all the drivers of the original Na’vi avatars were tethered to their Deja Blues, irreversible and for the long haul. A necessary evil, for without those Adams, those original prototypes, avatars like hers wouldn’t exist—fully human, fully native. The first step towards integration. 

Humanity would thrive on Pandora. It was in the numbers, the cards—a promise. Not so much a hope, these days. A decade ago they’d dreamed of merely settling outposts here. Breathing stale, purified air and never touching sunlight the way I Am intended. Crowded by steel and fortressed walls. But now, with the Eves—it was a step closer. A link to making humans fully hospitable on Pandora. 

Tipping her head to the side, Ruthie studied the perfections of the avatar not afforded her I Am-given body. Glassy skin, perfectly hydrated and patterned corkscrew curls; alive and quick eyes that sparkled even brighter than her organic glacier-blues could. Breathing deeply, her hands brushed over the definition in her arms—the veins and perfect fat-to-muscle ratio for her body type. BMI didn’t exist in avatars, something she was sorely thankful for. She wasn’t thin in her organic body, her skin wasn’t glass and glistening. She could’ve been ripped off the cover of a Vogue magazine, if Vogue was into hiring eight foot tall super soldiers.  

The iteration felt stronger, more alive than those before—more proteins, cleaner neural pathways. Faster reaction time. Clean cut emotions, quick synapses. No wonder the price of these steadily clawed higher and higher, they improved with nearly every quarter—-her bright smile, revealing sparkling albeit still-pesky pointed canines made her shoulders dipped forward. Couldn’t have it all, not even at a million and a half. 

Raking her close-cropped curls from her forehead, she turned to seat on the berth she’d risen from. Easily able to pull into a cross legged position, she rolled her shoulders forward. Back. Neck side to side, pushing her shoulder blades back to feel the tug of muscle, the shift and burn of activation. Wriggling her toes beneath her, she chuckled at how miraculously easy it was to lean forward. Abs she’d only ever dreamed of engaged, stabilizing her as reached her arms forward, palms skipping along the cool steel. 

Closing her eyes with a smile, her fingers easily slipped through her curls, pulling pleasurably at her scalp. Mind clear for the first time in minutes,  head dropping back with a sigh that curled her toes, she relished in the avatar’s strength. Its body, perfect and attuned to genetics she’d only wished I Am had granted in her own self. It felt so good. Vibrant, storybook. Like this was a dream. 

And it was, in one sense or another.  GI Jane can kiss my backsid—

“Well well, look at that—buttercup’s up and at’em,” the familiar drawl snapped her attention to the door, bolting her upright. Heart racehorsing against her ribs for a second, it takes only lightspeed to realize it’s Lyle kicked back in the suite’s doorway. Lounging like he owns the place, and in a way, he does—at nearly ten feet tall, Adam avatars pretty much have say of clearances and classifieds. “Get some rack, Sleeping Beauty?” 

“Lyle,” she acknowledges with a nod, lithely moving from the berth to cross over to him, cool smile taking him in. Crossed arms, RDA fatigues, Oakleys and all. “I’m not sure you can consider genetic connection as rack time, but to answer the question, sure. I’m okay.” Rolling a shoulder, “Feels good, feels right.” 

“No shit,” his nod matches the genuine smile he offers, before pushing out of the doorway to glance at her over the Oakleys, “Doc Berg says you’re good to go, figured you’d want some of these.” Stepping beyond the door, he twists to pluck a backpack up from the floor, tossing it forward with a flick of his wrist. “Colonel wanted to be here, but the General’s got his ass in a scouting debrief, like usual.” 

And that tracked—the only thing Ardmore did better than push papers was run debriefings, which on any given day, were excruciating. A gauntlet of sterile numbers and eye-crossing data, they were less informational as they were formal, for the books. Padded her numbers and her calendar for the eyes back home. But, she was meticulous, organized—on a horse higher than than hell, too. The only thing tighter than her regulations was her backside, head shoved so far up the execs of RDA’s asses that she may as well be bought and paid for.

Less a soldier and more a RDA performing monkey, she did run a tight outfit. Play by the rules or die was the motto, non negotiable. And if there was one thing about Miles that she knew and knew well was that he played by rules nobody had even heard of. He was wild like that, but disciplined. A lifetime of jarhead responsibilities and blood on the hands did that, sometimes. 

Blowing out a breath, “Sounds fun,” the only thing more sarcastic than her tone was Ruthie’s eyeroll, which broke Weinfleet into a toothy smile. Automatically her gaze drops to her wrist, which is bare—no watch. Reaching for Lyle’s wrist, she glances at the time. “Two hours? I’ve been out for two hours?” The jump of alarm in her gut is abrupt, and she drops Weinfleet’s arm a little roughly. “Good lord. What did they do, open brain surgery or something?”

Lyle snorts, nudges her forward with a gentle push to her shoulder. “Don’t look at me, buttercup—I just work here,” his tongue flicks over a sharp canine smoothly, before he thumbs over his shoulder. “‘S’posed to get you those,” gesturing to the bag with both index fingers, he slides the Oakleys up his blue dome, “but gotta haul ass back to the DB. You good?” Anything less would have Lyle’s backside in a sling with Miles, and that was unacceptable—even present company accounted for, she knew. 

Nodding, she waves him off with a flappable hand, “Squared away, thank you very much. Get lost, smurfy.” With a teasing face, Lyle turned sharply on his heel and jogged off, down the corridor until his sapphire frame was swallowed from view, into the twisting darks of industrial grays and steels. Huffing a breath, Ruthie reached for the badge clipped to a strap of the PHNX pack, unsnapping it with smooth hands. Carding it through her fingers, one glance down to the surgical gown sets her jaw sharply. 

“Frickin’ doctors,” her huff is exasperated, pulling at the gown’s flimsy material. “Gross.” 

. . .

It’s not hard to tag a Quaritch anywhere in Bridgehead City, if one knew where to look. At any given time Miles was, mostly, in one of three places—or two, if he was driving, but that was just icing on the proverbial cake. Gym, war room, weapons R&D when he was on duty. Home, mess, gym when he was off the clock. Which, like it or not, was close to never. Marriage taught you a few things about your other half, but it hadn’t quite managed to zero in on whereabouts. Yet, anyway. 

Rolling up to the officer sector at eight feet tall was comedic, at best. Frustrating, at worst. Ducking through the door after scanning her badge into the domicile, it never ceased to remind as to why no driver ever squatted home. Vaulted ceilings, sure, but the space was hardly designed with eight feet tall natives in mind—and neither was the furniture. The couch, Ruthie figured every time she dropped home, would splinter if either of them even dared look that direction. And the rack? Forget it. Showers were out of the question. 

There were alternative lodgings available in the barracks, but the idea of putting up with general population bit like a mother. Dropping her pack beside the door, she emptied its contents and dressed quickly—her favorite specially manufactured Levi cutoffs, a sports bra, boots and socks, a favorite of her, again, special ordered shirts—a linen safari button down in off-white. Clothing options for avatars were few and far between, and Miles knew she’d never be caught dead in RDA fatigues outside of in-unit ops. 

Wetting her hair with a quick rake of her fingers and a splash of water to her face was enough to freshen up what, technically, didn’t even need freshening. Checking her appearance with a quick glance, she breezed out of the domicile, snatching her IDs and plex while dipping out the door. Flipping through the plex; no email, no texts, nowhere to be, technically, pointed her feet in the direction of the war room. 

It was a quick and effortless march to the sector, avatar legs carrying her faster and farther with less effort that was a breeze. Every time connecting back felt like the first time, at least for a while, until the creeping looks of raised brows and uncertainty spearheaded from the general public. Not everyone interacted with avatars often—the Eves, less so. They were new, they were unusual, they were expensive and highly classified—seeing a Na’vi avatar was more common and less unsettling than seeing an Eve. 

Especially one so highly cleared and….rumored. 

Crossing her arms over the plex against her chest, it wasn’t long until she found herself at the war room, Ardmore’s favorite place to host eternity-defying debriefings. Corridor quiet, the room indicator was solid scarlet—high level occupied, clearance required. As always. Brushing curls behind her ear, Ruthie shifted her hip for the badge to scan across the indicator, and immediately if flashed—first with her clearance levels, then with green. Granted, thank you very much, Carthier, R. 

Satisfied, she slipped through the door on light feet—only to find the entire space had, apparently, flatlined. Standing a head and shoulders taller than most in the room was a piece of cake compared to whatever the heck this BS was. 

Pulselessly still, she could’ve cut the wire of the room with a paperclip. Her gut jumped to play chicken with her ribs, eyes tracking around the space for familiar bodies. Nearly every corporate RDA goon eyeballed her like she’d been dropped from the heavens wearing blinking neon. She clocked Lyle first, at the back of the room doing his best impression of coughing a grin into his fist; Mansk second, who looked amused while oh-so-masculine manspreading in his comically undersized chair. 

White-noise from the holomap smack in the center of the room the only audible sound to the heightened ear, its images did little to hide Ardmore’s face from beyond. Just her luck. Expression pulled into an unreadable look of stone so blank that, for the first time in a hot minute, Ruthaynne actually felt embarrassed heat light up her face like a jetwash. Heart jackhammering behind her ribs, certainly loud enough to hear for anyone who cared to listen, it took a few seconds to remember exactly where she was—and who, exactly, she was. 

Ardmore beat her to it, the bitc—“Miss Quaritch,” the formality of her tone almost stung. Muscle in Ruthie’s jaw pulled a little tighter than she appreciated, “Avatar’s up and about, seems like. Outstanding you could join us,” 

She doesn’t mean it. But her nod, professional more than acknowledging, accompanies her hand fanning Ruthie forward, to the inner circle.

Putting up a hand, her return nod is polite. Over my dead body, Ardie, “Thanks, General. Please, continue.” 

And just like that, the room snaps back into business. Data and coordinates, strategy and all the war talk that usually applies to these debriefs. Ardmore brings up footage from a vest cam, walking the group through the sit rep, and the occupants in the space breathe—bodies shift in seats, sway back and forth on their feet. The rustle of shifting posture, the soft hum of plex’s as assistants and the more-interested access data. Across the room, Mansk bounces his leg, whether in agitation or concentration, one can never tell. Lyle, plucking his knife and flicking the tip with his nail. Boys. 

The plex under her arm chimes, and a quick glance shows it’s an airdrop from one of the assistants. A faceless name, but one that’s been in her inbox before. Accessing the data, Ruthie begins the download. Flips through some of the radar images, head tilted to the side in concentration. Sully’s forces, bolder than before—four dead on an expedition to a science outpost. Images captured young Na’vi, no more than 12 or 13, armed and painted in various war paints and tribal colors—-

QUARITCH, MILES

9 o’clock, cupcake ;)

The message takes precedence, dismissing the briefing intel and snapping her attention up, around the room. It’s odd, looking down and about the space from eight feet tall with perfect eyesight her organic body doesn’t know— it’s beautiful, really. Bottom lip rolling beneath her top teeth, she flinches a little as the pointed canines bite a little sharply into her flesh. Hissing, her tongue lathes over the spot, quickly skipping over her back teeth. Darkening the plex’s screen, her eyes cut sharply to her 9 o’clock—and sure enough. 

Gotcha. Almost ten foot frame hovering at the back of the space, the good Colonel sees her make him with a lift of his chin. A slow smile puts sparkling white teeth on display, so at odds against sapphire skin and glowing green eyes unlike anything she’s ever seen. Smiling back at him, he dips his head ever so slightly, crooking a lithe finger for her to come. Attention ever on the General, should prying eyes dare to drift. 

And good I Am, he’s as delicious as he ever has been, damned Na’vi genetics aside. Heart thudding a little harder against her ribs, moisture at the back of her throat vanishes, and suddenly it’s warmer in here than she remembers as his smile softens into a little smirk, probably clocking her shift of posture. Shoulders falling back subconsciously, her chin levels with the floor and nods to him once, him settling back into his akimbo stance. 

It’s not unusual for Quartich to drive his avatar, especially on days field ops are likely. And with Sully on the move, bolder and badder than ever, those days are less few and far between. It’s mandatory to have 24 out hours after every 36 driving, and Miles had just gone in before she had. They’d said their “see you laters” over coffee at mess this AM, him kissing her temple chastely before hustling out to head a safety meeting.

And while driving avatars was business as usual for both of them, there never ceased to be a little leap of excitement, seeing him bold and all big boy blue. Knowing it was him, actually Miles, only added to the little swirl of thrill chasing her gut down the length of her spine. 

Melding across the room behind backs of the tuned-in, Miles’ low hand guides her to his side at elbow, her feet one-over-the-other without much conscious effort. Brushing against his side, he plucks the plex from her fingers and sets it aside, on the chair behind him, on top of his own. Out of sight, out of mind. Nobody moves to notice her relocation, his large hand resting firmly at the low of her back while his other grabs her wrist, guiding her to stand in front of him. 

Shoulders pressing against the warmth of his chest, one of his arms slipped around her middle, locking in close. His other hand moves to rub one of her curls between his long fingers, knuckles brushing against the back of her neck. He’s warm, almost too warm—-his hand wrapping around the back of her neck, kneading muscles slowly and with care, triggers a glance over her shoulder to him. 

“You’re up,” The slow drawl in his voice is unnecessarily low, deliberate. “Wanted to be there, darlin’, really did—we got hit, lost a few of the lab coats,” the empathy in his voice is hardly there, Miles was never one to dwell on losses. Easier that way, from a certain standpoint. “You feelin’ all there?” 

Nodding, she shuffled back against his chest a little more, boots catching on the floor. Head dropping to rest against his pec, Ruthie focuses her attention on Ardmore’s holo readouts—or, rather, attempts. HIs fingers rubbing the hem of her shirt are distracting, rough knuckles warm against her abdomen in ways that distract more than just her attention. Hand moving from the back of her neck to rest atop his other at her middle, he angles his head to brush his nose along the shell of her ear, softly. In a rare public display of affection, attachment. 

Stomach jumping up what feels like the length of her spine, his chortle is nearly undetectable. She only feels it against her back, deep in his chest—his breath over her ear is laced with the clear, brisk mint he always seems to manage from that gum he likes so much. His head turns to rest against hers, and he takes a long breath of her hair, the slow crest of his chest almost dizzying. 

“Avatar looks good’nuff to eat, darlin’,” she can hear the smile before she feels it, one of his hands easily slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to brush a nail over the button of her shorts, “Weinfleet told me you looked good. Little shit—lookin’ at another man’s things,” the thought of being a possession should be offputting, should make nip at the veins of her pride, but it does the opposite—it sparks satisfaction, low and deep, at the base of her spine, the cradle of her hips.

The smirk in his tone deepens, if that’s possible. And it is, she knows that. Experience, logged time. 

“Gotta give him credit, though—man knows a good thing when he sees it.” 

Lower lip rolling inward, Ruthie shifts a little on her feet, rocking back on her heels in an attempt to move away from his hands, teasing and probing the waist of her shorts, which are suddenly too stifling, but somehow not enough all at the same time. Even after a decade of being together, of racking together and exchanging vows—he’s still all the cocksure ego she remembers of him when he’d first pursued. He still can reduce her to a gelatinous mass, little more cohesive than a brainless bimbo. Then, at the beginning, she’d been brash and all bravado and untamed. A wild thing, chasing stars and hope. Indestructible. 

Now—older, wilder, wholly ruinable. Drunk on him. On avatars, on promise of what Pandora could be. On the future and Project Eve and the inevitable tumble of Jake Sully’s abominable destruction of a dream. And Miles knows it, always has, just like he knows exactly how to piston her mind away from a scouting debrief with little more than touch and the right smile. And I Am, what she wouldn’t give for a quiet space, time alone—time alone that seems nonexistent, almost unreal. 

Eyes skate across the room, looking for any wandering attention. Nobody seems to have noticed them in the back of the room, which isn’t the usual. Most of the time Miles is front and center, the flagship of Ardmore’s efforts. The pillar everyone can count on. But today, he’s a man of the shadows, a man of the native world hidden away from the everyday. And she couldn’t be more thankful, because the way his hand grazes her shiny new abs just the right way has, she’s sure, unraveled her face into a Ardmore-show stopping expression. Hand pressing against the sculpted muscle of her middle, he sucks in a chortling breath a little too suggestively. 

“Oh? What’s this?” His fingers curl lightly into her abdomen, and she sucks in a breath that feels louder than it actually is, “Well, look at that—these are new,” he chuckles, amused, before his hand lifts to brush curls away from her ear. “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it? Takes half a life and rights to your firstborn to get ‘em real time, but just a nap and a few test tubes and, just like that,” softly imitating a snap of his fingers, Miles pulls her closer, if possible.  Brushes aside the collar of her shirt to press chapped lips against her collarbone. “Makes you wonder what else these things are capable of, hm?” 

Oh god, “You’re not paying attention, Colonel,” angling her head back against his chest, her fingers curl around the collar of his RDA issued shirt, pulling sharply. “The good General is trying to get you up to speed for your next hop, sir.” And with that, she firmly stabs her elbow into his abdomen, satisfied with the little huff he manages. 

“...and what makes you think I don’t already gotta handle on this intel, ma’am?” 

And that could be a point of contention, if she’d been an underprepared participant in his little game of cat and mouse. “Well, Quaritch,” it simmers low at the base of her chest, teasing and dark, “you know what they about assuming.” Biting the corner of her lip, Ruthie grabbed his wrist and pulled it back, sharply enough to earn another huff of surprise. “Be a good boy at work, Colonel, and I might just have a surprise for you when you get home.” 

Reaching around behind him for his braid, Ruthie feels it snake around her arm loosely, before taking a handful and giving a ruff tug. Off his game, the good Colonel stepped back sharply, allowing her just enough leverage to skirt from his reach. Slipping behind him, she nabbed the plex from his chair, tucked it under her arm, and pulled lightly on his braid again. 

Quaritch’s head snapped back just enough for her to gently nudge the shell of his ear. “Stand at attention, Marine. That’s an order.” And she’s sure he can clock the smile in her voice, releasing the Na’vi braid with a smirk. Obedient, the curve of his back straightened just so, making her grin. Sidling up to his right, she raised on toes to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Very good, Colonel. I’m impressed.” Clapping a hand against his abs, she went to step back, brows wagging juvenilely.

“Not so fast,” and it’s louder than it should be. Loud enough that a few uniforms look over their shoulders, intrigued. Miles, ever the pillar of strength and unashamed bravado he so exudes, frowns at them before his sharp green eyes lid, tail flicking a little aggressively. “Eyes forward, gentlemen. When there’s something to see back here, I’ll tell you to grow eyes.” 

Horrified, her mouth drops open before she swats at his shoulder, hissing darkly. “Miles!” Eyes darting between the backs of the uniforms he’s just startled and his lidded look of superiority, her stomach pitches with embarrassed somersaults as heat chases up the length of her neck. And before she can lose her composure and giggle at the wag of his suggestive brow, she frowns at him. “You’re such a prick,” it’s not entirely unserious, but the smile behind his eyes tells her it’s only fueled the innuendo of the moment. 

“Yeah? That may be,” his brows lift before his lower lip rolls beneath his top teeth, canines practically glinting in whatever low light the back of the room would offer, “but I think you like it, ain’t that so? Darlin’ little wife.” And with that, he steps up into her personal space, towering even her full eight feet—sharp eyes alive, wandering. Lustful, possessive. Hungry. 

No—starving. Frickin’ Na’vi DNA, packed with hormones not fully explored by the human psyche.  

Slipping beyond the snatching reach of his hand with a teasing smile and a roll of her eyes, Ruthie hushedly excuses herself from amidst the uniforms dotted around the back of the room. Without drawing Ardmore’s attention, she scans from the room, dipping low under the door and out into the corridor. Where the air is cool, there isn’t a thousand and one attentions keyed into the cat and mouse games of her husband, where she can breathe. 

She doesn’t make it five strides from the sealed door before it slips open with a mechanical whine, Ardmore’s droning audible for only a second before it bangs back into place, flashing a secure scarlet for high clearance access. But the door is barely noticeable, not from beyond the full nearly nine feet of Miles Quaritch’s Na’vi, staring hard and long, thumbs hooked through the loops of his cargoes. 

“And what are you doing?” Brow furrowed, she looks beyond him, to the door. “Miles. Get your ass back in that meeting,” all teasing gone, his exit from Ardmore’s briefing is the biggest of offenses—a slap in the face, defiance to not only Ardmore, RDA, but his men. He knows better. And for a second, Ruthie wonders if maybe she’s crossed a line—but if a decade together has told her anything, it’s not that. 

No, Quaritch is not the man that abandons his men to have it out with his wife in the corridor. Not in the long game. It’s something else, a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. She doesn’t know this face, his Na’vi well enough to read anything that resembles his usual, and she isn’t sure if it’s terrifying or thrilled butterflies that threaten her spine like a tarmac. 

 Mouth opening to further her protest, he’s to her in one stride, dangerous hands on either side of her face enough to cut any word she could think of forming off at the throat. And before she can even breathe, his mouth is on hers—hungry, ravenous, compelling. The force of it sends her backwards enough that she loses her feet, but he’s faster, arm catching her around the middle and pulling her forward, close. Close enough to feel the steady drum of his heart behind carbon-enforced ribs, The pull of muscle engage, as he tips her forward, against his chest. 

The world beyond—Pandora, Ardmore, RDA, Bridgehead—fades into black and whites not wholly unlike an ancient film, the only thing living color and wild him, right here, beneath her touch and coaxing her lips apart with his. Mint, sweat, the taste of whatever he’s eaten is rich, so there and alive with every gentle pull and push of his jaw, every bite and nip of his teeth against her lips. It’s determined, possessive, demanding, pulling a pathetic little mewl from the back of her throat she doesn’t remember since the beginning of him, the beginning of this. 

And if her hands were large, his were larger, his thumb running up and down her jaw, applying pressure to adjust the angle, the tilt of where he wants her, how deeply he needs this. Noses bump, brush, and one inhale of the way he smells—strong, powerful, of a musk unexplainable to humanity—sends her mind spinning, her heart cascading like a falling star between her ribs. His kiss is powerful, it demands. Touch me, feel me–ever only me in a way that sends bolts of electricity to every heightened nerve in her body. It sets leads, it guides—it sets the pace, it rescues everything and anything that could be set wrong. 

His thick fingers through her hair, tugging at her scalp triggers her teeth at his bottom lip, canines pulling sharply enough to elicit a groan from somewhere in his chest she can’t even fathom. All the years of this, of him, and it’s never once failed to feel new, like the first time—Miles kisses her and the world unfolds, like fiction. Like something anyone ever said couldn’t be real. Fingers tugging at her hair drags a punched out little whine from the back of her throat, which he swallows with a groan. 

Head spinning and chest burning, the need for air claws like a demon. Breaking apart, her head falls back to suck in air, chest rising and falling shallowly as she attempts to blink away the rabid color the world has suddenly become. Eyes closed, Miles lazily nips at her bottom lip, pulling just a little as his hand gently cradles the side of her face, the heat that’s blushed her cheeks to a hot, thrilling pink. 

Her head rights, and he lowers his to rest his forehead against hers, breath fanning across her face in low, hardly controlled breaths. It’s so unlike him, to be so unraveled. Uncomposed. Hair clings to the tacky sweat that’s pearled across her forehead, and his nose brushes the tip of hers, lovingly. Tenderly. Taking his hand, she gently guides it beneath her left breast, to cover the racing pulse in her chest. 

“I miss you,” is all he breathes, and it’s strange—strange because he hasn’t been gone, she’s always been here. And it hangs there for a few heartbeats, until it makes sense. He misses her. Miles. Not the Na’vi shell of the man she’s known for a decade, what feels like half her lifetime—Miles, somewhere in an avatar lab, somewhere that’s not here. 

Swallowing each of her breaths, which have started leveling, he kisses her again, softly. Aftercare, the intimacy he so rarely offers outside the confining fortress of marriage. “I’ll see ya later, yeah?” It’s rough, low. Growling, tainted with his drawl that has become like home.

A soft nod breaks them apart, kiss swollen lips stinging as he steps back towards the door, creating distance. And the corner of his mouth ticks up in a pleased little smirk as she rubs her jaw, fresh red marks from his possessive hands warm to the touch. More than visible. 

“I’d imagine so,” her smile is purposefully resigned. Floored, he grins. Tongue skating over too-sharp teeth. His nod is concrete, firm as he passes his badge in front of the security system, flashing his credentials before a bright, clearance green. 

And he does come home. Again, and again. 

tags: for the interested: @itsgoghtime @horserad-ish @mongoosesthings @sarahsmi13s @gothidecorem @kmc1989 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

[ellethespaceunicorn]

because i’m such a lovey mood 🥰 dennis having brunch with baby baker and wifey 🤭🥹

OMG Nonnie! Dennis having brunch with his little family gives me all the warm and fuzzy feelings. And, of course, I need to make it an entire scenario because all my Dennis feelings are monumental in stature lol

I may have added more plot into this headcanon 🤣

You and Dennis welcome baby Baker on a sunny afternoon in May

Little Dennis Jr (DJ) is a handful as soon as he is born

8lb 10oz, 22in

big, beautiful blue eyes just like his Daddy

Dennis never knew he could love someone more than you until he laid eyes on that tiny little baby

He wasn't ashamed to cry when DJ held onto his finger for the first time

From midnight feedings to bathing to diaper changes to checkups, Dennis is there for everything

He even takes a little extra time off work so that you can focus on getting back to your work routine

You come home most nights and find your boys asleep on the couch together or DJ in his crib and Dennis in the rocking chair watching him sleep

Saturday mornings are your favorite because Dennis cooks brunch for you and DJ

Well, DJ is still on breastmilk but it's the thought that counts

Dennis always makes your favorite: pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream

Dennis usually makes breakfast potatoes; bacon or sausage (sometimes both), and fried eggs

Dennis lets you sleep in and takes care of DJ before cooking and then coming to wake you up with fresh coffee

When you walk into the kitchen, the counter is covered in a nice display of food that wakes you right up

He checks on DJ in his rocker seat, letting you sit down with your coffee before he makes you a plate

He makes sure you have everything you need then makes himself a plate

You can't help but smile at how great it is to have the man you love dote on you the way he does and a sweet little boy who looks more and more like Dennis every single day

After you finish brunch, you go to clear the dishes and Dennis stops you (of course he does)

Dennis cleans the kitchen and puts away the leftovers while you tend to DJ

After DJ is put down for a nap, you two settle back in bed to enjoy the silence for a bit

Before you know it, you both are asleep in each other's arms, content to sleep off the carb overload and bask in the quiet of your house

That is, until DJ wakes and demands attention

But you know by now that Dennis will tell you to stay asleep while he goes to take care of the baby

While Dennis feeds, burps, changes the baby's diaper, and lays him back down, you lay in bed thinking of how lucky you are

You also are already planning to thank Dennis for breakfast (and all the other things your amazing husband does)

Dennis comes back in the bedroom and you are naked

You sit up and beckon him to you

He crawls across the bed to you, that genuinely happy smile on his face

As safe as you are to not have another baby so soon,

It doesn't stop Dennis from hinting at it as he whispers in your ear

"Could you imagine if we gave DJ a little sister?"

"Den, I just popped that boy out and you are already trying to knock me up again?"

All he does is smirk and you roll your eyes

"Ok, not now. But before he goes to preschool, maybe?"

"I'm not making any promises, but I will think about it, ok?"

"Just think about it, sweetheart. That's all I ask."

You push his shoulder so he lays down, and you straddle him

His hands go instinctively to your hips and he looks up at you

This man would do anything for you, but right now, all you can think of is making him feel so wanted, so loved, so important

"If that was the kind of thanks I get from making us brunch, what can I get for making lunch and dinner, too?"

"Shut up, Dennis."

Nonnie, I went off the rails here. I couldn't help myself. I love him so much.

[heyecani]

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