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[geometricsteels]

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[smithstructure]

Smith Structure| Screwdown System Secure Building Foundations

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[fazalkhan2914]

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[maybeelse]

The surgeon is sprawled out on her living room couch when you arrive, flipping through screen after screen of beautiful people on her ancient phone. One of her housemates answered the door and let you inside, their too-perfect smile drying into a polished mask as they realized why you were there. The last words they said to you before they fled were a quiet "good luck."

She's really not much to look at. Chubby and long-limbed, with oily shoulder-length hair. You can see her split ends from the doorway; it's obvious that she's never bothered to put proper care into them. Her clothes show a similar lack of effort, just loose grey sweatpants and a tank-top that barely contains her breasts.

The only part of her that's really noticeable—the part that catches your eyes and makes you hesitate at the enormity of what's about to happen—is the smooth plastic casings covering the ends of segment of her limbs, and the strangely spiky balls connecting them. The hum as she stretches, the faint whir as her fingers swipe left on another profile, a faint frown dancing across her lips—it's almost too much. The house is so quiet.

She yawns and shifts, glances up; sees you watching her.

"Yeah? Who're you?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm, uh, Alex? We talked online?"

"Oh yeah. Was wondering when you'd get here," she shifts from lounging to standing in a way that would dislocate half your limbs if you tried to mimic her, "if you'd wuss out."

"… does that happen a lot?"

"Eighty-twenty. Lots of people online talk big but can't back it up, y'know? Hah," there's something sharp and brittle in her laugh, "sometimes people try to back out when I've already got them on the table. Can't deal with the reality of it. Weak."

"I … I see."

"So. You ready, Alex," she scowls, "or are you just here to gawk at the freak?"

She punctuates the question by rotating one of her hands around, wrist grinding as it completes the full 360-degrees. You're staring, gawking, but you can't help it; it's not like your sleepy little town has many—any?—other augs. They cluster in the cities, in the old world's radioactive junkyards, in the places where baseline biology isn't enough. It was astonishing to find one so near, much less a trained surgeon—her lips are tilting into a frown. She must think you're just a fetishist, a chaser, unworthy—

"No!" you practically shout, "I mean, uh. I'm ready! I'm ready."

"Yeah? Fine. Keep up."

The house looked normal from the outside, just another of the mass-produced mid-western two-story single-family trash-piles with attached two-car garage and optional backyard deck that the Kessler Belt's half-mad corporate agents carpet-bombs across the plains at irregular intervals. A GMO-turf lawn midway through being colonized by herbicide-resistant native plants, sprinkled with the telltale signs of the southwestern swarm's outriders; gnawed leaves, bright-carapaced aphids, and piles of plump rock plants marking the exact point beyond which baseline humans could expect fucking around to lead to finding out.

In short: it was a house like any other.

The illusion fails as you follow the surgeon deeper into her home, beyond the living room's pastel-patterned walls and focus-tested furniture. The interior layout had already struck you as a bit odd—the walls weren't in quite the right places, there shouldn't have been a step three feet inside the front door—but perhaps that could be explained away. Minor variations are normal.

The thick bulkheads and stained metal walls are not minor variations. Nor is the cavernous staircase plunging down where the ground floor restroom should be. A grinding scream echoes up as she leads you past it into what could almost masquerade as a normal garage, if not for the thick plastic sheets draped along its shelves and shrouding its ceiling or the polished metal table standing proudly beneath the garage's single light.

You can't tell what color the stains on the concrete floor are. Could be dark oil, could be dried blood. It's hard to ignore them.

"Here we are. Up on the table, Alex."

"Uh. Aren't there restraints, or, uh. Something? This is a bit …"

"Nah. First thing I'm gonna do is stick an AP filter in your neck." She grabs your neck, twists it; you gasp. "C5-C6 gap, probably, doesn't look like you've got anything weird going on. You don't, do you?" A pointed question. You can't shift your head, can't look her in the eye.

"N-no! My parents wouldn't," she releases you, waits while you rub your neck, "they're hardcore naturalists. Like, most people are, here? But they're …"

"That so? And here you are," she says, a hint of hunger tinting her words, "asking me to ruin daddy's perfect little all-natural—"

"Y-yeah."

"And then, what, you're going to run away?"

"Yeah. I have bus tickets," you pat your pocket, checking that they're still there, safe in your wallet, "for tomorrow. I just. Don't want to arrive with nothing, you know?"

She laughs, abruptly, startling even herself. "Oh, they're just going to eat you up, you know that, Alex?"

"W-what do you—"

"Don't worry about it. Just get on the fucking table already. Oh yeah," she grins, "you should strip first. Don't feel like cutting the clothes off you."

She doesn't seem particularly interested in watching you strip, at least, just leans against the wall and flips through her phone. Doesn't look away, doesn't stare at you, just lets you get on with it. She's being professional, you suppose, and even if she's not kind it's still better than high school locker-rooms. Anything would be better than that.

You still blush.

You're not sure where to put your hands, when you're done. Part of you wants to try to cover yourself up, to hide yourself, to hunch down and keep her from seeing, but … well, she'll see soon enough.

The table is unpleasantly cold under your ass, and you let out an involuntary squeak at the sensation. No doctors-office padding here, no disposable paper covers, just hard, cold, metal. She glances up at the noise, finally taking an interest again.

"Ah? Oh, right …" Her eyes sweep over your body, and you ball your hands in your lap, trying to keep her from seeing. "Well. I've worked with worse."

"I-I'm sorry, I, uh …"

"Don't worry about it, yeah? S'just raw material, who gives a fuck. Anyway," her joints grind as she starts to move, making her steps unpleasantly jerky, "let's get started. Give me a second …"

You flinch away as she pulls your arms away from your crotch, not understanding, but she's strong enough that your resistance hardly matters. Your arms positioned, she wraps her own arms around you. It's a strangely tender motion, but perhaps that's just because it's been so long since someone last touched you; certainly there is nothing except impersonal focus on her face.

"There will be a slight pinch," she says, and then, with a noise like shears closing on meat and bone, a noise that is exactly what it sounds like, there is pain.

You can't feel your body.

You're lying on your back on what must be the same table you were on a moment ago, before you passed out, and you can't feel your body.

The light above is shining directly in your eyes, and your entire head is tingling, and there's still a horrible pain in the middle of your neck, and you can't feel anything below it. There's a sharp smell in the air, and the sound of dripping, and—that's piss. You pissed yourself. Good thing you're naked, huh?

Thinking about that doesn't help with the pain.

Somewhere in the room, outside the narrow scope of your vision, you hear the surgeon tapping on her phone. Dialing a number. Waiting while it rings …

"Hey, hoss. Yeah, just started. Wanted to check the order priorities before I—yeah, I'll send you a picture." The click of a camera's shutter, exactly the same as your own phone made, back when you still dared to use it. "Mhmm, yeah. They breed them strong out here. … yeah. Yeah. I'll see—", a burst of static as the call ends, "—well fuck me for wanting to say goodbye."

The surgeon's feet click against the ground. She leans into your vision, eyes bright and eager, head limned against the light. "Guess what, Alex? You're going to be an assault drone."

[bullet-prooflove]

In The Dark - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Tagging: @xoxabs88xox @hardballoonlove @shanimallina87 @chickensrule @queenslandlover-93 @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface @malindacath @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @avengersfan25 @midnightmagpiemama @littlebadariell @imaginecrushes @luckyladycreator2 @emersxn99 @flrboyd @nani-kenobi @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @@lora21 @cheyrenee

Need (NSFW) - Rooster has always needed you.

The Craziest Shit (NSFW) - Rooster can't help himself when he's with you.

Temporary - Rooster tells you his secret whilst your sleeping.

Things have changed since Basrah. Rooster realises it when he wakes up alone at two in the morning in an empty bed. Your sheets are tussled, tossed aside and when he presses his hand to them, he’s surprised to find the fabric cold.

You’ve been up for a while then.

That’s new. You’re usually a heavy sleeper.

He finds you standing in the kitchen, dressed in a silk robe you picked up in Japan. It slopes off your shoulders just a little, the bright colours contrasting against your skin. There’s a mug of tea clasped to your chest. He can see the curl of steam before it evaporates into the air, the scent of lavender fills his nose and recognises the aroma as Bedtime Tea, something his mom used to drink after this father passed away.

You don’t respond when he steps into the kitchen. He understands wherever you are right now, it’s not with him. Your gaze is distant as you stare at your reflection in the darkness of the window, your muscles tense. He’s seen this before, not in you but in others who’ve been to hell and back, people he’s worked with, friends who’ve survived warzones.

He’s gentle when he puts his hands on you, his thumbs ghosting slowly over the outline of the silk. His lips brush over the back of your head as he whispers.

“Where did you go?”

You incline your head slightly so that he can see the profile of your features. He knows that you’ve been hiding something. You’re more reserved than before, more guarded. He noticed it back at The Hard Deck last night when he’d watched you interact with the others from the Search and Rescue Unit. You’re one of them but not at the same time. He’s not sure what caused the distance, but he sees it.

“What happened after I left Basrah?” He asks you.

You turn around to face him, leaning back against the worksurface as you take a sip from your tea. It’s a delaying technique, he can see you weighing up the words as you withdraw back into yourself, working out what to reveal and what to emit.

“The whole story.” He says firmly.

And you sigh because really you should know better.

It’s hard to choose a beginning, it’s a jumble of sounds, images and terror. You remember that more than anything, the icy cold tendrils trailing down your spine as you bleed out in a bolthole in the hills.

“I got left behind.” You tell him, meeting his gaze.

It makes sense but at the same time it doesn’t. He’s met your team, you're close knit, they aren’t the kind of people to leave someone behind but then he thinks of the dynamics he witnessed last night. Ross sticking to you like glue, protective and weary, eyes always surveying the threat around him even in a bar full of friendlies. Kojack’s apologetic demeanour, gaze lowered, submissive and contrite. Cam avoiding you completely, preferring to stick to the opposite side of the room as he poured down whiskey after whiskey.

“There was a medical evac,” You explain wearily. “An Intelligence officer had been caught and they’d sent a team in after him. They managed to get him out, but he was severely injured…” You meet his gaze, so he understands the seriousness of the situation. “They’d had him for three days; he was lucky to be alive.”

Tortured, he summarises. He’s heard the stories of what happens when the insurgents get their hands on someone whose an enemy to their cause. It isn’t just soldiers, it’s people who protest their ideals, people who want a better way of life for their families, for their children.

“There wasn’t space to land, so I had to go down to assess him. We managed to stabilise him for transport, Cam went up with him on the winch and that’s when they hit. They’d managed to trail the team that rescued him, the information he had…" You shake your head. "They couldn’t afford for him to escape with his life, so they targeted the chopper.”

He knows what happens next. The good of the many over the lives of the few. Someone higher up decided that you were more disposable than that Intelligence Officer, so they had given the order to leave you behind along with the initial rescue crew. It feels like a kick in the chest because out of everyone in his life, you’re the one that he can’t live without. It throws his head into a tailspin trying to imagine the idea that he never would have seen you again, that he’d never hear your laugh or feel the press of your skin against his.

“When the Humvee blew up, I got hit with shrapnel.” You tell him, wrapping both hands around your mug. "The rescue crew managed to lay cover fire while I took care of the injury but it needed more medical attention than I could give.”

The scar on your hip he realises. He thinks of the searing metal cutting across your skin, the agony you must have felt as the blood flowed from the wound.

“We were stranded with no vehicle and limited weaponry, so we had no choice but to disappear into the hills. We spent the next twenty-four hours playing hide and seek until we made it to a check point and by then…”

You don’t have the heart to tell him how much of a mess you were. Jonesy was dead, you were halfway there, if you’d been out in the hills much longer you wouldn’t have made it. It had only been through Howard’s unrelenting cajoling and Ithica’s determination to drag you the final few clicks that you even got you home at all.

“It took me a long time to recover, the wound had got infected by the time we got to that checkpoint. I was in septic shock.” You reveal, shaking your head. “I ended up in a hospital in Germany for a couple of months before they shipped me back here.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” He asks you.

“What would have been the point?” You say helplessly. “What could you have done? You were halfway across the planet busy with other things. It’s not like you could have jetted back.”

It hurts him when you make that point because he knows it’s true. He’d been three months into a deployment somewhere in the Pacific.

You see the line of his jaw clench as he tilts his head away. Sometimes he hates his job, hates what it does to his personal relationships, to the both of you.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” You say as you set down you’re empty mug. “I’m grounded for the foreseeable future. That’s why they have me on base, training the new Medical Techs.”

His head snaps back to you, his eyebrow arching in question.

“PTSD.” You tell him, shrugging your shoulders. “They have me at the shrink once a week doing EDMR therapy.”

It’s another blow and he swallows hard past the well of emotion in his chest because the thought of you dealing with this alone, it kills him. He understands empty bed, the restless, the inability to relax.

“Does it help?” He asks quietly.

“Yea, but I feel like shit for days after.” You say honestly. “It’s a work in progress…” You pause before deliberating for a moment. “I’m a work in progress.”

“Aren’t we all?” He smiles before leaning in close, his hands coming to rest upon your hips. “You know it doesn’t change how I feel about you right?”

He knows that’s the real reason you haven’t told him about what happened. A revelation like this alters things, the casual relationship two of you have goes from being simple to something more intimate. Things can’t be the way they were before. He wants to step up, he wants to be there for you, to support you when you need it.

“Lean on me a little.” He requests as he presses his forehead to yours. “I can take it.”

Your palm comes to rest on his chest, fingers splaying over the space where his heart resides.

“Ok Bradley.” You whisper against his lips. “Let’s give this a shot.”

Love Rooster? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[molllsprple]

Strictly business

Part 3

Part 2

I’ve had a bit of a cold this week, so I am sorry for the delay. There may or may not be something spicy coming in chapter 4 🤭 just a heads up.

I hope you Enjoy!

You traced the woven gauze that encircled your thigh, as you gazed out the small window of your room, counting the cobwebs that decorated the walls. In the few months that you had worked for Mihawk, you had barely shared an interaction that lasted longer than thirty seconds, yet, in a matter of hours you had managed to turn your working relationship on its head, every ounce of professionalism going out the window. For this reason, you had decided to keep to the narrow confines of your room over the next few days, biding your time as the ship sailed to its next destination—Not that you knew how long that would be or where you were even going. Mihawk had simply set the sails and said nothing more.

He hadn’t come to check on you since dumping you in here, for which you were secretly thankful for, however you would occasionally catch sight of his shadow creeping in from under the door at night, lingering a while before it eventually retreated down the hallway.

With a deep exhale, you hugged your legs to your chest under the musty sheets, eyes slipping shut as the gentle rise and fall of each wave lulled you into a state of comfort. Now that your leg had healed a little, you were hoping to take up your next assignment in an attempt to escape this awkward atmosphere. It was what you were being paid for after all. Mihawk had been more than generous, and you didn’t want to burden him any longer.

Your stomach lurched at the sound of knuckles on wood, as you shot out of bed in an instant, hastily straightening out your clothes and smoothing your hair. Your hand hovered over the door knob before eventually grabbing and twisting, inching the door open to unveil Mihawk’s lean figure crowding the doorway. Your cheeks flushed as you daringly met his molten gold gaze.

“We’re here” Mihawk announced, apparently no time for pleasantries, as he immediately turned to slip out the door to the upper deck.

You lingered at the door before slowly retracing Mihawk’s steps towards the top deck, squinting as your eyes adjusted to the light of day. As you blinked your surroundings into focus, the air around you became frigid and thick with a gloomy smog. You blinked again, as you took in the murky landscape of dense forests and crumbling ruins that surrounded a castle at the centre of the island. Your eyebrows furrowed. “We’re—Sorry…where are we?”

Mihawk’s eyes remained fixed on the land infront of him, as he leaned against the side of the vessel, the feather on his hat swirling and dancing with every gust of wind.

“Kuraigana island” He replied flatly, eyes glazed over and lost somewhere in the distance. “My home”.

You noted the subtle tone of sadness in his words, as you followed his line of sight, noticing how some of the structure of the castle had began to crumble away.

“Why are we here?” You asked, carefully moving to occupy the space on his right.

Mihawk finally turned to look down in your direction “I’m going to train you”.

You tilted your head, eyebrows knitting in confusion as you scanned his side profile “Train me?”

——————————————————————————-

Mihawk lead you to a large stone ruin just outside the castle, a tall circle of stone that looked like it could have been a turret at some point in time. You clutched the foreign object between your hands, squeezing the woven cotton handle to achieve a better grip. The katana Mihawk had provided you was beautifully crafted, and even though you had little experience wielding a sword, you could appreciate good craftsmanship when you saw it. You could feel how the heavy steel carried great momentum with each fell swoop as you experimentally switched the blade between your unpracticed hands.

“I appreciate the offer, but please explain to me why I need sword practice when I’m perfectly capable wielding knives.”

Mihawk stood parallel to you, stance casual and expression nonchalant as he watched you play with the sword. “If you want to work for me, then I expect your capabilities to match my own.” He took two slow steps towards you, capturing the tip of your blade between his fingers before gently resting it to point at the smooth skin of his exposed chest. “Knives are practical short range, but a sword provides the ability to strike from a distance”. Mihawk’s eyes subtly skimmed over your face, before travelling downwards “…Making you less vulnerable.”

You watched his movements before flicking your eyes over his shoulder, settling on the large sword strapped to his back “Aren’t swords your thing?” You asked, eyes returning back to his face to find that his gaze hadn’t left you for a second “…I’d really hate to take your spotlight.” A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.

Mihawk did not return your amusement.

You huffed out a laugh “So you’re gonna fight me with that big sword of yours” You said lowly, words coming out a little more suggestive than you intended. “I hardly think that’s playing fair.”

Mihawk’s fingers slipped from your blade, stepping back to resume his former position as he began to remove the large sword, along with his Leather coat and feather hat, leaving him in black trousers and white low buttoned shirt. “I won’t be using Yoru against you, not for now at least” He turned to face you again “Now I want you to come at me, as if I were your enemy”

You straightened up slightly as you lowered the blade. Sure, there had been times in the past where that arrogant face of his had pissed you off, but you never wanted to actually hurt him. “What!?”

Mihawk’s golden irises darkened as he flexed his fingers and readied his stance. ”Come. At. Me.”

If he wanted a fight, then you would give him one.

Raising the sword, you began to bolt forward, swinging the heavy steel from left to right, each time missing by a mile as Mihawk dodged each failing attempt with ease. It was like a dance of sorts, his every movement swift and graceful as he ducked and weaved between each lethal slice. You locked eyes as you took another swing, this time going for an uppercut.

Missed.

You spun around clockwise, the blade picking up speed as you tried to catch him out with an attack from the side.

Missed again.

The two of you were so entangled in the passion of the fight, that you barely had time to register the large rock that your foot was heading towards.

Mihawk fiercely grabbed your right arm before spinning your back to be flush with his chest.

“Clumsy” He scolded, his left hand assuming an unforgiving hold on your waist as he brought the blade up to your neck with the other.

You wondered whether it would bruise later.

“You need to watch your footwork” He rumbled, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear as his deep vocals hummed through your bones, making your hair stand on end. You were rendered utterly breathless, and you weren’t entirely sure whether it was from the physical exertion.

You struggled in vain, hoping Mihawk would fail to notice the way your pulse wasn’t slowing down.

Gently, he lowered the blade, the heat of his body seeping away as he separated from behind you, left hand slipping from its hold on your waist.

“Again” He commanded, readying his position once more.

You attempted to regain some composure as you turned to face him, however your movements were stunted by the sharp pain that darted through your thigh muscle, legs buckling under the strain. “Shit” You gritted, clutching the source of the pain.

In the blink of an eye, Mihawk was crouched beside you, arm hooked under yours as he helped to support your weight.

“I think that’s enough for today.” He admitted quietly, plucking the sword from your grip.

—————————————————————

You sighed deeply, as you slumped back against one of Mihawk’s lavish sofas that framed the fireplace in his living room. Your nostrils were overwhelmed by the rich smell of burning wood, as the comforting heat served to sooth your every ache.

Mihawk’s figure, softly illuminated by the warm glow of the fire, was currently hunched on the floor in front of you, assessing your wound, despite your persistent protests. The injury itself had healed over mostly, but it would still take some time before you would see it mend completely.

Your silhouettes both sat in perfect silence, interrupted only by the occasional crackle and snap of the fireplace, as the flames cast subtle shadows over Mihawk’s face, making him appear a little softer than what you were used to.

Unfortunately, the fire did nothing to resolve the tightness in Mihawk’s broad shoulders, which had been there since coming back from training. Tension oozed out with every harsh tug of gauze, all finesse long abandoned, as his hawkeyes remained fixated on the damage caused to your thigh. You had hoped that he had forgiven you by now, but going by his actions, it was evident that he was still holding some sort of grudge. You sighed again quietly, tipping your head back against the sofa and closing your eyes, trying to zone out the wave of guilt that was beginning to rise in your stomach.

“I shouldn’t have let you go” Mihawk eventually says, the velvety baritone of his voice disrupting the silence like a ripple in water.

Your eyes shoot open as you sit up to face him, frantically looking over his figure as if it would somehow reveal to you the meaning of his words “What?” You question, completely dumbfounded.

Mihawk remained with his head bowed, eyes obstructed by the dark curls that hung untamed by the absence of his hat. “That man” He spat the words like they were venom “—I knew how dangerous he was—and I still…let you go”

You watched in silence as he spoke.

“It’s my fault—this—it’s all my fault” Mihawk continued, refusing to meet your eye-line as he bitterly choked out each word.

You sat deadly still, taken aback by his admission. “Hey, Mihawk—don’t be silly” You stretched out your fingers in an attempt to ease his conscious, delicately placing them on top of his hand.

Mihawk flinched at the contact, before finally looking up to meet your gaze.

His eyes held the same dangerous fury that you had witnessed that day after the incident, however, it was clear now that his anger had never been directed at you.

You stared back as him wide-eyed, wracking your brain for something to say—anything. Except…you couldn’t find the words. Instead, your hand began to move on its own, slowly lifting up to cradle the roughness of his jawline, as you gently thumbed the smooth skin of his cheek.

Mihawk’s eyes softened slightly in return, as he reluctantly melted into the warmth of your palm. The fierceness of his gaze would have been intimidating, if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes were noticeably blood shot and forming bags around the edges.

He looks so tired, You thought, your gaze drifting over his rugged features. It was almost painful, seeing the way he was punishing himself for a mistake that no one could have seen coming. You wanted to sooth his woes, and give him something warm enough to drown out his frustrations. Although, you feared that it would ruin your working relationship forever.

Harbouring affection for your boss had never been part of the contract.

Part 4

(If you would like to be added to my taglist, please let me know in the comments!)

@kaykay0315 @lebanese-afg-ya @sapphireonline

[fleshthatfalls]

𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖗 -- 𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖚𝖘 𝖘𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖝 𝖔𝖈, 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 2

♡ -- hello everypony- i mean everybody ! blaine here, gifting you all with the smutty part 2 of pretty little liar ! despite the setback on posting, i've now had the time to edit this writing and upload such ! so without further ado, i give you the final piece of my first writing in years ! feedback will always be welcome and additionally, any likes and reblogs !

♡ -- warnings ; snow being snow, softish coryo, bitchy oc, mention of killing, nsfw, pinv sex, fingering (f. recieving), possessive coryo, obsessive coryo, creampie, mentions of blood, marking, biting, size kink, tummy bulge, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, lemme know if i've missed any !

consume at your own discretion.

These vague, one-worded conversations offered by her stylist shifted into the apex of Lola's mind, causing her to repeat her research, mulling over any possible inconsistencies or errors in the profile. Henceforth, the raven-haired woman lay draped amongst silk sheets covering the sumptuous mattress shared with her husband. The fine fabric of a translucent, lilac tinted night slip left little to the imagination- a lacey black lingerie set assembled beneath. Her brain dazed from the mental overstimulation, and with her lips parting to elicit soft, frustrated whines, Dolores's legs opened and feet kicked in fervor- akin to a bratty, childlike expression. The huffy whines traveling from her throat permeated through even the heaviest of doors- master bedroom included.

Dimness was replaced by a stream of light when the door opened, a golden gleam bouncing off of the smooth flesh. Had it not been for the feeling of a chilled hand slithering between her inner thighs with knuckles grazing the puffy lips of her pussy, a hostile deck would've inevitably connected to Coriolanus' face. "Coryo..I hadn't expected you to return this early." She sighs with uninhibited delight, the plush of a duvet enveloping her body as his hand slipped beneath the lace, fingers garnering all of the wetness readily available. "Naturally so. After all, I do pride myself in my devotion to integral affairs and..honesty." Within a millisecond of registering those telling words, Lola's assurdness plummeted into the depths of despair. He's onto me. Tigris about her hairless mannequin. Lying is futile, so deflection is the only alternative. A hitched breath was drawn when his fingertip located her clit, nudging it in deliberate, gratifying circles. Benign behavior and tender coercion were Snow's calling card- an observation she'd noted during her preparation for the arena and respective victory tour. His bird's prolonged avoidance of the insinuation made his fingertip pinch the bud roughly and Lola feebly attempt to twist away.

How do you mean?" The soft tone of her reply, alluding to feigned innocence, had Coriolanus reaching for her chin with his free hand, tilting it upward. "I think you know exactly how I mean, Lola." His gaze held a steely, lustful quality- the blue of his eyes dilating into a thick darkness. All of Lola's rehearsals of deflecting said topic proved fruitless, a newfound heat coursing through her body as he smashed his lips to hers, pearly whites nipping and sucking her plump flesh until the taste of  iron touched his tongue. Her eyes battened as her lashes fluttered shut prettily, such a display even causing Coryo to question his wife's validity- mind you, the second was fleeting. The longer Lola remained firm in her refusal to speak, all the more aggressive he became in his ministrations. His mouth trailed from her lips to her jawline, and eventually settled on the smooth hollow of her throat. A painful, stinging yet not unwelcome sensation floated around Dolores, an inadvertent moan leaving her stained lips as Snow's teeth clamped down in a jarring bite, skin splitting effortlessly with the help of the gesture. In a state of declining composure and with the pooling sensation returning after his soft mouth trailed from the wound above to resume his process of marking, a pliant Lola opened her eyes.

"My pretty little liar." Coriolanus mused in satisfaction, sizable hubris soaring straight to a place of narcissism. His hand, having slid from her panties to tear away the slick fabric, now dragged along her waist and abdomen, scouring the curves for sensitive flesh and seizing her hips with an eager debauchery. The spacious room did little all to contain her submission to his manhandling, drawing forth light gasps and a wanton moan from her lips. "I'm waiting." He growled, breath fanning hotly against her jaw, where an array of bruises littered the skin residing downward. Lola's body trembled, pulse rippling beneath Coryo's recycling of his lewd, arguably animalistic consumption of her throat. The mere feel of his stern hand viced around her waist and assault delivered by sharp incisors had all but rendered her tongue-tied.

Neglection to acknowledge the withering patience of her mentor and his hormones warranted a consequence- subjection to the cold hand that snaked itself around her flushed jugular, restricting airflow with calloused fingertips. Ferociously indeed. the victor had half a mind to relinquish her findings, humor him in a recounting of her wittiest, (bitchiest) insults, and reap a prize- his personal reward, a customary feasting wherein her pussy was the main course.  However, Pride is a sin tethered to her soul, forever an agonizing, repressive shackle. The uncharacteristic squeak flying from her mouth when Coryo's lower hand grasped her breasts and set them free slowly dissipated his paranoia. Her inhibitions were surfacing so beautifully, he thought. Every action, every groan, every knash of teeth connecting with skin implored Dolores to forgo Tigris's confidance- her mind swam in a haze and body unraveled shamelessly beneath his calculated, patronizing touch.

If confronted by Tigris, she'd remember to employ an insistent rebuttal, but for now, tough luck, bitch.

A singular slap was delivered to her pussy and alas, his tight-lipped wife relented, mewling as her mouth quivered, mortifyingly so. "Tigris's plastic man. Drug dealer.." Lola's voice waned, attention diverted to Coriolanus's forceful fingers reentering her cunt. "See how much farther you can reach with compliance, my little girl?" He cooed, pressing a wet kiss to her lips, the crimson red staining his own smearing onto hers. All the victor could give was a reluctant nod before closing her eyes, surrendering to the delicious repitition of his long fingers brushing and stroking against her slick walls.

"Daddy..please." The pleas emerging from her snarky mouth induced a swell of unbridled pride within- his cock hardened, straining underneath his trousers and throbbing at the sight of flustered tears raining down her cheeks. This only inclined Coryo to double his pace, stretching and scissoring the sensitive tissue with brutal purpose, bringing Lola to an orgasm which confounded the senses, sweltering heat permeating admist her frame. "My, my bird. It appears you've caved rather sensibly. Where do you need Daddy, princess?" His honeyed words, oozing with a generosity she never accustomed to, sent a jolt of electricity down her spine, the impact following its path to the slick rose nestled between her thighs. The night slip and intricate bra long forgotten, her slender arms reached to encircle his neck, fingertips carding through platinum locks to grasp, impelling him to lower his head. Snow's course descended until his mouth leveled with her core, lifting ravenous eyes to his victor's as her dark ones flickered downward. What she'd dubbed as her 'queen bitch' look conveyed to Coriolanus all that he needed to know.

Her legs parted smoothly, and before she could pout her lips in protest, Coryo mouthed at her inner thigh, sinking his teeth into and marking the flesh, ceasing only once he drew blood, satisfied. Brushing the length of her raven hair aside to appreciate his handiwork, a feral expression crept it's way onto his face. His wife, his rose, his victor, his little girl- his. His Lola, always presenting the facade of a feigned 'mean, hot, victor', but deep down, if given the right stimulus, the mask crumbled. Her submission prevelant under his care, his guidance, his touch. The draw of Dolores's hitched breath hadn't gone unnoticed, an intristic, haughty smirk acknowledging such as his soft muscle slipped past her swollen folds. With hands shifting to her hips in one bruising hold and applying pressure to secure her position, Coriolanus's tongue finally dipped into the wet heat, engulfing her precious pussy with his mouth. Shrill, choked whines resounded in the back of her throat, unable to permanently liberate herself from the hubris grasping at the edges of her mind. Snow tutted, dealing a slap to her cunt and a jolting nip to her clit, denoting a demand for her sweet noises, uninhibited. Subsequent moans tumbled from her lips prettily, the overwhelming feeling of his tongue paving a stripe from her core before settling on the clit incapacitated her senses.

Coryo spared no mind for her body's recovery, pulling the prized pearl between the tips of his teeth and sucking with fervor, tempo virtually cruel. "Oh daddy..it's a bit much!" His bird wailed, her reaction to the potency of said assault a contradiction for all Coriolanus knew of her thorny temperament. Snow's smug smirk tickled her folds, inspiring his incisors to latch firmly to the sensitive bud. Without warning, his tongue delved inside of his wife's aching heat to lick soft, precise strokes intended to offset the raw state of swelling he'd reduced her clit to. This pacified Dolores and her pleasing mewls returned, reaching his ears like a melody. Coryo deposited a kiss to her mound, a misleading act to coax her legs further apart for his devouring. His warm muscle probed at her gummy walls, hunting for an Achilles heel while drifting to her soaked center. Lola couldn't help but let out a slew of long groans as his nipping resurfaced and tongue ravaged her cunt, not all dissimilar to a man starving for another taste.

"Fucking heavenly, my darling." Her walls twitched under his reverberating words as he lapped, unabating. The juices cultivated smeared across his tongue and he groaned, her taste driving him into a feral territory where his ivories were re-affixed to her poor bud, sucking hungrily and flicking a slow, relaxed stripe up her slit. "My dove's perfect pussy. Mine. Gonna look so pretty full of my seed." Lola's mouth dropped open, choking on a whimper. A concentrated warmth shot down through her lower belly and she shuddered, the possessive ferocity underlying his rambling gradually making her hips buck against his hot mouth. Coryo only gave a guttural groan and his tongue responded diligently, ravishing the most reactive spot within. By now, his rose's pelvis was rutting uabashedly into his face, Coriolanus's long nose deliciously rubbing her clit as the tightly-wound coil inside was unearthed by him. Snow hastened the pace, bullying her sweet spot with a focused precision that had her body ablaze and walls quivering in a flutter. He sharply inhaled, a premeditated countdown stirring about his brain ; in 3, 2, 1- the coil was severed. The shrill mewls when she came, heavily combined with her pretty cunt drenching his tongue in delectable juices bordered on an innocence to Coriolanus. The body always betrayed what the mind hides- here she was, a little girl needy, his touch coveted and necessitated in it's propulsion of her to euphoria's way. Lewd sounds and dulcet cries could unquestionably be heard amid the manor whilst Coryo rode his wife through the remaining throes of climax. He groaned darkly, savoring the saccharine taste of her intimate rose that welcomed him- pulling away only when she gave one final gush of essence that he drank up greedily, as if it would dissolve should he spare a drop.

Lola couldn't fight off the trembling that was clawing it's way down to her lower half. The insides of her thighs shook steadily and his face sunk into the plush tissue, contendly drawing in her sugary aroma while nosing at a deep, purplish mark, one symbolic of his territory. Coriolanus pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the bruise before pulling back, clicking off his belt buckle- an indicative noise that she was all too familarized with. In one fell swoop, he'd seized her hips and flipped her around, back pressed flush to his chest. The hurried motion dizzied Dolores's head, leaving her body limp and pliable within his stern hold. Forcing her on all fours, Snow wedged a leg into the crevice between her thighs, securing her place. He chuckled, mirthfully eyeballing his girl all the while she huffed, a winsome show of impatience when his angry cockhead swiped at her entrance, lathering the appendage in slick.

A startled gasp was the only sound elicited from Lola's lips as he breached the barrier, Coryo's lustful gaze dropping to watch his cock dissappear into her needy cunt, the groan an impulse that followed suit. The intrusion of her husband's cock joined with it's respectable girth never ceased to make her squeal, walls ever so attuned to the stretch of his thickness. Lola's eyes, now half-lidded, screwed themselves close, and her tight channel clung to the member, swallowing up his length like it belonged there, buried internally. Coriolanus teemed with possessive musings, having half a mind to take her forcibly, surely marking her waist and hips in his carnivorous pursuit. "So big..daddy." From the moment in which those mumbled words slipped past her bitten lips, Snow snarled, his decision made as he threw all caution to the wind and abruptly bottomed out. The girl knew an appeal for his clemency was laughable, and if she were to be candid, the said thought was driven to the back of her subconscious, credit to Coryo re-entering her abused heat, unmercifully. "Mine." His unbidden proclamation fell on deaf ears, even with a hand coiled around one of her breasts. "Mine" he repeated, one fingertip squeezing a nipple to emphasize the request- her affirmation, giving him the vocal gratification of hearing her yield to his ownership and claim.

Yours..Coryo..only ever yours. District boys..incomparable." Lola babbled, oblivious to unintentionally triggering the pistoning of his hips that were now rutting in and out of her tightness. Sticky, hot juices coated his shaft and aided in its' lubrication, pulling Coriolanus in a reverie. It wasn't long before she shoved her face into the mattress, his silken sheets effectively subduing every mewl he'd ripped from her throat. "Don't you dare shy away from me, princess. You know the consequences." He tutted, gathering Lola's dark hair and twisting her weave in a makeshift ponytail, wrenching it back- she couldn't find the basis to care. She hadn't cared when he'd layed waste to her flesh, having branded it's expanse with lesions covered in dried crimson. Nor she paid any mind to his indifference in the way her lingerie was torn from her body, the garment sitting in a crippled state. No, it was a needless, bull-headed inclination she feigned establishing with him. A habit that fatigued Dolores to her wit's end, until the actuality  manifested- she was as desperate as he.

"Uh-huh..Coryo! Can feel you in my tummy!" Whatever that propelled him to thrust into her spongy spot via direct route electrocuted the girl's insides. His cock reinforced it's artful velocity while his length shot in and out, tip fishing for that vulnerable area to bear down on. All it required for Coriolanus to locate the place was a harmonic cry breaking past her lips so his grip acted as a support, a stabilizing measure anchoring her to him from behind. This was Lola at her most exquisite.

Snow came to said deduction only months earlier, when she materialized from a clearing in the arena- treading forward with impassive confidence and an  indifferent appearance, as if she didn't  emerge relatively unscathed. She'd just secured the ultimate prize of life, courtesy of her challenging, well-earned victory- and yet his tribute couldn't bother to showcase a scrap of honor? Before the camera had panned its' way onto his face for a close-up of his respective countenance, Coryo turned to the front of the projector and fixed his eyes on Lola. "And there you have it, esteemed Capitol citizens- our victor of the 12th Hunger Games, Dolores Lopez of District 2!" Lucky Flickerman crowed, but not without a redundant squawk that was spouted from the beak of his parrot companion. In lieu of flashing an a thousand watt smile as a means to glamor the roomful, Coriolanus locked his feet in place and swept his pupils along her features on the screen, soon meeting her blank ones. The longer he'd observed, the easier it became to discern his girl's train of thoughts. Lola's cheeks were hollowed while her image cut in and out of the stream. The footage gave an unnatural quality and the envious murmurings of other mentors expanded like wildfire. Coryo squashed the impulse to seethe something cruel as the specs of the screen readjusted it's focus to her face, zeroing in on her furrowed brows and the barren aura glistening from beyond inky irises. Snow was staring into the abyss, and the abyss stared right back- a reflection. The mirror into what he'd became two years ago and now, a girl whom shared this fundamental change. Pure, instilled and frigid amidst the wake of trauma. She was perfect.

As the relationship flourished and with his love (or obsession, they were one in the same, he supposed) devouring his mind on all fields. Any reaction, insult, admission and even moan Lola blessed him with was methodically tucked away. He'd committed every facet to memory, but no matter how many times Coryo visited or raked through each, he found his preference to be these moments of softness- her pretenses and snark aside, where only a delicateness persisted. This reminiscence sent a surge of blood to his cock as he throbbed inside her, and Dolores, the poor bird was a wailing heap entwined between his arms. Coriolanus's baby blues were preoccupied with the sight of a faint bulge outlining her tummy, reaffirming precisely how small and taut she was in contrast to his towering form. His mind was frenzied, seeing red and bleary flashes of his cock now protruding from her stomach- surely her pussy starved for his seed. The time for denying himself the desire to breed his pretty little girl was over, and his hand was pressed firmly against the shape for good measure. "Feel how deep I am, petal. Fuck..m' in your womb." Such forthright, slurred utterings pulled a squeaky cry from Lola. As her back arched in flawless poise, she'd slyly sunk her core down, and fucked herself down to the hilt of his cock- a guise of dominance giving clue to her intent to tease and test his prided control. The saucy little minx. The movement that tipped Snow over his iceberg of resilience was in the purposeful clench of her sweet cunt, when her walls forcefully engulfed his length whole and sucked inwardly. "Satisfied?" He inquired, ignoring the way in which he'd grunted the word in longing and seized his wife around the waist, rolling her over so she'd be at his mercy beneath him once more.

Very." The haughty smirk pricking at her lips was palpable, as was his predicted response of lust fueled anger. Lola never minded venturing into the belly of the proverbial beast, least of all to egg on his insatiable sexual appetite. "Brat." Coriolanus's teeth slashed unto her neck, latching on and reopening the blotched bruises- his  notion of punishment. The girl felt her time fleeting when Coryo swiftly shoved her legs upward to rest against her chest in a mating press. "You certainly won't be giving me cheek once I fuck a baby into you, princess." He'd snarled the words in what she would reckon as the sexiest groan known to man and that alone shot straight to her core, the inadvertent constriction milking his cock and filling her womb. With hazy vision triggered by the grip of her cunt, his pace hurried. The man's restraint dwindled and his palm slid to her stomach again to feel where his length met her cervix, hips snapping upward in tandem with Lola's addictive noises of pleasure servicing as a guide. This new angle had the victor whining in ecstasy, singing for him, begging for him, pursuing her release with his cock- his and only his. His to love, his to own, his to breed- his wife. "I can't wait to see you all swollen and round with my heir, sweetheart. Fuck..you'll be so pretty..Panem will know you're mine, that their President gets to fuck their little coquette victor from District 2." Upon hearing what her husband had babbled lustily, Lola knew she'd be done for- orgasm impending. "Cum on my cock, petal. I know you're close." Coriolanus darted his head down to arrive at her lips, beautifully bitten and bloodied, as he kissed her with such a hunger where he'd smothered her mouth in tongue, sucking her bottom lip in between his teeth. The groans, mewls, and clashing barbarity, all instrumental to the pornographic atmosphere capsizing Lola. She came hard, soaking his cock as the coil within her loins snapped for the second time that night. It came to no surprise when her body crashed snugly into the mattress, weakened by the intensity of orgasm while he grunted sexily with the feel of her pussy's fluttering. Coryo's own was nearing in earnest, his hips barreling at a rapid pace and canting upward to bully his cock into her cervix, mind spinning within a fog. Although Dolores was a limp, convulsing mess of a girl, his pounding soldiered on, turning a cheek to the sensitivity experienced by her cunt and chasing his greedy high. This was until he'd spotted a stray tear sinking under her waterline and caught wind of an overstimulated mewl she'd involuntarily delivered, and with one finalizing thrust, hot, white ropes of cum spilled within her tightness. "Coryo..daddy.." She managed, his wife's senses shot as her lips parted, her jaw slackening and capacity for speech compromised. Coriolanus gave long, measured strokes to ensure that each drop was pumped into her womb and groaned darkly, his timbre deep. The still blue of her husband's irises swallowed hers, admittedly causing her body to atrophy in its' depleted condition. "You did absolutely wonderfully, my love." A chaste kiss was placed upon Lola's lips whilst his praise melted her concious and reduced her legs to jelly. Tender arms eased their way around her waist to hoist her onto his lap. His cock had slipped from her heat seconds ago and was replaced by his cool fingers slowly fucking his seed back into her tightness, plugging her hole with three digits for several moments. "I hope I get you pregnant." Goosebumps inched across Lola's forearms as she shivered with the feel of his spend massaging itself across her abused walls, the task holding no bounds. Only did his cock soften when he could assure that her cavern was plastered in spend.

[saltsicklover]

Mud on the Floor - BRB - Broken House

I had this one ready to go because I thought the poll was going to go this way! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it anyway, even though this is literally not what you asked for!

Title: Mud on the Floor

Series: Broken House

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2600+

Rating: R

Warnings: Swearing, Sexual Themes, Thunderstorms, Angst Fluff Angst Sandwich.

A late afternoon storm hits the Hard Deck on Friday. Honey seems to be the only person not completely taken aback by the opening of the sky as she drives into work. The streets of California turn from open window joy rides to panicked skidding and hydroplaning as the concrete is pelted with rain. Honey drives slow, humming to her favorite song playing through static over the radio. The music takes her back to the first time Bradley held her close, in rain just like this, her mind no longer focused on chasing a ghost.  

"Hey, eyes on the road there, handsy," Honey pushes Bradley's hand from her thigh. He lets his fingers graze over the warmth of her skin, savoring each micro-moment before his hand hits the space between them. He turns his eyes back to the road, obeying her request, though he would rather sit and stare at Honey in the passenger seat. 

"You didn't seem to mind me being handsy this weekend," Bradley's tone is full of tease, the point of his tongue darting out of his mouth to tease the woman sitting next to him. He knows she's watching him. Honey's eyes haven't stopped tracing the edges of his profile for the last fifty miles and he doubts that fact will change any time soon. 

There is a meekness to the hum Bradley's comment is met with, it's noncommittal and unpressed, but he feels the warmth of her fingers snake through his own. Bradley lets himself smile, wide and toothy. He has stopped hiding his smiles since he met Honey all of four days ago. Their chance meeting at a bar in a rainstorm lead to their bodies tangled in cheap motel sheets, the fabric scratchy against their kiss stained skin. 

"You weren't driving this weekend," Honey points out. An absentminded stroke of her thumb over his own sends a shiver up his spine. God, Honey has this effect on him. This overtaking feeling of warmth that scatters across his skin like sparks on pavement. Bradley tries to soak in each ripple, each shiver, each spark, afraid that it will be gone as quickly as it came. 

"I thought I was driving you crazy, Sweet Girl," Bradley's words are coated in sugar water, sweet and refreshing. That nickname was new, and the way it left his lips made Honey wish he would whisper it again just so she could let it roll over her, slowly this time, so she could actually take the time to appreciate it. Still, she basks in it, lets it take over her senses- and it makes her feel alive. 

Lately, with Honey chasing any information about her father from base to base, post to post, port to air field and back again, she's felt like more shell than human. Her father is basically a ghost when you're a civilian. He lies hidden behind red tape and security clearance; both too full of bureaucracy and too lacking in empathy for the abandoned. 

"You are starting to drive me a different kind of crazy here, Brad," Honey's gentle fingers meet the side of his chin, pushing his eyeline back towards the road. Bradley wants to roll his eyes at her, but the feeling of his hand now holding onto the thickness of her leg, her own hand set atop his, keeps his eyeline unrolling on the road in front of them. "It looks like the sky is going to open up again any minute," 

"I hate the rain," The mutter coming from the man causes a gasp to all but rip through Honey. Her hand leaves the rolled spine of her book on her lap, dancing quickly through the air before she covers her newly gaping mouth. Bradley all but puts the break pedal to the floor, skidding to the side of the road at the noise, panic shooting though him. The Bronco is thrown in park so hast the gears of the engine almost lock. The look he gives her is nothing short of bewilderment when he finds her unharmed and looking a him like he's the crazy one. 

"What the fuck was that?" 

"You take that back," 

Both speak at the same time, each sentence their own version of momentary anger. Neither of them mean it, and both are quick to swallow the remainder of emotion still sitting on their tongue. 

Then, the sky opens up with a large crack of lightening, lighting up the massive gray sky. The bolt flashes over cabin of the Bronco, lighting up their faces. Honey looks at Bradley, her lips parted slightly. They are plush and full, the bottom one having just been released from the prison between her teeth. There are light teeth marks in the flesh and Bradley wants nothing more in that moment than to slide his own tongue over the groves and ease the pulsing under the dimpled flesh. 

Honey's eyes are drawn to the amber flecks in Bradley's eyes. They shone almost gold in the flash of purple white light not a moment before. Honey can't help but lean closer to him. She brings one leg up onto the seat, the other still on the floorboards with the book that slid from it's place in her lap. She leans closer still, trying to locate the gold hidden in the rich molasses of his eyes, hidden behind curled lashes that dust his cheeks with each too short blink. He doesn't dare look away from her too long for fear that her eyes would no longer be on his. 

A little crack of a smile crosses across Honey's expression, the attempt to hid it with a flick of her tongue over her lips catches Bradley's attention. He tentatively brings a hand up to her cheek, swiping the pad of his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip. His fingertips barely graze over his cheek before they make a home near her hairline. The way she leans into his touch does nothing to quell the embers burning in Bradley's chest. Before this moment, he didn't know there could be so much passion behind the smallest of movements; his heart beats rhythmically against the backside of his ribs in a way that almost knocks the breath form his lungs. 

"What'cha smiling at, Sweet Girl?"  He almost has to suck in another deep breathe as he watches her shudder lightly, goosebumps breaking out over the expanses of her skin. He wishes he could see that little shiver again is slow motion, the way her eyes close and the corners of her mouth pull 

There's that name again, and the way he whispered it so huskily it makes her hands shake. Honey swallows thickly, trying to get control of her own body. She almost finds her hands reaching for Bradley, dying to feel him under her hands again. The weekend they spent tangled in each other, now gone behind them, and it didn't do enough to keep her satiated. 

"I was just thinkin' tha's all," Bradley doesn't trust the little ribbon of playfulness laces through her voice, so he presses just a bit further, pressing the pads of his fingers just a bit harder against her scalp. 

"What's on that beautiful brain of yours, huh?" 

"Just thinkin' 'bout how nice it is to be trapped in your car during the storm, tha's all," There is an air of nonimportance to her shrug, like she is trying to devalue her own thoughts because she doesn't like the way they sound coming from her own tongue. 

Bradley's fingertips leave Honey's scalp for just a moment, and she fights not to follow them. The laugh that wracks through Bradley surprises her, but she loves the smile that spreads across his face and the way his cheeks flush. It looks like raspberries have been smushed into his cheeks, and Honey can't help the way she stares. 

"Did I say something funny?" Honey keeps her tone so sweet. Bradley melts just a little further. He presses the pads of his fingers back onto her skin and Honey lets the warmth spread through her from his touch. 

"Yeah, you did, Sweet Girl. This isn't just any car we are sitting in, it's a Bronco," He explains, bringing his other hand up to wander over her exposed upper arm. Bradley's tone is far from condescending, and now he has Honey under both of his hands. She fights off the shiver threatening to break over her body, crest over the skin like the ocean does that sand. Bradley swears he can feel the electricity flowing under her skin, but maybe that's just his own heartbeat pulsing through the tips of his fingers. 

Then, Bradley takes one hand away from Honey, though it almost physically hurts him to pull his fingers away from the softness of her skin, but he needs her closer. Pulling the handle below his seat, Bradley uses both feet to slide the driver's seat back as far as it can go. It click, click, clicks all the way back and Bradley loses touch of Honey for a second. Then, he is leaning forward, reaching across the center console to pull her straight into his lap. 

The little squeak that escapes Honey is short lived as she settles hard down onto Bradley's strong, wide thighs. She cages them in with her own, her skin pressed up against the cold leather interior of the door and console. Bradley's hands are flashing over her skin, warming her up with the heat of his palms. Then, his hands wind into her hair, sliding up the back of her neck before the tendrils laces through his outstretched digits. A small moan passes Honey's lips as she takes in the depth of his touch, all fever and passion, almost a new, blooming sort of love. 

Their breath mingles together in the small space between them, the tip of Honey's nose all but grazing Bradley's. They are so close, lips just brushes each others, exchanging the same deep breath of air as eyes search faces. The tip of Bradley's tongue skims over the fullness of Honey's low lip and she chases the feeling as he pulls back. The headrest stops Bradley's movements, and Honey's lips meet his just a touch too hard, a carom of a kiss, but Bradley is quickly pulling her back into him, hands in her hair as she messes with the top few buttons of his shirt. 

It's all hot kisses and buttons slipping through fabric, palms to marred skin exploring the imperfect nature of it all. Bradley pulls the leaver on the side of his seat, reclining them backwards, further away from the wheel. The pair are as horizontal as they can get, but Bradley wants more. His hands come up to her ribcage in an attempt to lean her, to guide her to change places. He wants her underneath his own body so he can explore her chest with his tongue. 

Honey is jostled form her perch on top of Bradley, and in a second, she is falling through the door, her hand having caught the handle in an attempt to steady herself in their fruitless effort to switch positions.  Suddenly the rain is now coming in, and Honey is falling out. Bradley isn't quite fast enough, only managing to soften her fall as her ass makes contact with the muddy, sandy, very wet ground. 

The curse is almost off Bradley's tongue as Honey's laughter erupts throughout the air, in harmony with the thunder above. It cracks throughout the sky, shaking the Bronco as the rain slicks down Honey's hair against her skin. Bradley leans out of the cab to look at Honey, his own hair catching it's fair share of the rainfall. The smile spread across her lips is undeniable, and he will look back on this moment and know that this is the exact moment he fell for her. This is exactly what happy looks like, and he yearns for a way to stop this moment just so he can look at her for a little while longer, skin slick with rainfall, her clothes now absolutely soaked through. 

There will be a bruises tomorrow, Honey is sure of it, from sickly yellow to deep purple. She really couldn't care less. Her shorts will be caked with mud from now on, and the t-shirt she is in sticks to her body in a way that feels like she may never get it off, but the whole damn situation is so funny and she can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Bradley is half way out of the door now, reaching for her, wanting to pull her up to her feet and back into the relative safety of the Bronco. They clasp hands, mud from Honey's squelching between their fingers. Bradley braces himself to pull her up, but instead, he slips on the wet metal of the door jamb, and Honey just tugs him the rest of the way out into the wet. 

It's Bradley's turn to laugh now, most of his large body's fall broken by the lovely woman who is now absolutely soaked to the bone. He should apologize, really he should, but she was the one who pulled him out of the Bronco, and she is already laughing from beneath him. 

Their lips meet again, somewhere between the laughter and the muddy touches. There are handprints, some smudged, some clear, decorating each other like maps. They trail over their bodies, a detective could read the desperation in their marks. 

The door above them remains open above them, doing nothing to shield them from the rain as they make love for the first time, down in the muddy ditch on the side of the empty highway. There should be no romance there, but from their desperate hands come gentle touches and their hot mouths birth deep kisses that make the world around them spin, each to dizzy drunk on each other to notice the rain begin to let up. 

Bradley climbs into the Bronco, his white t-shirt speckled see through with rain. The cloud are open and rain falls from them so thick he wants nothing more than to stand up the welcome back party at the Hard Deck. After the way he watched Honey walk away and the fact that he knew he'd be seeing Maverick again after their most recent falling out, the rain seems like a good enough reason to stay in. A call from Phoenix changed his mind, at least partially. 

The Bronco pulls into the hard deck in record time, the rain barely slowing him down. He catches sight of Bob's truck parked near the door and he realizes just how good it will be to see the old team again, to drink at the Hard Deck just like they used to. He can see Penny again, and drink one of her off the menu cocktails and maybe flirt with a bartender if he can find it in himself to do so. 

Bradley unclicks his seatbelt, hand on the doorhandle; he looks down to see the rain markings on the inside of the door, stained into the leather from the last time he saw a storm quite this bad. Bradley thinks of Honey and the way she laughed, the way she looked covered in mud, underneath him, skin warm to the touch even with the chilled rain running over him both. 

That's what happy looks like, Bradley knows that for sure. But, now, Honey is a two-thousand miles and one slammed door away, and Bradley feels like a goddamn broken man. He pushes open the door and lets the rain come in, feeling it on his skin. It's cold and it trails wet lines down his exposed skin. He feels the way his clothes begin to stick to his skin. He swears that he could still feel the way her muddy hands wound around him, pulling him closer. 

Bradley dares to let himself think of her, think of what happy looks like. The rain has never felt so fucking cold. 

[ksiondzkanexkiii]

MAYBE YOU'RE NOT A BAD PERSON

Chapter Seven

Next Chapter (8)

The story is also on wattpad, the link to my profile can be found in biography <3 Enjoy

Their different view of the world from a few days ago caused them to stop speaking to each other, just as before they were both eager to learn about each other and their opinions so now they fell silent. Jinx sat in "her room" and drew in her diary all day and the new objects they stole were useful to improve her drawings

The captain, on the other hand, buried himself in his work cutting himself off from the world to be able to focus on his work, he was greatly annoyed if someone or something disturbed him. Any slightest sound could irritate the captain even more, and so it was enough for him that there was a mass of things to sign, to read. And the piles of sheets of paper didn't seem to end, as much as he wanted to focus on his work the scene from five days ago, when he told Jinx to quit getting inspired by the graffiti on the walls, kept playing in his head.

Why did he think about it so much, why did it not give him peace of mind? Did he do wrong in forbidding her to look at those scribbles on the walls, in his opinion he did the right thing, but his mind kept nagging him as if he had done something wrong. But he couldn't tell what

He was supposed to change her, so he will change her. He'll only change the distribution of the game, before, the advantage was a teenager didn't use it or didn't take full advantage of it, but now it wasn't that important. He now had a full deck of cards that he could use and was going to use, all he has to do is be firm and know what the game is really about

Because it doesn't change a teenage girl to enter a normal life, at least that's what he thought. If she just leaves his house she will return to life on the street as a criminal, but this time not a juvenile delinquent who has seemingly strayed into a dark alley. And a law-abiding criminal who probably entered this world at her own behest and at her own request.

He couldn't change her habits, he couldn't change her. He could only understand, but Kate wants her to change and he must somehow accomplish this task for his longtime friend whether in battle or in a private relationship he was doing it for her

At least that's what he thought

Yet what he didn't know was that the teenager shamelessly searched his home, noting that if he sits in his office he doesn't leave it unless pressured by an urgent need to go to the bathroom. So for the last five days, when they stopped talking to each other she watched him and vice versa. She was the only one with a purpose and he was just figuring out how to start a conversation, they were both able to be silent at the table eating together which was strange, but eating breakfast or it was lunch together. Afternoon tea they usually skipped.

Finally deciding to strike, she looked around the captain's apartment, peering into every nook and cranny effectively tiptoeing around like a mouse, making no sound. She didn't find anything interesting, but she didn't look in one room, which she avoided every night as if the room was on fire.

The captain's room

Only there she did not poke her nose, her sticky hands, her mind. quiet footsteps headed to the thick heavy door, she gently pressed the handle to open the door with a quiet push

The old wood of the floor gently creaked under her feet, but she didn't care. The apartment she came to live in had thick walls you had to really strain your hearing to hear anything and the Captain is most likely sitting up to his ear tips in paperwork. Which he probably isn't doing, because he has other things to do than listen to whether a teenage girl is wandering around his apartment

His bedroom wasn't gigantic, but it wasn't small either, she could tell it was even smaller than her proverbial room. He had a bed for two people, but only one side looked used and the other side of the bed was waiting for his person to lie there, the captain's closet was half-open as if he hadn't closed the closet all the way. Probably normal for him, a bookshelf with many books ranging from classic literature to fantasy and horror books he certainly had different moods for books come to think of it he doesn't look like a person who reads fantasy or horror. 

She very much considered him a person who reads classic literature optionally thrillers. Moving to the other part of the room, she approached the nightstand that was on the used side of the bed. She opened the first drawer to encounter some medicines and a box of tissues, the medicines were for sleep and for sedation

He is plagued by nightmares, the teenager guessed, putting away the medicines. She opened the second drawer to encounter more papers that swarmed on Price's desk, but... these were different

Letters? The teenager wondered, in her mind she had to make a note to herself to read them later. At a time when she would have more time to rummage through his things, but some of the letters already made her feel like sinking into their contents The captain's sloppy handwriting was not hard to read, but it was not aesthetically pleasing either.

The walker should she read them?

She must, otherwise curiosity would consume her. The only thing she regretted to the fact that she didn't have any key or something to help her escape from this swamp she found herself in, not that she had anything against swamps, but she felt like leaving here she didn't want to be here so much. She wanted to feel freedom again

To feel the wings she had when she was alone and free, the same wings that lifted her above danger. To be able to paint again. Oh how she longed for that, drawing in a journal was not the same as painting on the walls of a building she couldn't afford a canvas so the canvas was the wall

She did not consider doing graffiti as vandalism. She thought it was art, each mural has a story and features it wants to convey he didn't understand that for him it was scribbles and for her it was the most important moments of life he didn't understand

He didn't understand why she was short of breath when she sees each mural on the wall, why her imagination imagines painting it all, he didn't understand why it was so important to her

He didn't understand what was behind it.

She walked around his bedroom trying to find anything, but nothing. Complete emptiness, the captain is not stupid he knew that the teenager would rummage through his room sooner or later he prepared for it every possible thing he made sure to the last detail, he made everything to the last button as far as not letting the teenager escape. Jinx had two options to give in to the program and change which she disliked very much, or to try to continue to escape and seek happiness.

At the same time, she felt like choosing the second option, but the first option also appealed to her as if from the depths of her blackest thoughts screamed trying to break through her selfish mind, trying to advise her better to take help and fit in with everyone to live a normal life.

And not live on the streets wondering what her end will be or death by starvation, thirst by hypothermia? Or maybe killed by another homeless person. Maybe the first option wasn't so pointless, but she didn't want to change so much she wanted to be herself, it wasn't an option

She quickly left the captain's room quietly closing the door behind her. She already wanted to escape to , "her room" but the muscular and warm chest she fell into blocked her corridor, she raised her eyes as she took a step back and an awkward smile came out on her face.

Price. The captain stood in front of her with a raised eyebrow and his hands behind his back - Did you find what you were looking for? - his voice was not calm or kind, his tone of voice was strained as if he was holding on the verge of annoyance

- I? I was not looking for anything - I confessed, but he knew the truth, his eyebrow raised higher. The captain's blue eyes still looked at me judgmentally and his pupils narrowed - You lie Jinx. - he stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world

Because it was.

- You were snooping - his hands rested on his hips blocking wider the corridor she could use to escape to the room where he made her sleep. He knew what he was doing and she tried to squeeze through his posture anyway, tried to squeeze between his arms and the wall. She didn't answer anything and he took that as an answer, he didn't feel like talking to her he didn't feel like yelling at her.

He didn't feel like doing anything, he was tired already

- Normal people don't look through other people's things - he started to explain with a sigh fell out of his mouth. a very tired sigh - Go to your room and don't come out of it, until I come up with a punishment -.

He basically threw her into the room, took her by the collar of her shirt and with the strength he extracted from his tired muscles pushed the teenager towards the room and closed the door behind him. As if he wanted to preserve the last remnants of culture, which was almost negligible here anyway

He didn't care where the teenager landed and she landed on her feet after the push, surprised by the captain's behavior. Something twitched her deep in her heart as if she felt sad and felt how she had let him down

- You can't lock me up! - she shouted and her voice bounced off the walls. She didn't know if he heard her - You will never change me even if you tried harder! - she added again, but quieter

But why?

Why does it feel this way

She sat up straight on the ground and looked at the closed white door she felt bile rise to her throat and stress pulsed in her head. She reached for her journal to start drawing to relax her mind it didn't help Jinx's gaze stopped on the door again

Why does she feel this way. She didn't understand anything

She was sick of it

At the same time she knew what she had done wrong, she didn't feel like blaming Price for demanding justice even if she had only snooped in his room, but she hadn't stolen anything!

Still

Annoyed, she threw the journal against the wall, the notebook hit the wall landing on the floor with a deafening tickle. The notebook was half-open and lying against the wall, she no longer had the strength for anything she had lost it with this conversation

They both didn't understand what they expected from each other, what they wanted. They don't understand anything in the sense he understands she doesn't

He's fed up with everything, but he agreed to this arrangement so he moves on and she stands still in her closed hard bubble that she doesn't want to leave because she feels safer there

- Everything sucks," she muttered to herself she got up from the ground, looked around she looked at the window that had bars in it, "what if," she said to herself as if there was someone in the room with her in her head.

Does this mean she is mentally ill?

Perhaps.

 She walked quickly to the window opened it ajar looked at the screws with which it was bolted. She smiled to herself all she had to do was find or steal the screwdriver and she would be free, luck was finally smiling on her.

Either she finds the screwdriver in Price's apartment, which she doubts after he caught her snooping around most likely she will have to sit in the room constantly and will only come out when they go out for their daily run or when he comes for her to do another task outside.

All she has to do is lay out a plan and not get caught.

She closed the windows to keep the captain from guessing what her clever head had come up with. She took out her backpack from under the bed took some of her things basically everything she had and put it in the backpack took the journal, which was slightly damaged by hitting the wall

Cursing under her breath she quickly put it in the backpack without worrying if it would suffer more, this notebook had already been through a lot, many pages had fallen out and many were already crumpled, but it continues to serve her bravely. It will take her a few days to find a good screwdriver as if she knew her way around a tool she probably wouldn't have to guess which one is good, but she must be ready to run now

She has to seriously consider every eventuality, every plan. And most importantly she needs to get the money

[geometricsteels]

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[zekeen]

🎫 use this ticket to make a profile for your tav, with all till now information and 10 fun facts🎫

Made with this template by @eeldritchblast (thanks 😁)

Traits :

Values :

Free-thinking : Inquiry and curiosity are the pillars of progress. (Chaotic) Creativity : I never run the same con twice. / The world is in need of new ideas and bold action. (Chaotic) People : I help people who help me--that's what keeps us alive. / I like seeing the smiles on people's faces when I perform. That's all that matters. / I'm loyal to my friends, not to any ideals, and everyone else can take a trip down the Styx for all I care. 

Skills :

Deception : Deception lets you convincingly hide the truth, either verbally or through your actions. This deception can encompass everything from misleading others through ambiguity to telling outright lies. Typical situations include trying to fast-talk a guard, con a merchant, earn money through gambling, pass yourself off in a disguise, dull someone’s suspicions with false assurances, or maintain a straight face while telling a blatant lie. Arcana : Arcana measures your ability to recall lore about spells, magic items, eldritch symbols, magical traditions, the planes of existence, and the inhabitants of those planes. Acrobatics : Acrobatics covers your attempt to stay on your feet in a tricky situation, such as when you’re trying to run across a sheet of ice, balance on a tightrope, or stay upright on a rocking ship’s deck. 

Merits :

Prehensile tail : Your tail is dexterous and prehensile enough to perform sime simple tasks. It has a reach of 5 feet, and it can lift a number of pounds equal to five times your Strength score. You can use it to do the following simple tasks: lift, drop, hold, push, or pull an object or a creature; open or close a door or a container; grapple someone; or make an unarmed strike. Your tail can't wield weapons or shields or do anything that requires manual precision, such as using tools or magic items or performing the somatic components of a spell. True love : Despite the bleakness of the world, your character has discovered a true love. Such love gives hope and inspiration in the face of even the greatest difficulty, for it is a sign that the world is not totally devoid of higher, purer powers. You gain one automatic success on all Willpower rolls, which can only be negated by a botch. On the other hand, you probably have to spend time rescuing your true love from danger or questing to find him or her again.

Flaws :

Deep sleeper : Snore, toss and ignore the alarm - you sleep like a force of nature. Whenever you try to wake up, you suffer a difficulty penalty of two on the roll, and you continue to stagger along bleary-eyed and uncomprehending for the rest of the scene (with a further one-point penalty on all rolls.) Arachnophobia : You have an abnormal irrational fear of spider and other arachnids and arachnid-like creatures.

OC sheet for Baldur’s Gate 3

Birthplace : Baldur's Gate

Detailed Backstory : She was born in the lower city from a tiefling mother and a half-drow father. She didn't get to know them long, her mother died of illness soon after her birth and after a while her father gave her away to an orphanage as he was unfit totake care of a child. And he also died not long after.

As she grew up, she realised she was naturally able to use magical powers but kept it to herself as she grew wary of the people looking over her, who used to sell the kids that grew old enough or had some useful skills . As asking for help wasn't really an option during her childhood, she became self-reliant and as a tiefling she was often ostracized and grew to be a loner.

When she got old enough, she learned she was about to be sold as a servant to an upper city family, so she decided to run away from the orphanage and killed the director; after that she made her way towards criminals and offered her services to the guild.

Profession/job : Criminal with the guild, planning scams mainly but she was also employed for her magical powers when it was needed.

After the game, she's Astarion consort and enjoys a life of luxury while still scheming against the patriars, to slowly gain more power and riches.

Mannerisms : Toys with her ponytail or chew her lower lip when she's anxious.

Languages : Common, Infernal

Tropes they embody: The Chaotic Neutral, The Misanthrope, The Orphan, The Repressed Character

Habits : She wears lots of jewellery, she mostly reads, plays music, often sharpens her claws.

Personality : Realist, patient, cautious

She's outwardly a nice person, friendly and polite with most people but sees strangers as a means to an end.

She's charismatic and easily manipulates others to do or believe what she wants. She seems assertive but is actually riddled with self-doubt and felt like an imposter as a leader.

She doesn't like being pushed around and will not make any efforts if it happens

She doesn't particularly like cruelty but won't shy away from it if it comes to be necessary. She generally don't base her actions on moral, she just goes with what's easier or demands the least efforts.

Pros : Self sufficient, she's not an expert in most fields but can dabble her way through most activities Curious, always likes to learn new things 😗 She's open minded and doesn't like to make hasty assumptions on people Polite, doesn't like to leave a bad impression Occasionally funny Loyal to the people she considers as friends/family Calm presence Affectionate to the people she feels comfortable with

Cons : Secretive and distant, she rarely talks about herself and her problems Probably too calm Helpful to people only if there's something to gain out of it except for her close ones Lazy, she will not go out of her way to make the good choice but the most efficient Too self reliant Self esteem issues (a fear of failure mainly) A tiny bit manipulative 😇

I'll also add the link to the nsfw alphabet and the ask meme :)

[fazalkhan2914]

Damage to structures can result from water leaks. Water will find its way into your house and damage the interior, ceiling or even the foundations of your home. Water damage can be expensive to repair, so it's best to prevent it early and keep your finances in order. To view more visit: https://www.nmss.ae/blog-interiors-decorator-supplier-in-dubai.aspx

[senka-mesecine]

Can't stop thinking about being the nurse that tended Barnes after he got his face injury. How would he react to being taken care of? 😫 (And of course she would have a little crush on him, I mean com on, how can you not 😳 )

I know this might be impossible but can he be soft? 👀 or at least look at her softly? Once? Maybe? 😆

💟💟💟

The Bandaged Man From Ia Drang.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

@woman-with-no-name

-

-"Over a thousand stitches and a Cranioplasty."-

Doc explains in stride swapping through his result notes fresh from the lab.

-"Hard to believe that he still has a face left."-

-"Will he be alright, doctor?"-

You ask in a hopeful huff, bracing your pace. So much to learn, so little time.

-"Oh, he'll be alright. He'll live."-

The doctor shrugs matter-of-factly, keeping his thick rimmed, bespectacled stare glued to the documents he was diligently swapping through, speaking stoically, like this was merely a fact of life and around these parts, it was. Disfigurement. Bodily trauma. Amputation. The other week, a kid walked out of here with a glass eye. -"He'll have to live with it too."- He adds, looking at you briefly, like he was trying to illustrate what sort of patient profile you'll have to contend with. -"As for the psychological consequences ---"- He trails off, assessing his own words way before he ever uttered them, doing a sharp turn on the corridor and halting in front of his office. The phone was ringing out incessantly from somewhere down the lobby. The squeaking sound of wheels as new patients were being carted in by the minute overtaking the hallway. The VA facility was in chaos. -"Very changing. Highly questionable. For now anyway."- He finishes his train of thoughts, snapping his notebook shut. A likely case of PTSD with this patient, you think. That was the case with almost all of them. -"Administer painkillers, nurse. He might not want it, he might fight it, but do it anyway."- The orders were clear and you nod. While you weren't there for the operation yourself, they said that the guy had a plate installed as a replacement for a missing part of his skull; that they shipped him back here to base for recovery from Japan where they barely, for the lack of a better word, stitched him back together, previously having been shot at least seven times. Genuinely, it was shocking he survived transportation to anywhere altogether. -"Lorazepam if he gets volatile."- The doctor points a finger at you, wiggling it for emphasis. -"Does he get volatile?"- You ask carefully, putting your own bit of emphasis on the word does. While you were ready for anything the last thing you wanted was someone to deck you in the face while you're there attempting to change their sheets. -"Calm so far. Taking it like a champ. Not a peep out of ---"- Distracted, the doctor peeks back into his notes again only for his face to snap back up, towards you. -"Barnes, Robert."- He states quickly and curtly, his hand on the doorknob. The phone has stopped ringing; someone somewhere has answered it.

-"Never seen anything quite like it."-

You here the doctor murmur as he opened the door to his office, crossing the threshold, seating himself at his desk, immediately immersed in his work, talking more to himself than you at that point.

-"But unpredictable complications do happen. And once they do, he'll be fit for Section Eight."-

He adds, finally, mulling over paperwork and files, eyes glued to his desk.

A knot tangles in your stomach.

-

Man was pushing forty and a surplus from the Korean war.

A survivor from the battle at Ia Drang Valley.

His record was so impressive you find yourself reading through like it's a highly engaging novel, thinking it's a genuine shock this man was in one piece as it were. Shot several times. Damaged nerves. Probably Neural damage to boot. Fractured skull. Notwithstanding minor injures that would've been considered major and even life altering to everyone else, but beside such an onslaught on wounds, having torn ligaments, broken ribs or a broken nose almost seemed like a minor thing in comparison to everything else. He doesn't speak either; the Doctor made it clear he could. He didn't lose vital functions in that regard, Robert Barnes simply refused to, until a raggedy shout snaps you out of reveries and you jump to attention. First time you've heard his voice since he was admitted. Somehow, you know it's him. You've heard every patient's voice in this ward a hundred times over, but this one's different. This one's new. Has you running down the hallway, halting next to his bed out of bed, immediately fearing the worst; that his state has worsened and that he was going into shock. -"Medic!"- He's still yelling when you stop above his bed, trying to asses any signs of stress and trauma in his eyes visible through the slits of his bandages, finding him fully aware and cognizant. Awake and aware. You're taken aback. -"Get me a smoke."- He gives you an order and you're stunned for words. Five full months of being verbally nonresponsive and this is what you get out of him. Get me a frigging smoke. You momentarily aren't sure if you should be profoundly endeared, amused or annoyed. -"That isn't allowed in here. You know that."- You asses as calmly as possible, checking his vitals. Pulse fine. Heartbeat regular through the stethoscope. For all intents and purposes, he was good and not in shock, rambling. Fully lucid and cognizant. -"Get me a smoke, girl."- He tries again, this time harsher in intonation, his thick accent which you could immediately pinpoint as something Southern, something Louisiana, the Carolinas, Tennessee or Texas comes through loud and clear.

You relent.

You tended to keep a pack of Marlboros in your pocket, not for yourself, but for all the men here who needed the relief of tobacco but technically couldn't leave the ward to get some themselves. Sometimes it was chewing gums. Sometimes magazines. Sometimes cigarettes. You provided whatever you could off the record. Some of these men would go home without an arm or a leg. Least you could do is get them something to divert them from their suffering. Prevent them from falling into a state of desperation and depression. Suicidal tendencies.

-"Go on! Now light it."-

He shoots you another order once you press the cigarette between his lips, profoundly damaged by scars to the point you imagined just talking to you alone must've been a painful order. You fish the lighter out of your uniform's front pocket, lighting filter in his mouth held together by bandages, watching the tip engulf in a pillar of smoke. -"You reject every attempt to make you more comfortable, flat out refusing to do as much as talk and the first thing you ask for in months is a cigarette."- You quip, not unkindly, but more as a statement of the obvious. His eyes move to look at you and you take that as an omen signifying you needed to clarify yourself further and that you weren't reproaching or preaching morality to him. -"I think it's a good sign, actually. I'm glad for it."- You add, daring to chuckle. Something vaguely entertaining about the mummy smoking a Marlboro, wrapped from the top of his scalp nearly halfway down his chest.

-"And a mirror."-

He interjects, surprise you. Stark blue eyes give you a glare.

-"Excuse me?"-

You question.

Once he gives you further details, you decide to stand your ground.

-"I can't get you a mirror. Sorry."-

You explain, apologetically; last thing you needed was for him to smash it and use the shards to cut himself. Self-harm. Or worse. The Doc's words about Section Eight come to mind as a warning, looming over your head like a dark cloud. -"Not before your scheduled check up with the doctor. He'll remove your bandages himself. Give his assessment then."- You say, not liking his silence, feeling the need to say things and enlighten the situation to him purely break the tension. Truth of the matter was, the state of Barnes's face was grizzly and you didn't want you to see it before it was time for him to see it. You were already majorly breaching protocol and breaking authorization by supplying him with tobacco in the first place. -"Y'all little girls carry around those compact mirrors in your pockets. I know you do too. In fact, you have one on ya right now."- You remarks and your breath hitches in your throat. How did he know that? Sure, he could possibly tell by the dent in your uniform's pocket seamlessly reflecting a vaguely round shape on the surface to any outside observer, but that's way too big of a guess to be just a guess. You supposed these Marines had their ways, causing you to unwittingly hand him a tiny compact mirror that appeared so tiny and fragile in his otherwise scarred hands as he unhinged the lid. You freeze up, paralyzed when he starts fidgeting with his bandages, pulling them apart to check what's underneath; this has never happened to you in your medical history so far --- so being as stiff as a rock to the degree you couldn't even move to even consider giving him a tranquilizing shot. The layers of pure white gauze reveal a zig-zag pattern of scarring running from a nearly mangled left side and disappearing somewhere beneath the embrace of the bandages still left unmoved and unloosened. -"It doesn't look bad."- You manage, finding your own voice shaking as you observed, reaching for the mirror so he couldn't be inspired to be curious any more than he already was. Unbidden, Barnes's fingers coil around yours and he squeezes, hard. Hard enough to cause you gasp. Lorazepam if he gets volatile --- the doctor's words ring out in your mind like a bell.

-"S'that mean you'd want one yourself? Or your own pretty face?"-

He practically growls, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Shockingly blue.

You gulp nervously, feeling he deserved honesty. That he was too smart to be swayed by empty platitudes. Was easy to comfort him, you figured, and throw around sagely advice when you weren't the one with your physical description altered for life.

-"No, sir."-

You confess and only then does Barnes relent and let go of your hand.

Cigarette still lit in his mouth in a flurry of messy bandages hanging off his face.

-

He's done nothing in the months after that.

Nothing but look at himself in the mirror.

It's become a regular routine ever since the Doctor officially removed his bandages and the layers of gauze protecting Barnes's skin became thinner and thinner with each passing week; he's been through a Psychological evaluation that stated this was a coping mechanism. That Barnes forced himself to, as he called it, accept the reality of things. That he wasn't going to run from what he looked like now. That he's going to face it head on and get used to it like someone gets used to a new skin. You don't know why on earth you memorized the notes of someone's psych-check, but you supposed you did, finding something oddly admirable in that. Most patients here tended to loose their minds over far smaller injures and here Barnes was, ever the stoic. Even the pain-killers. He tended to reject them whenever he could even though you could tell he was in unbelievable pain, having a bullet practically removed from his cheek and his skull. How he endured you couldn't comprehend. -"You know ---"- You address him on one occasion, feeling you had to, a twinge of regret haunting you for being a little too bluntly honest last you told him that if you had a choice in the matter you wouldn't want you have a scar like his. He was far too mentally unbalanced then to hear those words and you've made a bad call. -"This might sound weird, Mr. Barnes, but it doesn't look as terrible as you think, considering the circumstances and the severity of the injury."- You trail off and the speak up, careful in your delivery. Now that you saw him whole, nose and eyes and mouth and hair and cheekbones, you could assess shockingly enough that he was one of the rare few men with an injury like that who looked...well...handsome. You allow the complement you've been mulling over for weeks slip through the precipice of your mouth freely. Without censorship. -"God blessed you with such exemplary features it's hard to mar them."- You say, watching Barnes turn from the open infirmary window where he was having a smoke, looking at you head on. You figured you deliberately used so much purple prose because it felt like a shield against him; was hard to just say you're a handsome man. Handsomest I've ever seen. In spite of everything. -"You're speakin' in tongues like a preacher, girl. Give it to me straight an' simple and cut the bullshit."- In spite of the profanity and him cocking his head to the side tauntingly, you interacted with him frequently enough to know he was joking and teasing you for your delivery riddled with fancy epithets, like you were beating around the bush and avoid the point.

You're caught.

You decide to be upfront.

-"You're so good looking nothing can really ruin it."-

You say, openly. Was pure honesty too.

-"'S that part of your bed-side manner? Makin' rounds? Lyin' to these sorry cocksuckers 'round here to raise their morale?"-

He leans towards you like he was measuring you in ways you couldn't understand, testing if you if you'd pull back your statement or not.

-"No."-

You stand your ground, firmly. You'd almost dare say the scar, still red and angry around the edges managed to do the miraculous job of enhancing him, if that was at all possible.

-"I really mean it."-

You add.

-"You sayin' that 'bout me then? You find me easy on the eyes, ma'am?"-

Barnes's voice comes through as a deep rumble, his eyes never matching the severity of his tone yet something in his gaze --- there was undeniable softness there.

-"I do."-

You smile into your own chin, feeling the blood rushing into your cheeks.

[copperbadge]

hey sam! i don't want to dump a research question on you, but just in case this is your remit - do you have any apps or browser extensions or similar for adhd and studying? i know about screen tinting and white noise, but if there's anything out there (paid or not) that you recommend, please wax lyrical! i'm collecting a doc of links for study tools beyond pomodoro style apps!

Man, screen tinting and white noise is already well out ahead of me, Anon :D I never did either of those while studying. I can't deal with screen tinting, but I did eventually start using ASMR videos as white noise when I was in my thirties, when I was working. Lo-fi beat music (often designated FOR studying on youtube!) often helps. Other than that I'm afraid I don't have any tools to link to -- no apps, no programs, no sites. I simply don't use any for learning/studying. I have a lot of tools but they're for managing personal life and very finely-tuned to me, so it's stuff like using google sheets to keep my calendar, and using Tasks to manage my chores. It's not to say you can't or shouldn't use apps and extensions, it's just not something that existed when I was in college and not something I make use of now.

My work, while very focus-intensive and intellectual, and involving synthesizing a lot of data, is also very temporary -- the data arrives in my brain, is put to use, and then goes immediately back out again. I've actually trained myself to have no long-term memory for some things, which is probably a bad thing, but every job I've had since 2008 has involved remembering very specific data for somewhere between five minutes (answering phones, remembering names) and two days (building a profile of a donor).

My study techniques when I was in school were less about environment and more about structure -- how I built my lecture notes and how I transferred them to a method for study.

In class, I found it helpful to take notes on blank paper, unlined, so that I could draw pictures and diagrams and structure my notes in a less linear fashion than lined paper would have encouraged. I should dig some out and take some photos sometime. So I had this artist's 8x11 pad of paper with diagrams and outlines and paragraphs all over the place. (I also tried graph paper but didn't like that, too much visual interference.)

I would start reviewing my notes for the eventual exam pretty soon after taking them -- about a month after any given lecture I'd go back to my notes and start review, which sounds a little insane, but was for me super helpful. I would get a deck of 3x5 cards and start moving what I thought were the vital points from those month-old notes over to the 3x5 cards. I didn't use them as flashcards (except for Latin class), I just put notes on various cards when they seemed to go together, and I'd carry the cards around with me and take them out and read them over. It made them very portable! And it meant that I could study in small chunks across a long stretch of time, which probably was very ADHD-compatible because it meant I saw everything a lot and it became "background noise" in the sense that I retained it.

I did kind of have the classic "gifted child" habit of not studying much because I rarely needed to, and for me that fortunately did carry over into college and grad school. With a few exceptions, I didn't have to study much for my exams, and the index cards covered what I needed. The struggle that I had was writing papers -- the classic ADHD "can't get started, hyperfocus once I do". I did eventually figure out the pattern, and so what I'd do was just block out the weekend before the paper was due (often I set the due dates ahead of the real ones in my calendar) and sit down and do the whole-ass paper across about 18 hours. If I knew the time was blocked out for it ahead of time, then that would propel me into actually getting started, and I'd bang the thing out.

So yeah, a lot of my study techniques for living with ADHD, not that I knew I was, came down to stretching studying way out over several weeks to months, and compressing paper-writing into weekends.

But also like...IDK man, cut yourself a lot of slack, I was studying and writing papers before smartphones existed, before my undergrad campus had wifi. If I wanted to check my email, because I didn't have a computer freshman year, I had to go to the computer lab across campus. It made research harder, of course, but it stripped me of a lot of opportunities to goof off. And because my brain was never trained to expect instant digital gratification, I never had the urge to put my notes down and check my smartphone.

So, maybe there's that, too -- if you find that while studying you get distracted a whole bunch, it may be useful to do some digital "hygiene" -- train yourself to go stretches without checking your phone or your browser, starting small and moving up to five, ten, fifteen, sixty minutes. I can't say that will help everyone or even be possible for everyone, but I think it's something to try.

Readers with ADHD (including self-diagnosis), feel free to chime in with the ADHD-centric study tools you use! I'd like to ask that neurotypical people not share their techniques here, only because people with ADHD tend to get a lot of well-meaning advice that is unfortunately not super applicable to the neurodiverse, which can be really frustrating and depressing. And remember to comment or reblog, as I don't repost asks sent in response to other asks. Thanks everyone!

[bullet-prooflove]

Time - Michael 'Riz' Ariza x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life, @danzer8705 @mysoulisasunflower @vannabanana1995

It was the first night that you had woken up alone in a long time. You stretched your bare legs before rolling over onto Riz's side, your hand reaching out for him blindly, your fingers grasping cool sheets.

You understood what was keeping up him at night, this war with the Reapers. It was relentless and brutal, just last night they’d found three Mayans burnt to death in the desert, a friend of EZ’s, Manny among them.

You raised your head from the pillow, surveying the room as your hands rubbed over your exhausted features. You knew where he’d be, the same place you always disappeared to when the world became too much.

You found him on the steps of the decking in his back garden, surveying the array of cacti and agaves as he smoked a cigarette in the dark. The profile of his features was illuminated in the light from the moonlight. You couldn’t read his expression, but you knew he was deep in thought. That white vest clung to his torso as he blew a smoke ring out his mouth. He didn’t even register your presence until your hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder before you sat down next to him.

Riz tilted his head towards you before stubbing out the cigarette on the wood beneath his bare feet.

"I hate feeling so helpless." he admitted into the silence of the night.

Your cheek came to rest upon his shoulder as your arm threaded through his, fingers lacing together.   There was solace in the touch, a hope in his heart that the two of you would get through this, that the you’d both survive along with everyone else you loved.

"I've been thinking..." Riz told you, looking down at your entwined fingers, his thumb gracing over the space where one day he hoped a ring would reside.

"Should I be concerned?" You teased as his forehead came to rest upon yours.

"You know how I feel." He said helplessly. “I wish we had more time...”

His voice was gruff as he spoke. You could sense the well of emotion residing inside of him as you put your palm to the place where his heart beat within his chest. You could feel it's constant, steady thrum underneath your fingertips.

"You need to promise me if something happens..."

"Don't talk like that." You cut him off.

“It’s not something I want to think about Songbird.” He told you, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek until he cupped your face in his palm. "But if something happens to me, I want you to be happy."

"If anything happens to you..." You trailed off, unable to bring yourself to say the words.

I'll never be happy again.

Life would become empty and barren, you would live but not truly. Your existence would be pockmarked with the possibilities of what could have been.

You wanted to show him that your love was unconditional, that even though the future wavered right before your eyes, you were his, you would always be his.

"Marry me." You said earnestly. “If our time is running out, I want to spend as much of it as I can as your wife.”

Love Riz? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[millkyyo]

Character Profile

Note: Miru is my persona but this is a One Piece variant of her

Name : Miru Venacia Age: 20 (Pre-Timeskip), 22 (Post-Timeskip) Height: 4'11 (150 cm) Epithet: Stygian Forge Haki: Observation, Armament Role: Blacksmith of Strawhat Pirates, Additional Sniper Devil Fruit: - Bounty: 255,000,000 Berries Race: Human Birthplace: Unnamed Island, East Blue

Affiliations

The Nook (Apprentice, Age 10 until 20) Strawhat Pirates (Aged 20 until Present) Heart Pirates (2 years timeskip)

Origin

Born from a village that lies at an island located in East Blue, Miru left the island at a young age as a means of running away from the ghost of her past and ended up strayed in Loguetown where she was taken in by a Blacksmith that had taught her the art of weaponry and also finding her true will in this life. Personality Miru is said to be approachable, laidback yet not much chipper to anyone that has met her, but to those she holds dear in her heart, they could tell it is a simple facade that exhausts her once the day turns into night. She pushes everyone to a distance for her own sanity, liking the quieter moments for some alone time She may seem uninterested to anything in a glance, but once she slowly shows her true colours, a lovely, jovial side of her that she reserved deep within her heart. Miru is more of a listener and observer rather than a talker, actions speaks louder than words after all, remembers any little detail even if it could be a passing conversation. With the Strawhats, Miru is just an enabler to all of their silly antics, chuckling from a distance as she watches them. Her mind is set towards one thing, and she will pursue it even if it kills her. No one knows what it was, but it is said her heart has wanted to set sail towards a closed-off land ever since she saw the map of the World.

Abilities

Marksmanship

Miru is an adept gunslinger, learning sharpshooting skills when she first became an apprentice at The Nook, mostly proficient with wielding a pistol rather than melee weapons.

Craftmanship Taught by her Mentor of the arts of weaponry, Miru is well-skilled in crafting any weapons she has come to touch and seen, customising it to her own taste once the foundation is built. Her own pair of guns, Deck of Cards, is evidence of the customisation she makes, needing no bullets into it as it released a blast from blunt force (Similar to an Impact Dial)

Art of Disguise and Dance

Two of her miscellaneous skills is dancing and disguises. Being particularly good at adapting with her environment quickly and blending in the crowd, she finds ways to cover up her name from the Marines hunting her active bounty whilst maintaining her image. Her dancing in particularly helps with more espionages or spying, incorporating several dances she knows in her way of fighting

Miscellanous

- Miru is ambidextrous, being taught by her mentor

- At first, Miru has no bounty, up until the events in Ennies Lobby, Miru alongside the other Strawhats received their bounty

- Travelling wasn't her thing until meeting a certain fiery Pirate that forever changed the trajectory of her life

- Although she prefers pistols for fights, Miru knows how to use other weapons for combats. "I never say I can't use other weapons, now have I?"

- The first Haki she developed was her Observation, training herself in the 2 years without the Strawhats, in order to help the Heart Pirates as a Sniper

- Miru learned Ryou quicker than anyone, a surprising feat to everyone even herself

Reference Sheet (For Now) Pre-Timeskip