#hes too patriotic for his own good

[khrysalis-best-world]

ignore the shit quality but. whys he such a little guy. a selfish little yipping papillon. his little ears im going to burst into TEARS

[ateliersss]

Oh, take me back to The Night we met

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: 1936, eighty-eight years ago, you met him, the creature that changed your life in a way that goes beyond human imagination. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: Attempted Rape, SA, Murder, English isn't my first language Word Count: 10.162 After the Blooming Family series

⇨ Surprise! I hope you are surprised because I was starting to doubt myself. I actually believed I wouldn't even finish it this year. Anyways, I wrote the finishing 6.800 words in the last seven hours and my brain is mush. I hope it didn't affect the pace or logic of the plot. If so, I will edit it in a few days. Comments are always appreciated.

⇨ Also, if you tell me I wrote an unrealistic reaction to seeing a Yautja's face for the first time, let me tell you, you and I wouldn't be here if I hadn't reacted the same.

1936, Earth

“Thank you, ma’am.” The soldier in front of you returned your identity card, the national animal printed on it facing you.

You returned his bright smile with a tight one. You were already used to identifying yourself to patrolling soldiers after work. It was for “safety measures”, according to the government.

While you were busy putting away your identity card, the boy looked nervously over his shoulder to his comrade who nodded back to him, encouraging him to finally man up and just tell you what he had rehearsed a dozen times already to eventually make a move on you and ask you out.

“A-And thank you for your service, ma’am!” He blurted out, louder than he intended to, with a soft blush covering his cheeks.

You closed your purse and looked up at him in confusion.

The boy, you now noticed, had to be at least five years younger, probably around the same age as your younger brother, Emil. And you recognized him now, too. He was patrolling around this area two to three times a week.

At your confused face, he gestured a little awkwardly to your uniform, the white dress and blue-grey blouse underneath it. “D-Doctors and nurses are in desperate need in times like these a-and saving lives is a remarkable job!”

“Oh.” You looked down at yourself before you pulled your coat tighter around your body and smiled softly at him. “If that‘s all I‘ll take my leave now. Have a good night, gentlemen.”

He visibly deflated at your words and mumbled a quick “Have a nice evening, ma‘am.” but you barely got half of it when you turned around to continue your way back home. The second your back was facing them your smile dropped.

You hated it, hated this, this so-called life you and everyone around you had to live. Horrible and disgusting things were happening, but no one dared to speak up. You were all trapped, too scared to act, too afraid to do something.

And the people could feel it, the tension that was stretched so tautly that was just waiting to snap. The whole world was holding its breath, deferring that one moment when the match would ignite and reduce everything and everyone to rubble and ash.

Meanwhile, your brother was beaming with pride as he was now considered old enough to join the army and could finally fight for his country. On the other hand, your father, the only other family you still had in this world, was far more reluctant when it came to the plans of the government and his son’s naive blindness of patriotism.

No one was talking about the horrifying wrongs your home country was doing for years now, but everybody knew, everybody saw. And if someone even dared to utter a word about it, they disappeared.

That didn’t stop your father from ranting about it behind the closed doors of your home. He did so, of course, in Emil’s absence. He was family, yes, but nowadays blind obedience could manipulate even a brother and son to go against his own kin.

You loved your brother dearly. He was a good guy and he only held a very strong pride for his home, his people, and his culture. But sadly that was the only thing he acknowledged around others. He denied the “rumors” of a genocide going on and overlooked unintentionally the more sinister motives of others in the world of politics and the military. He was truly and utterly blind, but you couldn’t condemn him for that. Not really.

The Great War ended when Emil was three years old and you remembered him crying when your father told him he couldn’t participate in it anymore. Ignorant of the horrors that happened at the Front, he and a few boys from around the neighborhood would play war and were disappointed when they were told it was over. The worst part was the elder men sitting on benches near their battlefield, telling them their people were the superior power since they had been able to hold their own against three opposing countries in the end.

You sighed and started to fumble around in your purse for your keys as you reached your destination. After a quick look into the mailbox — the usual evening newspaper and another flyer that encouraged men between the ages of twenty and forty-five to sign up for the military — you made your way up to the first floor and poked around in the lock with the key, a little distracted by the newspaper as you were searching the headlines for anything concerning. There was another report about a skinned man found hanging upside down from a church tower. Unbelievable. At times like this and there was a maniac running around, killing people in the most grotesque way for fun.

“I’m home!” You called into the dimly lit hallway, knowing your father was sitting in his usual spot in the living room.

After dropping your purse next to the wardrobe, toeing out of the white pumps, shrugging off the coat, and hanging it on the coat rack, you walked through the corridor and past five doors. The ones leading to the bathroom and the kitchen were open as always, just like the door of Emil’s bedroom. Although it hadn’t been inhabited for a few months now, you would always leave it open after cleaning. It was false reassurance, but that way it seemed as if he was still home.

“How was your day?” Your father asked gruffly from his spot on the wing chair, the morning newspaper still in his hand before it got replaced by the evening issue you handed to him with a kiss to his temple.

 “It was…”

Screams.

Blood.

Wails of a newborn.

A cold body.

“…long.”

“Mhm.” Your father hummed, his eyes scanning the front page before turning it. “Hah! Sightings of another black cloud of smoke and the authorities tell the public another farmhouse burned down. Do they think we are stupid? Unbelievable these people! Think they will get away with it, hiding it from the public eye, and no one would notice!”

You weren’t entirely sure if he had even listened to you, but you didn’t care. You weren’t very eager to start a conversation with him anyway.

“I’m in my room. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Though you didn’t expect a response, you waited a few seconds — maybe today he would ask if his son had finally sent a letter — before you turned around to retreat to your room.

Since your father had lost his legs in a bomb attack at a munitions factory where he had worked during the Great War, he had changed. A lot. Before he was quite a gentle and jovial man who worked hard and never shied away to show how much he loved his family. Nowadays he was resentful and bitter towards everything happening around him.

It was exhausting, not only listening to his complaints day in and day out but also being nothing more than a maid and caregiver to him. You were the sole breadwinner in this house. You worked yourself to the bone in a business that was equally about life and death but gave you more grief than joy. At least it made the medical care of your father a little easier. The surgery, the medicine, and the wheelchair would have cost you a fortune.

When you would get off work, more would await you at home. Taking care of the household was your responsibility for nine years now since your father wasn’t capable of doing it anymore. After the first week of dusting and sweeping, washing the dirty laundry and ironing the clean ones, going grocery shopping and cooking as well as taking care of your father like washing him, helping him get to the toilet and such, you cried yourself to sleep with the thought of quitting and running away.

But you didn’t.

You were miserable, yes, but you stayed. You stayed with the hope of a better life in the future. Maybe you will be married to a nice man in a few years like your girlfriends already were. You had experience with men, sure, but none of them you would consider fit to be your husband.

In your bedroom, you quickly got rid of your uniform until you were only in your undergarments, a baby-blue silk panty that flowed around your mid-thighs and an uplift brassiere of the same fabric and color, both with a lacy hemstitched design. You were about to throw the white and grey-blue dress to your other dirty clothes when you noticed red speckles on the left sleeve.

Yes, the day had been long, too long for your taste, and when your shift did end, you felt hollow once more. You could still see her in that bed, screaming and crying.

Watching her, you had wondered if you would ever end up like her.

You shifted in your place, second-guessing, before you finally turned and looked at your reflection in the mirror that occupied one corner of your bedroom. You hesitantly lifted your hands and placed them on your belly.

No. Your job showed you women struggle and in pain every day. You would never do that to yourself. Being a mother was not worth the probability of taking your last breath during labor, giving your own life while granting another to your child.

Today was another reminder of that.

The girl in the delivery room, Johanna, was sweet and lively. You met her occasionally on a monthly check-up when you assisted the doctor who took her into his care. She would tell you about her and her husband trying for this baby for years and how excited she was.

You bit the inside of your cheek when tears once again started to well up in your eyes when you thought of how helpless you had felt when you stood in that room. Your colleague, an older and more experienced woman, was holding the crying newborn in her arms. The doctor was doing his all to save the unsavable while Johanna’s body got colder as the dark red spot grew bigger on the white linen of the bed.

Today had shown you once again that you would never let something like that happen to you.

“You have to incise into her abdomen.”

Not ever.

“No!”

Not in a million years.

“No, Mi’ytiar… you have to, you have to.”

You would never put someone else’s life before yours, not even the one of your never-going-to-happen baby.

“Save our baby. Forget me… ju-just save our son… please.”

Sighing, you got ready for bed. You were far too tired this evening to get anything done. The laundry had to wait until tomorrow and your father probably already had eaten, so there was no need to get to the store. For now, you needed to stop thinking.

A whole week passed and you had followed your everyday routine like every other day. Occasionally, when you walked past the room where Johanna had delivered her baby and made her husband a widower, you paused and stared. Instead of the freshly made bed and the stark white linen, you saw her, dying as she bled out. You saw the doctor, yourself by his side and the nurse holding the baby at the foot of the bed.

You jumped when you felt a hand on your shoulder and you turned to see said nurse smiling pitiful at you.

“You are still there, right?” She asked softly, her eyes scanning your face.

You swallowed and nodded. “It’s like that every time I come here. I don’t know why. She’s not the first I watched dying during childbirth.”

The elderly woman patted your cheek and guided you away from the delivery room by the crook of your arm, pulling you away from the sorrowful abyss before you could drown any deeper in it.

“You liked her, that’s why.” She started, “I had a Johanna, too. A long, long time ago. Although she was a lot younger, she was just as excited to be a mother. Poor thing died just like her baby.”

You gasped and now it was you who looked with pity at her. “Why?”

“The baby was stuck.” The older nurse sighed, “She pushed and pushed and tore. By the time the doctor started to cut her open, she died of internal bleeding.” She had to clear her throat before she continued, “The baby died with her. A little boy. He got himself tangled up in the umbilical cord.”

You turned your gaze from her face down to the ground and watched your feet walk an unknown route. Swallowing down your tears, you forced yourself to concentrate on not stumbling over your own feet.

You did like Johanna. You had empathized with her, even though children would never be part of your life. She had just wanted a baby, a part of her and the man she loved united in one body, and all that she got was death. She hadn’t deserved it. At least the thought that she might be together with her baby in heaven now thanks to her belief in God soothed your heart a little.

“Go home, (Y/N).” The elderly nurse interrupted your train of thought.

Looking up, you saw her holding up your purse and coat. Apparently, she had led you to the lounge where the doctors and nurses spent their lunchtime.

“But I still have six hours to go.” You tried to argue, but bit down your lower lip when she shook her head.

“If someone should ask for you, I will tell them you didn’t feel well and that I sent you home. There are certain benefits as head nurse.” She winked at you, pushed your belongings into your hands, and shooed you in the direction of the exit.

“I promise I will feel better tomorrow.” You called over your shoulder and waved at her, giving her one last smile before you shrugged on your coat and left.

Thirty-two minutes later, you got off the bus and turned around the corner into your street, your purse dangling back and forth on your wrist. With your extra five hours, maybe you could finally start that book on your bedside table if your dad wouldn’t find any reason to turn your attention to him.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, you walked a little faster, already searching for the key. Like always, you checked the mailbox — nothing again — before you hopped up the one flight of stairs to your apartment, the sound of your heels on the wood filling the otherwise silent staircase.

The noise seemed to attract the woman living across from you because you barely reached the top of the stairs when she ripped her door open and stared at you with wide eyes.

You paused and looked at her in concern. “Mrs. Walter? Is everything okay?” You asked and carefully inched closer to her.

For several moments, you didn’t get an answer. Only when you opened your mouth to ask her again, she slowly lifted her trembling arm and pointed past you at something you could not see.

Strange. The only thing back there was your apartment door, so…

The slamming of Mrs. Walter's door barely reached your ears when you turned around. All you could hear was eerie silence, not Mrs. Walter quickly putting her distance between her and the door, not the dog barking from above you that got awakened by the slamming door, not the traffic noises outside.

The door that you diligently locked every morning before you got to work and unlocked every evening when you returned home hung on its hinges. In quick strides, you reached it and ripped off the note that was nailed into the wood under the peephole. Your eyes scanned over the words as you pushed the door open and entered the apartment.

A search was carried out here due to a tip-off of a conspiracy against the country and its people. All residents are requested to report immediately...

Tears clouded your view and made it impossible to make out the rest of the words. But there was no need to. You already knew what you needed to know. Your father was dead, no questions asked, no evidence to prove that he was innocent or guilty, no interference by the judiciary. He had dug his own grave since he started to badmouth and criticize the current sins committed by the government.

You slowly navigated your way through your destroyed home, your hands supporting yourself against the wall, careful to not get caught in something with your pumps. You had to duck under the big shelf close to the entrance of the living room. It was tilted to the side so that the upper part was now leaning against the other side of the wall. Everything that had ever been placed onto it — pictures, plants, certificates, and other little knick-knacks — was now scattered on the floor.

It got even worse in the living room. Everything had been turned upside down. Your father’s chair was thrown to the side just like the couch and the coffee table. The books from the huge bookshelf that covered the length of the smallest wall in here were pulled out and tossed on the floor, pages ripped out and strewn on the floor. Pictures were taken from the walls and the glass crunched as you stepped over them. Dirt was covering the floor as if someone had been digging in the soil of the potted plants. The carpet was overturned, partly thrown onto the couch, and revealed the wooden floor it usually covered.

Your living room had been thoroughly searched and you doubted the rest of your home looked any different.

In a daze, you carelessly let your purse drop to the floor and shuffled to your bedroom. Opening the door, you were greeted with a view you had expected — your bed was tilted to the side, clothes from your closet were now scattered on the floor, and your mirror was lying face down on the floor.

When you saw the pictures of you and your family carelessly thrown into the corner, you couldn’t hold the sob in any longer. You sank to your knees, curled into a ball, and cried to your heart’s content with your eyes squeezed shut.

You lost your mother at a young age, lost your father for the first time after his accident, lost your brother to the country, and now lost your father for the second and final time. Now you were wholly and utterly alone. Not for long, though. If you didn’t come forward and turned yourself in to a possible fair trial in the next sixteen hours, you would be taken just like your father and die the same way he did.

Your breakdown had been apparently so nerve-wracking and tiring that when you opened your eyes, it was dark inside your room and outside your window. Groggily, you propped yourself up and looked around, disappointedly ascertain that you hadn’t been dreaming at all. Your eyes scanned your room, still a little out of it, until you spotted your clock on the wall, surprisingly intact. 9:24 PM. Now you had less than ten hours left.

How would you spend your last ten hours in freedom? You didn’t know, but you for sure wouldn’t do it in here. You needed to leave.

As quick as you could you switched your nurse uniform to a skirt and your favorite blouse, fixed your make-up and your hair to look less like a mess and more like the respectable woman you usually were, and left the apartment after putting on your shoes, coat and grabbed your purse. At first, you strolled around with no real destination in mind, but the darker it got the higher the risk of being stopped by a patrolling soldier.

You had enough money with you to occupy yourself with a few drinks, so why not enjoy yourself, let a little loose. You never really got the chance to try it out. Your job unironically prevented you from unnecessarily damaging your liver and you had the responsibility to take care of your family. Your girlfriends always invited you on girl’s night, but sadly you had to decline almost every time, be it your father or another night shift forced upon you. They had another planned on the weekend in a few days, the first one in a very long time you would have had time for. Not anymore. When they would sit around a table and share the newest gossip, you had already started to rot away in a mass grave.

You entered the first, non-shady-looking bar and plopped down on one of the bar stools on the right. When the bartender finally took notice of you, all he needed to do was to take in your gloomy figure pitifully slumped in your seat to grab a glass and fill it with a brown liquid. No words were spoken — you didn’t feel like it and he noticed that — as you grabbed the glass, tossed the liquor back, and placed the now empty glass back down. The alcohol, whatever it was, burned like hell and you couldn’t help but cough, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. The bartender meanwhile had wordlessly filled your glass again and without any hesitation, you emptied that one too.

You spend almost four hours like that. Losing count after your sixth shot, your head started to feel funny, like the world around you was spinning too fast. You mused what your life would have been like if your mother hadn’t died when you were just nine years old, if your father hadn’t lost his legs when you were seventeen, if your brother had chosen a normal job at your current age. You could have grown up like any normal girl, could have joined your friends more often to hang out, could have started going on dates again after your last boyfriend dumped you for neglecting him.

And what about your future? What about the man you wanted to marry in a few years? Every day you daydreamed of someone who would just sweep you away in his arms and take you far, far away from here. There had to be a place somewhere where you could live your life in peace without a brewing war and the constant fear of death. You waited for someone who would make your life easier than it currently was, who would take the weight from your shoulders and not add some more on them every single day. Someone who loved you passionately and would spoil you after nine years of labor where you worked yourself to the bone. Someone who would take charge and let you rest when you needed it. Someone who was the other half of your soul that hopelessly awaited to be rejoined with its counterpart.

When you reached out to your glass for the nth time, a hand softly clasped your wrist. Looking up, you saw the bartender giving you the same pitiful look you had received for God knows how often today, from your colleague at the hospital to some of the other patrons who entered and left the bar during the last few hours.

“I think you should get home.” He said firmly and pulled his hand away.

No longer being hindered, you lifted the glass up to your lips and emptied it in one go. “I no longer have a home.” You dully answered, your speech a little slurred.

“We close in a few minutes.” He tried another route, anything to get you to stop drinking.

He may not be interested in what personal business you have to drink yourself under the table, but even he wouldn’t let a young woman like you do that to herself.

“Fine.” You mumbled, grabbed your purse, and searched for the money that was stored somewhere in there. You hummed when you finally found it and without looking at it, you dropped it down on the counter. “Here.”

You held onto the sleek surface of the bar to lift yourself up and from your seat, supporting your whole weight with one hand while you needed several attempts to grab your coat. Not bothering to put it on, you turned to leave and even you were surprised that you could still walk in a (more or less) straight line.

“Hey, you paid too much!” The bartender called from behind you.

Not bothering to stop or turn around, you simply proclaimed, “Keep it. Where I go I won't need it.” and pushed the entrance door open.

Outside, you tilted your head up, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath of the cool night air. It instantly freshened you up and cleared your mind a little. Looking left and right along the sidewalk, you decided to take the left and began strolling wherever it was taking you, once again with no actual destination in mind. You had no idea what time it was, but you guessed you had around five or six hours left. If you’re lucky and didn’t get held up by some patrols, you could visit the park one last time where your parents, Emil and you would hold a picnic every summer when you were younger. It would only take you ten minutes on foot. It wouldn’t hurt to visit the place that held so many good childhood memories and bask in them in your final hours.

You were walking for mere two minutes when you heard a whistle from your right. Halting your steps, you turned your head to the side and looked over to the source. There, on the other side of the street, were two men sitting on a bench and two standing around them. One was holding a beer bottle while the others were smoking their cigarettes.

“Hey, pretty lady.” The one with the beer bottle called over to you and lifted it to toast to you.

You quickly snapped your head back forward and continued on your way, your strides bigger and faster to create as much distance between you and them as possible.

When you thought you were safe, you felt a hand clasping your wrist whose owner pulled you back and against his strong chest.

“Hey, hey, hey.” The voice of the man with the beer bottle breathed against your ear, sending an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “Don’t be shy. We were just celebrating my friend’s promotion.” To your horror, he put his hands on your hips and turned you both to his three companions who had seemingly followed him, all of them wearing leering grins. “Why don’t you join us, hm? We could need a little entertainment.” He murmured against your neck, his breath reeking of alcohol.

Before he could place his lips anywhere close to your skin, you struggled out of his grip and stumbled a few steps away from him. “I-I’m sorry, but I need to go home. I’m already late.”

The man who seemed to be the leader of the bunch stepped closer to you, smirking when you accidentally walked right into one of his friends. The guy immediately held you against him, keeping you in place.

“I think you could spare a couple of minutes.” The leader said firmly and reached for your blouse.

Fear seemed to be a great way to quickly sober one up because the next thing you did was stomp down on the foot of the man that was holding you, your heel hitting his toe perfectly, causing him to let you go with a cry in pain and a curse. Next, you rammed your knee into the crotch of the man in front of you and when his body doubled over, you pushed him to the side and bolted down the sidewalk.

Not daring to look back, you sprinted as fast as you could, but the alcohol made it hard to keep balance, not to mention the nausea that bubbled up in your stomach. But you ignored it and tried to keep it down when you heard their calls from behind you, coming closer and closer.

This was not how you wanted to spend your last night, this was not how you imagined it. Tears clouded your view and you narrowly escaped the grabby hand of whatever guy that was closest to you when you ducked down and sharply took a left turn into an alley.

Unbeknownst to you, you were being watched.

The next thing you felt was hard concrete as you fell forward when a heavy weight collided with your back. You cried out in pain when you hit your head, then hysterically screamed in panic when you felt hands on your skirt and you started kicking around, not caring if you hit something or not. You heard a grunt when your heel finally made contact with the shoulder of one of them, but you had barely time to bask in your little victory when a punch to your face almost knocked you out cold. Your body went instantly slack, a long-winded groan leaving your mouth.

“Move your ass and hold her down.” The voice of the leader sounded from somewhere above you. “And turn her around. I like to watch their face when they give up.”

Hands turned you on your back as your screams and cries accompanied your attempts to fight their hands off.

“No… please no.” You begged as your wrists were pinned above your head by a pair of rough hands. “No!” You screamed louder, in a high-pitched, panicking voice when your blouse was ripped open, your brassiere following suit, and your chest got groped by a calloused hand.

You squeezed your eyes shut when you felt an eager mouth around your nipple, harshly sucking on it, while your breasts were still in a painfully hard grasp. You tried to gather your last strength, the drinks earlier and then the hit to your head from the fall tempted you to just fall unconscious, but you bucked your body up in hopes you could throw whoever was above you off of you.

Only you couldn’t move. Someone was straddling your thighs, hindering you from moving.

You finally forced yourself to open your eyes and the blurry image of the leader pushing up your skirt presented itself in front of you.

“Stop, please! Help!” You started screaming again, causing the leader to sigh in annoyance.

“Could you please shut her up, for fuck’s sake? I’m trying to enjoy myself here.” He growled at the guy who was holding your hands down, his patience growing thinner with every passing moment he wasn’t able to force himself inside you. “When I’m done with her, you get what’s left of her.”

“No, no, no, no...” You wailed when you heard the clinking of his belt and a zipper being opened, but you soon got silenced when a palm pressed down on your mouth.

Rather than keep watching him, you closed your eyes in defeat, now only feeling how he moved closer to your crotch, his fingers pushing your underwear aside, and positioned himself against your entrance.

A dull thud behind your attackers stilled them for a moment, but a raging roar got them to whip around. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see whatever feral animal was going to maul you and those men.

A scream, something wet splashing on you and something, someone, heavy landing on top of you got you to finally open your eyes again. You stared right into a gaping hole where the head of a person normally should be. Maybe it was the shock of almost ending up left on the ground in this alley, covered in bruises, blood and bodily fluids after they were done with you, that kept you from screaming.

In a daze, you pushed the corpse off of you, and looked down at your body. It was covered in blood, parts of a splattered brain, and white fragments that had been the skull of the leader of the group. His head had bursted into pieces. No animal could have done that and no human either. There was no weapon on earth with that much destructive power, so what…

With slow eyes, you looked up from your soiled legs. The guy now lying dead next to you had been obscuring the view of a large creature standing no more than three meters across from you.

Whatever it was, it seemed livid. Its body was heaving with wrathful breaths and its long fingers were twitching, clenching into fists before relaxing them again. The massive form of it was hidden by darkness and you could barely make out its silhouette.

It felt like an eternity with you just staring at the creature and it (probably) staring right back. The other assaulters, two of whom had fallen to the ground in shock with the sudden attack on their leader, hadn’t dared to move a muscle. Maybe they were in a trance just as you were, not for the same reason of course.

“H-Hey!” The fourth guy squeaked, breaking the tension that seemed to suffocate the whole alley. “Wha-“

In a practiced, seemingly effortless movement, the creature whipped out its arm, and something silvery shot out of the darkness. It wrapped around the throat of the man, choking him and sending him to his knees. He was clawing his neck and tried to remove what seemed to be a whip made out of sleek silver and grey material. 

You watched him as he desperately tried to free himself and blood started to flow from where the whip was wrapped around his neck down to his shirt, turning the light blue fabric deep red. Your eyes then traveled along the bladed chain, you now noticed, to the other end of it, and found the large creature moving towards you.

If you would have been able to make a sound, you would have, but you were still too out of it that no noise escaped your bloody lips when you were finally able to distinguish your savior. 

It was indeed huge, a massive body that was dwarfing any human being you could think of. Its appearance was bizarre. Its feet and calves up to its knees were in unusual boots, made out of metal instead of leather and an interesting design. You wondered if it was the skin of the creature, or if it was wearing a net-like cloth that was visible on every body part that wasn’t hidden beneath armor like the chest plate that bleed over into a full sleeve of its arm. It was covering the left side of its chest, but not enough to conceal a rather fit upper body. You found yourself staring a lot longer at the well-defined, almost sculpted abs of it. It was no doubt a male.

As you were eyeing the creature up, he yanked on the whip. You were only aware of a dull thud when the bladed chain cut off the head of the man who had been in its hold. 

You didn’t register when more blood sprinkled on you as you were too busy trying to imagine a face underneath that strange mask. With his green, brownish, and beige reptilian skin, the long black tendrils sprouting from the head, the long claws, and the animalistic posture, he was without a doubt not human. 

An arm wrapping around your throat from behind, preventing you from breathing evenly, brought you back to reality. You immediately put up a fight, scratching it and pulling on the arm in hopes he would let go.

It was one of the attackers that had fallen to the ground when the creature had appeared. He must have scrambled over to you when his last companion was foolishly enough to run up to the murderous beast, trying to do something quite laughable, only to be impaled by a spear and was now hanging on the wall to the right like he was a portrait above a chimney, the spear rammed through the brick of the apartment building.

The idiot behind you thought the creature would let him go if he was holding you hostage as if he wasn’t going to kill the both of you just like his buddies. So foolish, you internally sighed.

“S-S-Stop! I‘m warning you!” He screamed at the towering figure which was closing in on you. “I will… I will kill her!”

The creature stopped a few steps away from you and reached behind his back. Quicker than your eyes could keep up, his hand shot forward and he threw something of the size of an orange at the man.

Yelling, the man loosened his grip, his instincts kicking in to fight against whatever was sticking to his forehead. In his struggle, he fell on his back and started rolling around on the floor when the little device made a strange wiring noise. His body went stock still when he was engulfed in a net, restraining him. Then the man screamed bloody murder when the wiring noise grew louder and the device pulled the net tighter around him.

You turned to him, only to see the strings cutting into his skin, drawing blood, until only pieces of his body were left of him, leaving him unidentifiable to whoever would find him and his friends.

Now it was only you in that alley. You, the beast that saved you and the bloody massacre turning the place into an image of horror.

You were going to get sick if you stared at what had been a living and breathing human once any longer. Rather than wanting to face the creature when it was going to kill you, you turned back around and then startled back. Said beast was crouching in front of you, the head cocked to the side.

He reached out a clawed hand and you closed your eyes, preparing yourself for whatever gruesome death he had planned for you. You thought back to everything you had achieved in your life, every person that was still dear to you, said goodbye to every place you loved to visit, to the movie you had wanted to watch in a week with a friend, to the unread book on your bedside table and every dream you had wanted fulfill — you had actually planned to do that in a few hours. At least he was going to give you a quick death and not whatever the authorities had done to your father.

Something poked your cheek.

Your eyes snapped open and you were met with a closer view of the strange mask covering the creature‘s face. His hand was outstretched and a finger was prodding your skin. A strange noise was coming from behind the mask, something you could only describe as a rumbling purr. 

You stayed still, afraid if you would only move a muscle it would set the creature off, and let him drag his clawed finger up to your temple where a trail of blood had started to run from the wound you got from the fall. You hissed in pain when the pad of his thumb stroked — probably unintentionally hard — over your lower lip, the rough skin touching where it was busted. He pulled its thumb away only to replace it with the back of his pointer and middle finger to caress your jaw and down to your throat. The touch caused you to swallow which he most likely could feel. Only when you felt the scaly sensation on your skin dip too deep, too far beneath the ripped remains of your blouse, you gripped his wrist.

The creature’s head snapped up where it had followed his exploration. You flinched back at the sudden movement and quickly loosened your hold on his wrist, pulling it away like you had burnt yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

What if you had just signed your death? What if you touching him like that had triggered him? What if he thought you were a threat now? What if he thought of it as highly offensive? What if he was going to kill you now? What if-

A low thump caused you to flinch when he hit the left side of his chest with his right fist. With parted lips, you looked from his fist up to his masked face and then back again, confused, both at the gesture and the lack of aggression towards you. Almost as if he could understand the look on your face, he repeated the action with a little more determination after he inched closer to you. You were more focused on his sudden closeness, daring not to move back, but you hastily turned your gaze down to his fist. It was a little hard to concentrate on what he was trying to tell you after the vast change of demeanor — from murdering in cold blood to trying to… communicate with you?

“You?” You tried hesitantly.

It really was your best guess on what he could mean.

A soft growl reached your ears from underneath his mask, making you tense up but relaxed in relief the second his attention turned to his forearm. You watched in curiosity as his clawed pointer finger ghosted over the armor-like wristband that started flashing in a bright red and made strange beeping noises like when a caller on the other line hung up before you could. Your mouth opened without you even noticing. You had never seen something like it, probably no one ever had. How was it functioning without cables like your telephone and radio did?

“Are you telling me you are married?”

You jumped back a little when a male voice chimed from his wristband.

“To a cup of tea, I will never say no.”

“I can’t believe you put the jar in the oven!”

You looked at him in astonishment as more voices sounded from his forearm. Human voices.

He kept repeating the same three sentences, but they seemed to get shorter with every replay.

“-telling me you are… telling me… me.”

“-a cup of tea… tea.”

“-you put the jar in the… you put the jar… the jar… jar.”

He seemed to be satisfied as he let out a deep, low-pitched chirp before he played the cut and put together word snippets to you, his head facing you now.

“Me-tea-jar.” He hit his chest once again before playing the word again. “Me-tea-jar.”

“Meetja?” You tried the word, tried how it felt on your tongue.

He let out a deep grumble before he played the same word again and leaned even closer to you.

“Me-tea-jar.”

“M-Meetiar. Mi’ytiar.”

With his head slightly cocked to the side, he tilted it forward in a one-movement nod as if to say, “Now you got it.” and his fist hit his chest one last time.

“You. Mi’ytiar. T-That’s your name?” You asked and hoped you put the puzzle pieces together correctly.

Another nod before he pointed at you.

“Oh.” You softly said, shifted slightly your hips, and nervously placed a hand on your own chest. “(Y/N). I’m (Y/N).”

“(Y/N).” Your voice sounded from his forearm when he touched his wristband. “(Y/N).”

You couldn’t help the small smile and you nodded. “Yes. (Y/N).”

The creature — Mi’ytiar — lowly grumbled in appreciation and you breathed out the air you had been holding in your lungs in a laugh. You couldn’t believe you talked, more or less, to something that undoubtedly didn’t belong on earth while you were surrounded by death after being spared from something that would have scarred you for life just because you had been out drinking to have one last night in freedom until you would follow your father in an early grave. Your life really had taken a strange turn in just a few hours.

“What are you?” You asked him and tilted your head to the side.

“Hunter.” He communicated with the help of his wristband.

“Where do you come from?”

“Sky.”

“Sky.” You repeated the child’s voice and looked up.

So he came from the sky. You wondered if he meant the clouds, or maybe the moon. It could be the stars for all you knew. Was he the only one living there, or were there more? Maybe one like him lived on each star the night sky had to offer.

As you were looking up in thought, Mi’ytiar took his time to admire you. You were, what you humans would use, adorable. He didn’t hunt humans very often as they weren’t much of a challenge, but sometimes he would visit earth out of curiosity. Your kind was interesting and his ancestors had been quite fond of them when they used them to breed their prey centuries ago. Humans have made a continuous development from then to now, so it was fascinating to watch.

Like he watched you now. He admired your wide eyes, the curve of your nose, and your rosy cheeks that displayed the dried tear streaks of panic and fear. He admired the shape of your lips and the cut that had caused you pain when he touched it. He admired your shiny hair that had once been pulled up in a neat bun but was now hanging loosely and messily around your face, framing it like it was a piece of art. He admired your small, shaking hands that were desperately holding the ripped-open blouse together, protecting your modesty, and the naked skin of your trembling shoulders when the fabric had slipped down to your biceps. You had been so incredibly warm and soft when he had touched what you were hiding now.

A quiet hiss got you to look back at him and you watched with uncertainty as his fingers first pulled on the one tube that was connected to his mask and then the other before he removed it anxiously slow. You mentally prepared yourself for the most horrific sight of your life, but when the top half of his face was laid bare, you sucked in a breath. It wasn’t the foreign shape of his head, the texture of his skin, or the spiky triangle-shaped bumps that circled the sides and the back of his head like a crown, clearly dividing where the roots of his hair ended and his face started. It was his eyes, though an abnormal orange, that were salient and captivating you. They didn’t look like what your wildest fantasies had to offer, but somewhat seemed almost human — a black pupil surrounded by an orange iris. And not just any orange. It was the kind of orange that stretched across the sky at every sunrise and sunset. The only difference you spotted from your own eyes was that he had a black sclera instead of a white one.

You would have gotten lost in them if he hadn’t removed the mask fully so his lower face was showing too. You wouldn’t exactly describe it as terrifying, but the sight of his mouth was, to say it simply, unnerving. It was hidden behind four tusks that represented his mandibles. You were fascinated when he suddenly made a clicking noise but were taken aback when he extended the fleshy texture to reveal two rows of teeth. It was like he had two jaws, one when the mandibles were retracted to his face and one when they were extended and showed his actual mouth. His upper jaw held three teeth with two larger fangs on each side, his lower jaw held the same amount only were they a little thinner, so his fangs wouldn’t hinder his mouth from closing.

Even after the initial shock subsided, you wouldn’t exactly use the word pretty, but there was something about him. Thrilling and particular, astounding and intriguing, but also alluring.

The longer you looked at him, at Mi’ytiar, the more accustomed you got to his appearance.

Another clicking sound reached your ears and you stopped mapping his features with your eyes, only now realizing how he looked down at you with his head tilted to the side. When you mumbled his name, almost as if it took all your courage, he straightened up and his eyes snapped to your hand that had loosened its grip on your blouse. He followed the movement of it getting closer to his face and when you turned your hand so your palm was facing him, his own hand reacted fast and grabbed your delicate wrist.

Bad idea, real bad idea, you thought. He wasn’t exactly hurting you, but his grip wasn’t exactly soft.

Instead of tugging against his hold in an attempt to free yourself that would obliviously fail, you let your arm go slack. Instead of panicking, you remained calm. Instead of screaming at him to let you go, you kept your mouth shut and waited for his next move. If you triggered him in any way, he would surely kill you.

Mi’ytiar, on the other hand, was amazed with you, in awe. He wouldn’t be the first Yautja to be enthralled with a human in this kind of way, sure, but he hadn’t expected to be one of them one day. You were extraordinary in the way you looked at him, didn’t mind the proximity he had put you in, and apparently seemed to seek for it.

Contrary to what you believed, he pulled your hand closer to his face by the wrist, causing you to move from your side-sit on the floor to get on your knees. Your lips parted in surprise when he pulled his mandibles in and he himself brought your hand up to his cheek.

The sensation underneath your touch was unusual and new. His cheek wasn’t like that of a human when you would press the fat until you could feel the jaw bone. It was springy, considering it was only a fleshy layer that covered his mouth. You moved your hand down to his outer jaw which consisted of his mandible and followed the length of it with your palm. You could feel the firm muscle and bone and gave it a gentle, experimental squeeze. Almost automatically he made a soft purring noise like that one of a cat and you blushed at the possibility that he was enjoying the caress.

You, of course, had no idea that you were touching a highly sensitive part of his anatomy and would be alive to tell the tale afterward.

Just as you were curious about him, he was eager to explore you as well. Carefully, he reached out and through the ripped-open front of your blouse. Seconds later his palm made contact with your stomach and he could feel how you tensed up. He looked up into your eyes, but when he found nothing that indicated that you despised his touch, his hand ran along to your waist and down to your hip, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your belly. It was strange how you could feel his thumb near your navel and at the same time his other fingers on your lower back, taking the width of your hip like it was nothing.

The both of you were too busy in your explorations that you had grown ignorant to your surroundings, so when a scream filled the previously quiet alley, you grabbed his extended arm, not to push it away but to hold onto it in panic, while Mi’ytiar whirled his head around to the two outlines standing near the street at the end of the alley. Your body was hidden by his massive one, so it looked like a monster was kneeling among his freshly killed victims, basking in the glory of his crime.

Mi’ytiar’s mandibles flared and the guttural roar that left his lungs made you cling to him in fear. Not of him, but the consequences that you would have to face if those who had stumbled upon this scene without context would call for the patrolling soldiers. You heard more screams and hastily retreating footsteps as the couple ran as if their lives depended on it.

Large hands grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you up on his shoulder, causing you to squeal in surprise, and you had barely time to hold onto him before he started climbing up the metal scaffolding of the balconies of the apartment building, jumping up and landing on the roof. With an arm secure around your waist, he jumped and ran further and further away.

And you let him.

2024, Yautja Prime

“What you smiling for?”

And all of a sudden, those purred words were taking you from your past life to your current one. You hadn’t even noticed you had stopped drawing random figures and forms on Mi’tyiar’s naked chest. At some point, you had started daydreaming with that far-away look in your eyes and a smile slowly making its way on your lips as you were lying on him, between his legs.

“Just thought of the night we met.” You drawled lazily and rubbed your cheek against his reptilian-like skin. “My hero in shining alien amour.”

“My amour does not shine.”

Now you had to laugh. Sometimes you couldn’t help yourself when he was so bluntly clueless. Humans and their analogies were oh so confusing.

“It’s a human saying, my love.” You explained as you crossed your arms on his wide chest and rested your chin on them. “A male who saves a female from danger. A male who would sacrifice himself so the female can get away without harm.”

Mi’ytiar reached towards your face and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek before he dragged it over your lower lip. You were dreamingly looking up at him, basking in his loving touch. You were placing your hand on his and turned your head to the side so you could pepper his palm with light kisses.

He couldn’t help his body’s reaction, he just couldn’t. He was starved of your touch.

You suddenly stopped your sweet kisses when you felt something big poking your stomach. You looked down, although you could only see how your breasts were pressed against him before you looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You are insatiable.” You smirked and hoisted yourself up after placing one last kiss between his pecs.

You straddled his midriff but left enough space between you and him so you could reach underneath your body and grab his semi-hard cock. Even at this size, you had a little trouble to fully embrace it and getting your fingertips to touch.

You hissed when you felt the familiar sting of his sharp mandibles and teeth digging into your skin. You tilted your head to the side and offered him more access. Mi’ytiar let out a feral growl when your blood finally hit his tongue. He relished in it, tasting so sweet, just like the rest of you.

Grasping your hips with both of his hands, his claws scratching your delicate skin, he pushed them down to his crotch.

He needed you again, needed to be so deep inside you, so he could see the bulge of his cock forming in your tummy. Just the thought of it made his hips snap up, barely missing your entrance, and dragging his cock through your sopping wet folds that were covered with your combined releases from your last mating moments ago. It elicited a whiny moan and a wiggle of your hips.

“Stop teasing, tanhì. Put it in.” You groaned and started rubbing yourself up and down his rock-hard cock, coating it with your mixed cum that was still leaking from your hole.

Mi’ytiar wrapped a large arm around you and started to get up, his other arm supporting himself, to manhandle you on your back to be on top. The second your hazy mind registered what he was doing, you placed both of your hands on his chest and pushed him back down. You preened when his body immediately went slack, allowing you to do as you pleased with him.

He was staring up at you with flashing eyes. You didn’t take the lead very often, preferring it to be dominated by your mate, but when you did, he was gladly giving you the power you wanted.

The first time you had tried to be on top, it had gone from steamy to ugly pretty quickly. You had been on your back when you tried to push him and switch your position, but since he had been unmovable like a rock, you had untangled yourself from him and told him to lie back. You were straddling his hips, humping his hardening cock for exactly thirty seconds before he flipped you over and on your back again. You had then mewled and tried to push him back once more, causing him to growl. For your attitude he bit roughly into your throat, hoping it would keep you submissive. You let out a cry and hit his chest with both of your fists. This time Mi’ytiar had shown you his displeasure more vocal when he slammed his flat hands next to both sides of your head and roared right into your face. Safe to say, it scared the living daylights out of you and caused you to escape his caging arms. He, of course, followed you quickly and tried to amend his outburst rather with purrs and snuggles than words.

The next time you were on top, he vehemently focused on staying seated on the edge of your nest with you on his lap as you rode him with his helping hands on your hips. His eyes strayed from the spot where his cock was disappearing inside of you, to the bulge in your stomach that grew and shrunk with every movement, to your bouncing breasts, to your pleasure-contorted face.

After that, he couldn’t get enough of you being on top.

The same was the case now as you slowly inserted his throbbing cock into your-

A wail broke the sensual atmosphere, causing the both of you to jerk your heads to the doorway connecting the room to the rest of your home. With your maternal instincts kicking in, you practically jumped up from your mate, his half-inside cock slipping from your tight heat, and run to the room where the sound was coming from.

Mi’ytiar slumped back with a displeased grunt. He loved his pup dearly, truly he did, but he hadn’t been able to mate with you for an eternity — five months, double the time the healer had advised you to keep from being intimate with each other after the pregnancy because a certain someone had been overly cautious with you — and his cock throbbed painfully at that sorrowful thought.

He got up from the nest and followed the direction you had run off to. Your five-month-old pup was sleeping alone in his room for only a short part of his life. Before that, his crib had been standing next to the nest in your room, quickly accessible and in reach should he need any sort of attention. Now he was sleeping in his big brother’s former nursery you had lovingly prepared when you had been pregnant with Akail, your first pup.

Mi’ytiar watched you standing in front of the crib in the middle of the room, your back to him, as you rocked the whiny pup in your arms. The wholesome thoughts of his beautiful mate taking such good care of his youngling quickly turned into an animalistic need to breed you once more when his eyes trailed over your curves that had gotten bigger after bearing his second son. They fixed on your legs where trails of semen were running down your skin from between your inner thighs.

He was faster by your side than you would expect from a being of his size. He pressed his bare body against your own, hands on your hips pulling you closer, his cock digging into your back. Mi’ytiar bent down to snuggle his face into the crook of your neck, purring lowly.

“He was just hungry.” You whispered as you watched your pup falling back to sleep.

Bending over, you placed your little one back into his crib, careful not to disturb him. You had to bite your lip when you felt Mi’ytiar pull you back against his crotch to rub himself against your ass. All you needed to do was push your ass back into him for him to grab you, throw you over his shoulder and turn to leave your son’s nursery.

Giggling, you looked back to the pup’s crib and whispered, “Dream of the stars, my little Toyah.” before you got carried back to your nest.

Masterlist: here

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[yandere-romanticaa]

Thinking about yanderes who know you better than anyone ever did. They know you better even than you know yourself, that's how in touch they are with your life.

I see them as the subtle types, the ones who would perhaps silently admire you from a safe distance. You look charming in the cafe you're sitting in, chatting away with a friend or two about some shared hobbies. He can't help but to stare, but it's only for a few moments! He knows better than to look for too long, he doesn't want to appear like some sort of creep now, does he? He sips on his drink quietly as his eyes ever so slightly go back and forth towards you and the door, ensuring a safe escape route, just in case things go south but they never do.

You're too lost in your own little bubble to notice him.

From that day onwards he starts to... Well, he's not sure how to put it into words.

It's natural for a person to have a crush but what he feels towards you is something much more intense to ever be in the realms of normalcy. If you've ever spoken two words with him would be a miracle but actually remembering him would be downright impossible because he is just not willing to show himself to you. He stalks all your social media, friends and family included. He is informed of where you went to school, your birthday, what jobs your estranged cousins may have. If you're the type to post stuff online, his life is made that much easier. He screenshots everything you post, no matter how silly and commits it all to memory in case he may need it.

If you don't, then it's a bit harder but he manages. He has a good head on his shoulders, even if that same head is telling him to stop doing this, this isn't right but his bleeding heart is screaming at him to please keep going, please, if I'm not keeping an eye on them 24/7 I think I might die.

No human being should ever know someone so intimately but he does not care. Even if you're not 100% in his life, he is content with whatever this is.

One day, he might grow a pair and properly introduce himself to you.

And it would be so cute if you got along just perfectly because you just so happen to like the same things too... He's always prepared.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ 𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐈𝐉𝐈 (haikyuu), 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 (moriarty the patriot), 𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀 (genshin impact), 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆 (honkai star rail), 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐀 𝐇𝐘𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐘𝐀 (seraph of the end), 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐄 (bungo stray dogs), 𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐊𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐘𝐀 (my hero academia)

[lushrue]

cold beer on a friday night

heard "a little bit of chicken fried" in a white people anthems compilation the other day and i immediately started thinking of everyone’s favorite southern boy, phillip graves! so have some good ol’ cowboy smut for your weekend! (also did not expect this to be almost 4k words, but here we are)

afab!reader (she/her pronouns used), nsfw, minors dni!!

cw: drinking, unprotected p-in-v sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, creampie, heavy praise kink

the bar was pretty packed, but you expected that it would be.

living in a military town, you’d learned when the busy times were. weekends, most evenings after 8 PM, and holidays. this one was the biggest one of all in your community, fourth of july looming around the corner and bringing star-spangled festivity with it. the bar itself was adorned with an american flag banner that people would occasionally toast to before taking a shot. the string lights above the patio had been changed from their pale yellow to shine red, white, and blue. occasionally, as you sat there drinking your cheap beer, someone would break out in a drunken rendition of the star-spangled banner, causing everyone to either sing along or raise their glass in solidarity.

it was entertaining for you, if nothing else. watching men who’d made their country their whole lives celebrate it was its own brand of inspiring. the town felt the same around memorial day and veteran’s day too. you’d been pretty staunchly anti-military for most of your adult life, holding the belief in world peace that only someone who hadn’t experienced war could. but seeing these men who wouldn’t have known each other if not for their brotherhood of service expressing their love for their country, it almost made you want to believe in their cause. still, despite the atmosphere, patriotism wasn’t the foremost thing in your mind tonight.

you weren’t expecting to find the love of your life, not in a place like this. it was hardly the fairytale castle you’d envisioned as a little girl and the men here were certainly no prince charming. all you could ask for was someone to treat you right for a night. focus on you a little bit, take his time. if you got real lucky, maybe he’d even make you cum. the proverbial bar wasn’t in hell, but it was close enough to feel the flames. it’d been months since your deadbeat of an ex-boyfriend dumped you, and despite how bad of an idea your friends had told you it was, you were looking for a rebound. nothing serious or long-term, just a good fuck to set you right and then you could be on your way. it was hard to get anywhere in the dating scene with this insatiable ache between your legs.

you nursed your budweiser, the condensation leaking between your fingertips as you took a drink from the bottle. it tasted like piss, but like everyone always says, you don’t drink for the taste. weary eyes scan the bar and its patrons, looking for anyone who isn’t already fall-on-their-face drunk. it was slim pickins; almost everyone here had started their evening of debauchery hours ago with no signs of stopping. the sober ones were mostly grizzled veterans, watching the younger soldiers with a glint of something akin to nostalgia. you supposed that must have been them once, disregarding their livers for a night of fun with buddies that they could lose in an instant. they certainly wouldn’t be scratching your itch for you anytime soon, so your gaze moved on. 

finally, your eyes settled on a blond man sitting by himself at a high top. you’d seen him here before a couple of times. he was always alone, on the fringes of whatever drunken activity was going on. you’d never seen him so much as stumble while he was here, downing his couple of whiskeys in peace before closing out and heading home. he was handsome, you supposed. older than you, but not enough to make anyone clutch their pearls. muscular, scar on his cheek. still clearly military, but a bit more weathered than the twenty-somethings throwing back jaegerbombs.

little did you know, he’d seen you too. he’d seen how you came every weekend, like clockwork, looking like you were begging for company. it was sweet, he thought, how desperate you were for attention. you were like a puppy with those doe eyes of yours. just begging to be noticed, to be taken into someone’s arms and loved proper. he was sure you tasted as sweet as you looked. just as your eyes met his, you looked away with a blush. had he caught you staring? you couldn’t be sure. you cursed yourself for your bashfulness, clutching the neck of your beer bottle a little tighter. how were you ever going to get laid if you didn’t go for it?

luckily, your military man wasn’t one to wait around. he got up from his table, sauntering towards you with a confidence that was completely innate. this wasn’t born of liquid courage. no, he knew he had something you wanted. you clear your throat and look up as he lays his hand on the chair across from you. “this seat taken?” he asked, his voice slow and easy like he wasn’t in a hurry. nobody was around here, you supposed. you shake your head no and he takes it as an invitation. the chair pulled out with a squeaking noise drowned out by someone breaking out into “my country 'tis of thee.”

you take another swig of beer to loosen your tongue and give you some charisma that you wouldn’t have sober. the man held his hand out to you, his tumbler full of amber in the other. “i’m phillip. you can call me phil.” you take his hand without a second thought, shaking politely. god, how bad off were you if touching a man’s hand made you practically feral? you give your name in reply, withdrawing your hand before your mind runs off with unsavory images. the last thing you needed was to scare off the one eligible bachelor in the bar who’d seen fit to approach you. a cursory glance at his left hand revealed no wedding ring. you weren’t looking to add “homewrecker” to your long list of accomplishments.

“what’s a lovely lady like you doin’ all by herself?” he asked in a charming southern drawl that made your blood pump a little faster. it reminded you of those cheap cowboy romance novels that you sometimes indulged in. everyone had their guilty pleasures, after all. “enjoyin’ the atmosphere,” you quip back, sarcasm dripping from your words. you take another drink of beer. phil leans forward, his weight shifting to his muscular forearms. your eyes drop down, struggling not to salivate at the sight. it really had been too long. he tips a finger under your chin, guiding your gaze back up to him. “i think the atmosphere’d be better someplace else,” he said, his voice low so as not to be overheard. maybe it was just how pent up you were, but you could swear there was desire undercutting his words. “whaddya say, darlin’? how ‘bout you and me get on outta here?”

you have to stop yourself from replying too quickly. you didn’t want to show your hand and reveal your desperation just yet. he smirked when you nodded slowly, your muscles tense with the effort of holding back your excitement. didn’t you know he could smell it on you from across the bar? ever the gentleman, phil closed out both your tabs. there wasn’t much on yours anyways, just a couple of budweisers and one vodka cranberry that you’d stopped drinking halfway through. as you stood beside him at the bar, watching the bartender run his card, he wrapped his arm around your waist. his fingers dug into the plush of your hip with a subtle possessiveness meant to ward off any other interested parties. it sent a thrill through you, your panties getting more uncomfortable the longer you stood there.

thankfully, the cool night air outside the bar leveled your head a bit. not enough to make you think deeply about your decision to get into a strange man’s truck, but enough to keep you from jumping his bones the moment the door shut. you climbed up into the passenger seat, feeling for your pepper spray in your purse. just in case, you told yourself. handsome men could be creeps too. you barely noticed him getting into the driver’s seat, turning the engine over and pulling out of the gravel parking lot.

you two make it maybe five miles down the road before you have to stop. you keep throwing glances at phil, watching his concentration while he drives. you’ve never been able to explain it, but there’s something so sexy about a man with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh. he keeps kneading into the fat, fingertips brushing the muscle underneath with how hard he’s squeezing. you’re soft, he thinks. plush, pliant, perfect. the air is charged, the silence comfortable but tinged with the anticipation of what’s to come. it’s when he feels your thighs clench together that he pulls off onto a little dirt road, the tires kicking up dust. on some level, you’re grateful for his lack of restraint. you weren’t sure you were going to last much longer either.

you clamber into his backseat, careful not to mar the leather with your stiletto heels. he climbs back there with you, settling into the seat and patting his thigh. “c’mere, pretty girl,” he says sweetly, and you maneuver yourself to straddle his lap. the heat of your cunt is right against him now and his hands clench around your hips. he can practically smell how needy you are. you bite your lip to stifle a whine, the firmness of him through his jeans providing delicious pressure on your clit. suddenly, you’re thanking god for little red dresses. phillip’s eyes flutter shut as he bucks his hips, pressing his erection against you a little harder. that elicits the sound he wanted and he chuckles, his laugh like rolling thunder.

“it’s been too long since that pretty pussy’s had any attention, huh, sweetheart?” he asks. you can hear a tone of condescension, but you don’t care. not when there is a warm body beneath you about to soothe the ache that’s been there since your ex moved out. you nod in response and he hums, tugging the straps of your dress down. “in a minute, darlin’. i’ll get to her later. there’s other parts of you i’d like to get acquainted with first.” you’re putty in his hands, mindlessly nodding along with everything he says. he could tell you he’s taking you out in the woods to kill you and you’d be fine with it as long as he fucked you first. the top half of your dress falls away as he tugs at the zipper, pulling it down just enough to reveal your chest. you’d made a good choice of bra that night at least: your favorite black push-up with lace all over and a pretty bow in the center. he sucks air in through his teeth as he stares at you. he likes it too.

“as pretty as this little number is, i don’t wanna ruin it,” he says, his fingers ghosting down your spine to the clasp of your bra. your back arches, pushing your breasts forward. he smiles and unhooks it with practiced ease, sliding the straps all the way down your arms and easing them over your hands. fire blazes a trail down your skin behind his touch, your face flushing a pretty shade of pink. the bra hits the leather seat to the left of you, but you don’t have time to see where it went. phillip’s hands are on your chest, kneading into your tits the same way he did your thigh. you moan, your head falling back as you lose yourself in the euphoria of being touched. “that’s it, baby. god, these tits are so perfect. fit in my hands so nicely.” he brushes his thumb over one of your nipples, making it stiffen. your nose scrunches, the thrill from the contact going straight between your legs.

before you can say anything in reply, the warmth of his mouth is latched around your breast, his tongue teasing at the hardened bud in the center. you swear you could cry as relief washes over you. you’d found what you were looking for, finally. god was real, and he came in the form of phillip graves. while he sucked at one nipple, he teased the other with his fingers, rolling it and giving it the occasional flick. already you could feel the pleasure tightening in your core, threatening to push you over the edge if you thought too hard about everything he was doing. your hips start to rock of their own accord, chasing friction against his lap. one of his large hands moves down to hold you in place, his mouth releasing your breast with a pop. “all in due time, sweetness. you’re not in a rush, now, are ya?” you shake your head, eyes wide as you stare back at him.

“good. ‘cause i intend to take my time and enjoy ya.” thankfully, he moves on from your breasts to other, more neglected areas of your body. he unzips your dress like he’s unwrapping god’s gift to earth, reverent as his eyes rake across every inch of exposed flesh. the glint in his eyes is primal, animalistic. he’d devour you if given the chance. despite the awkwardness, you shimmy your dress off, your heels falling off your feet with it. it all falls to the floor in a heap, leaving you in nothing but your panties. always one for fairness, phillip unbuttons his shirt, tossing it to the side before catching your lips. his hand snakes up your back to hold your head in place, the other winding around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. your chest presses against his and he moans into your mouth at the feeling.

slowly, that hand around your waist starts to sneak down, edging closer to the waistband of your underwear. you don’t notice, too enraptured by the taste of whiskey on his tongue. you feel it when his hand slides against you, though. the kiss is broken by your gasp, the simple proximity of his fingers enough to make your hips roll down in search of pleasure. the thunder in his chest rumbles again, the hand on the back of your head tightening. “that’s what you really wanted tonight, isn’t it? someone to give this pretty cunt what it’s been achin’ for.” words don’t come. your mind is too preoccupied with the warmth of his skin to string together syntax. phillip’s fingers wind around your hair, tugging at it roughly. your head jerks back and you whine. that shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. “gotta use your words, baby girl. gotta tell me what you want or i’m gonna stop.” no, you didn’t want that. “t-touch me,” you manage to stutter out, your neck bent at an awkward angle by the force of his hand. he lets go, rubbing his thumb over the scalp he’d irritated. “good girl. you follow orders well.”

his fingers run along your slit, gathering your wetness on his digits. he smiles, his voice dropping a register as he leans in closer to you. “so desperate, baby. i can feel how needy you are. just a bitch in heat, ain’tcha?” you keen, your head nodding of its own accord. deep in your subconscious, you knew he was right. some part of you wanted to be ashamed, but it wasn’t strong enough to fight to the forefront. all you felt was burning need coursing through your veins and leaking out between your legs. he pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking your juices off of them. the sight of his face made you moan. he looked like a man enjoying his last meal, eyes shut and a content smile on his face. “delicious,” he said softly, bringing that same hand up to your face. he cups your cheek and runs his thumb over your bottom lip, feeling the softness of your skin under his calloused hand.

phillip guides your mouth towards his, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. it’s all tongues and teeth, desperate, messy. you can taste yourself on him, the salty remnants of you left behind on his tongue. while he has you distracted with his mouth, he lowers his hand between your legs, tugging your panties to the side. black and lacy, just like the bra. he liked a girl with a sense of style. without warning, two of his fingers thrust into you, making you see stars. you moan into his mouth as he scissors you open, preparing you for him. his mouth leaves yours, leaning to the side to whisper in your ear. “gonna take my cock so well, aren’t you, baby? gonna take it like the whore you are. so fuckin’ needy.”

his words made you blush, heat rushing to your core. he starts pumping his fingers in and out, holding you in place by the scruff of your neck. you writhe as much as you’re able, your body overwhelmed by all the sensations he was providing you. he chuckles lowly in your ear, the sound sending a chill down your spine. “i know you will, darlin’. i know you will. that pretty cunt is just swallowin’ my fingers. she’s a greedy little thing, ain’t she?” you couldn’t respond. it was hard enough for your brain to convert the sounds into meaningful words, let alone formulate a response. you were practically mute, save for the whimpers and mewls that flowed unbidden. he picks up the pace and your eyes screw shut, pressure building in your belly. “phil! ‘m gonna-” he cuts you off with another brutal kiss, his tongue bullying its way into your mouth.

all the while, you’re rocking your hips, letting the pleasure build. he pulls away, tilting your head down so that you’re looking into his eyes. “i’m gonna make you come on my fingers, then you’re gonna come on my cock like a good girl. understand?” his tone was forceful enough that you registered the command and you nodded along. you’d do anything he wanted if it meant he didn’t stop. he nodded back and focused in on you, his fingers curling right against that spongy spot deep inside you. “c’mon, baby. give it to me,” he said, his voice ragged as he watched your face. he knew you’d look so pretty falling apart on his lap. and you really did. the pressure released, setting your whole body trembling. you cried out, back arching. your mouth fell open, moaning as you rode out the wave of pleasure. as soon as you’d caught your breath, he yanked his fingers away, leaving you empty and dripping all over the seat. you whined at the loss, but you weren’t empty long. 

he freed himself from his jeans and underwear, giving himself a couple pumps before guiding his leaking cockhead to your warmth. you whine as he taps it against your clit, his ragged breathing the only reply. when you open your eyes and look at him, he looks just as debauched as you feel. feeling you clench around his fingers, watching your face, it had done something to him. without another word, he pushes himself inside. just a little bit at first, and you’re thankful for it. the tip of him is already stretching you wider than your biggest toy. he holds your chin in his thumb and forefinger, guiding your eyes down to his. “you’re doing so good, you pretty thing. need ya to give me one more. think you can do that for me?” you nod, letting gravity sink you a little further down on his cock. he hisses through clenched teeth, cheeks burning red.

phillip’s hands on your hips are steadying, easing you down until he’s bottomed out inside you. the moan you let out is a sound you’re wholly unfamiliar with. wanton, crass, loud to boot. he groans alongside you, his fingers digging into the plush of your ass. you give yourself a moment to adjust to the fullness. he’s not longer than you can handle, but he’s thick, stretching your walls as much as they can take. the burn fades into something warmer, something softer, and that’s when you know you can give him another. you start to bounce up and down, slowly at first before picking up the pace. his head leans back against the seat, reveling in the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him. “fuck, baby! you take me so well, knew you would. this pussy’s so good, so wet. all for me, all fuckin’ mine.”

his words are slurred, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he lets himself get drunk on the pleasure. you’re not far behind, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot every time you sink down onto his lap. he presses his hips into yours, thrusting into you to shove himself deeper. you moan into his ear, bracing yourself as your shaking thighs try desperately to keep up. that’s when he starts helping, lifting you up and spearing you on his cock over and over. your eyes roll back in your head and the pressure builds again before you even know what’s happening. all of a sudden, you’re hovering right over the edge, breath heavy and head fuzzy. you must have tightened around him because phil makes an absolutely unholy noise, his head falling back against the seat.

“god damn,” he breathes out, a hand leaving your hip to tug at your hair. it was so attractive, the way he lifted you on his lap like you weighed nothing. your head falls back as he yanks at the roots of your hair, the jolt of pain threatening to push you over the edge. he’s moaning right alongside you, watching the way your tits bounce and your body jiggles as you bounce on his cock. “need you to come again, sweetness,” he says, tilting your head so you’re looking at him. “look me in the eye, don’t you stop lookin’ at me.” you obey, letting the pleasure build in you as he pushes himself impossibly deeper. his gaze is intense, unwavering. the pressure, the fullness is all too much and you tip over, your walls gripping him in a vice as you come.

that turns him into an animal, rutting into you with abandon as you ride out your orgasm. just when it gets to be too much, when you’re about to tap out, the warmth of his spend floods into you. you whine at the sensation, too lost in your own head to relish in the sounds he made. some men liked to talk through it, mumble out some incoherent praise or compliments. not phil. no, he moaned. the sounds fell from his lips as his hips stuttered, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. the hand in your hair tightens as well, causing you to hiss in pain. he doesn’t even register the sound, too lost in his own pleasure.

when his eyes finally meet yours again, they look much like your own. blissed out blues meet your cumdrunk gaze. his chest heaves as he slides himself out of you, pulling you down to lay against him. his spend drips out of you and you begin to protest, but he shushes you. “‘s alright, darlin’. i’m gettin’ the truck detailed tomorrow.” you settle, catching your breath as your ear presses against his chest. you can hear his heart thundering in his chest, threatening to beat right out of his skin. “you did so good for me,” he says, raking his fingers through your hair. “such a good, obedient girl.”

you smile at the praise, his words warming something deep within you. “same time next week?” he asks, and you nod. finally, you’d found what you were looking for.

[monzabee]

a not so meet cute – cl16

paper rings, prologue(?)

masterlist || series masterlist ||

Summary: The one where Charles meets his neighbour, who quickly captures his attention.

Pairing: charles leclerc x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none other than charles being charles, also might have some cursing, google translate french

Request: “Hii if you’re taking requests could you please write a fic for Charles where he’s your best friend and he asks you to fake date him because he think he likes another girl so he wants to make her notice him/make her jealous kind of thing and you agree even though you love him and during the fake dating he realises that he loves you too and yeah angst fluff and all but a happy ending .If you decide to write this tysm and incase you don’t feel like writing this that’s cool too thanks either way ❤️”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! although i am still working on the first chapter of this new series, i wanted to write a little something for you guys to introduce you to the world i had in mind! i know it was not on the wip schedule, but the inspiration struck so i decided to go with it. ever since i saw the wedding pictures of margaret qualley and jack antonoff, the only thing i've been thinking of was the song, and i though it was the perfect song for the characters i had in mind. so, welcome to the new series, inspired by the request above, so thank you for the anon who put the idea in my mind to create this whole series, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

August, 2017

He met Margaret on our rooftop, she was wearing white And he was like, "I might be in trouble"

Charles loves his country, he really does. He’s always been patriotic of some sorts, he supposes. But the one thing he absolutely loathes about Monaco? The heat, no questions asked. The worst part isn’t even the heat itself, per se, it is the fact that his apartment has no elevator and he has to walk up five stories just to make it to his apartment – in the heat. So yeah, even though he is as patriotic of a Monégasque as they come, he definitely wishes he was somewhere else at the moment. When he does make to his floor, however, he’s met with a rather peculiar view, where his new neighbour is yelling at someone on the phone.

“No, I said I wanted the granite counters,” the person specify, fingers clutching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “No!” The man straight up yells, “Ceux en granit, connard, pas ceux en graphite. I don’t think they even come in graphite!”

Deciding to remain silent as he makes his way towards his own apartment, Charles ignores the man standing in front of the apartment opposite of his. Though, he realises that the apartment’s door is open and there is construction going on inside, which explains the drilling sounds he’s been hearing early in the morning and the smell of fresh paint that never seems to leave the shared floor.

Side-eyeing the whole ordeal, he manages to make it to his apartment without attracting the attention of the man – or so he thinks. Just as he’s about to unlock his front door, he feels a pat on his shoulder. As he turns towards the man, there is a curious look on his face, “Hi?”

“Hello,” the man greets, “do you know how i can contact the superintendent?”

For reasons unknown (extreme hangover), Charles’ brain decides to blank out, “Quoi?”

“Le commissaire,” the man clarifies, “savez-vous comment je peux les contacter?” And Charles realises he would have been impressed with the man’s accent if he wasn’t so hangover from the night before. The superintendent, do you know how I can contact them?

“Ah,” Charles nods in understanding, “sure, let me give you his number.”

After the man saves the number he gives to his phone, he extends his hand in a friendly greeting. “I owe you one, I’m Declan, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Charles,” he responds with, what he hopes to be, a friendly smile. Motioning the apartment behind them, he asks, “Are you my new neighbour?”

“Oh, no, no,” Declan laughs, and it’s a warm, almost infectious laugh. It reminds Charles of– well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Declan’s voice draws him back to the conversation, “My sister is, I’m renovating it for her.”

Charles nods in understanding, “Ah, I see. I’ve never seen her around, I don’t think.”

“Well that’d be because she’s as annoying as little sisters come,” Declan laughs again, and this time it manages to get a smile out of Charles. “You know what? We’re actually having a small party at my place tonight, why don’t you come?”

“You’ve just met me,” Charles points out, voicing his confusion, “you really want to invite me to your house?”

“Pish posh,” Declan waves him off, already starting to walk back to his sister’s apartment “I’ll send you the details, bring alcohol!”

Charles tries to come up with excuses to give Declan when he’s a no show at the party, but all the excused he come up with sounding either shitty, entitled or just a mess in general. So he convinces himself to get ready after a much needed shower, and remembers to pick up a bottle of tequila on his way to the address Declan texted him earlier that day. Considering the amount of cars parked in front of the apartment complex, Charles thinks whether it’s going to be a ‘small’ party as Declan put earlier, but he manages to find a place to park his car, nonetheless. Surprisingly, it’s not hard to find which apartment belongs to his new ‘friend’, as the people he seems to keep literally bumping into give him directions which lead him to the top floor – he thinks, like brother like sister, huh?

“Ah, bienvenu, Charles!” Declan greets him as he enters the apartment, filled with more people than he honestly expected; but hey, they are in Monte Carlo after all.

Because he was raised by his mother, Charles replies, “Merci de me recevoir,” but because he is Charles, he finds himself reverting easily to French. Of course, he soon realises that his new friend has no trouble understanding him.

“Of course, ma maison est ta maison.” With a wide smile that reaches his eyes, he takes the bottle Charles offer him and pats his shoulder in a friendly manner, “Good lad, let me put this in the kitchen and we’ll find my sister together. I suppose she’s here somewhere.”

Giving him a firm nod, Charles is suddenly left alone to gaze around the living area. He quickly realises that he’s not the only one who is particularly patriotic as he comes face to face with the Union Jack on the wall, proudly displayed on the wall, seems to tell a story of cultural connections and a home away from home. He’s also, somehow, met with a very eccentric group of people, who seem to be insistent on having him join their various conversation – which he does his best to partake in.

As he chats with a group of fellow partygoers, he notices Declan making his way through the crowd toward him. “Charles,” he says with an apologetic smile, “sorry for that, let’s go.”

As they move through the apartment, Charles catches glimpses of the décor, which can only be described as eclectic, but what he realises that Declan made sure to fill up his walls with all kinds of memories; from photographs of what Charles thinks is his family to his diplomas, to even famous artwork – he’s not sure whether the Warhol he just passed by is real or not, but he supposes it’s probably the first option. They arrive at a corner of the rooftop terrace where a cozy seating area is arranged. A few guests are engaged in animated discussions, while others lounge comfortably, enjoying the ambiance. However, it doesn’t take either him or Declan to realise that his sister is, in fact, not with the group.

Though, it doesn’t take the latter to spot his sister, mumbling with a wince under his breath, and when Charles follows Declan's gaze to find her engaged in a rather animated discussion with a man who looks both frustrated and slightly bewildered by her. “Poor guy.”

“Seems like she's keeping him entertained.” Charles offer, careful with his words, and also quite confused at the man’s reactions to whatever Declan’s sister seems to be saying.

“Eh, sisters.” Declan shrugs, and motions Charles to follow him.

As they approach their corner of the terrace, her voice becomes clearer, and Charles can overhear snippets of the conversation. “I just don’t understand why we can’t print more money,” she says in an airy voice.

The man she's speaking to rubs his temples, clearly grappling with how to respond. “Well, it's not that simple. Printing more money can lead to inflation and devalue the currency.” He takes a moment to think, then, “Think of it like shoes–”

“Okay,” Declan laughs nervously as he places himself between the two, turning to the other man with a kind smile, “I think we’re done here, mate, she’s playing you. She’s an econ major, sorry for that.” Though Charles can’t see the expression on her face, he imagines there’s some sort of a victorious smile as she waves the man away, “Stop emasculating my friends, please.”

“Well choose better friends, and I won’t,” she shrugs, following his brother’s movements as he makes his way back near Charles, she turns towards him as the white dress she’s wearing sways gently in the evening breeze. There’s a surprised look on her face when she realises and they are not alone, “Um, hi.”

With a playful grin, Declan points to Charles and turns to his sister, “This is Charles, your new neighbour, and Charles, this is my sister–”

Bambi.

It’s the only word that comes to Charles’ mind when he sees your eyes and a friendly smile you give to him, “Nice to meet you, Charles.”

His eyes fall down to your extended hand, and he scrambles to regain his composure, taking your hand and shaking it gently. “Uh, yes, nice to meet you too.”

With an unexpected clap from your brother, which has both you and Charles jumping slightly, you turn to him with a glare, “Well, now that you know each other, I’ll leave you to get acquainted. And you,” he points to you which elicits a raised eyebrow from you, “don’t scare him off, and for God’s sake change this music.”

“What’s wrong with ABBA?” You ask with a small pout already forming on your lips.

“We need a change,” Charles watches with a silent chuckle as Declan starts walking back towards the kitchen, “ergo, change it!”

“Well that was an interesting exit,” you mumble, eyes following your brother until he’s out of both your and Charles’ views. Afterwards, you turn your attention back to the man standing in front of you, “What do you think about The Smiths?”

“Who?” Charles asks you, confusion written on his face.

“Not The Who,” you nudge him slightly, chuckling softly, though your laughter dies down once you realise he’s really confused. “I– The Smiths, Charles! To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die,” you softly sing, but he replies with a small shake of his head, and a shrug. “Oh, I love The Smiths! Come on, you have a lot to learn.”

As you grab him by his wrist to guide him back inside the apartment, I might be in trouble, he thinks to himself. And then, you turn around to give him a full smile, with a glint of mischief in your eyes that he can't quite interpret, and say, “I can already feel that we are going to be very good friends.”

And then he knows, he’s definitely in trouble.

[nathaslosthershit]

Team USA (AA23)

(Part of the Blind Items Series [can be read on its own])

Summary: Blind items is back with a new victim, Alex Albon and his American Mclaren race engineer of a girlfriend. With the news comes a very interesting Team Torque episode.

Logan laughed when he saw the tweet. He had been making fun of Alex for his newfound patriotism. Since Alex had started having feelings for this girl, he had been asking Logan for help trying to ‘woo’ her, as if Logan hasn’t actually lived in the US since he was twelve. But his teammate helped him, happy that Alex was not teasing him about America anymore. 

Team Torque:

“Hello everyone, this is Team Torque with Alex and Logan. We are here with our very own special guest! She is a race engineer for McLaren”

“And you girlfriend.” Logan quickly adds.

“And my girlfriend. Thanks for the help Logan.” Alex says, sarcastically. “As usual, this podcast is a mess and will probably not be getting better so apologies for that.”

“We aren’t the best hosts.” Logan adds.

“No we are not. Moving on, would you like to introduce yourself?” Alex asks.

“Yes! Thank you boys. As they said, I am a race engineer for Mclaren.”

“And my girlfriend.” Alex interrupts, copying Logan's previous remark.

“And Alex’s girlfriend.”

“And a fellow American.” Logan adds. 

“Would you boys like to introduce me instead? You seem to be so enthusiastic about it.” She jokes.

Alex had been begging for a while to have her on Team Torque. The team had said if they wanted a race engineer they should have one of their own but both him and Logan were insistent that she join them. After the rumors came out, Williams decided it was best if they brought her to gain control of the narrative again. It helped that she was already well loved by the Williams crew. While she would never help them, as that would be traitorous to her beloved team, she had made friends with a few of the other engineers and had jokingly been offered a job by James Vowles a few times. 

“Sorry honey, we are just excited.” Alex said.

“Yeah! Team America back together.” Logan enthusiastically added. The two had become close since they met, giving Alex a taste of his own medicine by making fun of his ‘Britishness’. He wasn’t too happy at their joint effort to make fun of him but he supposed that it was a good thing they got along so well. 

“Anyway, go on, say a bit about yourself.”

“Okay, as mentioned I am from the US. I was born and raised in New York.”

“Yuck” Logan teased.

“Don’t even start Florida man. I worked for Arrow McLaren’s IndyCar team in the same position, shoutout to my IndyCar family, I love you all lots. Then eventually Zak Brown asked me to come to F1 and I happily joined. Through working for them I met Lando who introduced me to Alex and a few years later we now both live in Monaco together.”

“How was the switch to F1 from IndyCar?” Logan asked.

“Rough at first. IndyCar has a much different sort of atmosphere than Formula 1 as well as fanbase. Plus moving out of the US for the first time was difficult. But it has also been such an amazing opportunity that I can’t complain too much. I am so happy where I am now.” Alex hadn’t known her when she had first gotten to Formula 1 but he had heard stories about how difficult it was. She had shared a lot with him but he also knew it was hard as he hadn't had to do the same. His experiences being a Thai and British driver had helped him understand some, but women were still such a rarity in F1, even if they preached gender equality in the sport, they didn't actually do as much as they could to make it a safe space for women to work. He also realized why she and Logan got along so well. Even if they hadn’t grown up close to each other, their shared identity of being an American in a primarily European sport had brought them together. 

The interviewing portion stopped after there, as Alex and Logan were terrible interviewers, but the conversations were still entertaining and it had become viral once it was uploaded. Viewers were excited to see Alex and his girlfriend, as well as Team USA.

mclaren

mclaren  williamsracing we will keep her if you don’t mind 

alex_albon Idk you might want to keep an eye on her

williamsracing may the best team win ;)

logansargeant Team USA can't be stopped

[bitterchocoo]

Hey ! I have seen you write for Twisted Wonderland ?👀

Can I ask for Ignihyde or Diasomnia students with a boy [friend or not, you choose] who is like Sherlock (from BBC if you have watch) ? I just know he will try to understand how overblot work and why there is a lot of overblot-

Ignore it if you don't want to write it ! And have a good day ! Or night ? Idk when you will see it (if you see it)-

The Game is On!

Ignihyde Students | M. Reader as Sherlock Holmes [BBC]

----------

"I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!"

----------

The day [Name] Holmes has entered Night Raven College was the day Azul had become even richer.

Ever wonder if your crush likes you back? Or maybe you wanted to know yourself better? Or perhaps you wanted to know if your partner's cheating on you? Well look no further than the Mostro Lounge!

Being stranded in a different universe, [Name] merely sees it as an opportunity to gain more information and funding. This whole new world is so much more interesting than his previously awfully predictable world.

Which then led to Ignihyde's Housewarden's first encounter with the high-functioning sociopath. At first Idia found it skeptical that someone could have the ability to see right through everything and anything. Until [Name] had read him like an open book in their first meeting.

To say that Idia was traumatized by the sudden exposure is an understatement. But after calming down, he can't help but think on how similarly [Name] acts with one of the characters in the anime he watched. Cough Moriarty the Patriot cough. But nonetheless, the two of them soon bonded and became close with one another.

Before long, [Name] was introduced to Ortho and his interest was immediately peeked by Idia's "younger brother."

Although school life is as boring as his world's. It's just the same thing but with magic and stuff... but all of a sudden these things called "Overblot" showed up? Oh he got to know what this is about right away!

----------

Idia Shroud

"Um.."

"Shh."

He instantly shut up the moment he was hushed by the other. Just when he decided to leave his room and visit the Ramshackle for a change. Idia was greeted by a sight he never thought he would ever see in his life! [Name] pacing around his room with two hands together placed underneath his chin and the elephant in the room.. His room was filled with papers and stings attracted on the walls!

Idia thought that his room is messy but this is just on another level!

Newspapers, printed out articles, [Name] own illedgiment handwriting, etc. Every single wall is covered in it with some strings connecting some parts.

This thing. This "Overblot."

Why did it happen? Is it because of intense emotions? Negative or positive? Does it really matter? And why do they show up in a blob, ink-like thing? The stain on the gems of their pens? Is this common? Or are they something one has to go through once in their lives? Like puberty? So many questions. So little time.

Idia could only sit and watch as [Name] drove himself insane. He knew that S.T.Y.X. is also trying to figure this whole Overblot out too. But seeing how unhinged [Name]'s acting while also trying to figure out the same thing his family is doing is just concerning. It drove Idia to the edge just how... [Name]'s acting..

There's a thin line between inquiry and insanity. And [Name] is using that line like a freaking jump rope!

----------

Ortho Shroud

[Platonic]

The day the high-functioning sociopath saw Ortho. His interest is peeked. A robot? That acts like a human? Even back in his world this would've taken years maybe even centuries to accomplish with how incompetent the human kind is! Therefore, [Name] would ask Ortho multiple questions within the span of a minute. I live for Sherlock's rapid fire deductions and questioning.

And how [Name] loved it when Ortho answered each and every question without him needing to repeat himself nor explain it. Ortho's happy to help whenever he can! He was so happy that his brother made a friend!

Whenever he saw [Name] pacing around like a mad man. Ortho tries to help by either reducing [Name]'s burden and helping him to make deductions and hypotheses or by simply bringing snacks and reminding him to rest.

While Idia looks at [Name] with a nervous and unsure expression. Ortho steps in by suggesting that maybe he should rest. "[Name] maybe you should take a nap! If you do, your productivity will go up by 10℅ or maybe even more! And since you're energized, you could be more focused and—"

"I'll rest once I've figured this out."

Oh boy. This is going to be a long day for the three of them huh..

[pathetichimbos]

guys... I gotta talk about this. bear with me, it's gonna be a rollercoaster.

<nsfw under cut f!reader implied but not outright stated I guess>

---

Thomas having sex for the first time.

Oh boy. Oh boy. So many thoughts.

I don't care what anyone says. Thomas is a 30+ year old virgin. We stan him. We love him. We're gonna ruin him.

But first, let's talk about all the stuff in his life building up to it.

So, as I've stated many, many times before, Thomas was primarily isolated from kids his age when he was 13-14, so he didn't really have an outlet to explore anything in a safe manner with anyone. (Not that it would have been all that safe in the first place... these kids wildin')

And we also know that he grew up in a pretty conservative household (a.ka. patriotic god fearing americans), so we all know that he was most likely too embarrased and ashamed by his own attraction to explore anything by himself either. (whoo boy been there buddy)

And we know that as an older, proud, southern woman, Luda Mae most likely did not have any sort of sex talk with Thomas other than telling him it was for grown, married folks only.

But, you know what we didn't know?

Charlie wasn't around to have the talk with him either.

I was rewatching The Beginning (oh wow, really? what a surprising turn of events) and something I've heard dozens of times before caught my eye.

1952. Sergeant Major 'Hoyt' was a POW in the Korean war.

August, 1939. Luda Mae finds a discarded newborn in the dumpster outside the slaughterhouse.

1939-1952.

Depending on the month (but we can assume it was many, many months), Thomas was 12 or 13 when Charlie served in the Army.

So, while Thomas is dropping out of school and isolating himself from his family and peers, the only sense of a father figure is serving / being held captive by enemy soldiers.

And personally, I don't believe Thomas and Monty are that close. Monty doesn't seem to take any sort of interest in Thomas, and Thomas was a little too willing to chop his legs off. So I sincerely doubt he was any sort of help.

So, really, I wouldn't be all that surprised if Thomas doesn't really know what sex is. He has a general idea of the meaning and that it's reserved for marriage, but other than crude, most likely misogynistic comments from the older men in his life, he doesn't really know anything about it.

So, when he actually does meet someone (and tie the knot) and all of those feelings come rushing in, he's more than overwhelmed. It takes a long time before he can actually handle going all the way.

For the first part of your intimacy, it's a lot of soft talks and encouragement, and explaining everything to him. He has no idea how to make you feel good, so it's up to you to show him literally everything.

You have to build up to the actual sex, and even after you do it for the first time, he's going to need you to keep hold of the lead until he's familiar and comfortable with it all.

He's a mess when you finally do it. He's clinging to you, trying so hard not to hold you too tightly, a whining mess in your ear, burying his face in your neck and panting wildly. It's awkward, and bumpy, and he finishes way too fast (and you don't even get the chance) but the way he melts into your touch with that blissed out look in his eyes makes it worth it.

And trust me, he gets better. He's a quick learner, and as long as you tell him exactly what to do, he goes from a fumbling mess to making your toes curl in no time.

He spends an ungodly amount of time watching and learning what gets you going. The sounds, the sights, the movements, everything.

He could spend hours on you, but he's still new to this, so he gets distracted really easily.

He lives off praise, the more you give him the more fuzzy his brain gets until he's a whining mess. (He makes a LOT of noises). He loves when you leave scratches. (Nothing too deep or scarring, but the feeling drives him crazy). He likes when you tug his hair to make him look at you. (He's big on eye contact, specifically when you're more 'making love' than 'we've got five minutes before someone walks into the kitchen').

....Now this next thing I'm gonna say is going to upset plenty of people, but hear me out.

Realistically, I don't think Thomas enjoys going down.

I know, I know, it's a SUPER unpopular opinion as pretty much every headcanons him as being super into giving head, BUT, I have my reasonings.

It's not that he dislikes the act itself, and in fact, I'm sure he actually loves it, but we do have to remember that he has a rather severe skin condition mostly centered around his face.

This means his skin is super sensitive to certain things like strong chemicals, intense fragrances, hot water, and anything with a high acidity.

And going down with absolutely cause an irritable flare up that will hurt. A lot.

So, no, realistically, I don't think he'd do it, just for that reason.

Do I think he'd enjoy doing it if he could? Yea, absolutely, I just don't think he can.

Anyways. I don't know what this was. But it would not leave my brain, so. I guess this is my introductory to the smut I want to start writing. Who knows. We'll see.

[seat-safety-switch]

I love my fireworks, say all my neighbours as they cram a flimsy plastic tube full of low-yield explosives. Surely everyone in my community will also appreciate them. If not, they are some kind of Grumpy Gus and are not invited to the block party cookout. Friends, I can tell you this right now: I am not going to that barbecue.

As you might have imagined, the residents of my area of the world like to shoot off a bunch of Roman candles when they feel like it. Sure, fireworks are fun and all, but I feel like if you're burning three or four hundred dollars worth of illegal noise-and-light generators every couple of weeks, you might as well just take up smoking again.

At first, it was a lot of fun. Very festive. It helped the community spirit, even if all the dogs were constantly terrified and kept trying to chew through a fence to escape. Ol' Ray down the block lost a finger trying to grab onto what he called a "Winky Sprinkler," though, and then everything changed.

Once there was a scent of blood in the air, it became a competition. Ray needed to "make it worth" his sacrifice, so he started amping up his production. Bigger shows. Coordinated by electronics. More frequently. This drew the ire of another rich asshole (Bob Winsome, who used to own the Ford dealership) with poor impulse disorder, and soon the two of them were getting up to a night-time artillery show that the police were not equipped to stop, mostly because they were at the doughnut store or trying to knock over a casino for some quick cash in the retirement fund at the time.

Nearly every night became a terror of pop-pop-pop. although I am very good at ignoring troublesome noises, those noises are usually generated by my own car while I'm driving them. Not constantly happening while I'm trying to focus on my usual problems: things like "why is this bolt stripped," and "where did this pile of wires I just cut through go to?"

As the Constitution says, though: "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." After one particularly rough night of having exploding munitions going off directly over my head while I was trying to find the origin of some faint valve clatter, I decided to respond in kind. A friend of mine, who will be called Millie Teri for reasons that are about to become clear, loaned me a couple pieces from her private collection. I had myself a patriotic parade that night. Courtesy, of course, of some army bases didn't really pay too close attention to what they listed on eBay. That's what they call "taxpayer value," even if I did have to technically buy the low-shrapnel M107 flash shells twice.

I had expected to draw a truce after demonstrating my superior firepower, much like how French tourists can shut down any discussion of cheese. After bombarding both rich pricks' homes, however, it soon became apparent that the dickheads blamed each other for the massive destruction wrought on their properties, and refused to believe that a belligerent third party could have done such a thing to them just for "several months of sleepless nights courtesy of constant 120dB outside noise."

After the mutually-assured destruction finished, though, I never saw or heard another fireworks display from Ol' Ray or Bob Winsome. If they ever find an identifiable chunk of either of their bodies, we'll probably have a pretty cool tribute at the funeral using up whatever unexploded fireworks they have still left in the scorched remnants of their family homes.

[moonbaby26]

Title: It Could be Worse (quickie one off)

Doflamingo x GN!Reader. Smutty. Power imbalance, non con, dubious consent. Reader is a slave.

It’s 3:00am. Your beloved King Riku has just rode by chopping down your neighbors while sobbing pathetically. Your house and everyone else’s is on fire. You hear the most menacing laughter that could ever be, rising above the screams.

You look up to see this emerge from the smoke of your former life.

Alarm bells are blasting and red flags are waving in your mind. But your remaining, desperate neighbors begin cheering immediately for their new savior.

This can’t be right, you think to yourself.

No, this is a nightmare.

Your nightmare.

You are promptly enslaved for years to come. But he’s extremely charismatic and he has a way of getting under your skin. You eventually convince yourself that you enjoy the small mercy of carrying his drink tray on those balmy Dressrosan days by his pool. If he pulls you into his lap to spill it all, that is what it is too. And on the nights he drags you up to his room as well, that’s just another service you’re allowed to do for your country.

He tells you that you’re such a good little patriot. And asks what he would ever do without exemplary citizens like yourself. He says these things with your legs around his waist and his sweat against your skin.

It could always be worse. As he flips you over again and a long tongue runs wet up the back of your neck, you think that surely it could always be worse.

You could have become one of Trebol or Diamante’s favorites instead. Or you could have been dead from day one like so many others. But he says you’re fun. He even likes that lingering taste of the pool water as his teeth are pressing briefly into your shoulder next.

You should be honored. You should be flattered. He even remembers your name as he’s soon growling it again with the bed creaking terribly.

He makes you thank him as he strokes you. You must also show your gratitude whenever he lets you have your own release against his bedsheets. That scent of your mutual orgasms is always so distinct. As is the stickiness of the trail of his cum across your back.

When you’ve done your duty and he’s laying down panting, there can be a temporary reprieve. Just a few minutes where he doesn’t look as cruel or frightening. He might even smile at you and grab you by the arm to lay you against his chest.

It’s not affection. He just likes the contact, even if it’s only the sweaty heat of your bodies laying together.

And then that moment will be gone as well. He’ll push you out of his bed because he needs to go shower. He’ll barely look at you as you gather your things and hurry for the door. He always has business calls to make and more important things to get back to, even this late at night.

But you might still hear a chuckle from behind you, though you know better than to ever overextend your stay here.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He taunts you sometimes, with that playful intonation of a question. But really it means you must be there poolside for him again tomorrow. His soldiers would come looking for you if you were not. They would take you from your home at gunpoint. You’d seen it happen to others. They did not come back.

But hey, it could always be worse.

“Let’s go out to dinner tomorrow.” That deep voice stops you just as you were in the hallway and about to close his door.

Yes, it had finally become much worse.

(I type random shit instead of sleeping sometimes. It’s fun, I have no regrets. 🤣)

[claudemblems]

Cat's Out of the Bag | Moriarty the Patriot

Summary: It looks like you've been rudely interrupted mid kiss with your (secret) lover. Suffice to say the situation is quite awkward...

Content: SFW. Sherlock being Sherlock. Jokes about some characters reading too much into the situation but there is no mature content going on. Please don't tag this as anything but SFW!

Characters: Sherlock, Louis, John

Notes: Let me kiss them on the foreheads please 🥺

Sherlock Holmes

Well, this is certainly surprising. Mycroft didn't suspect that his routine "wellness check" (code for his surprise paintball gun fights) would end up with him walking on his brother sharing kisses with a lady

(He was sure he told him to beware of women once...)

And really, in the living room of the flat for anyone to walk in on! It was as if Sherlock would show no shame in being caught (true)

But...Mycroft didn't remember any woman catching his little brother's eye. It seems that this was a well-kept secret indeed

"Sherly, if you are going to show your affections to a woman, there are appropriate places to do so. Out in the middle of the sitting room with the door unlocked is not one of them."

"What do you want?" Sherlock hissed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Why do you always have to show up at the most inopportune times?!"

"Because I care for you, Sherly," Mycroft answered with a smile. Then his gaze drifted over to you, your cheeks growing pink. "My apologies for not properly introducing myself. You may call me Mycroft. I am Sherly’s elder brother."

"No one asked, now get out," Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "You've spoiled the mood."

"Why didn't you inform me that you had a lover? You'll be needing all the advice I can spare if this relationship is to be maintained. Besides, do you even know basic biology?" Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "You have a terrible habit of only absorbing information that interests you. It's to be assumed that you have no inclination of the topic of se–"

"All right, that's enough!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping out of his seat and pushing his brother towards the door. "Please, my dear, darling older brother, do not come back without an invitation. Bye!"

And before Mycroft could formulate a witty response, the door was promptly shut in his face, locked with a key for good measure.

"...Sherlock?"

"Don't mind him. He's always this irritating." Sherlock huffed, returning to his spot beside you on the sofa. "I'm sorry if his visit resulted in embarrassment for you. Now you can imagine what I have to go through on a regular basis."

"Pesky older brothers," you laughed. "I suppose it's fortunate I don't have one of my own."

"Truly. If you did, I have a feeling that they'd be grilling me on my reasons for courting you. I don't need any more sibling drama than I have now."

"Well, at least he's gone now, right?"

"And hopefully he won't be back for a long while."

"I'm guessing his display just now is the reason you didn't tell him that we're together?"

"Precisely. Now, I'm afraid we'll have to be careful about him barging in again. He can be quite stubborn in that regard."

"It'll be alright," you said, placing your hand atop Sherlock's. "At least now we know what to expect."

"Well, next time he can 'expect' the nearest object being tossed at his head."

Even Sherlock gets so embarrassed you thought, smiling when you noticed the red tips of his ears. 

“You’re blushing,” you said, unable to resist the urge to tease him. It wasn’t often Sherlock got so flustered, after all.

“I am not.”

“You do realize that you scratch the back of your neck when you’re lying, right?”

Sherlock tsked, playfully rolling his eyes before pulling you into his arms. “You’ve picked up on too many of my tactics. You’ll pay for this!” Your laughter echoed throughout the flat as Sherlock tickled you mercilessly until you confessed to your ‘crime’.

However, a few kisses of recompense bribed your way out of a guilty sentence. Maybe that favoritism made Sherlock guilty, too, but he wasn’t opposed to the two of you being partners in crime. 

Louis Moriarty

Well, well, well. Who knew sweet and innocent Louis would be caught with lipstick stains on his face?

Moran knew he shouldn't be so delighted at the sight in front of him, but it was almost like...he was seeing a little brother become a man

Besides, Moran didn't count on any of the brothers having a secret relationship. To say this was a surprise was an understatement. Perhaps the others would like to know…

"Sorry, Louis. Was I interrupting something?" Sebastian asked, unable to hide his toothy grin.

"Just what on earth are you doing entering the room without knocking?!!" Louis' glasses weren't enough to hide the blush creeping on his face which grew more and more noticeable by the minute.

"Didn't think you'd be so busy," Moran replied, wriggling an eyebrow. "The evidence of the crime is all over you."

"There was nothing indecent going on here!" Louis his face in his hands, internally plotting a million ways to get rid of Moran without arousing suspicion.

"You shouldn't have to say so if that were the case."

"Moran!!!"

"Okay you two, calm down, all right?" you sighed, trying to salvage the last bit of decency between you and Louis. "If Moran came in here, he probably needs something from us. What can we help you with?”

"Well, I was just dropping by to say that the last mission we discussed is still on. William's already moving forward with the plan. However, if you also need me to get the manor empty for a while, let me know. I can pull a few strings."

"Whenever you speak with William again,” you said through gritted teeth, “can you ask him to teach me how to get away with murder?"

"Oh, that's quite a specific request. Care to elaborate?"

"I'll elaborate when I put you six feet below the ground, Sebastian."

Moran put his hands up in the air in surrender, though the grin never left his face. "I was just joking around. Besides, if Louis gets this embarrassed just kissing you, there's no way he'd be able to–"

Moran jumped as a knife whizzed past him and embedded itself into the wall.

"If you get so caught off guard just by running your mouth, there's no way you'd be prepared for a surprise attack by an enemy."

"Aaand would you look at that, it's half past tea time! Better go help the others with the details of the plan."

You didn't think you'd ever seen Moran run out of a room so quickly.

"Louis, please don't threaten him. I know he's an idiot sometimes but..."

"Nevermind him. Shall we continue where we left off?"

You blinked, taken aback by Louis' sudden boldness. "O-Oh. You...want another kiss?"

Louis' lips turned upwards in a wicked grin. "Put them where your lipstick will be visible. I want Moran to remember how he barely escaped this situation with his life."

John Watson

Oh, uh…huh. Sherlock didn’t think twice about bursting into his dear friend’s room to excitedly inform him of the success of his new experiment and ended up…well…seeing John mid kiss with a woman he’d never met before

He couldn’t help but stare slack-jawed, completely oblivious to the mortified expressions of his companion and “friend”

But Sherlock had seen far stranger things, so he was able to quickly regain his composure and snap back to his usual self

“John, you should have told me you were going to have a lady friend over! I would have made sure to stay out of the flat for a while.”

“N-No,” John stammered, his tanned face flushing, “I wouldn’t make you leave so that…I…”

“It’s quite all right to want some privacy! Kissing someone is a very intimate affair after all, and I’m not about to ruin my dear Watson’s chances at romance!”

“I–”

“So, whaddya think of John?” Sherlock asked you with a wink. “He’s quite the catch, isn’t he?”

“Sherlock! I thought you just said you were going to give us some privacy…”

“Oh, I agree,” you replied, leaving John and Sherlock wide-eyed at your honest confession. “To be honest, I didn’t expect John to be so…good at his craft.” You winked back at Sherlock, the two of you exchanging smiles. It seems you were already well on your way to gaining the detective’s approval.

“[Name]!” John cried, burying his face in your shoulder. “Don’t start teasing me, too.”

“But you’re so cute when your face turns all red~” you laughed, lifting up his chin with a finger. “Besides, I can tell you like the fact that I take the lead in this relationship.”

Poor John was going to end up as red as a tomato if you and Sherlock kept on like this.

“Well, I’ll be going now. I’ll return in a couple of hours–got some detective work to do and all. Enjoy your kissing. Goodbye!”

As soon as the door clicked shut, John breathed out a ragged sigh. “I was not expecting all this attention today.”

“Shy are we?”

“Please, I don’t know how much more my poor heart can take.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around John’s neck. “I’m sorry. You’re just so cute when you’re like this.”

John pouted his lips, pulling you in closer by your waist. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be saying that.”

“Then say it.”

John’s eyes flickered down to your lips and back to your eyes, silently asking for your permission. You answered his question with a nod and smile, and soon enough, his lips were back on yours, bringing you to a state of unending bliss, whispering sweet nothings reserved just for you.

“Yes,” he said against your lips, unable to hide his smile, “you are quite adorable, darling.”

[caxyanalysis]

Thinking about how Homelander is actually so fucking tragic.

Raised to be the symbol of patriotism. Won the superpower lottery. Durable enough that a nuclear bomb wouldn't kill him, fast enough that nothing can outpace him, full freedom from gravity because of flight, laser vision that he can control the strength of to such a fine degree that he could cook popcorn or cauterize your brain in half and it's not even hard for him to do.

All of this, together, make him a god among men.

And it's so.

Fucking.

Boring.

And it's tragic, too.

It is.

I know, I know, "he's a fascist!!!" I get it, and you're right.

But look at what he's been through.

He was raised in a lab. No parents besides the scientists that studied him to figure out what he could and couldn't survive, what would and wouldn't hurt him, what he was capable of and how he could be useful.

At every turn, he was denied human connection in any meaningful way. His father was never in the picture, his mother was dead, he existed solely as a test subject, and as soon as he was old enough to be on TV, they wheeled him out like a shiny new toy and said "Look! It's the embodiment of America! The peak of human evolution!"

He has never, EVER known anything except two concepts: Fear and Blind Adoration.

The people who love him don't love HIM, they love the idea he represents. The people who know him fear him with all they have.

Spoilers for The Boys below

He finally meets someone who doesn't fear him, and claims to love him, and it's Stillwell. She doesn't fear him. But he doesn't realize the reason she doesn't fear him is because she thinks she has him under control. A little mommy-play here, a little milk there, and he's docile. She thinks she has him in her pocket.

But then she slips up. And out comes the truth. She's never loved him. Ever. She has always, always hated him, always been afraid of him. And suddenly all those happy memories of the only mother-figure he's ever known are tainted, ruined by the idea that she would have rather had him be dead than ever touch her, but she did what she felt she had to do so he would be a good boy.

And he doesn't understand. He was a good boy, wasn't he? His heart was in the right place, wasn't it? He only did what he thought would make her happy, and he tried to be have his best when she asked, didn't he? So why did she hate him so much? Why was she so afraid of him?

And it tears him up inside. It destroys him. He feels hurt, and angry, and scared, and it burns him up until that heat has nowhere to go but out.

And he kills her. And it kills him.

It's with Stillwell's death we see him truly change. He stops being the boy scout, in his own eyes. He just killed someone who meant everything to him. He killed someone he thought genuinely cared about him, saw him as good, and loved.

We watch him die right alongside her, and in that moment he performs one last act of kindness as he loses the final shred of hope in his heart: he saves Billy Butcher and makes sure that Stillwell's baby survives as well.

We see another kick in the head when he visits his "creator", the man in charge of the Homelander experiment that gave birth to him. And this man says he is nothing but a failure. A living embodiment of all that man did wrong, and all that man failed to achieve. He says that Homelander is nothing but one big failed experiment, and is his greatest regret in life.

Flash ahead. He's unchained, mostly. Edgar is still in control of him, but Edgar doesn't care enough to tug the leash. He expects Homelander to tie his own chain, and if he doesn't, then Edgar will yank it and choke the bastard for all he's worth until he sits, heels, like a good little attack dog.

And for the most part this works. Homelander stays under Edgar's radar, his descent hardly noticed, because he doesn't do anything that Vaught can track that he wouldn't have done before Stillwell's death.

All the while, mourning the loss of the only person to ever even pretend to care about him.

And then we meet Ryan, and realize who he is.

And when Homelander learns he has a son, we see something special, something that, until now, didn't seem possible.

We see the light come back into his eyes.

We see him start to hope again.

A son. The perfect opportunity to do better, to prove he is, in fact, a good man. If he can just do right by Ryan, if he can raise him right, be a good dad to him, show him the love, and compassion, and care that he never knew, then Ryan could grow up happy. Well-adjusted. We see that Homelander fully recognizes how broken and mangled a man he is.

Homelander wants Ryan to turn out better than him. He wants Ryan to turn out happier than him.

And we watch Stormfront ruin that pure, beautiful desire.

Stormfront corrupts him. He's vulnerable, he's weak-minded, after Stillwell. He knows what he wants, but he doesn't know how to do it or why, he knows what he desires, but he can't have it. And then Stormfront gives it to him. A supe who can not only take what he can dish out, but give it back just as well. A supe who sees him as good. A supe who seems to love him, truly.

She doesn't.

She, like all of his fans, loves WHAT he is, loves the IDEA of him, not Homelander himself.

He's blond, blue-eyed, white, and an omnipotent powerhouse.

And Stormfront is a nazi. How could she not love what he is and what he represents?

She manipulates him, turns him against his own idea of wanting to be good and convinces him that this brattiness, this pettiness, this immature need to be better than everyone is not a flaw, it's his birthright.

And Ryan is the product of that birthright. Ryan does not need to be better than Homelander, Ryan needs to learn from Homelander, learn to rule, to subjugate, because Homelander is a God, one who should rule the Earth, and Ryan is his Prince, destined to take over one day.

All of this is instilled into Homelander through Stormfront's manipulations. And on the one day every year that he's allowed to be treated like a person, the one day every year he gets a taste of humanity...

She does the one thing that would guarantee her lies stick like glue.

She dies.

She rips away the last person he ever thought he would have to live without, on the one day he never expected to be hurt on.

And we see that light, the one Ryan reignited, flicker.

He gets angry. He gets bitter. He realizes that, aside from Ryan, he is entirely peerless. Alone.

And Ryan must be nurtured, yes? Guided, right? Stormfront wanted the world for Ryan, and Homelander wants the best for his son, and so the world is exactly what Ryan will get. Homelander no longer cares about himself. He doesn't.

Homelander cannot be selfish past this point; he could drop dead then and there and as long as Ryan has the world in his palm, Homelander would die happy.

But he can't die. He won't die. Ryan needs him. Ryan deserves a father. Ryan deserves Homelander's life, his attention, his dedication.

And we see spots of vanity, yes. The preening, the pruning of grey hairs, the bitterness over his noticeable aging.

But these are not the same as selfishness. These are things integral to Homelander. He's supposed to be a God. God's don't age, why is he aging? It's so disgustingly human. That's what he thinks.

But it gives him a sense of urgency. He doesn't know how long he has. A year? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Two hundred? More? Nobody knows, with supes. Some don't age at all, others age too fast, others age slowly, and Homelander is already a one-in-a-million fluke. Who's to say he won't suddenly age fifty years in the span of the next ten? Who's to say he'll ever age beyond what he is now?

He doesn't know. And he can't control it. He can't fight it. He can't change it. He has to prepare for the possibility he hates most.

He has to prepare for his death.

But then he learns who his father is. He learns that his father is alive, even. Soldier Boy, the idea that inspired Homelander. And he has to meet the man, has to introduce Ryan to his grandfather. We see that light in his eyes grow, because now he doesn't just have a son, he has a father.

The father he needed.

And when he finally meets him, finally gets face-to-face with the man who could so easily give him everything he ever wanted, the man who could fix him, show him what it means to be a parent...

He's rejected.

Soldier Boy tells him that he's pathetic, that he's nothing, that he's hardly even a man. Even the suit Homelander is so proud of isn't free from insult, with Soldier Boy saying "Look at you...You're wearing a goddamn cape..."

He has nothing but disappointment for what Homelander is, and resentment for the way Homelander was raised, but sees him as too far gone, too broken, too weak to fix. The only cure is death.

And once again, we see that light flicker.

He needs to be better than this man, DO better than this man.

And that means securing Ryan's place atop the world. This is why he calls in Sister Sage. Sister Sage is so incredibly intelligent, so beautifully smart, she can guarantee things he would never even figure out are possible. And, begrudgingly, he accepts her help.

But her help isn't giving him what he really wants most, because while putting Ryan atop the pyramid is his end goal, he wants Ryan's love just as badly. He wants to see the fruits of his efforts, to know that what he's doing is good and right, that it's best for Ryan.

And Ryan is showing him, at every turn, that it's not right.

Homelander kills for Ryan, and Ryan doesn't like it.

Homelander makes Ryan the object of public adoration, and Ryan doesn't like it.

Homelander is glad Billy's dying, and Ryan doesn't like it.

Everything Homelander does for Ryan, every effort he makes, is torn apart by the fact that Ryan doesn't want any of it. He wants a dad, not a coach, he wants a parent, not an instructor.

He wants a life, not godhood.

And Homelander has been so corrupted, so broken, so destroyed by every single person in his life that he cannot understand that.

To him, godhood and life are one and the same. Being alive is not a right, in his eyes, it is something that is deserved, earned, a reward, and he is the man to impress, he is the man to earn it from, and one day that man will be Ryan, and why can't Ryan see any of that?

None of this is in defense of Homelander. But I can't see one side of anything without seeing every other side of it.

And in Homelander's mind, he has done everything he can to be loved, to be appreciated, to be known and cared about...

And every single time, his power has caused people to hate him, to fear him. The only love he's ever known is that of the public and that of his son, and with every outburst, every conflict of interests, he is slowly losing that more and more.

And every time Ryan runs away from him, every time Ryan cries because of him, every time Ryan frowns over something Homelander has done, every human Ryan mourns, is a slap in the face. Water on the fire.

And we see that light drain from his eyes a little more each time.

I don't believe anything Homelander has done is justified.

But I do believe that, in his shoes, with his life, under all of the same circumstances...

I believe most of us would be no different than he is.

Broken.

Betrayed.

Abused.

Lashing out at every reminder of the pains of our existence.

A scared, angry child, with the power of a god, who was never shown that a better way does exist.

A wounded animal conditioned from birth to hate humans for what they did to it.

Homelander is tragic.

And I feel so very sorry for him.

[dreamsandimagination]

Wish rewrite with Amaya as the villain (spoilers)

While I love Chris Pine as the narcasistic King Magnifico, I feel like they wasted a opportunity to have Amaya as a villain.

Instead of a confident narcissist, Magnifico is a timid yet sweet wizard who stays in his lab, waers ragged servant clothes behind closed doors, and doesnt come out that often, except to grant wishes. Think of him as a male version of Elsa and Snowwhite.

the pressure to grant everyones high expectations and his own introvert nature causes him to often screw up the wishes he has to grant at the ceremony. Note that the wishes that he grants are all materialistic yet harmless, like, "I want a puppy!" or "I want a house!"

Amaya, who serves as Mother Gothel/Evil Queen to Magnificos Rapunzel/Snowwhite, married him solidly because of his sorcery and has been secretly breaking his self-esteem over the years. She installed the dogma in Magnificos head that only SHE can judge wishes accordingly and that people cant be trusted with them because they are all selfish (which is true, to a extent). Not only that, but she also keeps Magnificos OWN wish - to be a great wizard - to herself as a means to control him.

Then, enter Asha, who sees this emotional abuse by accident and boldly speaks her mind to Magnifico about this, planting the first seed in Magnificos head that Amaya is using him, much like the town is using him for.materialistic wishes. Magnifico doesnt believe Asha because of denial - the wishing ceremony is the only time his subjects actually pay attention to him and his sorcery is his only means of value to the community - and so, he banishes her from the castle.

The movie could then still follow the same broad lines with Asha meeting Star and convincing the townspeople to rise up.

Unlike the materialistic wishes that Magnifico can grant with his staff, Star's magic can actually do wondrous things - like, grant an infinite number of wishes, make people magically fall in love with you, bring people back from the dead, etc. Once Amaya gets Star, she plans to dump Magnifico for the better option. As her methodes become more and more extreme to quell the revolutionists and find Star, Magnifico keeps the fragil peace between the revolutionists (who want all the wishes returned to them) and patriots (who are on Amaya's side and believe wishes should be governed). his popularity skyrockets, as people start to respect and see him as more than just a genie in a bottle. in turn, Magnifico becomes more confident.

Amaya becomes furious that the balance in their relationship has shifted. Fearing Magnifico becomes too comfident and will free himself from the abuse, she locks Magnifico up in the highest tower, steals his staff and absorbs the bad/selfish/harmful wishes that Magnifico keeps contained in a seperate vault.

The final battle/climax would then play out almost the same as in the movie: Asha and Star lure the "Queen" in a wild chase scene while her friends free Magnifico.

Magnifico is at his lowest point as Amaya forces all of Rosas, including himself, to its knees with the bad wishes. He is powerless without his staff and equipment to stand up to her. Asha reminds him that "he is a Star!", not because of his magic but because of his good heart.

Magnifico is freed from Amayas magical grip thanks to the belief of Asha and his people. He fuses with Star (think of Rapunzel in the Tangled series, when her eyes and hair glow) to fight Amaya in a sorcerous duel that pays tribute to Merlins duel with Madame Mim. He wins, imprisons her in the Mirror, stores the bad wishes back into the vault and revives the good wishes.

rin the ending, Star grants Magnifico his wish to be a great wizard, giving him the ability to grant powerful wishes like Star. Magnifico then rules as the King of Rosas with Asha as his right hand.

[forthegothicheroine]

Henchwomen Through the Ages

The "ages" of comics are not hard and fast things, and even comic book historians argue where they begin and end. They're more like moods than time periods, and your standard game of Henchwoman RPG will probably be set in a vague time period that could be anywhere from the thirties to today with an overall Silver Age mood. Still, let's take a look at how the roll of the Henchwoman has evolved, shall we?

Goldie is a gun-toting, cigar-chomping bank robber in victory rolls and a bullet bra. She's not called a henchwoman- she's called "Look out, that broad has a grenade!" She's loyal to the boss despite his dumb penny gimmick, but if he ever finked on her in court, he wouldn't live to see the sunrise. There's no Henchwomen's Union for her to join yet, but she's provided muscle for plenty of mob-backed unions. Goldie can't afford to be soft on heroes since they'd be just as happy to throw her off a roof as to arrest her, but she might be wooed by an appeal to patriotism- she ain't no Nazi rat! Her hobbies include matinee shows, swing dancing, and blasting coppers.

Sylvia is a competitive surfer and was a cocktail waitress until they fired her for slapping too many customers. Thanks to the newly formed Henchwomen's Union, she's treated much better by her current job, which usually involves crashing parties to steal themed jewelry. She and the heroes she fights have an understanding- they'll never be rough with her, and she won't check up on them after putting them in a death trap to see if they've died. On her off hours, she can go dancing in the same outfit she worked in- a silver jumpsuit, gogo boots and a purely decorative motorcycle helmet.

Brawny is a member of the Sisterhood of Wicked Witches, and she fights for a cause- or rather, several causes. These range from the reasonable (Save the whales!) to the less reasonable (A free ray gun for every child!) The Henchwomen's Union is strong enough to get her good pay, so many of her problems are philosophical- is she a good guy or a bad guy, and what do good and bad even mean? Brawny has to be a bit more careful than she would have been ten years ago, since death may well stick- but that also means she might really kill a hero, at least for a while, and that's what matters!

Tenebra prefers to be called a Dark Muse, a member of a vampire circle dedicated to bringing art to life, painted in colors of blood. Her eyeliner is swirly and her gowns are velvet, and she wears them onstage in her sideline darkwave band. Tenebra arranges her crimes in accordance with pre-raphaelite imagery, with victims displayed in heartbreakingly beautiful and mythologically-influenced poses. Her boss may technically be the Queen of the Vampires, and she may have a card with the Henchwomen's Union, but her true loyalty is to art itself.

Ferra is a mercenary with a separate pouch for each type of bullet, and she has a lot of types of bullet. Her stilettos are tall but her hair is taller, and she can strike intimidating poses that would break a normal person's back. The Henchwomen's Union had its own back broken by the bosses, and is now more of informal underground thing, but it still hooks her up with real deal bad guys. She'll kill without a second thought for her boss, but she's only one bad day away from turning her gun on him. It might even happen accidentally, since he and the heroes dress exactly the same. Ferra somehow has a heavy metal soundtrack even when there's no music playing.

Ally got a degree in psychology but until she can afford grad school, she gigs as a henchwoman. Her bosses are sillicon valley dickheads, but the first one to offer her real benefits will have her loyalty for life. Thanks to the resurgence of the Henchwomen's Union, Ally gets to wear big stompy boots instead of high heels, but she still has to wear a big day-glo logo on her leather jacket that might as well be a target sign. Her hobbies include pop culture conventions, smoking weed and credit card fraud.

[persephoneggsy]

so i did this a while back, finally remembered it, and now i'm posting it

Mass Effect x Dragon Age AU

I did one of these already, sort of, for ME: Andromeda, but this one is set in the Milky Way.

Elaborations below:

Merrill is a quarian who was exiled from the Migrant Fleet. She's looking for a way not to destroy the geth, but to bring them back under quarian control, thinking they're too valuable a resource to just get rid of. Unfortunately, this made many quarians view her as dangerous, and she was exiled for the crime of experimental geth research. Making Merrill a quarian was the first choice I did for this AU, I think it fits really well.

Aveline is an asari. I'd considered krogan or turian, or simply keeping her human, but in the end I went with asari mostly because Aveline always struck me as condescending in the same way many asari are, lol. She's a commando who later moved to the Citadel to join C-SEC.

Isabela is a turian. She's a barefaced turian, meaning she has no association to a colony. Instead of following the typical turian tradition of proudly serving in the Hierarchy's military, Isabela instead ran off to become a space pirate, specializing in smuggling. She frequents the bars around Omega and has earned herself a fearsome reputation among the mercenaries.

Bethany remains a human; she grew up on a colony world with her siblings, and had a relatively peaceful childhood, despite the Alliance constantly badgering her parents to send her and her older sister to their biotic training program.

Marian, also a human, eventually ran away from home to become a mercenary. She resented her father for forbidding her and her siblings from joining the Alliance - not because she was particularly patriotic, but she felt like her father's grudge against the Alliance prevented her and her siblings from receiving the best training possible. Her powerful biotics made her both an asset and a target, and she soon caught the eye of a certain Council Spectre...

Fenris is a drell. He was raised under the Compact, an agreement between the drell and the hanar, and his purpose was to become a bodyguard... And then his training group was attacked by batarian slavers and he was taken captive. For many years, Fenris suffered under the batarians' rule, until he finally managed to escape. Unwilling to return home, he instead roams the galaxy, taking out as many batarian slaving operations as he can.

Anders is a human who escaped from a biotic testing facility run by Cerberus. Though this left him with a grudge against Cerberus, he also hates the Alliance, whom he sees as no better and will also use biotic children as weapons. He dreams of establishing a safe haven for biotics, and is willing to go to increasingly drastic measures to see that dream become a reality.

Varric is a volus. Unlike his business-minded brother, Varric does not spend his days negotiating trade agreements or doing finance consultations. Spending his days at the Afterlife bar on Omega, he's an information broker, and a pretty damn good one at that. With his specially crafted weapon Bianca, he's not too bad in a fight, either.

Carver, much like his older sister, left home to seek out his own path, and ended up joining the Alliance against his parents' wishes. He thrived in the military, quickly climbing the ranks due to his strength and competency. He's being primed for N7 training under the wathcful eye of Spectre Sebastian Vael.

Sebastian is a human, and a Council Spectre (I'm imagining this AU as a sort of nebulous period where humanity isn't as looked down upon as they were at the start of ME1, and there are a fair number of human Spectres running around). A wild child in his youth, his parents sent him to the Alliance to straighten him out, and to their relief, it worked like a charm. He specializes in covert missions and favors sniper rifles and tech powers.

[lovers-tucked-into-a-quiet-cafe]

4th of July Special [IKYLHT]

~2.9k Words | Series Masterlist | Prev | Next Chapter [Coming Soon]

Hope you enjoy this very very overdue special chapter. It's part of the larger timeline of the story but considering we just had the 4th not too long ago I figured I'd post what I had so far just to keep you held over until chapter 8 is finished. It will very much be expanded upon in due time. Much love

-

There are three holidays you force yourself to celebrate as an active member of the military.

Veterans Day, the obvious.

Memorial Day, also obvious.

And the great ol’ 4th of July. Independence Day, a celebration of our great freedoms, our national pride.

More importantly- a day filled with beer, fireworks, and a rack of ribs, all without the threat of having to clock in that morning.

The boys had called you a yank when you’d first suggested it, mentioned something about the ridiculousness of the American desire to clog your arteries while lighting shit on fire.

The sweat of the 98° day dripping down Johnny's back, soon to be washed away by cool pool water. An ice cooler filled with Coronas, freshly cut limes on the table. Slow cooked rack of ribs on each plate while the burgers sizzle on the grill. These were things you’d pitched to the boys only moments before they’d laughed in your face.

The idea of leaving the Queen’s land to shack it up with a bunch of blue-coats celebrating the day they’d left the commonwealth felt blasphemous, especially for Simon and Price, the true patriots they are. Kyle didn’t care much, he’d actually been quite excited to visit the US again. The west coast was unexplored to him, and he’d be lying if the prospect of seeing a few celebrities during his stay in California didn’t excite him. Truthfully, Johnny would take any chance to subtly spite the Brits. He’s a proper Scot, after all.

But you’d pushed the idea hard.

It was Sparks’ annual 4th of July barbeque and there was no way in hell you were going to run the risk of missing him lose a finger trying to light the extra explosive fireworks he’d bought after a mission in Texas.

You’d gone that route first- having Shane call Price to personally invite the task force to his home in San Diego with the promise of good food and drinks. When the invitation didn’t seem to make it to the group chat, you’d stepped up your game. You thought maybe a polite Captain-to-Captain request from Griggs would suffice. It did not.

Fortunately, you were in the perfect position to seal the deal.

“You know, I just think it’d be a great team bonding activity.”

You hear his groan as your movement stops, feel the way his hands fly up to grasp at your waist, but you ignore him entirely.

“I don’t understand why you insist on impeding my job, John. I thought it was a captain’s duty to assist his subordinates?”

His fingers dig into your hips, trying their best to move you but you keep yourself steadily perched atop his lap.

“I think this is team bonding enough, love.”

You look around the room, turning your head as far as you can in each direction, before you settle your eyes on his form once more.

“I don’t see the rest of them. Seems like it’s just you and me here, Price.”

A small moan he clearly tried to conceal slips out as you lean forward, planting your hands on his sweaty chest and feeling the way his heart quickly patters. The bed shifts under you, sheets molten hot with your combined heat.

“Want me to go get them? I can roam the base in search of them. Would be faster if I skipped getting redressed-”

“-Alright, alright. I’m listening.”

You go to speak but shoot him a stern glance as you feel him attempt to move from under you.

The coy smile he lets out feeds your soul, his cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes hungry with want.

“We’re going.”

He laughs, eyes glancing down to where he throbs inside you.

“You think this is the best time to bring this back up, sweetheart?”

Shifting enough to make his breath hitch, you flash your own big smile.

“I do.”

Glancing at his watch, he quietly huffs as he mulls over his options.

“California?”

“Yes”

“During peak travel season…”

“Yup”

“For a holiday only you celebrate?”

“In a country you don't wanna revisit. I know, it’s not ideal.”

“So we’re doing it because?”

“Because it’s for me, John. We’re doing it for me. So I can go home.” Your smile is pleading.

He gives a small nod, lifting your hand off his chest and kissing the back of it.

“Okay. I’ll call Sparks and let him know we’re coming.”

“It’s okay! I’ll just text him-” You can’t control your smile, damn near flying off the bed to grab your phone if it weren’t for Price hooking an arm around you and flipping you beneath him.

“-You can text him once we’re done here. I still have another fifteen minutes with you.”

Admittedly, you didn’t call Shane until the following morning.

With Price on your side, it was easy getting everything in order. He dealt with the logistics- plane tickets, hotels, rental cars- while you did the fun part.

Helping the boys pack.

Kyle was by far the easiest. He naturally had good style, all you’d needed to do was inform him of the typical San Diego weather and how to transition those outfits into something a little cooler for when you’d venture up to Los Angeles.

Simon and Price came next. Simon’s was physically easier, just more mental gymnastics. Despite being in many’a hot biome before, he refused to admit his all black ensemble just wouldn’t do. Cargo pants and combat boots weren’t adequate pool party attire, especially when you knew he’d want to prove his usefulness attending to anything he possibly could (you prayed Shane had fixed the dishwasher leak or you knew you wouldn’t be seeing Simon until well past sunset). Price was more physically demanding. He didn’t care much what you dressed him in, he trusted you enough to ensure he stepped outside looking handsome- you’re 99% sure someone had told him about the ‘girlfriend effect’ and he just ran with it. The difficult part was actually buying the clothes. He had no problem handing his card over, but he didn’t seem to want to send sizes, measurements, color preferences, anything of use. You’d resorted to taking a measuring tape to his biceps as he oversaw drill exercises, the width of his shoulders as he sat doing paperwork, the length of each limb as he stood at the gym’s cable machine.

Johnny was quite a bit more difficult. Having been to your home in LA a few times before, he knew how hot it’d get in the dead of summer and thus decided it was prime time to dress in nothing but swim trunks and his favorite pair of vans. Despite being told numerous times that he’d need to pack at least one shirt, every time you checked his suitcase that shirt seemed to have vanished. Your only saving grace was Price’s scolding when he’d gone over the group’s tax write offs and seen the recurring £5.25 Tesco charge for a single men’s t-shirt.

Still, somehow you’d all managed to make it in one piece. And best of all, without a single complaint.

Price stood at the grill chatting with Griggs about various meat charring techniques while Ghost supervised refereed the game of chicken Soap and Gaz were playing with the rest of the Demon Dogs.

The liquor was free flowing and gave you the opportunity to utilize this annual event for what it truly was- a chance to check up on everyone.

And who better to do it with than your closest confidant and his therapist wife.

Convenient, really.

“How’ve you been, kid?”

Nodding as you glance over at Johnny balancing Kyle upon his shoulders, you can’t help but smile.

“We’ve had our moments. Can’t complain, though.”

Alison nods, and you see her head tilt ever so slightly. She’s going into work mode as best she can without raising your suspicions. She’s well trained, probably what’s saved her marriage with Shane. To her dismay, you are also well trained.

“How do you see your future together?"

“Alison, you'd know better than most that people like us don’t get futures.”

“You can spare her the melodramatic self loathing, she’ll just whack you upside the head.”

She glares at Shane’s retort, gives him that ‘stop joking I’m trying to fix shit’ look you’ve seen so many times before.

“I guess I haven’t thought about it. Genuinely. I think it’ll be good though. I love him… and all that mushy shit you’re dying to hear me say.”

“Okay. Well, that’s a start. What about the rest of the task force? Do you think you work well as a team?”

“Oh yeah, we’re a well oiled machine. My doing, of course. Successful or not, our missions can always be described as top tier.”

“And how about off-mission? Do you get along with everyone?”

You fight the urge to glance over at the four men whose hands you’d put your entire life into in more ways than one.

“Uh, yeah. We’re good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.” You shrug.

Her response is cut off before she could even start it, two shorts car honks bouncing off the wood of the open side gate leading to the front of the property. She cranes her neck to see the car from her position in the backyard, just catching the conversation between Raines and his wife as they begin to unload the car.

Alison turns back to you after waving hello, pointing a finger and making a stern face.

“We’re not done here.”

“Aye Aye ma’am.” You jokingly salute her as you internally thank Raines’ kids for making him late to every event he’s ever been invited to.

You and Shane wave to the couple as she walks up to say her greetings, Shane walking towards the cooler to grab two beers.

“I warned her against interrogating you. But we all know how she feels about listening to me.”

“She’s lucky. She’s the only one that can ignore you and call you a dumbass without repercussion. Sometimes I envy her.”

Popping off the cap, he makes his way to two lounger seats off in the corner of the fenced backyard, plopping down with a sigh.

“Gonna have to retire soon. Or take up being a desk jockey. Whatever keeps my knees from going out.”

“Not showing up to your PT appointments, Sparks? I do recall you scolding me for doing the same.”

“I’ve been showing up, that’s the problem. Ain’t bouncing back like I used to.”

You nod in understanding. You’re not even that old and the aches had already settled in. The military really does take your best years.

“Alright, kid. Enough stalling. How’ve you really been doing?”

“I told you, Johnny and I have been good-”

“-I don’t mean your relationship. I know you two are doing good. God knows I’d be getting a call from MacTavish asking how to fix it if y’all weren’t. I mean about the mission.”

“Oh. Yeah, no. It was fine. It’s over.”

“Heard it was a rough one up top.”

“Uh, yeah. Always is, I guess. We would’ve loved to have traded places with you.”

“Don’t underestimate the stairs, kid. Was damn near out of breath by the time we’d gotten up there.”

You let out a hum, more of an acknowledgement than an agreement.

“I know it’s hard for you to sit and watch. But you gotta remember your roots, Water.”

A snort escapes you, humor and nostalgia behind it.

“Haven’t heard you call me that in what, five years?”

“You retired it. You may call me an asshole but I do have a heart.”

“Well-”

“-Don’t change the subject, Carrots.”

“You know I’m still mad you told Kyle-”

“-Rabbit. Come on. Talk to me, kid.”

He stares you down, gives that same stern look you’d always seen after cracking a joke a little too soon after a mission gone awry.

“Nightmares?”

“A couple.” You murmured with a shrug.

“Just a couple?”

“A few.” You manage another murmur.

He studies your side profile a moment longer before trailing his eyes towards your line of vision.

Kyle sits on the pool ledge right where the deep end becomes standable again, using his dry hand to feed Johnny chips from the paper plate he teeters on his thigh. Every time Soap gestures as he speaks, pool water flings from his position standing in front of Kyle’s shins and onto the plate.

Shane thinks back to the first time you’d shown up to an event like this. He watched you, a newly-appointed baby-faced private first class awkwardly clutching a plate with a burger you had no intention of eating, and was reminded of how out of place you had felt in this small sliver of normalcy.

He thinks back to how utterly determined you seemed to not make friends, to not form attachments.

He thinks back to how, despite your reservations, you found yourself slowly easing into the environment.

Despite being so quick to adapt, you’d never been fond of change. And you couldn’t be more different now from the person you were before.

He thinks about how embarrassing it was for you to admit you'd even been having nightmares, let alone what they were about.

“Ok kid. I’ll let you avoid interrogation for now. No use in ruinin’ a good barbeque.”

You pat his knee with an appreciative smile before you heave yourself out of the low chair, setting your sights back onto Kyle as he rejoins Johnny in the pool.

“Hey Rabbit?” You hear Sparks call out after you.

You look back at him over your shoulder.

“Yeah?”

You look at his blank face. You’ve known Shane long enough to tell he doesn’t want to spook you off but is begging for answers. He's giving you the opportunity to tell him on your own volition, no questions asked.

There’s a small demon resting in the back of your throat. He decides now’s a good time to carve at your esophagus. He urges you to spit it out so he can escape his imprisonment in your windpipe. To say what can’t be retracted, to just get it out there.

You stay silent, facing forward again and walking up to Price. He scrubs char off the grill rack, seemingly abandoned by Griggs.

That answers who lost the coin toss.

“Hey Cap,” You bump shoulders with him, tugging on the string of his boonie hat that rests against the back of his neck.

“Hey sweetheart” He mumbles back.

“You look handsome” You whisper with a giddy smile.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm”

“Hungry yet?”

“Only for you, big daddy” You manage to get out between a laugh and an over the top wink, just narrowly missing the way he goes to swat at you.

“Behave, Rabbit.”

“I always do, sir” You nearly purr.

As the earlier heat of the day began to cool, the sky painted itself in hues of orange and pink. You were finally feeling contentment settle deep into your bones. Your favorite part was soon and very much worth skipping your main meal, even if Price disagreed.

You and Soap had helped set up a small fire pit in the center of the yard- marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars all laid out for s’mores. Kyle, still somewhat in subdued awe of the whole spectacle, watches from your left as the others talked around the fire, their faces illuminated by the steady flame. You watched the way his eyes constantly bounced around, so deeply invested in the stories of your comrades.

Johnny sits between you and Ghost, his usual spot for the last nine months or so since Las Almas. You go to search for Price but are almost startled out of your seat as his arm misses your face by about two inches, draping over your lap a red checkered blanket he’d found thrown over one of the lawn chairs.

You grab his shirt by the collar before he gets the chance to pull away, pulling him down to kiss his cheek.

It was risky, there was no guarantee everyone outside of you five had been distracted by the sudden start of the neighbors fireworks, but you couldn’t really find it in yourself to care at that moment.

Grabbing the metal rod Johnny holds out for you, you shove the marshmallow on the prongs and lick the stickiness off your fingertips. You’d always hated the residue, but the practicality of Johnny hand feeding you the squishy candy didn’t negate how sickeningly adorable it was to witness.

“Care for a s’more, Ghost?” you asked, leaning forward and holding out a stick with a perfectly roasted marshmallow.

He looked at the stick, then at you, and finally at the fire. It was a simple, almost childlike gesture, but there was something undeniably comforting about it. He took the stick from you with a small nod.

Johnny was already assembling the graham crackers and chocolate for him, adding an additional little chocolate square in the center.

Simon holds the dessert, examining it on all sides before looking up at the group before him. No one is paying any attention to the three of you, something you’d requested from both your old team and Price and Gaz.

You nod as encouragingly as you can when he scans the group once more, whispering just enough to be heard by him.

“It’s alright Simon. Go ahead.”

His black surgical mask is only down for a second before half his face is covered again, now with significantly more graham cracker crumbs settling at the bottom of it then before.

He hands the s’more back over to Johnny as he nods his head.

“See? Not so bad, right?”

Ghost looked over at you, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the firelight, and nods once more. “Not bad at all.”

Soap, munching on the last of the s’more, looks over with a smirk.

“Told ya. Next time, we’ll get you on karaoke.”

Simon goes completely deadpan but chuckles softly.

“We’ll see about that.”

-

<3

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