#it's probably the dress colour and guns

[soundcrusher]

Ratchet in a dress.

That's all.

[rynbutt]

pierced. pt.2 | spencer reid.

When you hadn't heard from Spencer in 3 weeks you thought you'd jumped the gun a bit... Or maybe he was just nervous.

pt. 1 | pt. 3 | pt. 4

cw: fem!reader, mentions of periods, mentions of alcohol, kissing, fluffy <3

a/n: i got carried away :,)

The bar bathroom smelled of booze, sweat and another third thing you’d rather not think about.

You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, leaning over the sink to fix your lipstick with your finger and thumb. You fished around in your purse, pulling out the black tube of lipstick and plucking the cap off. You puckered your lips, admiring the matte colour in the smudged bathroom mirror that you dare not touch.

You were trying to be social for a change, perhaps meet some new people and make some new friends. After all, you didn’t know anyone and the cute FBI agent you met and gave your number to hadn’t called you since your interaction 3 weeks ago. You tried not to mull over it but you thought you landed a cutie, thinking he found you attractive too; he did find your boobs fascinating, the least he could do was buy you a drink. 

A pub crawl probably wasn’t the best place to start with making friends, it wasn’t really your thing. But after some of the new hires who started along with you invited you out to a pub crawl (you just happened to be sitting in the break room at the same time) you decided to just give it a shot. You soldiered through dinner and the first two bars you followed them along to, but when they left without you at the third, you were ready to down one more drink, call a cab and curl up with Tofu on the couch. 

You leaned over the sink, adjusting your black mini dress over your shoulders before grabbing your purse, letting out a tired sigh at your failed attempt at establishing some much needed friendships in this huge city.

“Shit, shit, shit! No-” A woman cursed from the stall behind you, sounding like she was rifling through her purse. 

“Are you okay?” You asked softly, knocking on the stall door.

“Oh, uhm, yeah… actually, do you have a tampon or something?” She asked quietly, seeming embarrassed.

“Shit, yeah, I do,” you quickly said, rifling through your purse for your stash of pads and tampons. A must whenever you go to bars, you never know when you or someone else will need it. “Here,” reached over the stall door, holding it as far out as you could for her. 

“Oh my god, thank you, you’re an angel,” she breathed a sigh of relief, taking the tampon from you. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled to yourself.

“I’m going to get you a drink as a thank you.”

You chuckled softly, “oh, please. It’s really no trouble.”

“Ah- ta ta ta, I insist,” she retorted. 

Maybe you would make a friend tonight.

You stood by the basins as she flushed and pulled the stall door open. She wore bright pink heels and her hair sat in perfect curls over her shoulders, with thick glasses perched on her nose. She exuded sweetness. 

She smiled at you sweetly, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“It’s all good, I always have extra on me,” you grinned. “Just in case.”

“I like where your head’s at. The one time I didn’t bring my normal purse,” she laughed, washing her hands with the miniscule amount of soap left. “I’m Penelope Garcia,” she stuck her hand out for you to shake.

You shook her hand, “Y/N L/N.”

“I love your dress, you look gorgeous,” Penelope said, the two of you leaving the grotty bathroom together. You glanced down at your black mini dress, smiling to yourself at the compliment.

It had been a while since you broke it out of your closet. It was your favourite though, hugged your curves perfectly and had long sleeves that kept you warm but a deep neckline to show off your cleavage. 

“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve worn it.” You replied, letting Penelope link her arm around yours as she ushered you to the bar through the crowd of people. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” she suddenly asked. 

You laughed at her abrupt question. “No… Why, you got a cute friend?”

“I do!” She exclaimed excitedly, making you chuckle. “He’s real sweet, you should totally hang out with us… That’s if you’re not here with anyone?”

“No, no, I’m not. Well, I was, but they left-”

“Without you?!”

“I don’t know them that well, it’s fine. I mean I just moved here.”

“But girl code? You never leave a girl by herself in a bar,” Penelope said, clutching her necklace, she seemed far more offended than you were. 

You and Penelope continued to talk and laugh at the bar while you waited for the line at the bar to subside. She asked you all about how you liked moving here and when you told her about your cat Tofu, she insisted on seeing photos. She bought you a tequila sunrise and ushered you over to the booth she said her friends were sitting at.

“Everyone, this is Y/N, she just saved my life,” Penelope exaggerated, introducing you to the very official looking group of people seated in the booth. 

But you lost interest in them quickly when you spotted Spencer Reid, the man who apparently doesn’t own a phone. 

“Oh, hey,” you said, your voice raising an octave as you pointed at Spencer. 

Spencer furrowed his brows, almost not recognising you without your tight baby blue tank on, “Y/N?”

“It’s Dr. Can’t Call Back,” you teased. The man you recognised as Agent Morgan let out a laugh, clapping a hand over Spencer’s shoulder.

“Wait, you know Reid?” Penelope asked.

“She lived in the apartment across from a crime scene, we interviewed her,” Morgan explained before staring down Spencer, “And little boy wonder managed to get her number and didn’t call her.”

“What!” Penelope exclaimed. “She’s hot!”

You covered your mouth as you laughed, “I’m joking, I’m joking. I’m sure he only took my number to be polite.”

“Oh he did not,” A blonde woman laughed. “He talked about it for days.”

“Oh, really?” You raised a brow at Spencer, who was almost beet red at the sudden spotlight on him. Penelope ushered you next to Spencer into the booth, the two of you pressed together between Morgan and the blonde woman.

“Yeah he did, couldn’t get him to shut up,” Another woman with dark hair said.

“I was going to call you,” Spencer said defensively. “But I got busy-”

“More like nervous,” Morgan retorted with a laugh.

Spencer sunk into the plush leather of the couch and you spent the next hour learning everyone’s names and learning that they were all in the FBI. Now that they knew who you were, there goes your chances of being a sexy drug lord.

It was nice to feel included, everyone asking you about your new job, where you grew up, what you liked about moving here, you finally made some new friends. Penelope sealed the deal when she gave you her number, promising to take you to lunch some time to thank you for your heroic act in saving her.

You glanced at Spencer as he shifted uncomfortably next to you, “you wanna get a drink?” you asked, attempting to get him away from everyone and talk to him. 

He nervously moved some of his hair out of his face, “Yeah…Yeah sure,” he replied quietly, a slight nervousness in his voice.

The two of you slid out of the booth and you grabbed his hand as you pulled him to the bar. His hands were clammy with nervousness but he didn’t let go of your hand until you dropped his hand, leaning on the bar.

“So…”

“I was going to call you. I really was,” he said quickly, letting out a shaky breath.

You laughed at his nervousness, “It’s okay, Dr. Reid. I’m not holding it against you.”

“Spencer,” he corrected. 

“Right,” you smiled, “Spencer.”

“Here, look,” he pulled his phone out of his pocket along with the note you left him, which was cute, considering it kept it on him for this long. He glanced at the note and quickly dialled your number. Your phone buzzed in your purse and you answered the call. “There, now you have my number.”

“Nice save, pretty boy,” you saved his number in your phone, typing his name into your phone along with a little heart. 

“...You look… very nice,” he said nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You grinned coyly at him, “thank you. You look very handsome yourself. Though, I feel like you always look like that,” you flirted.

“I try to look presentable,” he replied, not really picking up on your flirting tone. “I have an important job.”

“Of course,” You laughed lightly, your fingers reaching up to gently fix his collar. Your fingers grazed the side of his neck and his breath caught in his throat, gulping back the lump of nervousness that formed. You were really pretty, someone he considered way out of his league. 

After you gave him your number, he spent the entire car ride back to the BAU staring at it, heart thumping loudly in his ears at the idea of seeing you again. He tried calling your number a couple of times and got nervous because he had no idea what to say. Would he ask you on a date? Obviously. But what do people do on dates? He had to be assertive, come up with something and be confident, but his mind went blank staring at your number. And wikihow really wasn’t helping.

“Hey guys, we’re off,” Emily walked over to you and Spencer at the bar. “Hotch’s hailing a cab.”

“Oh, right. Do you need a cab? I-I can cover it,” Spencer looked at you, reaching for his wallet.

“I live nearby actually, it’s just a couple blocks away. I’ll just walk,” you smiled. 

Emily frowned at you, “this late? That’s not safe.”

“I’ll walk her,” Spencer quickly said. “I’ll catch a cab from her place.”

“Oh, Spencer, you don’t have to do that,” you squeezed his forearm.

Spencer waved you off, “it’s safer if I walk you home.”

Emily glanced between the two of you with squinted eyes. She smiled cheekily, wiggling her brows at Spencer, “...be safe.”

Spencer scoffed at her implication, making you giggle. You picked your purse up off the bar stool and let Spencer lead you out of the bar. You said goodbye to Penelope and JJ, waving the rest of them down as Spencer waited for you to say goodbye.

“Keep him safe, pretty girl!” Derek called from the cab window.

“Will do!” You chuckled.

The more you thought about it, the more you realised it was probably a good idea Spencer was walking you home. You had learned a lot about your new home over the last 3 weeks but having Spencer, who you came to understand was a bit of a genius, proved to be very convenient. Spencer seemed to know where he was going more than you did, you just followed along next to him, your shoulders occasionally bumping. 

“How long have you been in the FBI?” You asked, linking your arm with his. He nervously let you do so but you could feel him tense under your touch. “This okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay… Uh, I’ve been in the FBI for four years, two months and two weeks exactly,” he replied, “...Eidetic memory, I tend to keep track of that kind of stuff.”

“Mmm, I’ve always had a thing for dorks,” you flirted with an airy laugh.

“I’m not a dork,” he retorted defensively through a laugh.

You looked up at him, “Only joking, Spence. Intelligence is attractive.”

He beamed internally at the nickname. Sure, JJ called him Spence, but it sounded like honey when you said it, made his heart race and his skin run hot. The two of you walked in comfortable silence and you yawned quietly, not realising how tired you were until you left the overstimulating environment of the bar.

He walked you up the steps of your apartment building, waiting for you to take out your card that let you into the building. You pulled the door open and Spencer reached to hold it open for you. You paused, turning to face him.

“Thank you for walking me home. I really appreciate it,” you smiled. 

“It’s okay, I wanted to make sure you were safe,” he replied, exuding a kind of nervousness he wasn’t before. 

You laughed lightly at how adorable he was before pressing up on your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He tensed under your touch but soon relaxed. You pulled away and began laughing, “Oh shit, I got lipstick on your cheek.”

You pulled your sleeve over your finger and began smudging it away. Spencer suddenly grabbed your wrist softly, taking a deep breath of courage and pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You barely had time to register it and as soon as it started it was over and he pulled away, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“I… I’m sorry,” he quickly said, “Shit-”

“Woah, Spence. It’s okay,” you grabbed his hands, trying to recapture his attention as his eyes stared at everything but you. “Hey.”

“I don’t know why I did that,” he laughed nervously.

“...Maybe you should kiss me again?” You suggested, doe eyes staring up at him. His breath caught in his throat as you leaned up again, arms hooking around his neck as your lips brushed his softly. Your voice was quiet when you spoke, “Do you want to kiss me again, Spencer Reid?”

“...Yeah,” he muttered out. You grinned before leaning in to kiss him, hands cupping his face as his hands landed on your waist nervously. He kissed you with a gentleness that left you dizzy. He was clearly nervous but you stroked his cheekbones with your thumbs as he deepened the kiss, tilting your head back like he wanted to consume you. 

He pulled away, forehead resting against yours. You laughed gently at the smear of lipstick over his lips, your thumb coming to rub it off as best you could.

“Mm, that colour suits you,” you chuckled. He let out a breath of a laugh as he pulled away from you, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “I don’t usually kiss men I haven’t even gone on a date with.”

“Well, I don’t kiss girls… end of sentence,” he replied.

You laughed at his response, unhooking your arms from his neck and stepping into your apartment building. “Well, you’re good at it, Spence. I wouldn’t worry.”

“Well… Will I see you some time?” 

“Call me back first,” you teased.

Spencer stared at the pavement and laughed nervously, letting you kiss his cheek one more time before you left him at the door of your apartment building, heading to the elevator. You waved at him as the elevator dinged and he waved back with a tight lip smile.

You leaned against the cool metal of the elevator wall, grinning like an idiot as you watched the numbers above the door light up. You suddenly felt your phone vibrating in your purse. You pulled it out, half expecting it to be your mother calling. You smiled as Spencer’s name appeared on your phone, you answered, holding it to your ear.

“Hi, Spencer.”

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asked, his voice breathless as you assumed he was trying to catch a cab. “Tomorrow night?”

“I’d love to,” you grinned.

“I’ll pick you up… maybe don’t wear a tank top.”

a/n: kinda obsessed with these two, i'm creating a taglist if anyone wants on :) just send a message to my inbox <3

[sadesluvr]

The Bride — PART THREE.

PART ONE / PART TWO

A/N: This is so late omg...September was a busy month for me but I promised I wouldn't forget y'all! Sorry for any mistakes <3

Warnings: Smut + Murder. This chapter contains the theme of domestic violence and victim guilt. Please leave a relationship if your partner hits you, it's not okay and will likely escalate to full blown abuse. Skip to the paragraph beginning "All it took was..." if you'd like to avoid this.

Word count: 3.4K

“Jude’s family have a boat. Every morning on his birthday, he takes it out for a drive – early morning when the water’s calmest. No one should be there but him. The bay is a ten-minute drive from here. I’m thinking that I surprise him, get him to drive me a few miles from the shore, then I knock him out with one of those fishing weights.” 

“What if you can’t hit hard enough?” 

“Then you’re gonna have to teach me how to shoot.” 

You’d gone to the dock separately; with the Twins clambering into their rented car whilst you jumped into a discreet bicitaxi, squashed next to a random stranger on a rickety bike. The colourful streets became a blur as you passed them, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were on a horrible, stomach-churning ride, ultimately screaming to yourself to get off. You were scared that it was all going to be over, all so suddenly and unexpectedly on a random trip to Havana. What was life going to be like without Jude? Why had you decided to trust two random British guys to help take care of your domestic dispute? 

What if everything backfired? 

You didn’t feel any better stepping off the bike and onto the brown boards of the bay, eyeing the familiar licence plate of the rows of white yachts, tourist boats, and fishermen, making the occasional glance down at the deep blue waters below. Rippling; uneasy...the literal unknown. 

Other than a few locals fishing, it was rather quiet. At least until you heard the Twins’ hurried footsteps; with Tangerine’s dress shoes clicking against the ground. Even though they were slated to be ‘professionals’, the moustached man seemed eerily panicked; finding it difficult to walk straight as he constantly fumbled with the gun under his jacket. From the 24 hours or so you’d spent with him you knew he was rather erratic but had never expected him to be so rattled by the situation.  

“Morning darl’,” Lemon said, briefly nodding his head at you. “Looks like today’s the big day. Give ‘em hell, would ya?” 

“I’ll try,” you grinned, chuckling half-heartedly as you swallowed deeply, trying to hold back last nights’ meal. “You should hide in the wine cellar. It might be a little cramped, but it beats the downstairs.” 

Lemon silently raised his brows, patting your shoulder before he scurried onto the boat, desperate not to be seen, and leaving you alone with Tangerine on the dock. He was handsome of course, but there was something rather striking about the way the blue of his eyes sparkled in the morning sunrise, casting a pinkish-golden hue on his skin. Maybe you were still partially hungover, or perhaps it was just plain old lust, but you felt your heart skip a beat as he walked up to you, staring at you intently. 

“You should probably go inside. Jude could show up any moment now.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I will in a minute,” he said, brushing you off as his jaw clenched. “You got everythin’?” 

“Don’t I always?” You snorted. “Why’re you asking? Are you worried about me?” 

“Nah, I’m just making sure you’re prepared, init?” Tangerine sniffed, briefly diverting his gaze. “This ain’t no movie, alright? I know you’re a right little spitfire n’ all, but you ain’t never seen a dead body. You haven’t gotten your hands dirty like we have.” 

It was true. All your work had been purely operative; sneaky and based on mind games – this was the real deal.  Rubbing your temples, you sighed before looking up at him. 

“I’ll get out of this, ok? I always do. I’ll use the residuals for a therapist or something.” You laughed, but Tangerine didn’t share your smile, instead rolling his eyes and swiping at his moustache. 

“Just — We’re on deck if you need anythin’ alright?” 

You nodded, taking note of the grave look Tangerine flashed you before climbing onto the boat in search of his brother. Sighing, you nervously glanced around at the bay before following them, the spare gun in the garter under your dress brushing against your leg as your lifted it; a reminder of your final option. This was real, and you weren’t going to be able to take it back. 

It was a few minutes before you heard commotion on the back of the boat, with Jude’s loafers making a slight squeaking sound as they approached the bottom deck. He recoiled slightly upon seeing you, a mimosa in either hand, wearing a big smile and his grandmother’s pearls. 

“Happy birthday,” you grinned. “Thought I’d surprise you.” 

“Fuck…” Jude said under his breath, shaking his head. He walked over and took the glass from your hands, raising his eyebrows as his way of saying thanks.  

“That’s my wife, always surprising me…” he said sarcastically before taking a sip. “Why are you here? You never get up before 7.” 

“Can’t I do something nice for you?” You scoffed. “You’re thirty now. It’s a new start.” 

“Don’t remind me…” he sighed. “You know when my father was this age he’d already had three children?” 

You snickered into your glass. 

“You’ve never expressed an interest.” 

“Just saying,” he shrugged, glancing around the deck suspiciously before taking another sip. “Maybe if you weren’t away all the time, we’d would’ve been able to start a family.” 

Shutting your eyes, you shrugged, brushing off one of the many gaslighted statements Jude had given to you over the years of your marriage. It wasn’t anything new of course, but it still agitated you; hurt you, even, but you managed to find a way to regain your composure. 

Just hang in there a little longer. 

“Start the engine already. We can talk about this after.” 

 Jude rolled his eyes and marched back up onto the top deck. Your gaze was fixated blankly on the narrow staircase, listening to the scraping sounds of equipment being moved about and eventually the boat leaving the harbour; the clanging of metal chains reading as an omen. It was all painfully metaphoric; and you wondered whether you really wanted to go through with this. 

After all, he was thirty now, and that usually meant a new beginning. He was annoyed at your presence, yes; that was a given, but you were beginning to consider that maybe, just maybe, he’d change.  Kids had never been in the picture until now, and you took that as a sign that maybe he was having an epiphany too. It was unfathomable to you that the past seven years of your life had been an entire waste, that there was no reward for what you’d endured whatsoever.  

Forget the Twins; this was about you. You knew Jude, and they didn’t. 

You could make this work. 

Eventually, Jude put the engine on pause, and you were left bobbing on the water, roughly fifteen minutes from shore. You raised a brow as he came down, a strange sense of dread wiping over you as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. Fuck the plan; if you didn’t off him, you were certain that drinking an operating a boat would do the trick. 

“If you’re serious about kids, then maybe we could start fresh?” You questioned; your voice noticeably soft as you fiddled with your necklace. 

“Yeah, right.” He snorted, barely bothering to look up. 

“I’m serious, Jude,” you continued, sitting up in your seat. “You’re thirty, I’m two years away from that…We’re not getting younger and you’re the only love I’ve known. It’s time for us to be adults now.” 

He seemed to freeze at the word ‘love’. Admittedly, it wasn’t a phrase you’d used of late, if ever. Pouting his lip, he turned to face you, eyeing you up and down before he spoke. 

“You serious?” 

“Yes.” You pleaded. You could practically feel your insides turning into yourself, but you continued anyway. “I know about your affairs, and I know that you brought one of them along on this trip. But once we leave here, I’ll forget about it, I swear. We can focus on a family.” 

Jude pursed his lips, rubbing his hand over his mouth pensively. His eyes were like saucers; glassy and round, and you could only decipher that he was feeling guilty. Guilt about the funds, guilt about his infidelity...everything. You felt a tingle in your heart, and in your loins, even. 

“I haven’t fucked you in a while…I was starting to forget what you felt like.” He mused, walking over to you and playing with your necklace, eyes moving down towards your collarbone and exposed décolletage. “Hm. If you’re serious, then we may as well start now…” 

Your brows twitched upwards. The Twins were on the boat, and you were certain that they wouldn’t enjoy such a sordid display; for separate and distinct reasons entirely. Yet, that wasn’t the only thing holding you back. 

You grinned, but it wasn’t because you were happy.  

“Not without getting a test first.” 

Jude visibly recoiled. 

“Excuse me?” 

You shrugged. 

“Don’t play dumb, Jude. It’s only fair that I ask.” 

He slumped his shoulders, a frowny pout wiping across his lips as he tried to wrap his head around the request, as if you’d spoken to him in Klingon. You paid no attention to the erratic bounce of his leg, or the subtle way his jaw ticked – none of it really scared you. Jude was simply being the same person he’d been since the beginning; a whiny manbaby. 

He hadn’t even denied being unfaifthul.  

“Besides, I haven’t been loyal, either.” You finished nonchalantly. 

His movements paused, and he broke his gaze from staring somewhere in the corner of the room. 

“You what?” 

“You had your vices and I had mine. I slept with the concierge a couple of times – we were always safe, but you never know —“  

Before you knew it, there was a sharp jab to your nose, which turned into a burning, and eventually a numbness. The pain began to throb almost immediately, and all you could do was stare wide eyed at the man opposite you – the man you’d once loved – as he resumed what he was doing, casually fixing his watch as if he hadn’t just struck you across the face. 

Panting, your fingers trembled as you braced yourself, expecting droplets of blood. Instead, you were met with a shrug. 

“Oh, come on,” he huffed. “I’m sorry, baby. I just can’t stand the thought of you with another man.” 

You didn’t respond, and he scoffed. 

“It was a mistake – I was just angry. I won’t do it again, and I never will, ok?” 

You remained silent, instead staring blankly as you turned around, with Jude barely casting so much as a glance at you as you disappeared into the bathroom. It was only a few moments before you returned, the trembling hand on your nose replaced with two hands on a gun, one cupping the barrel and the other the trigger. 

“You’re not serious --” 

All it took was two bullets to his chest, the sound of the releasing mechanism ringing out on the boat. It was loud, but knowing you were so many miles off shore you knew that it was ultimately nothing. When the smoke cleared, you were left with a slowly dying body, scarlet circles widening as they seeped through the white material of his polo shirt. His eyes were still open; and inexplicably they looked at you with more emotion then they ever had when he was alive. 

You barely had a moment to yourself when The Twins scrambled out from their hiding spot, with Lemon taking his position next to you; arms folded and a bored expression on his face, and Tangerine on your other side. 

“Are you sure this was your first time firing a gun?” 

“Lemon, this ain’t the fuckin’ time --” 

“I’m just sayin’,” the dark-skinned man said exasperatedly. “She’s bloody good at everything. You sure you ain’t some secret agent, girl?” 

“With all due respect, Lemon, let’s not get on her fuckin’ nerves,” Tangerine continued, holding a hand up as if to slow his brother down. “She’s just killed her bloody husband for God’s sake, that ain’t fuckin’ easy --” 

“She fires better than you.” 

“That ain’t true.”  

“I thought we were supposed to be liftin’ her up?” Lemon continued in disbelief before biting his lip. “I know just the thing. There was an episode of Thomas where --” 

“Finish that sentence and you’ll be on the ground with the bastard.” 

“Easy, let’s not get too hasty,” Lemon replied, eyes wide and lips stretched into a frown, his hands outstretched as if he were surrendering. “All I know is that I ain’t dealin’ with that body o’ his. I don’t like blood.” 

Tangerine merely cocked his head in disbelief. 

“It makes me queasy.” 

The moustached man sighed, shaking his head as he cast his gaze to the ground. Blood was beginning to seep into the fine cracks of the ships, decking, all the while you’d gone missing. Considering there weren’t many places for you to hide, the man correctly assumed that you were up deck, steering the boat aimlessly as they continued to bob along the water, where the cold Atlantic was hitting the warmth of the Gulf of Mexico. The recipe for a perfect storm, yet all was silent. 

“Alright,” the man sniffed, placing his shiny cufflinks in his back pocket and rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll chuck him over. Bring the weights, would ya?” 

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ ‧˚

“ ‘Ere ya go.” 

“What’s this?” Lemon replied as he looked down at the pamphlet in his hands. The three of you were cooped up in a shitty motel, practically en-route to leaving the country. Once Jude’s family found out that you were both missing (or that their son was gone and you remained) there was certainly about to be a manhunt. Hell, you might’ve even been a suspect. 

“Just look at it.” 

It didn’t take long for Lemon’s face to light up in recognition as he scanned past the Spanish words and into the corner of the paper to see the image of a train; several to be precise. 

“The only Caribbean country to have railways. Got you a ticket to the museum.” 

Lemon lit up. 

“Well thanks, mate but it’s late at night... I should probably get my jammies on.” 

“Just say Tangerine sent you.” 

“Why do you want me to go now?” 

Tangerine frowned. “I gotta have a word with Y/N.” 

“You can speak to her now, don’t let me stop you --” 

“Jesus Christ, don’t make me have to spell it out for you, Lemon. Her and I got somethin’ goin on, and I think we can --” 

“You wanna sleep with her. Got it.” 

“Lemon --” 

It was almost impossible for him to deny it anymore. Tangerine considered himself a gentleman, but there was something about you that made him think otherwise, particularly the way spots of blood had begun to dry up on your dress. You were tainted, yet not in the borderline sociopathic manner he was. In a sick way, you almost complimented each other. The bride and the groom. 

You hadn’t spoken much since the incident. Granted, it was only a few hours ago, and he figured you were still in a state of shock. He wanted to breach the conversation, but he wasn’t sure how; finding it wholly unfamiliar for him to be outwardly sensitive and considerate. It just wasn’t in his nature. 

“Where’s Lemon?” you spoke suddenly, breaking your aimless gaze from the television. 

“Him? Ah, he’s out.” The man waved off. 

“So late?” you frowned. “He’s probably lonely...He could get hurt!” 

“He’s an assassin, love,” Tangerine said matter of factly. “ ‘An trust me, there’s nothing Lemon loves more than his own company.” 

“Figures,” you shrugged. “You wanna have sex?” 

Tangerine scoffed confidently. “If I shagged you, sweetheart, it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.” 

“Never said it had to be.” 

Before you knew it, your body was on his in the heat of passion, fingers running through his brown locks as his moustache tickled your upper lip. His taste, was very much like the sea; salty, yet airy, almost the very definition of the outside.  even through it all, he was sweet, with the smell of his cologne tantalising your senses even through the stench of death. God, it was so fucked up. 

“You’re perfect, love,” the man cooed through your entanglement. “That bastard didn’t deserve ya.” 

“Easy,�� you teased, skilfully sliding your hands down to his belt. “I haven't even taken my clothes off yet.” 

In a rare moment, Tangerine blushed, making up for his vulnerability with a quip. 

“Lippy, are we?” he grinned, blue eyes and white teeth sparkling. “You ain’t gonna have all that chat when I’m finished with ya...” 

He dragged his large hands up the sides of your body, caressing the wides of breasts, tracing down your hips and eventually giving your ass a firm grope as you played with his erection through his pants.  For a bunch of grown adults, you were behaving like a couple of teenagers, fooling around in the backseat of a car after prom. His grunts and breath quickened as you finally undid his zipper, breaching contact as you slid your fingers into his briefs, coaxing a sharp sigh from the action. 

He was hung; perfectly so, in the sense that he wasn’t too big or small, and you were more than certain that he knew how to use it. It didn’t take you long to slide your panties down your legs, the action a sinful image that was certain to be burned into Tangerine’s mind for a while. 

When he entered you, it felt like heaven. Better than the bellboy, and certainly better than anything Jude had given you. Tangerine let out a gruff grunt, his usually kept hair falling into his face as he allowed himself to adjust to the sensation. You were warm, certainly wet, and fit perfectly around him, leaving him wondering why he hadn’t found you before.  

“Oh, darlin’...” he hummed. “Forgive me, I usually got a lot more in the tank...But I don't think I can hold back with you.” 

Your walls clenched at the statement, gripping the man as he began to thrust his hips in and out of you, finding a rhythm almost immediately. Your head dangled off of the arm of the couch as you glanced across at him; a beautiful British man you’d met 48 hours ago rutting into you with such passion that you’d never experienced in your 8eight year marriage. Sure, it could’ve been the fact that he was only the third man you’d been with, but it felt different; sweet, but sultry, firm, yet intimate. He was fucking you like an animal, but he was almost certainly the man of your dreams, the kind of man the college version of you had dreamed about marrying someday. 

Ok, Tangerine wasn’t the marrying type, but you couldn’t say you weren't bound for life. It was practically by blood.  

“Shit...” he groaned, momentarily pulling back to withdraw his hips and dagger you from another angle, hitting that oh-so sweet spot. “I ain’t ever had nothin’ better than this. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” 

You bit your lip and wined, finding words, let alone sentences, hard to conjure. You were far too overstimulated; with the man’s hands finding their way to your breasts again and his lips by your ear as he whispered sweet nothings in that thick accent of his.  

Desperately, you gripped onto his broad clothed shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you basked in the motions. Jude was gone, dead, his body right at the bottom of the ocean, unlikely to ever be seen again (You’d learnt to never say never), and which technically made you a fugitive, but also a free woman. A free woman who’d met two handsome men, one you had a suspicion you’d be seeing often. Perhaps you’d become an assassin too; join them on the run across the world, or maybe you’d lay low for a while and drop off completely. Either way, you knew one thing for a fact – The Twins were going to have your back. 

In fact, they probably weren’t going to let you out of their sight. 

But, considering one of those were on top of you; a striking blue and filled with passion, you figured you just might stay a while.  

FIN. 

Taglist: @mylatest-hyperfixation @thewizardcat @j23r23 @ohgodthebogisback @starkeyboyismine @multifandomdiva 🤍

[604to647]

Husband Material

3.1K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You come home drunk after a fun night out and Tim takes care of you.

This one shot is based on that Tiktok trend where girls refer to their boyfriends as their “husband” to see what their reaction will be 🤭🤭

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls) but it’s all fluff!  Maybe Tim gets a little handsy when he helps reader undress 🤷🏻‍♀️ (she’s into it). Drunk reader, consumption of Chinese food. Established relationship, petnames (Shutterbug, gorgeous, baby), soft!Tim. Reader wears a dress and heels (but they hurt her feet).

A/N: After writing Marine Attraction, I couldn’t shake the Tim brainrot so I decided to start a non-linear series of fluffy one-shots for Detective Rockford and his Shutterbug – the series will be called The Rockford Portfolio (… you know, like The Rockford Files but ‘Portfolio’ because reader takes photos 😁😁)

Masterlist

Photography aesthetic dividers by @saradika-graphics 😍

Tim pushes his reading glasses up his nose as his settles in under the fluffy duvet cover, two of your matching pillows propped up comfortably behind his back, ready to dive into his book.  You’re not home yet, but Tim doesn’t mind waiting up.  Since the two of you exchanged keys six month ago, he’s probably spent more time at your place than his own – he prefers the warmth of your apartment, with the soft décor and personal touches that remind him so much of you to the cold, sparse feel of his own place.  He had originally worried that you might mind that most days he comes straight here after his long day at the precinct, but you hadn’t minded one bit. 

You didn’t mind making room in your closet for his sharp, if slightly monochromatic suits among your more colourful wardrobe.  You didn’t even mind the gun lock box that sits on the top shelf of that same closet; a safe place for Tim’s service firearm where it remains for you, out of sight, out of mind.  You certainly didn’t mind the permanent home his gun holster had found on your bed post – within arm’s reach should the mood strike you to see it frame your boyfriend’s broad shoulders.  And if the little pile of police paperwork that lives on a corner of your dining room table or any of the other little ways you’ve made room for him in your place didn’t convince him, you would tease that you’d never dare keep him from reading his way through your Agatha Christie collection.

It tickles you to no end that your big bad police detective boyfriend spends all day solving mysteries, only to choose to spend his free time reading books about detectives solving mysteries.  When you shared your amusement with Tim, he had winked at you, tapped his finger against his temple and recited, “If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.”  So delighted at Tim quoting your favourite Christie hero you had immediately attacked his face with your lips, planting breathy butterfly kisses over every inch of his handsome face, the book he was reading consequently knocked to the ground and forgotten for the rest of the evening in lieu of decidedly less bookish activities.

He’s right in the middle of a Hercule Poirot soliloquy when he hears the front door open and then your loud, breathy giggle as you bump into the foyer table; shortly after, your keys jingle when dropped in the key bowl, clinking with his own that he had placed in the same bowl several hours earlier.  Tim listens to you struggle a bit with kicking off your shoes, realizing you must finally be free of your work heels when you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as your tired feet touch the cool hardwood.  He emerges from the bedroom just in time to see you wobblily padding towards the kitchen and grins to himself - you’re drunk.  Tim calls your name softly and when you see your handsome boyfriend smiling at you, delicious and all at home in your apartment, wearing only a wifebeater and his boxers, your eyes open wide – you were on a way to get a snack, but he’s a snack. 

“Timmy!!!!!” you launch yourself in those strong, muscular arms that you know will feel so good around your tired body; Tim catches you easily and envelopes you in his welcoming embrace, his grin only getting wider – you only call him ‘Timmy’ when you get tipsy.  You've been so excited to go out with some old work colleagues that didn’t work at your firm anymore, finally able to arrange a get-together that worked with everyone’s busy schedules.  Evidently you had a great time tonight – Tim’s glad, he pulls you in for a soft, tender hello kiss before steering you over to the kitchen where you were undoubtedly headed to get something to eat.  Sitting you down at the breakfast counter, he fetches you a fresh glass of water and two preventative Advils, and encourages you to tell him all about your evening while he heats up a plate in the microwave.

“What’s that?  You made me food?” you exclaim, giddy.

Tim chuckles, “Nothing fancy like that, Shutterbug.  I ate dinner at the precinct and brought home my Chinese takeout leftovers.  Just plated it so I could heat it up quickly for you when you got home – figured you’d want an après bar snack.”

He’s so sweet.  And thoughtful.  And hot, you smile dopily as you thank him.

“You know, gorgeous, I could have come picked you up,” Tim looks over at you from the open microwave door.

“You’re so sweet, baby!  I know you would have, but you’ve been working so hard on the Pie case – I knew you would already be working late, and I knew we would be late too with all the picture taking.  I didn’t want you to get home and then have to go out again.  It was easy enough to share a cab.  Oh!  That reminds me – I gotta check in with the group chat.”

Your fingers are still flying over your phone keyboard as Tim places a plate of steaming hot Chinese food in front of you – you smile gratefully up at him.

Tonight’s night out had been double duty for you – in addition to seeing some friends that you haven’t seen in forever, a local food blog that features your photos regularly had put out a call for cocktail photos, so your group had gone out with the mission of trying as many different mixed drinks as possible. 

As he always does after you go out and shoot photos, Tim sits next to you and listens to you as you swipe through your camera roll and happily chirp about the pictures you took: the subjects, lens choices, angles and lighting options.  He does his best to concentrate on the pretty pictures on your screen but can’t help stealing glances at your sweet face, alight with enthusiasm and joy.

Finally putting your phone down, you start to dig into your cooled down food as you catch Tim up on the rest of your night, tipsily chatting non-stop in between bites of delicious, greasy food:

“Ok remember when I told you about Vicky’s deadbeat boyfriend who she basically carried through her internship?  He apparently tried applying for a job at her new boyfriend’s restaurant??!”

“Guess what they had on the menu, baby??  A flight of spareribs – isn’t that such a cute idea?  I thought, ohhh Tim would love this, he can never choose between crispy and bbq. Ha!”

“And she ended up getting two dogs from the shelter!  Do you ever thing about getting a dog?  I kind of wish we had a dog but we’re both so busy…”

“… should have made him clean the toilets, is what I said.”

“Ooo!  Dumplings!”

“They had that Chablis we liked so much at that wine bar in New York!  I didn’t get any because we were only getting cocktails for my photos.  But no one ever has Chablis – we need to go back!”

“So then you’ll never guess what she said: I would rather eat a lightbulb.”

Your unrestrained laughter rings throughout the kitchen, eyes twinkling in mirth, thoroughly amused by you and your friends’ antics.  You’re leaning back in your chair, your feet resting in Tim’s lap as he rubs your sore feet, the very picture of happiness that Tim imagines whenever the stress and realities of his work threaten to envelope him and he needs a little light to guide him forward.

With amazement, Tim watches as you gracefully manipulate your chopsticks and pick up cube after cube of salt and pepper fried tofu and pop them in your mouth, your elegant movements belying your state of inebriation, “Sounds like you had a great time tonight, Shutterbug.”

“Oh we did!  I miss those girls so much.  It’s hard for us to find a time to all get together but when we do it’s always soooo much fun!  We just pick up like we used to when we were all juniors at the firm, it was perfect… well except for those two guys that couldn’t take a hint.  Yeesh.”

“What guys?” Tim looks up, eyes darkening, his big, firm hands stop their caressing of your arches.

You wave your chopsticks wildly in the air, as if to dismiss his concern, “Just a couple of guys at the bar that kept sending us drinks.  We kept sending them back.”  You wiggle your feet in Tim’s grip and he catches on – immediately starting to massage them again.

“Did they give you any trouble?”

“Not really.  Too laughable to be trouble – they came over before dessert was brought out to ask why we didn’t accept their drinks?  I mean?? We told them that we were drinking for work, like my photo thing, not for fun.”

“And they got the message?”

“I mean, it took a while, but yes – they kept trying dumb lines like, Work hard, play hard!” you scrunch up your face at the ridiculous memory, “I finally had to tell them that my husband’s a cop in order for them to leave us alone!”

Husband.  Tim wills himself to keep his expression neutral, as if you hadn’t said something that piqued his interest and sent his heart racing.  Husband.

“Oh yeah?  What did they have to say to that?”

“Ugh!  One of them tried to convince me that he’d be a better husband than 'some meter maid,'” you roll your eyes as you shove black bean chicken chow mein into your mouth, “Timmy, did you splurge for extra crispy noodles?!” Your delight fills Tim with pride – he doesn’t know how you can tell after the sauce practically drowns the noodles, but you always can.

He nods, entertained by your cheery chatter, “You know, everyone has to do a rotation in Parking Enforcement – it’s a legitimate part of training.  So, what did you say?”

It takes you a beat to answer, so tickled by the image of your hulking Tim in a little cap and vest writing parking tickets, “I quoted Clueless of course: As if.  My husband is the biggest, baddest detective in the LAPD.  He’s the smartest investigator on the squad and has cleared more cases than anyone else in the precinct.   And he’s a ferocious guard dog who would rip apart any one who would dare make a woman feel uncomfortable.”

“You told them all that, Shutterbug?” Tim’s half proud and half shy at your praise, and still unable to get over that you’re calling him your husband in public.  It’s making him unspeakably happy. 

You nod vigorously, eyes wide and innocent, as if you couldn’t imagine a world in which Detective Tim Rockford and his accomplishments aren’t being praised to the sky at every given opportunity.  “I also told them that my husband is the sweetest and kindest person I’ve ever met.  And that even though he has hardened criminals scared shitless, he only ever makes me feel loved and supported, 100% appreciated and taken care of.  I love my husband!”  You look so happy you could cry, and Tim can’t help but feel his entire chest swell at how you described him to those two bozo strangers - that this is how you see him, what he means to you.  He loves you so much.

He tells you so as he kisses the top of your head, taking your empty plate to the sink and fetching another glass of water before wrapping his arm tightly around your waist and leading you to the bathroom.

From under his chin, you look up and coo, “And he’s hot too, you know?”

“Hmmmm?” Tim smiles down indulgently to find your cute, drunk face grinning at him mischievously.

“My husband.  He’s so fucking hot.  I want to climb him like a tree and sink my teeth into all his hard muscles and mark him up so everyone knows he’s mine.  Oh my god!”  You step in front of Tim, startling him with your sudden movement, the two you continuing to make your way through the bedroom.  Under Tim’s watchful eye, you walk backwards as you babble eagerly, trying desperately to make him understand, “You don’t even know how handsome he is?!?  He has the perfect nose and the deepest brown eyes.  His lips are so soft, perfect for kissing.  He is SUCH a good kisser.  OH!!! His facial hair looks sooooo good… I wonder what he would look like with a full beard.  Probably just as fucking hot as he does now.  My husband’s face is DEVASTATING!” You sigh dramatically.

Now starting to get embarrassed at your compliments, Tim turns you around gently and marches forward.  Once in the bathroom, you stop abruptly so that Tim bumps into you – giggling, you wiggle your butt into his crotch, wordlessly asking for help you don’t actually need to undress.

Tim disrobes you swiftly – wanting to help you get to bed as soon as possible, but makes sure to kiss a gentle path along the skin he reveals as he unzips the dress he watched you put on for work this morning; after he helps you step out of your dress, he dots kisses down the back of your thighs and calves that leave you shivering in pleasure.  Left in just your matching pastel floral lingerie set, you brush you teeth and start your night time skin care while Tim watches you fondly from his seat on the edge of the tub.  No matter the circumstances, you’ll never go to bed without washing your face and putting on some of the elixirs and potions that overrun your bathroom counter – Tim’s convinced they must work though - you’re radiant, stunning; if he didn’t often find himself distracted by the soft curves of your enticing body, he would never look away from your beautiful face.

“Did you know your husband has the best wife?”

You look over at him and giggle into the face towel you’re using to dry your cleansed skin, “Oh yeah?  Tell me about your wife, Detective Rockford.”

As you start to apply your creams and moisturizers, Tim comes up behind you, gently skimming his fingers up and down your bare sides, leaving little goosebumps in their wake, “My wife is gorgeous.  Prettiest woman I’ve ever met, inside and out.  She’s smart, kind, and hilarious, and I think the most considerate person on this planet.  Did you know when I first met her, she volunteered to wait and be the last to be interviewed by a grumpy detective, so that school trips and families with kids could go first?”

Your eyes crinkle at the memory of when you met Tim at the aquarium nearly a year and a half ago, “How do you know your wife wasn’t just angling to be interviewed by the hot detective?”

Tim points a finger at himself comically, arching his eyebrow at the you in the mirror reflection, Me?  Do you mean me – I was the hot detective?

You nod heartily, Of course you.

“Well, looks like my wife had my number from the start.  She’s smart like that.  Her brain is the sexiest part of her you know?  And that’s saying something because everything about her is sexy,” Tim starts kissing your neck.  His hands trail up to your breasts and he softly gropes your curves over the lacy fabric before reaching one hand between your bodies and undoes your bra clasp, his other hand ready to help you drag the bra down your arms, exposing your bare chest to the detective's lustful gaze.  Nuzzling into your ear, he whispers, “My wife is so fucking hot,” as his fondles your breasts in his big, meaty hands – rolling your nipples between his rough fingers then lightly tugging before releasing them, causing your tits to jiggle. 

You turn in Tim’s arms, your lips immediately meeting his, mouth open with an unspoken invitation he eagerly accepts.  Tim licks into your mouth hungrily and you match each stroke of his tongue with a brush of yours, every nip of his teeth with an equally playful nibble.  You sigh into Tim’s mouth as his lips press to yours over and over, mapping your soft cushiony lips and sucking them swollen to mark you as his.  He hardly allows you to take a breath, and you’re not sure anymore if your dizziness is from tonight’s alcohol, or the way Tim’s lips slot so perfectly over yours, stealing all your air.  You love it - air is nothing when you have Tim.  Moaning softly so the sound fills his mouth, you hear Tim whisper huskily, “Arms up, Shutterbug.”

“Anything you say, Detective,” you shimmy your half naked body playfully in Tim’s arms and raise your arms over your head as requested, and for a second, you can’t help but gaze adoringly at Tim’s devilishly handsome face before your vision is obstructed.

“Hey!  What th-?”  When Tim’s grinning face comes back into view, he lowers your arms to your sides and you look down at your chest.  You realize that Tim has slipped one of his oversized band t-shirts over your head to wear for sleeping.  You give him an exaggerated pout and a silly whine before pressing your now t-shirt clad body to his, your final drunk attempt at seduction.

Tim dispenses a soft kiss to your lips, nose, then forehead, “Not tonight, gorgeous.  You’re drunk.  You don’t need sex, you need water.”  He points to the glass of water he brought from the kitchen and leaves to place the drink on your bedside table so that you can finish getting ready for bed. 

Snuggling under the covers after taking three big gulps of water from your glass at Tim’s insistence, you sleepily arch you butt against Tim’s bulge, giving it a half-hearted shake, stopping only when he gives you a pinch on the bum, murmuring, “Tomorrow, Shutterbug.”  You grin at the promise and yawn, “Goodnight, Timmy,” before finally succumbing to your alcohol fueled exhaustion and passing out.

Tim wonders if you’ll remember calling him your husband tomorrow.  He wonders if you meant to say it or if it just slipped out.  He wonders what it could mean that you said it at all.  He wonders if you somehow know about the ring box that’s hidden in a pair of old sport socks he never uses at the back of his dresser drawer in the bedroom of a house that he’s hardly at anymore. 

Tim tightens his arms around you - he wonders a lot of things, but the one thing he never wonders about is how he feels about you.  Pressing one last soft kiss to your shoulder, Tim breathes in your soft scent – a mixture of perfume, lotion, home, and whispers, “Good night, Mrs. Rockford.”

[littlebigmouse]

Sure, episode 7 doesn't really have much time to spend on Ekko's disorientation in this new reality and everyone else's reactions to it. But I have to respect that the writer's solution to this was to make AU Ekko pretty mentally unstable.

From Powder's perspective, she startles him, he throws something at her, becomes hostile, tries to defend himself with a screwdriver, and then just starts staring into space and goes nonverbal while giving clear signs of a panic attack, and Powder and Benzo's reaction to that is a benevolent and casual "One of those days, huh?"

Given where they leave off, and pick up in the Last Drop again, it's implied Ekko has his crisis the entire way over, and probably didn't react much to either of them the whole time. When Claggor and Ekko remain at the table while Vander and Powder have their conversation, Ekko is ignoring Claggor and drawing repetitive circles over his notes and constantly clutching his head in pain. Right up until he gets up, which is when Claggor finally reacts to what he's doing but is waved off easily, and stumbles outside throwing up in a dumpster. And no one seems to notice or care about him acting weird or being in pain.

Everytime he says something off-colour or outright concerning it's met casually or chalked up to his sleep deprivation and imposter syndrome. Man's dissociating like nobody's business and everyone just claps him on the back in understanding. If that's normal for AU Ekko, or everyone thinks that's normal for AU Ekko, that's uh, pretty concerning actually.

I mean, given context clues and Powder's conversation with Vander, all the kids (or at least Ekko and Powder) withdrew pretty heavily and keep themselves on the down low. I assume they both blamed themselves for Vi's death to some degree and became overly cautious and more quiet. Powder prefers to support her siblings similarly to how Vi did, but there's fewer problems to solve with violence as they grow up (and they all know how that ended) so Powder plays emotional support and prefers to stay in her familiar bubble (The Last Drop, close to her family).

AU Ekko seems to be overcompensating with his inventions, focusing on (academic?) success and productivity. Between his fancier clothes (even fancier than the others, who all have newer outfits, but stick more to zaunite dressing sensibilities than him) and his AU friendship with Heimerdinger it's reasonable to assume that he's involved with the academy in some way, maybe gunning to become a student if he isn't one already. That's a lot of pressure for a kid from the undercity, nevermind that academia itself is pretty competitive even if the deck isn't staked against him.

That all is to say, I don't think the AU is all sunshine and roses, for either of them. AU Ekko and Powder are both way less extreme versions of their canon verses, but especially AU Ekko is apparently way more quiet, withdrawn and insecure (and not at all active within his community?? I'm gonna be honest, I'm a bit mad the Firelights weren't even mentioned that episode, they've been Ekko's main family for the better part of a decade now, they deserve some focus, damn it).

So yeah, I don't think AU Ekko is doing too hot.

(And now I want a fic of him waking up in canon Ekko's body, lmao).

[lululandd]

hints;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

word count: 885

warning: and theyre housemates ᵒᵐᵍ ᵗʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ʰᵒᵘˢᵉᵐᵃᵗᵉˢ

note: very loosely based on real life events

summary: maybe you get a guess or two on what his job is

You knew the carnival would be in town this time or year, but wouldn’t have guessed in the slightest that your housemate would be interested in it. He brought it up during game night, where you would play a video game in the living room and he would watch. ‘Fun’ was the word he used to describe the carnival, followed with the notion that he would love a blooming onion and some dippin’ dots.

So you two went. He dressed in all black except for his bleached denim—which you laughed at bcause it looked like cumstains the first time before you helped him bleach it a second time— and you in your bright coloured shirt and overalls.

Simon got his blooming onions immediately after arriving and pointed out prizes that caught his attention as you two walked. You finished what little was left of it while he got his dessert.

“You gonna keep starin’ or you gonna play?” He nudged as he noticed you slowed down to look at a game.

It was one of those shooting games where there are cheap snacks propped up on a shelf and a couple of mascots strewn around for extra points. The overly friendly attendant waved you two closer and explained that you can get two of ANY of the big prizes on display, if you can shoot all fifteen of the little mascots in a row. There were big plushes of different animals, and unbeknownst to you Simon saw the sparkle in your eyes as you look up at them.

It was 50 cents for a try, and you gave him a dollar for the both of you. Simon wanted to wait until he’s finished with his dippin’ dots and opted to watch you for a little bit before he plays. The attendant grinned and wishes you luck as he puts a wooden rifle and a little bowl of corks in front of you without giving instructions on how to use them as he’s already helping someone else.

“Put ‘em at the end- Yeah there. Then yo- No. You cock em first. Yes, cock.” Simon laughed a little, “That handle— Wai’ a minute, I’ve seen you play shooters at home. You already bloody know how.”

“Well doing it in a video game and in real life is different, innit?” You emphasised to make fun of his accent a little.

He went quiet and pointed at the handle that needed to be pulled back. You can see him smile behind his facemask despite the silence. When it clicked, you readied up the rifle as best you know how, aimed, and pressed the trigger.

You hit nothing.

“Not as easy in real life, innit?” He mocked back.

When you were down to the last cork, Simon had long finished his ice cream and asked if he could try shooting before it was his turn. He seemed to weigh the gun, moving it back and forth in his hands before barking at the attendant, “I need to do em in one go, yeah?”

“Yes sirree!”

And with that you feel a difference in your roommate’s stance immediately. He seemed to stand up straighter, suddenly appear bigger somehow, and in a blink of an eye he got the rifle into position and hit a snack that was on the far edge of the shelf.

Oh.

He looks like he does this regularly.

He picked up his share of corks and picked the mascots off one by one, starting from the ones at the edge and working his way to the middle. Several people stood around you two and cheered each time Simon got a successful hit. The attendant cheered with them, probably happy about the prospects of more players.

You cheered and clapped the loudest as he shot down the last remaining mascot, and the attendant yelled at you two to pick your prize.

“You pick one, Simon!” You said to him as he looked at you.

He deliberately chose a rather misshapen shark—a discount blåhaj—and you chose an alpaca. You hugged them both as you walked around the place some more.

“See anything else you want?” He asked. “Can win all of ‘em for you.”

You laughed at him incredulously, “As long as they’re gun related games or just any?”

The slow head turn he did towards you was borderline predatory, and if he wasn’t your housemate for a couple of years it would have stunned you.

You shrunk a little, “Sorry, right. My bad.”

Back at the car, as he hit what seemed to be the hundreth red light, he spoke, “You get two yes or no questions on my job and thats it.”

Luckily you didn’t get whiplash, and he avoided looking your way as you stared at him, mind racing to figure out whether he was kidding or if he was serious.

Weighing your questions as they race around in your mind, it wasn’t when you get to the front door that you ask him, “Sniper?”

“Not really.”

You looked back at him as you walked in, “Wait what does that mean?”

“Dunno. You got one question left though.”

“That’s cheating, Simon!”

He took off his mask and you see him smirking all the way until he disappears into his room with his shark.

[merchantarthurn]

nicholas, quit your job. join my christian ska band

this was conceived as a joke with friends about how midvalley in modern AU would be into ska and then ‘the gung-ho guns as a ska band though. wolfwood has a keytar called the punisher’ ‘and it’s still shaped like the punisher - it’s 4 keyboards’.

obviously there’s others to add - like midvalley’s baeblade gauntlet. and maybe another (metal? rock?) band that’s vash (lead guitar, vocals) and livio (drums) and?? knives (bass) so that wolfwood has somewhere to go when he snaps out of his haze and leaves lmao (maybe he supplants knives as a bass player + backup vocals just to amuse me personally)

(i’ll admit to not knowing anything about ska so i just defaulted to making all the men look “uncool in a way that’s kinda swag in its own right” and elendira that kind of “probably smells of ‘’’incense’’’” vibe. i also could not suss out the instrument refs so i accidentally gave the trumpet too many valves and gave up on the sax lol) 

ID below the cut

There are four images - I’ve given each image it’s own ID.

[ID: Wolfwood drawn mostly in black and white - in his usual suit and unbuttoned dress shirt, with mullet-length hair, sunglasses, and a thicker patch of scruff on his chin. He holds a cross-shaped keytar with each branch having it’s own set of keys, with the words ‘Punisher’ and ‘Gung-Ho’ written at the ends. The centre has a skull-like decal shaped like the trigger of the actual Punisher. It’s held by a strap with black-and-white checkers. There are blue accents on the keytar and his shoes. END ID]

[ID: Elendira (Trigun Maximum) drawn mostly in black and white. She wears a black pillbox hat, a choker with a fake nail sticking “through” it and a studded belt. She also wears a black-and-white cropped wrap top with a baggy, hatched jacket overtop with the sleeves rolled. She’s playing a red bass guitar with a nail head at the top and a spike at the bottom. END ID]

[ID: Leonof The Puppetmaster drawn mostly in black and white. He wears a baggy black suit over a yellow shirt with a large collar and a bolo tie, a bowler hat with a wide brim and checkered band, and his usual round glasses. He holds a trumpet, also coloured in yellow. END ID]

[ID: Midvalley the Hornfreak wearing a white suit jacket, pink dress shirt, and baggy pink trousers. The drawing cuts off at the knees. He is passionately playing a saxophone, which is attached to his neck by a cord, so is leaning his torso back. END ID.]

[yeyinde]

SEA, SWALLOW ME | Simon Riley x GN!Reader

No one wrenches you open, leaving you raw and exposed, like Simon. A wound that never heals. A sickness that never dissipates. You carry the weight of him between your ribs and thundering heart. A place of safekeeping, protecting this precious knot that gnarls inside of you from everything else out there that might want to hurt it. It thrums now, dizzy with the feeling of him so close to you.

》 WARNINGS: 18+ – MATURE, SMUT | GN!Reader: no use of pronouns, gendered language or anatomy; very soft smut; light breath play/choking but. It serves a narrative purpose.

》 WORD COUNT: 9,4k (of pure, unadulterated nonsense)

》 NOTES: UM. This was meant to subvert standard D/s | Predator/Prey dynamics for Ghost but became a mess of nonsensical metaphors instead.

As far as missions went, this was slated to be amongst the easiest assigned out to your group—a standard hostage rescue of a foreign diplomat. 

It's a sequence you've played out many times over in basic training. The steps, drills, are already ingrained in your memory with minor changes to suit the situation unfolding in a place you'd never been before, and probably will never see again. Rudimentary. Boring, almost. 

The chance of injury was minimal. The probability of death is even infinitesimal. 

And yet—

He pulls you into an alcove in the safe house you've been holed up in for the last twelve hours, alternating between bouts of sleep, and pouring over each minute detail of your roles. 

Price's voice cracked an hour ago. 

It was Gaz who called it with a soft chuff. "Guess that means we're good to go, eh, cap?"

"Off with you, then," he groused, reaching for a bottle of water. "We'll head out in an hour. Be ready." 

You meant to sneak away to the gym and exercise some of the anticipation pooling inside your veins—a physical outlet to exert the antsy feeling that made your fingers tap a soundless beat against your shaking thigh; a post-mission ritual to saturate your brain in those feel-good chemicals caused by the rush of adrenaline. 

But you were stopped by a hand on your wrist. One that snaked through the tenebrous of the storage closet that housed the guns, weapons, and ammunition, all spread out on the walls with a bench in the middle. 

Simon leans back against it, guns spread out on the surface behind him. The hand not curled around your wrist is pressed flat, bare, to the granite top, only inches away from the collection of knives he meticulously tends to before each assignment. 

His sleeves are rolled up to his forearm, ink coloured in a hazy smear of yellow from the lamp spilling across the table in the corner. Your eyes are drawn there first—the shadows cast over the thick veins running along his forearms, hidden beneath the charcoal. 

The other flexes around your wrist, rough skin scorching when it presses against yours. Seeing the bulk of his palm swallowing the entirety of your wrist and half of your hand has your mouth running dry.

There's something about him, about the fold of his massive frame condensing itself into a nook much too small for him to fit, that feeds into a part of your head that aches to fly. To scale mountains, to reach the summit. To be the first person to stand on top of the highest peak, and gaze down at the world shaded in blues, greens, and greys below. 

Staring at Simon fills you with summit fever. 

"Did I scare you?" 

It's hard to rip your gaze away from him with so much of his flesh bared to you. He's usually dressed by now in his jacket and vest. Always prepared for the next slaughter. This—

This is new. Unusual. 

You huff, rolling your eyes toward the domed ceiling, and struggle to stave off the influx of anxiety that gnarls inside of you. A break in the routine. It unsettles you. "Hardly." 

He makes a low, starchy noise in his throat, muffled partially by the balaclava covering his mouth. "That so?"

He runs his thumb over your pulse, drawing your attention to the rapid thud of your heartbeat under his finger. It's a slow, meticulous circle, and his eyes dance with derision when you scoff, a touch embarrassed, and curl your fingers into a fist as if that would somehow stop the thundering in your chest. 

"Whatever," you murmur, defensive. "I drank an espresso. It's just a natural, bodily reaction—"

His hand twitches again, fingers lifting from your skin as he slowly peels away from you. The chill against your flesh makes you shiver, already missing the intensity of his heat. 

"If you say so," he volleys, settling his hand back on the table, palm cupping the thick ledge, fingers tucked under the surface. The motion makes his muscles quiver. 

Goosebumps prickle along your flesh. Your throat runs dry. 

"Got somethin' for you."

It's standard, benign—the words are flat considering the weight behind them, the potency. They're all he'll allow in this brief window of privacy when everyone else is busying themselves with their pre-mission rituals. 

Price leans against the wall in the corner of the room, fingers curled into the straps of his tac-vest. His chin is dipped low, eyes fixed on the table a metre away where the files lay open, floorplans exposed. Despite the evenness of his brow, and the squared set of his shoulders, you can see the weight of everything circling in stormy blue. 

The success of this will be shared amongst everyone, but the loss will be solely his own. 

On the opposite side of the room, Soap picks over every centimetre of your weapons and tactical gear. Scouring every iota in an effort to make sure nothing will fail anyone. 

Gaz, as the youngest, shoulders it all, and pours over the blueprints, committing each exit and entrance point to memory. He won't be caught unawares if a route is compromised. He'll get everyone out to safety. 

By stark contrast, Ghost does nothing. 

He doesn't look over the documents, but he doesn't need to. The blood vessels streaking through jaundiced white speak of a sleepless night staring at the photos of the men you're supposed to hunt down. The people you're supposed to rescue. 

Before he slips on his gloves, you catch ink stains on his thumb and inside his forefinger. The thick scent of gunpowder and oil clings to him. His weapon is sleek: gunmetal grey and cleaned. Meticulous. His attention to detail is unyielding. 

He did everything he was supposed to do last night when he didn't come and sneak into your room.

But he never does. Not before a mission. 

You sometimes wonder if he likes to torture himself with the if only or the what if that lingers whenever you split apart, left to your devices and wholly dependent on yourself for survival. He keeps his distance. Doesn't want, nor need, the distraction.

Some might think it cruel that he avoids you like you're already caught in the clutch of the Reaper; skin shading a sickly grey as your blood rots from within. But you know him. You know Simon. 

And when he hands you your gun, you can feel that it's already been loaded, and tended to. There's a fine sheen of oil glued to the tight folds of metal from where his meticulous cleaning couldn't reach. 

Your tac-vest is packed with everything he deems necessary for your own survival (and even a few things he doesn't but you do). 

He hands you a knife, too—one you know is from his personal collection. It fits into the palm of your hand like it was made for you, and you wonder—with a small smile blooming across your cheeks—how long he took looking over them before picking this one. A perfect fit. 

"Thank you," you murmur, low and soft. No one is paying attention to you at all—there is no time to do so when you can feel the seconds ticking down. "I'll do my best not to get your pretty knife dirty." 

He snorts. "Defeats the purpose, doesn't it? And it ain't mine." 

"My knife, then." 

You glance down at the smooth curve of the blade, sharpened to a deadly point, and twist it in your hand to stare at the handle. It's black. Two stems jut out from the hilt, extended a bit longer than the blade. It's triangular and pitched in the centre before tapering off to a sharp point. It's the length of your forearm. Longer than the tactical knives issued by the weapons branch in the SAS. Bound in leather. The stitches look much too similar to the ones he threaded through your gaping skin in Jakarta. 

"Fairbairn-Sykes," you say, glancing up at him. "Thought they stopped using these?"

He rolls one massive shoulder. A man with his girth shrugging insouciantly is a strange sight. You almost expect to hear the distant roar of an avalanche. 

"Much better'in the cheap ones they give you."

"Oh, yeah? Kinda hard to hide, though—"

"If you don't want it—" 

Simon reaches for it, but you pull it close to your chest, grinning. 

"You can't take my knife away." 

He huffs, lowering his hand back to the table. His eyes are piercing. Heavy. "Then stop complainin' about it."

A fly buzzes by your ear. A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck. Something about the look in his dark, shadowed eyes sets your teeth on edge. 

It wells on your tongue, then—soft words not meant to be uttered in a room saturated in contracted death—and the astringent flood strips your enamel until your teeth ache with the urge to let them out, or swallow them down. You wonder what he would say if you let them free. If they slipped from your tongue and filled the room with the stench of your poisonous wants, ones left to rot inside your chest, your throat. 

The burn of them blisters your esophagus, leaving behind open wounds leaking infection into your bloodstream, into the vessels that run to your lungs, your heart. 

The tremendous weight of them makes your knees quiver, struggling to stay afloat in the thick atmosphere that sits, oppressive and unignorable, between you. 

It's all one-sided, of course—a hunger felt only by you. He doesn't acknowledge the gossamer of tension that bleeds into the room, wrapping tight around your neck like a phantom noose. To Simon, nothing is amiss; nothing is wrong—

And it isn't, you think. This spooling knot inside of you, wound tight into a ball, isn't wrong. It isn't bad to feel this way, but it's terrifying. 

Being with Simon is a bit like climbing a mountain. 

But there is scaling one in a harness, secured safe and sound with ropes and pitons, and then there is this: 

A free solo up the side of a chossy. 

The chalk on the tips of your fingers clumps together under the stickiness of your damp palm. One slip, and you'll be a wreck at the bottom before you can even try to hold on. 

Jagged rock at the bottom gnashes its teeth together in anticipation, eagerly waiting its chance to grind your flesh into pulp, and offer your spilled blood to Thanatos. 

Melodramatic, maybe, but something about Ghost brings out a sense of morbid sentimentality from within you. The feeling is a harsh juxtaposition to who the man really is. 

A mythological being who lingers in the foreground like a psychopomp, but gives you whittled knives from his personal collection, carefully whet to a fine point, and cracks stupid jokes in a deadpan manner as if the world around you wasn't raining bullets and reeking of gun cotton. 

Your gaze wavers, falls. There are a lot of things you are meant to say now, and many more that are forbidden. None of them brim through the humus that sticks to your throat. Disturbed dirt in a lonely graveyard. 

A flurry of motion snags your attention. In the corner of the room, you catch sight of the fly sitting on top of an intricate web. It runs its hands together, waiting. Mischievous. A morsel of food is still tangled in white lace. It feasts without worry, unaware of its impending demise as its feet glue to the threads woven below, shaped like the cracked skulls in a catacomb. 

As the fly feeds, the spider cocks its head up from a darkened crevasse, a multitude of eyes gleaming in the flushed light hanging overhead. 

It waits. 

Poor thing. 

"Thanks," you say again, wrenching your eyes away from the opening maw of the ossuarium in the corner. The sight unnerves you. 

It's not meant to be any more sincere than the first utterance of your gratitude, but you say it—if only to fill the stifling silence, and wonder if that carefully curated mask would shatter into pieces, revealing the bare-faced man (human: flesh, bone; vulnerable) beneath, if you uttered the words pulsing against your vocal cords like a pizzicato. 

He levels you with a flat look as if he, too, hears the whine of c minor screaming in your chest. 

"Hilt is new. Try not to get it dirty." 

You fight a shiver. Force yourself to give some facsimile of a smile in response.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lt."

(A liar.)

You tuck the pretty knife in a tawny leather sheath into your pocket. 

"I'll take good care of it." 

(A thief.)

Behind smeared grey, charcoal black, his eyes narrow. Pensive. Considering. Something rears, lurks. Hidden in shadows. Cut into brimstone. It's the same shade of death that only surfaces when he's on the battlefield—no longer Simon, but—

"See that you don't." 

A ghost. 

(Just warmer than most.)

Your eyes stray back to the corner of the room where the black spider prowls closer to the hapless fly struggling to be free. 

Yeah, you think, a touch dazed. Your fingers tighten around the leather-bound hilt of the blade. Me, too. 

You dirty his knife. 

The chance for an injury is minor, but never zero. You find this out when someone grabs you from behind, knife pressed to your jugular. There is no fear, no terror. 

Just—

Embarrassment. Stupid. You know better than to leave your six unchecked. 

It ends with a paper-thin cut to your skin, and your knife buried in flesh. 

The hilt is bloodied. Authentic leather stained red. Grotesque. Garish. You can't tear your eyes away from the droplets that stain the handle. 

Plastic, usually. You know this because you looked it up. Polymer-covered wood. 

The leather was handmade. Sewn with thick, black thread. Glued to the stripped wood. 

Wrapped up pretty just for you. 

(Just for you.)

And you ruined it like you promised you wouldn't. 

(A liar. A thief.)

It makes you wince, and the burn in your chest hurts more than the sting in your neck. You thought you heard death and his fiddle this morning, but who knew his boney, rotted fingers would wrap around your wrists like it was the hilt of a conductor's baton. 

Simon doesn't say anything, but there's a weight in his silence. A soundless ticking in the background as he watches, placid, as you make your way to him. 

Nails bite into your palm until they're sticky with the blood that pools between your fingers. It's meant to be grounding. Replacing one hurt with another, but the biggest injury is the one to your pride, your ego. It's burned, blistered, and not even the swell of something you feel roiling through you at the sight of Simon, steady and sturdy—faultless despite the roaring that seems to echo around, the scream of the tide trying to pull you under—is able to quell the sting of humiliation. 

Your hands are stained just like them. Scars mattered across soft tissue, and despite the way they spill over your flesh like Orion, you still feel the pull of torn flesh beneath your armour. 

This—

This was an accident. Unfortunate. Unforgiving. It lingers between aching teeth, and tastes of raw wire. 

You won't let the shame dip its talons into your pride despite the bruise forming on the side of your veneer. 

Your chin lifts: defiant, almost. As if waiting for him to say something. 

Anger, you think, is easier to wield than culpability. 

There are a number of derisive, droll words he can pin you with, and your mind runs through the possibilities, the ones you heard barked out over the comms. Things like: rookie mistakes. Shoulda checked your six. How'd this happen? Thought you were better than this. Another scar to add to your collection, then? Better stop before you end up lookin' like me.

It surprises you, then, when he says none of them. 

"Alright?"

His hand lifts, and a weight settles against your jaw, lifting your chin. It's barely a cat scratch, and doesn't even need stitches, but it stings something fierce when he stretches the skin around it. Pulling, tugging. You clench your teeth, swallowing back a wince. 

He catches it, anyway. 

Stupid. 

You wait for the rest. For the or what? that traditionally follows a simple alright, but nothing comes. 

His hand drifts, palm cups the side of your neck, and—

It's indescribable. A rush, maybe. A raw, pulsing wound throbbing inside your throat where his heavy, rough hand sits. A plinth. You can't lower your chin with it in the way. Stuck, you think, and then—

You shiver. It's instinctual. The curve of your neck is vulnerable; a sacred place. Animals protect their jugular, their soft bellies, from attack, and something primal in you tenses up. Waiting for the strike. For the snapping of jowls into your soft skin. 

None come. Stupid. Of course—

"Jus'a little scratch."

His hand leaves almost quickly as it appeared, and you drift aimlessly, unconsciously, after it. 

Snapped out of your strange reverie when Price calls out your name. Paperwork, probably. You've been hurt, and as a response—or a sneaky punishment—you have a mountain of forms to fill out, t's to cross, i's to dot. 

The weight of Ghost's gaze on you is almost as heavy as the heft of his hand, and you linger for a moment in that strange, phantom noose, wondering what it would feel like if he held on just a little bit—

"Go on, then," his chin jerks toward Price. "Get cleaned up." 

Something shifts inside of you. The open of a proverbial floodgate. 

It's instant:

The weight of his palm, the press of his fingers—you feel them against your skin, a phantom whisper. A breath. 

There's something almost comforting about the danger of exposure, you think. About bearing your neck to the biggest predator around. 

It's not an act of submission. You'd never submit to Ghost, much less anyone else, but—

There's a sense of vulnerability there. Trust. 

(It's that unseen edge of danger: a spark of life in a world that's always shades of muted grey, and draped in the folds of calamity. Death sits only a hair's breadth away no matter where you go. So close, you can feel the ghastly chill on your skin; always cold. Always freezing. You can set fire to your flesh, but your teeth still chatter.

For the first time in years, the skin on your neck burns with feverish heat.)

(The warmth fades. You chase it, pressing your fingers flat to your pulse, but still feel the icy drift of the waiting Sheol against your skin.

Cold to the touch once more.)

His fingers ghost along the skin of your wrist, skimming over your pulse. It’s soft. Gentle. A light brush that has no other meaning or purpose except to gain your attention— 

—and oh, doesn’t it just. 

Simon doesn’t let it linger. He pulls his hand away when your chin jerks toward him, and slides them into the pockets of his trousers. Hidden away. Out of reach. 

Your wrist burns. 

"Could've just said hello." 

His eyes are heavy under the hood of his sweatshirt and lined with the grease paint he couldn't scour off. Maybe he never even tried to. Glacier blue framed in ashen blonde. His eyes remind you of the sandstone cliffs that line the Corfu shore. Stark white. Deep blue. 

They're weighed down with something—exhaustion, maybe. The last you'd heard of him, he was chasing after leads that might link you to Shepherd with Gaz (who sent a dry text in the early morning, between the keds and the dad jokes, I don't know how anyone could be scared of this Manc; and: does the man ever sleep, or is he fuelled on Tenzing and spite alone?). And now—

“C’mere.” He murmurs, eyes heavy and lidded, sparking with something sharp, acrid. Humour, you think, heart stuttering in your chest. 

The word is uttered just as softly as the touch against your flesh, and the sound—the phantom memory of the featherlight brush—burns with the heat in his gaze, the warmth that seeps through the gloves, and into your skin. Bone deep. You can feel the burn of him congealing in your cartilage. 

"Finally gonna do me in?" 

It earns you a dry scoff, the barest hint of an eye roll. "If I wanted to, you wouldn't see me coming." 

"You could have just said no, never," you mock, stifling down a grin. "Or—I wouldn't even think about hurting you—"

The rest of the words are cut off when he steps closer. Liquid agility: he moves quickly for a man cut from Everest, sifting through the shadows with no more than a soft thud of his heel clipping the linoleum. Ghost looms before you in a blink, head tilted down to gaze at you. 

His hand lifts, knuckle grazing the swell of your cheek. It's softer than he has any right to be. A warm brush across cold skin. The Agulhas current colliding into the Somali. It ripples across your surface and rattles the rotting bones below. The empty husk of you trembles. 

"No," he murmurs, words distant and warbled under the roaring in your ear. You watch a flicker of something tremble across his face. A frisson shuddering too fast for your sluggish, mortal eyes to discern. 

You can't find the remnants of that ugly, gnarled thing that sometimes stares back at you when he's unaware. A beast hiding in a forgotten bivouac, creeping through the desolate ruins of a travesty that reek of upturned humus. A ghost disinterred from its slumber. 

But when you stare at him, bare-faced and uncertain, you see a darkening edge in the cuts of blue: deep canyons and crevasse that warm when your reflection swims in the glossy curve, wide eyes and parted lips filling the tenebrous, the shadows. 

The things, disentombed, are at rest. Clouded over by the shocked face that swims in endless pools of blue. 

"Never." 

"Oh," you murmur, honeyed sweet and viciously coy. "How sweet of you."

(It takes you a moment to realise he's mocking you.

Your heart still thunders like the words were true.)

Simon cleans the hilt of the knife for you, bare fingers scouring away the blood that stains the leather. He lets you watch as he works, content to lean against the wall in silence as he dabs a cloth in a petri dish filled with cleaning solution, and gently scours the stain from the hide. 

The motions are gentle, and familiarity bleeds into each swipe. This isn't the first time he scrubbed away the rotting blood of a dead man, and some part of you aches, stupid, knowing that it won't be the last. 

A testament to the age-old woes of an occupational hazard. 

Watching him work, silent and unbothered by your intrusion ("of all the bloody gits, you're somehow the least annoying. For now;"), fills you with a strange sense of comfort. Of longing. 

(Domesticity makes your teeth ache and your cheeks burn.)

His knuckles are bruised. He won't tell you how it happened. Doesn't say much outside of, it's done, already, so no sense in worryin' about it. 

You suppose he's right. No sense in dwelling over what you can't change. But the sight of his hands—bruised, cracked and bloodied—makes your mouth dry, and your heart race. 

There's something about his hands that captivate you.  

You can't stop staring at them. The memory of what his molten flesh felt like against your icy skin sears into you. The weight of his palm on your neck. Steady, solid. 

Something predatory had risen from within you, and cocked its head to the side, allowing him an ounce more of your flesh for him to take. To touch. 

A bear will seek the warmest cave to slumber after gorging itself on flesh and bone. A moth will kill itself just to touch an open flame. 

There's something alluring about heat. Flames. Fire. 

(Ghost smells of cedar embers: pyrolysis.

You're cold enough to want to burn the tips of your fingers in the open flame. To immerse yourself in the fire that'll char your flesh, and blacken your bones. Hollowed marrow, now filled with charcoal and brimstone.)

Your knuckles twitch. You curl your fingers into fists by your side. 

"Done," he says, sitting back in the chair, and shaking you from your reverie. 

He turns to you, the knife perched in his upturned palm. The leather is dark, wet, but the blood is gone. 

On the table, the water in the Petri dish is diluted pink. 

You let yourself linger when you reach for the proffered knife, knuckles grazing the rough flesh of warm, bare palm. Greedily catching tendrils of heat on the tips of your fingers. 

"Thanks."

His eyes brim with something you can't name. "Try to keep it clean, or you'll ruin the leather."

You want to say, no one told you to make it pretty for me in the first place, but you don't. You think, instead, of summit fever, of scaling walls. The view from the top of a mountain must be worth the risk, the danger. To see the curve of the earth, and pure blue of the horizon yawning for you. As close to god as a mortal can climb with their bare hands.

It hits you like a punch to the gut. The rock crumbling. The chossy wobbling. Your feet giving away, fingers scraping against the granite as you fall to the rocks below. 

He waits, eyes narrowing in that same shade of pensive contemplation as before. 

You're lingering too much. Touching him too openly. Greedily. You wonder why he lets you when you pull away, shamefaced and meek. 

(How much of it, you wonder, is an act and how much of it is real. Subconscious submission. Meek and unassuming. It rears inside of you, a skittish animal. But you're not scared. Not of him. Never.

A sick joke. Mortal folly. Something inside of you wants to know you're alive, and so—

Roll over and he'll think you're prey.)

You manage a shaky smile, mind racing to the same tremulous crescendo as the arrhythmic drum of your heart.

You don't meet his gaze. Can't when there's a deluge of something—ugly and awful—roaring through you at the sight of his hands, and the scars that cover them. Some, you note, deep enough to knick bone. False starts. Your teeth ache at the sight. Stomach knotting. Churning. 

Something vicious gnarls through the rotten entombment of your living heart. 

Gaze lowered. Neck bared. 

Hook, line—

"Got it, Lt." 

He fractures his fingers in Medellín after chasing a man through the barrios. They're cracked on the concrete when he jumps from the roof and catches it on a metal rod sticking out from the ashlar. 

Those same ones that tilted your jaw back, bones creaking under the strain of his grip.

Ghost doesn't flinch, of course—you don't even know they're broken until he asks for gauze and a splint at the safe house you're holed up in. You just see him swing that same hand out, catching the man by the throat when he tries to slip past. Steady. Solid. An expert killing machine, numbed to the pain, the carnage. 

Simon holds him tight to the wall by his jugular, barking out coarse questions, demanding answers. His voice carries (who are you working for? Where are the others? Gimme a reason not to snap your neck right now—), and you watch it all unfold from your perch on the rafters beside the alcove. 

Watching his six—supposed to be, anyway—but you can't stop staring at the way he dwarfs the other man. The curve of his fingers, long and thick, around his throat. It fits like a scarf. A neck brace. 

Simon's so—

Massive. Undeniably so. And seeing it like this is mesmerising. Hypnotic, almost. 

Whatever the man says is swallowed by the roaring in your ears; the rush of the wind whistling through the houses below. 

He gasps something out, eyes wide, and whatever it is, it makes Simon nod. 

Right, then. Target acquired. 

The moment his jaw snaps shut, information unveiled, he barely has a chance to beg before Simon's hand twitches. 

You hear the sharp snap from your perch above him, and barely have a moment to collect yourself before the man goes limp. Simon pulls away from him, a half step back, and without his support, he falls to the ground with a soft thud. 

His hand falls to his side when the man falls, and it's then, in the fading ochre streaking through the concrete, you notice the drops of red staining his gloves. They catch in the light—a Rorschach of brutality and death—and you can't stop staring at them. At his hands. 

A small thing, really. It's hardly anything noteworthy considering the litres of blood that saturate any of you on a particularly gruesome day, and yet something about the red smears on the back of his hands, staining the worn, faded white metacarpals catches your attention. Eyes glued to the way he shakes his big hand, as if throwing off the sting of split bones. 

(Even with splintered fingers, he was still able to snap a grown man's neck. The thought shouldn't be as enticing as it is.)

Later that night, you sit on your knees between his broad thighs, and gingerly take his bruised hand into yours. The contrast is laughable—his palm alone swallows the entirety of yours up. A cantaloupe to a satsuma. The mental image makes a smile crack on the corner of your mouth, a little twitch. 

He catches it. Always, always—

The hand that isn't several shades of indigo and burgundy lifts, settling on the curve of your jaw. Long, thick fingers splay out, stretching from the slope of your bone just below your ear, down to your chin. The entire expanse of your face cupped in his palm. 

Simon is a big man. Massive. 

(You sometimes forget that he's a direct descendant of Everest.)

Something inside of you gnarls, and tightens. There's always that thread of unease whenever he's juxtaposed to mortal men, to yourself; a lingering remnant, an atavistic fear for the beings that are bigger, broader than yourself. The primal instinct to run from the things that look like they could snap your bones into pieces with just their bare hands. 

It's a small thing, considering, and always washed away by the surge of desire that pools in the space it once occupied. 

He's big. 

(You've always had a fondness for heights.)

"Does it hurt?" 

If it does, he'll never admit to it; but you murmur the words, anyway—if only to feel the power in his hands when you move your jaw under his palm; the gentle resistance that meets you when you lower your chin, and hit the warmth of his skin.

"No," he says, and you fight back a smirk. "Are you finished yet?" 

His question pulls your attention back to his swelling hand, skin already turning glossy from the tumescence of inflammation. Irritated. Pulpy. The knuckles are split in the valleys; a deep divot of plum red. 

He has pretty hands, you think. 

Peached-tinged ivory dusted in a fine layer of coarse, flaxen hair, and broken into streams of scars and welts in a mosaic on his rough skin. Thick veins in ballpoint blue run from his knuckles to his forearms; all intersecting rivers that cross and meld into a confluence near the bend of his elbow. 

It's layered with fading charcoal ink pushed beneath his dermis. 

The slide of his palm is rough with a patchwork of scars that cut through his life line. Jagged little marks from the sharp end of a knife. Pockmarks from cigarettes. 

You like the way they feel on your skin. The weight behind them, the heat. The way they bend, and contort. Curling around the butt of a cigarette as he snipes game plans back and forth with Soap. Then the hilt of a rifle when he steadies it on concrete; playing God with gunmetal. 

The way they curl into loose fists by his sides when he's displeased, tense and ready for the impending alternation. 

How soft they are, then, when he slides the back of his hand against yours. Touches the small of your back, fingers curving around your waist when he pulls you close. 

The way he sometimes holds your face between his palms. 

You cover them up with the starchy gauze before lifting your chin to catch his gaze once again. 

His eyes are stagnant seas. 

You might think it's tranquillity that keeps the midnight blue surface from succumbing to the pull of the moon, and the tides; but that would be a fallacy. A death sentence. 

There's nothing calm in those depths. Below the thin film sits an endless abyss torn up by currents that carry the same inescapable grasp as the churning hydrology of a waterfall. It'll snatch you the moment you plunge into the blue, ripped through the water until it suctions you into a crevasse. 

But—

You hold his gaze as you lift your chin up, notching it higher until his hand slides down your jaw, palm now resting on the side of your neck. 

—You've never been afraid of drowning. 

"That's good," you murmur, tilting your head to the side until your neck is cupped in the palm of his hand. Algae blooms in those unfathomable depths when your pulse thuds against his thumb. "'Cause I was kinda thinking it would be nice to get your hands around my neck one of these days."

His hand twitches against your pulse. 

The usual caustic, derisive barbs and brackish quips are bereft from his hidden lips. You might mistake him as unbothered. Uninterested. But you've always been good at scraping off the veneer people tend to wrap themselves in, burrowing under their dermis, and the flash in those murky eyes—widened slightly at your words until it's a pretty polynya: icy white around a puddle of midnight blue—gives him away. 

His thumb slides down the column of your neck until it's pressed tight to the little jut of your jugular poking through thin, delicate skin. Ashen lashes flutter when you swallow against the soft press of his fingers; eyes flickering down, liquifying, as he takes in the way your muscles tense in his hand. 

He could close the entirety of his palm around the convex curve of your throat, and—if he really wanted to—his thumb and middle finger might meet in the back, nestled just above your spine. 

There's a heat simmering in your veins, stroked by the flex of his fingers as he mulls over what you're asking him for. The smooth, almost pensive way he brushes his thumb over your neck; an unconscious action, you think, with the way his lids dip, cresting over liquid black. 

His silence doesn't last long. Whatever conclusions he draws in that brief lull are tucked away, hidden from view, when he shifts in the old wicker chair.  

He leans forward a little—enough, you note, to hide the growing bulge in his slacks—and lifts his heavy gaze back to yours. 

"That so, pet?" 

It's rare you ever find Simon speechless, but you've known him long enough to know how to catch him off-guard. 

You swallow when his fingers thread through the loose hair along the curve of your ear, scratching his short nails along the skin of your skull. His thumb presses against the spot below your eye, lower lashes spilling over the tip of his finger when you blink up at him, eyes lidded with the weight of your want. Despite the languid, almost kittenish, way you tilt your chin until it's plinthed into his warm palm, your eyes are razors. Sharpened on the whetstone of your conviction. 

"Yes," you breathe. Your tongue runs across your bottom lip, as if chasing the words from lingering in the seam of your teeth. "That's so, Lt."

His fingers twitch at your words, eyes narrowing into those same contemplative slits as before. Then slowly, deliberately, he drags his hand down to rest once more over your jugular.

—sinker. 

Your nails dig into the hard flesh of his bicep until the skin breaks: crescent moons pool beneath the tips of your fingers. Red, raw. 

It makes him suck in a slow breath, the sound heavy in your ear. 

"Keep that up," he rasps, a livewire pressing into your naked chest. "And I'll have to do somethin' about it, pet." 

It's not an empty threat. You know Simon enough by now to know he never says anything he doesn't mean. But you still toss your head back, laughter slipping from your blood-red lips. High, you think, on the thrill of him. 

"Yeah? Promises, promises, Lt—"

A flash in liquid black. Napalm embers. 

One hand lifts, leaving the back of your knee. You know what's coming. Asked him for it, even, but it still takes you by surprise when his massive hand slips between your chin and neck, fingers curling until he has a perfect grip of your throat in his palm. Your head is forced back, pulse beats against his thumb; a frightened bird struggling in the grip of a predator. 

He isn't squeezing—not yet—but the hold he has on you is firm. 

You meet his stare, quivering in his arms. 

"Lay back." 

A slight pressure. You gasp. He feels the inhale under his hand, the thick swallow you take when he begins to push you down slowly. It makes him groan again when you lock up around his cock, tight and throbbing like the pulse under his fingers. 

"That's it." He holds you against the pillow. You don't test his grip, but you know it's ironclad. You're shackled to the bed. At his mercy.  

Tears burn your eyes. It's not fear, panic. The moisture leaking into the crease of your eyelids is involuntary. You want to tell him this, to let him know you want this, want his hand on your vulnerable neck.

You gasp quietly, the air barely slipping past the curl of his fingers—naked, warm, rough—on your skin. 

"Simon—"

"Relax," his voice is liquid sin; velvet draped over a kindling fire. The crackle floods you until you're panting, breathless. "C'mon…you can take it." 

Your fingers unfurl from his biceps, tips soothing along the irritated flesh, ghosting over scars—bullets, fire, knives, cigarettes: his flesh is a mosaic of history you're barred to ever uncover—but the way his muscles coil under the softness of your hands makes your chest lurch. 

You trail them down until you reach the thick forearm bent over your sweat-slicked chest, nails catching on the throbbing veins until you hear the rasp of his breath under the mask. 

Your palm is tiny, almost fragile, in comparison to his wrist. Wrapping your fingers around the thick of him is like holding onto the end of a bat. Your hands can only cup the width; a perfect crescent. 

It's that—the immense power, the strength of him, buzzing under his storied skin that makes your belly burn with the fever of your want. He's so—

Massive. 

Strong.

You can feel it, now. Fingers brush over the veins on the back of his hand, a seal around your throat, and you know that he's holding back. Has to. He could snap your neck with an ease that should terrify you. You've watched these same hands throw knives into men's throats. Watched them wrap around their necks, crushing the bones until the struggling ceased with a gut-wrenching snap, and they fell, limp, to the floor. 

His eyes flutter when you swallow, when your small, delicate throat works under his clutch. 

He has the capacity to ruin: 

Simon—Ghost—can break your neck without a flinch. 

And yet—

You meet his eyes, lips trembling, and then you slowly tip your head back. 

Submission. You give yourself to him wholly. 

(A toil—

come closer, pretty thing.)

Simon's breath stutters in his chest, his hand tenses. Eyes widened. The whites are stained with tendrils of red. 

His next breath is a snarl that bludgeons into your core. He leans down, cock jarring something inside of you that has the cosmos burning into your retinas. 

When he speaks, his words are raw. Scoured with sandpaper. It's almost animalistic when he growls your name, adds:

"So good for me, pet."

He matches the praise with a sharp jerk of his hips, sinking in deep until you can feel him throbbing in your sternum. 

When you clench, spasming around him, his fingers flex. 

It starts slow. 

He readjusts his grip until you're a perfect fit in the palm of his hand. A little bird begging for respite in the claw of a hungry lion. 

Ghost has never been a man of mercy. 

(And you'd long learned to stop trying to barter with a hurricane.)

There is no rhythm to the way he fucks you. An interrogation expert, skilled in torture, he keeps you on the edge the whole time. Left to do nothing but cling to him, and take it. All of it. Whatever he wants to give you. 

You suck in a breath, but it is stopped when his hand squeezes. Tighter, now. The air in your lungs is compressed, forced out until they're empty. 

His pulse beats against your throat. His heat is an inferno, a fever; he presses into you until you're panting, head soporific and gummy under the intense blaze of his body. Hard, firm: there is no give when you notch your knees to his ribs, pressing your caps into his flesh. He's unmovable. Unshakeable. 

Liquid pleasure spumes from that unfathomably deep place he batters into with his cock, and the tips of his fingers as he burrows both into your flesh. 

It's too much—

His hand drops from your knee, resting on the pillow beside your head. It brings him closer—now, almost chest to chest—and smothers the air from your lungs completely. His eyes, however, steal the last wisp of your breath away. 

Standing on the edge of a singularity, gazing into the event horizon. Black holes ready to swallow you whole. 

Bereft of oxygen, you begin to crumble in his hold. 

"That's it," he rasps, fingers tightening. "Fuck—you're so tight—gonna strangle me, pet—"

Your breath is clinched by the palm of his hand. Futile gasps, hiccups, spill from your lips as he shifts inside of you, bracing his knees on the bed, and driving forward until you see stars. Until you claw at his wrist, back arching like a bow. 

The cosmos tastes of gunfire. Smoke. The heavy scent clogs your throat until you're choking on the embers that seep from his skin.

"I'm not done with you, pet." His timbre pitches, low and sultry; a rough graze. A scraped knee. "I could do this for days."

It makes you whimper. Makes you thrash. He means it, too. Always. Always. He'll hold you down until you're drowning in it. 

Your head swims. Hypoxia bleeds into your eyes. 

"Simon…" you whimper when his hips slot into yours. "Simon. I'm—"

The words are swallowed down when he ruts into you again, driven mad by the clutch of your body, and the vulnerable way you look at him. His head drops, moussed hair tickling your nose. 

"Fuck, pet—," it's chiselled out of him. A warning, perhaps. Don't. Don't say any more. Don't—

His voice is polar when it drifts over you. The chill alone freezes the words in your throat. 

"You like this, don't you?" Detached. Distant. He can't let himself feel the quiver in your voice, the ache in your throat. If he lets himself have this, even a meagre amount of it—

You don't think he'll be able to let go. 

The words are tucked back into the pocket carved out in your ribs just for them. They'll sit until he's ready, until the storm in his Rorschach eyes dissipates—if, of course, it ever does. You'll wait for however long that might be, even if it lasts a lifetime. 

(closer, now—)

Your fingers spray wide over his skin, soothing and gentle—calm pets over a ruffled plumage—until you feel the tension bleed from his coiled muscles; softening back into the pliancy you've come to expect from him. 

He'll run if you're not careful. Flee. Disentangle himself from the weaved knots spooling between the fibrils of your bodies, atoms merging and moulding together in a joined entity. Severe himself even if it means losing limbs. 

You think of old dogs, strays. The ones that weave through the villages with matted fur, and battle scars; the wizened, grizzled muzzles from a short lifetime on the run. Wild, feral. Touches that don't cause hurt are bewilderingly foreign—the idea of a hand that doesn't maim, doesn't break is as unfamiliar to them as living inside of a home. 

The only way to gain their trust is patience. Perseverance. 

And so, you pull back. Let him breathe. 

"I love it, Simon."

The breathy utterance falling from your lips makes him twitch deep inside of you, a groan spilling out of the cage of his chest when he feels the vibrations of his given name against his naked palm. 

"Fuckin' hell, pet—," you might call it a snarl, a growl; a mangled curse in your likeness dipped in the palpable ache of his pleasure. 

He says nothing more. A man of little words and heavy actions, he shows you what he won't say, what he can't. 

His cock hits something deep inside that makes you see white; a nebula of bliss pooling deep inside of you until you're spasming over the absurd thickness of him. 

Ghost holds it for a moment, and it's that—the midnight hour pooling in black, covered in grease paint, and clothed under a thick balaclava—that, the subtle way he takes, takes, that makes you all too aware of who is fucking you right now. 

You're not fucking Simon. It's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. His eyes gleam in the light; dark and empty. Black holes pulling you in. 

He drags you to the edge until your eyes cross—hazy and unfocused, slipping into that blurred realm of semi-consciousness—and it's when you begin to slip down that precipice, head numbed and full of him, he pulls back. 

His cock bludgeons into you, seated deep, and when the head kisses the deepest part of you, grinding sharp, and intense, his grip on your neck eases. 

Air floods your lungs so quickly it hurts.

His name rushes out of you on the deep exhale, a wrecked, aching plea. It sounds like a hymn when you breathe it out, and the reverence of it makes him shudder. Makes his hand clench, and his cock throb. 

You feel it all. The deep twitch inside of you. The spasm of his knuckles. The way the air clicks in his throat, catching in his larynx. A thick swallow. Another spasm. You take it all. Everything. 

No one wrenches you open, leaving you raw and exposed, like Simon. A wound that never heals. A sickness that never dissipates. You carry the weight of him between your ribs and thundering heart. A place of safekeeping, protecting this precious knot that gnarls inside of you from everything else out there that might want to hurt it. It thrums now, dizzy with the feeling of him so close to you. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, reaching down to snag both of your wrists in the wide expanse of his palm. He drags them up, arched high above your head on the pillow stained with your sweat. The brassbound grip of his hold, locking you tight in the cup of his hand when he presses them into the pillow steals the last vestiges of air from your lungs. 

The hold on your neck eases. His long, thick fingers brush over the smooth column of your throat. You suck in a deep breath, letting it fill the vacancy of your lungs, and take the rich, dewy scent of him in until it clots to the fibrils inside. 

Filled, you think, to the brim with him.

He smells of chemise, tonyon, and dried hawthorn. Wet chaparral after a wildfire scorched the thicket to cinder and ash. 

With him perched above you, now drenched in the fullness of him—his smell, his touch, the way he sounds when he fits deep inside of you—you find the once unutterable words again. 

They've been buoying up and down for months now, maybe even years. Always left to rot in their esophageal prison, but as your airways open up, as this moment of utter vulnerability and underlying trust brims inside of you, hotter than the bliss burning through your core, they slip out, tangled up in the way you breathe his name. 

The orison rings with the palpable weight of your wants, oiled in the gossamer of your pleasure. It lingers in the scant space between you. 

Simon shudders as it tickles against his skin. A featherlight whisper over naked flesh stained with the brine of sex. 

You gaze up at him, burning the sight of him arched above you like the fruition of your yearning carved in flesh and bone, and a part of you selfishly hopes the barbed hooks of those words you're barred from saying sink into his pale flesh. Piercing deep enough to sink into his bloodstream. 

Infectious. Incurable. 

It's dark, and awful, and full of that ugly longing that makes your teeth ache to mark him up for the world to see, to know, that he's been conquered, claimed. Stupid. Silly. Infantile. You can't own a person, can't chain them to you through ichor and offerings, and yet—

Ghost groans when your teeth find purchase in the meat of his shoulder, a rough noise that rattles through your empty bones, and fills the barren space where humanity once beat. 

—You spill his blood on the altar. A sacrificial offering. Yours to keep. 

"Fuck," he rasps, the word sticking to the side of his raw throat. "Tryin'a give me a new scar, pet? Don't got enough already?"

Despite the weight of the words, they're uttered with a caveat that's almost indiscernible had you not the wherewithal to know him as intimately as you do. Equivalency bleeds in the vowels. 

It comes as no great surprise, then, when he huffs in your ear, dips his chin, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse point, just above the place where his thumb rests. 

(Matching offerings. A tangled web.)

The sharp sting condenses into a blistering pleasure: a damnable bliss. It's the victory of your acquisition, the satisfaction of your merger. Your release bludgeons into you—a mix of euphoria and pain—and the world around you wobbles, narrows. There's a pinpoint where only the hazy shadow of ashen hair fills your periphery. The dark silhouette of a man you itch to pry open and burrow inside. 

A muted noise spills from the back of your throat. His name, maybe (Simon, Simon, Simon), but it's swallowed by his wet groan—blood-drenched and bitter. 

Maybe it's the bitter tang of you on his tongue, or the dribble of red on the corners of your mouth, caught when he flickers his gaze up to your own, catching the smear of his blood staining your lips, but he shudders above you. Rumbling like an earthquake. The clash of plates grinding together. It splits you down the middle, and shakes the chill from your bones until you're a molten mess of liquified limbs: polymer bones, bubbling blood. 

You melt into the mattress below with a hymn of his name—a blasphemous orison that has no place amongst the debauchery of sex-soaked sheets, and blood-stained teeth, but fits like a second skin when it brushes past your lips. 

Simon follows. He says your name—a rough and gritty howl in the back of his throat—and then he's burying himself so deep inside of you that something breaks apart, gives, and the consuming hole, the vacuum he wrought, is filled with him. Him, him. A void. A cenote. 

A gaping chasm of rot, need. Unquenchable.

"Fuck—" he snarls like a beast, the words crushing your ribcage, and leaking brimstone in your empty marrow. "Feels so fuckin' good, pet—"

There's something alluringly victorious about catching the biggest predator in the pen. A man made of death now bowing at the knees with just a flash of vulnerability; the slightest tilt of your delicate neck. 

A string coils around your finger, pulling taut when you tug. 

Bones ache when you move. Muscles scream when you swallow. Still, you lean forward, and syphon the heat from his skin, the blood from his veins. 

Your spoils to keep, wrapped up prettily inside a diaphanous web. 

Your nails rake across his flesh when you pull him close, curling around him in a spooled knot. When you grin, you feel the thick film of blood on your teeth. Vicious, victorious. "We match now, Simon." 

He might run.

But you've always been good at running: a long-distance sprinter in perpetual motion.

(You'll catch up, no matter where he goes.)

And when he breathes your name through the wet fabric of his mask, trembling with his release, you know that some things are worth chasing after. 

"You, uh… got anything to tell me?"

Gaz can't keep his eyes from straying to the moulted bruise on your neck—a startling smear of charcoal, flaxen, and indigo, broken in a perfect crescent of teeth—and each glance feels like a physical touch to your sensitive, inflamed skin.

It's childish. Immature. 

(You wear it proudly, flaunting your win to the world.)

"Not really," you shrug, body buzzing with heat. It simmers in your veins now. Syphoned warmth that spools in your bloodstream, leaks from your marrow. "Just tamed a stray over the weekend. You know how it is."

There's a strange cut in melted brown. A look you're much too familiar with. One might mistake it as condemnation, scorn, but you know Gaz. The quirk of his lips gives him away. 

"A stray, huh?" He intones contemplatively, timbre breezy, light, as he was mentioning the weather in Birmingham. Light drizzle, should clear up in the aft'. "Don't come aggin' to me when this backfires on you, yeah? Some never learn to stop biting." 

Gaz pointedly looks out toward the table where Ghost and Price pour over another set of documents—shoulders drawn tight as they toss ideas and plans back and forth—before turning back to you. 

"But I guess you know all about that already."

The barb in his tone—equal parts admonishing, and scathingly facetious—prickles against your skin. You offer a small smile, a languid shrug, and let your gaze drift, dragged back to Ghost. 

His hands are wrapped in white, his mask pulled over his neck, hiding your mark from the world. Another scar on top of a storied history of others, but far kinder than anything else he'd ever received. 

It prickles in your gums when you see him, and makes heat fill your chest when his eyes list to you, to Gaz, as if he can feel your stare, even when you're tucked away in a hidden crevasse, watching, waiting.

He won't come closer. Not when everyone else is around, but you catch the hunger in his gaze when you tilt your chin, exposing the soft, vulnerable curve of your neck, baring the bruise for him to see. It's rough, abrading. His eyes scrape over the varicoloured smear with a rapacious greediness that burrows under your skin. 

"I'm learning," you murmur, words muted, heavy with something that tastes like triumph when it slips out. "Baby steps, right?"

Ghost turns away first, tearing his gaze from the bruise on your neck, muscles tensing as he ducks his head, and forces his attention back to Price. 

In the corner of the room, a spider reaps the spoils of its fruit: a webbed sarcophagus around an exhausted fly that has long since given up on the struggle to get free. 

It opens its maw, fangs glinting in the jaundiced light.

Vicious, victorious: it feasts. 

(You drag your tongue over your warm lips, and feel the stirrings of hunger gnarl inside you once more.)

[aeolianblues]

Aaahhh, I'm so nervous, I'm packing for London, and my whole family has spooked me out about the cultural differences between dressing in North America and the UK, going all 'oh Brits and Europeans, they really don't appreciate North American slacker dressing, they dress less casually than you guys so you better pack your best clothes especially for when you go out' and I'm like... ?? Are you thinking of Victorians, European socialites or telling me that Brits don't wear jeans and a tee, what's going on.

Like my look for the last few weeks has been 'rockstar at a photoshoot' (kinda taken from Razorlight's mid-00s shoots ngl), the look of mildly interesting graphic tee with jeans or trousers tucking in the shirt and a sorta smart jacket on top, which works great with the weather getting colder. And just because people rarely ever see me without one, a scarf (I just think they're neat). I'm not sure I'd call that slacker, like I sure as hell shouldn't need to go for 'jaw dropping backless strapless dress with rhinestone-encrusted pencil heels' in order to look formal, UGH. I am 100% cis but I really struggle with 'smart' dressing expectations for women.

Being away from home for a few years for uni was one of the best things I did because suddenly there was an option, that I could set a hard boundary that wearing dresses wasn't for me, that I didn't necessarily need to turn up in perfectly smooth, waxed legs and a skirt, masterfully pulling off some impressive heels and smiling the right way with a big smile on my playfully, youthfully sparkly lip-glossed lips. Suddenly, I could simply exist outside of that if I wanted to. The push and pressure to have appropriate 'evening wear' and an evening wear-appropriate body have been guns to my head for like a decade now. And I have never once looked comfortably, confident or happy in one of those.

Being on my own, going out to shops without my family, slowly my own taste began to emerge. I found my styles, I found my layers. My 'bad, slacker American' look (we're not even American). I found the scarves, the quarter zips, the military-style/Libertines jackets, the open shirt tied around your waist, a neckerchief, cargos with a billion pockets, bell bottoms, cuffed jeans, bold coloured jackets. Long sleeves under tees. Cool sunglasses. Boots. I've been approached by actual strangers who have only come up to tell me that they love my look (thankfully when my friends were around because I could literally never talk about this unprompted) (cheers 'Graham'!!) I can't or won't talk about it, but after 25 billion lectures by my mum, my grandma, my dad occasionally, like of course I'm going to remember someone saying that and it's going to be a big counterpoint in my mind!! Is that not 'smart' enough for you???

It's unfair, really. I'm not a fashionista. I'm not a stylish person just like that. I have actually had to think about what to wear, and I'm sure I've made like, colour faux pas and fashion no-nos, but that's the best I can do! I do not give a fuck to do more! It shouldn't be my job to do more than this! I should not have to be a fucking princess-in-training with my graceful walk and red-carpet-woman-dressing sense available on speed dial. That's not my world. Why are the expectations on women so fucking high.

Or just absurd, I think I could show up in a cute lil black dress, my legs horribly red in places from imperfect and probably painful as hell attempts to get rid of any semblance of hair, untoned as you were, odd colourations and probably even dry ngl, and look very awkward and uncomfortable, and my grandma would beam at me approvingly for 'attempting to look like a girl' but I could be the fucking coolest person in the room absolutely killing it in trousers and a smartly layered white band shirt that's the conversation opener that I'm just winning the room with, and still my grandma would take me aside, point to my cousin in a cocktail dress and go, look at her, can't you at least try to make an effort? For me? Look, girls look so nice :) in a dress, you should wear one too. And it'll be so awkward and I'll want to die in that moment and I'll be thinking, did you not see any effort in this?

And it won't fucking matter, I'll be dealing with this shit until at least one of us is in the ground. It's going to be this non-stop for the next two weeks that we're on holiday. All I was largely mindful of was that the UK (for some reason) seems to despise the puffer jackets that North America (on account of being COLDER) cannot do without. Now I don't own a coat of the sort a chic Londoner would wear because it was 0 degrees here last night. When do you want me to wear a thin, formal coat, two days in October? It'll be -3 soon enough. That coat won't do, I'll need a sweater, I'll need a windproof jacket on top that's not wool. By mid-November, it'll be -7 that gets colder as the wind blows. Your coats from even up north in the UK would be useless there! You've got to dress for where you live, it's much too cold up here for that, unless you're gonna add another layer over that. It's not 'slacker American casualness', it's that the closer you get to the Arctic, it gets colder...

So like. Apologies, United Kingdom. I have to bring my ugly puffy jacket with me, when I go back home in January it's gonna be -21 degrees. I can't care what five people at the airport think then.

I'm just nervous about the packing, but it's possible I'm also just nervous about my family's expectations. I am pretty confident you'll find the word 'jeans' in the Oxford English Dictionary.

[poppadom0912]

Gymnastics

Characters: Jay Halstead x Sibling!Reader, Will Halstead x Sibling!Reader

Warnings: Annoying girls, incorrect gymnastics, incorrect justice system, injuries, drugs, blood etc.

Summary: Today was your time to shine but someone just had to ruin it.

A/N: Hello, hello, hello. So it’s been a month since I last updated but i am officially back in business now that all my exams are over and education is done till September. I will be much more consistent in my writing now that I’ve got so much free time but I can’t promise much because my inspiration is still haywire.

I have never once seen gymnastics competitively and google was no help in the legal department so I apologise for any mistakes in advance. But I do hope you enjoy this!!

I also wrote this on my phone so there will probably be several mistakes.

"Are you sure blue's my colour?" You asked with uncertainty, smoothing down non-existent creases in your leotard. Last night, you were more than confident that everything was going to be perfect but now that you were standing in front of a mirror in the dressing room, you were starting to second guess yourself.

"Girl, that teal blue and your luscious red locks are a match made in heaven!" You best friend scoffed, a smile on her face as she looked at you incredulously, shocked that you were even doubting your appearance in the first place.

Tilting your head to the side, you hummed. She was right, you looked great and boy were you glad you got the good looking genes from your family.

Unfortunately for everyone today, Will and Jay couldn't make it because of work and you immediately understood. Being an ER doctor and a detective in Chicago was a big job in itself so when they sat you down the other night and remorsefully explained, you knew you'd be by yourself.

But, you had Emily and she'd been by your side every step of the way. gymnastics was actually how the two of you met. You were there on your own free will, her mother was forcing her but after sharing that class when you were five, you'd been as thick as thieves, even when she quit and started volleyball.

"I'm sorry that Jay and Will couldn't be here." Emily said, standing next to you, helping fix your hair when your were struggling to keep your baby hairs down. "But, I'm recording everything so they don't need to worry-"

Emily cut herself off, her eyes wide as she looked in the mirror that the two of you were standing in front of. Confused, your followed her gaze and the biggest smile broke out on your face.

Whipping your head around, you looked at your two idiots dumbfounded. What the hell were they doing here? Most importantly, how did they get in?

"What are you guys doing here?" You asked still shocked, going up to them and wrapping your arms around them individually. It was only now you also noticed they were in their normal day to day clothes-

Nevermind. You could see Will's doctor ID sticking out his pocket with his wallet and phone and Jay's badge and gun was secured on his belt.

"Did you just come from work? Why?" You asked again, your brows furrowed as you stepped back.

"You think we'd miss this?" Will asked rhetorically, holding his hand out for you to stop when you opened your mouth to reply. "It's a rhetorical question Y/N, of course we'd be here."

"Getting today off was easy." Jay shrugged, his lips tugging up into a smirk as he finally addressed your sparkly blue leotard. "You look great."

You rolled your eyes, swatting his hand away from touching your shoulder. You did not need him getting glitter everywhere now at all times.

"You know what, how about you guys go find your seats so I can finish getting ready in peace?" You said snarkily, walking towards your bag for your water bottle and your phone.

"You sure?" Will asked, wanting to make sure you had everything you wanted and needed. If you really wanted to be alone then they'd grant you that.

"Yeah." You nodded, gesturing for Emily to join your brothers. "The competitions about to start soon anyways."

Emily nodded without any reluctancy, having spent the entire morning with you. Bouncing on her toes, she was a ball of excitement. With a quick and brief hug, letting your brothers do the same, she showed them to their seats.

"Break a leg kid!" Jay smiled, wishing you the best of luck so that you could win the competition you'd been dreaming of.

"Don't listen to him, do anything but break your leg." Will tsked, pushing Jay out the changing room. "Good luck and kick their asses."

"Don't swear!"

"Jay! Let's move!"

Their arguing slowly faded away. You laughed, shaking your head at your stupid older brothers shenanigans because even though they were acting like a bunch of five year olds, they still managed to show up and now doubt, they were going to show out with their encouraging cheers.

"Where's it gone?" You whispered to yourself, emptying your duffle bag into the bench, all of its contents falling out, everything but your water bottle and your flask.

It'd become a thing since you started gymnastics. You always had a water bottle and a flask with a drink that usually had electrolytes to help you before, after and in-between. You swear your packed your bag this money, you triple checked with a checklist and everything.

Grumbling under your breath, you were stretching your arm out to grab your phone and text whichever brother was higher up your contacts so one of them could get your liquids but you stopped yourself upon the dressing room door being pushed open.

"What do we have here? If it isn't my favourite gymnast, Y/N Halstead."

Kelly-Marie was your all time nemesis since you started preschool. You weren't too sure how it all started out but you couldn't really care less. No matter how you acted, nice or horrible towards her, she was keen on making your life a living hell in and out of school.

Rolling your eyes, your swallowed back any snarky remark and remained crossed legged on the cold floor. Boredly, you looked up at her through your lashes, not wanting to waste any time of day on her because a minute was too precious for her.

"What do you want Kelly?" You asked, looking up at her briefly before going back to your phone to continue doing what you planned on doing.

"I just came to do two things, so simple even a raccoon could do it." She smiled, her hands behind her back obviously holding something.

Once again, you held back from replying, instead biting your tongue so hard that you could probably draw blood but the annoying voices of your brothers telling your off for hurting yourself if what stopped you.

"Good luck Halstead." She said smugly, her ivy green leotard sparkly under the lights on the changing room. "May the best gymnast win."

From behind her back, she pulled out two very familiar looking bottles causing your brows to furrow in confusion and curiosity. How the hell did she get her hands on your things?

Cautiously, you took your bottles from her hands, setting it down on the bench. Now that you were standing up, you were now chest to chest and thank goodness you didn't inherit your mother's height. You got your height from your brothers which meant you were taller than Kelly, you could look down at her a little. Such a small notion putting you on a higher pedestal than her.

"I'll see you on that podium Kelly." You replied calmly, not letting yourself get worked up over her. You weren't going to get someone as petty as her ruin your day.

Sashaying her hips, she walked away, her dirty blonde hair yet to be put into its bun that Kelly wore.

Burning holes into the back of her head, you gulped down your drink, the fact that Kelly found it and willingly gave it back to you on her own accord going over your head.

*****

Despite her name being Kelly-Marie, her surname was Ainsley which meant she went before you. You had mixed feelings. Her going first meant she would be hard to beat since she set an expectation for the rest of the competitors but it also gave you time to judge and compare your routine to hers.

And you could proudly say that when she finished, you were only filled with more confidence.

Bouncing on your toes, you blew out several puffs of air, smiling at your three supporters who were sitting next to you, keeping you company before it was your turn.

Both your water and drink was half finished and it it wasn't for Will who said you'd need to go toilet once it was your go that stopped you.

You didn't want to mention that you were starting to feel light headed, you could feel beads of sweat also starting to collect on your forehead because you'd have an entire doctor assessing you for problems which you obviously didn't have, you were just nervous and needed to win this; you wanted to win this so badly ever since the prime age of five.

Ignoring Kelly's haughty laugh as she skipped away to her filthy rich parents, you rolled your shoulders back so they wouldn't be so tense.

"Alright squirt, go show em what you got." Jay massaged your shoulders from behind you, bending down so he could speak in your ear alike to a coach. Speaking of your coach, she was rounding the rest of the girls from the changing rooms so they could watch you light up the room.

"Wooo! Go Y/N!" Your brothers shouted in sync, clapping as you got onto the mats once your name was called out. You sent them a bright smile, chuckling at your short best friend who was jumping up and down in encouragement.

Inhaling deeply, your swatted away the nagging voice at the back of your head telling you to sit down. Your hands felt clammy which was very unlike you and your throat felt weird.

Despite feeling fully hydrated, the room started to move, colours and people meshing together but that all went away with aggressively rubbing your eyes.

With your songs slowly bleeding out of the speakers, the mats vibrating coursing through your body, you swallowed back your desperate need to throw up. What the hell was wrong with you?

Not giving it another thought, the only thing on your mind being that you crushed this competition, you mumbled a quick prayer under your breath and the floor was all yours.

Your flips and rolls all started off perfectly precise. Your talent mixed with your red hair and blue costume was so mesmerising to watch from a distance, the whistles and encouraging shouts only proving so.

It was now that time in your routine that you got onto the balance beam, one of your favourite things to do whether you were upright or upside down but you felt less than excited to get on. Something was definitely wrong.

Jay and Will noticed it straight away. The way you faltered, swaying once you attempted to stand up straight with your shoulders back but from afar, they could only speculate on your wellbeing.

But then, despite you endless efforts to remain upright and continue on, you fell.

Now, the fall was from a big height but hitting your head on the beam and landing awkwardly on your foot caused you some damage.

Gasps echoed across the hall, everyone either on their feet or in their chairs, mouths agape at the sight of your limpy body falling onto the mats.

Without a second thought, your two brothers, who had been on their feet through the entire routine you attempted to finish, were apologising while they squeezed their way out the row of seats, running down the small steps and straight towards you.

Getting onto his knees, Will knelt by your side, his hands going to your pulse point on your neck, sighing in slight relief when it was there but it was weak.

On instinct, Will relayed everything he did aloud, not realising that he was actually doing it. Luckily for him, it allowed for Jay to be kept in the loop even if he didn't understand quite a few of the words that he was hearing. Also, no one from the public could hear so that too worked in their favour.

Putting his ear close to your nose, Will held his own breath while he waited for yours. It came out occasionally, along with the unsteady rise and fall of your chest but you were breathing.

Somewhat happy at his findings, Will began rubbing your sternum, the glitter feeling like sandpaper against his fingers and knuckles. It was only when you groaned, eyes still screwed shut that Will stopped.

"Y/N, can you hear me?" Will asked, not fazed by the blood coating his fingers when he checked the back of your head. "You with us sweetheart?"

"I'm calling it in." Jay said once he saw that you were bleeding from your head, even if you weren't, he wasn't going to take any chances.

"What's wrong? Is she okay?" Emily stood a metre or two away from your unconscious body. She desperately wanted to hold your hand but didn't want to be in the way. Her eyes widened at the sight of blood seeping from your hair and onto the blue mats. All of a sudden, she was assuming the worst.

With his hand back on your sternum, trying to wake you up properly, Will looked over his shoulder only to find an anxiety ridden Emily. "Hey, Emily, can your breath for me?"

"Um, yeah." She licked her lips, nodding repeatedly as she did so. "I'm okay, what do you need?"

"Can you check her bag? See if she ate something off or if she took something." Will hated the words that rolled off his tongue so easily but he had to tick all the boxes.

"Yeah, I can do that." Emily nodded again, taking small steps backwards, taking one last good look at you before rushing off towards all your belongings.

Your mumbles were basically incoherent, your lips too heavy to move but the words you were trying to make out caught the attention of both your brothers, their heads snapping up to yours.

"And there she is." Will said with a smile, relieved that you were no conscious. "Jay, keep her head straight, who knows if she's got a spinal injury."

"I thought you could check for that in the field?" Jay asked, swearing that he remembered Will telling him something along those lines one night.

Will rolled his eyes. "I can but I don't want to risk anything, it can be done at the hospital."

"She's definitely broken her foot." Will winced, gently feeling around for anymore broken bones, trying to see if you hurt yourself more than what they could see.

There weren't any signs but somehow, it was either the experienced doctor or the experienced brother but Will knew what was about to happen.

"Move her onto her side." Will rushed out, moving you along with Jay as fast as possible. With no argument, Jay listened to his older brother and within seconds, you were throwing up.

"She's ingested something." Will said lowly, rubbing circles into your breath as you finished up.

Before Jay could reply, Emily came running back with your two bottles in hand. "We ate brunch at our usual place and these are the only thing she's had since then." She said, gesturing to the two bottles in her hand.

Without a second thought, Jay shared a look with Will who nodded, silently telling him he had it from here. Getting back onto his feet, Jay told Emily to keep those bottles with her unless he told her to let go.

"Alright, listen up!" Jay shouted, not bothered that his voice echoed throughout the hall. "No one leaves! And I don't care what it is or who you are, no one means no one!"

Even if Jay wasn't a detective, he very easily would've spotted the family of three trying to escape from the corner of his eyes. "Excuse me! Did you hear nothing I said?!"

The family of three all halted, turning back one by one to glare at Jay because who was he to tell them what they could and couldn't do.

"Well, excuse me but just who do you think you are?" The woman replied. She had on heels and was wearing a black and green pantsuit, matching with her husband and her daughter. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

Jay rolled his eyes, he really wasn't in the mood. "No, i don't know who you are and I really don't care either."

"Watch your tone young man!" The woman tsked, scolding him like he was her child. "You have no right to hold us against our will."

Not wanting to hear the woman's whiny voice continue scolding him, Jay wasted no time unclipping his badge and showing it right to her face.

"Detective Jay Halstead, badge number 51163 with the intelligence unit.” Jay said with ease, almost robotically with a straight face, his lips curling into a smirk at the speechless family. "Once again I want to reiterate, no one leaves."

"Jay! The paramedics are here!"

*****

Without asking, once the paramedics arrived and saw the Halstead brothers, there were no questions asked about going to Med. Before they left, intelligence rolled onto the scene.

The details had been kept light and for a good reason. All Jay needed to say was that he possibly caught something and he needed someone, probably Voight but everyone ended up coming after hearing Jay needed help.

Walking into the hall, only now did they remember why Jay asked for today off and it was like a scene out of a movie when they all entered the competition hall.

You were being put onto the stretcher and wheeled away, Will telling Jay he was going with and he could come with them.

Despite his heart urging for him to follow his two siblings, Jay insisted on staying so he could hand everything over and as soon as he was done, he'd be over at Med.

Explaining the situation, Jay took the two bottles from Emily, putting them in an evidence bag before telling your best friend to go with Kim who was going to take her statement.

It took ten minutes max for Jay to relay everything he knew to Voight before he was being forced away. Family meant everything and even if you weren't blood you might as well have been.

At Med

"Alright, talk to me Courtney- Will?" Maggie cut herself off, walking besides the stretcher even as she stared at the doctor in shock. "What are you doing here on your day off-"

Once again, Maggie cut herself off, glitter catching her attention. Looking down, Maggie was shocked to find the youngest Halstead semi-unconscious.

With a knowing glance, Maggie shouted for any free doctor roaming around the ED which just so happened to be Connor. "Rhodes! With me in three."

With plenty of ease, everyone helped transferring you onto the gurney. Will extensively explained how you got your injury and the aftermath, only mentioning all the medical details, leaving out the very large blanks.

Allowing Connor to do his job, Will stood back and prayed that you'd come out alright. In his mind, you had an amazing success rate but it was the brother in him that made him think otherwise.

*****

With you still unconscious, Will forced Jay to leave and go back to where the competition was being held. He promised the second you woke up, Jay would be his first call.

The entire unit was still at the centre, questioning everyone. Antonio was currently talking to a very angry Mrs Ainsley.

"Emily's going to go the Med with her mum, I've got everything I need from her." Kim said, approaching Jay as soon as he entered the hall. "Took Y/N's bag and all her stuff to forensics."

Jay hummed, clenching and unclenching his jaw as his eyes remained glued to the three member Ainsley family. "Will said they'd get a toxicology report."

"That's good." Kim said, pressing her lips together as she looked at her colleague apprehensively. "How is she?"

"Unconscious." Jay kept it short, not wanting to think about you lying in a hospital bed. "Will wouldn't let me stay, annoying bastard."

Kim smiled, walking with Jay further into the hall. Before she could comment about how Will was only being any ordinary older sibling, she was stopped by a furious yell.

All eyes turned immediately to the rich woman who had now lost all composure. Kelly-Marie stood boredly in her leotard still, arms crossed as she waited without a care in the world.

Jay had been on the receiving ends of your rants way too many times - he's lost count at this point - but he clearly remembers several of them being about one person in particular.

"Kelly Ainsley?" Jay called out the teenager, stepping towards her, making sure his badge was on show along with his holstered gun that he completely forgot to take off.

"It's Kelly-Marie." The blonde sassily corrected him, looking him up and down with lots of judgement. "Who's asking?"

"Detective Halstead, Y/N's brother remember?" Jay asked rhetorically. "I've seen you around quite a lot. You've been in the same team as Y/N since you started."

No one was going to point it out but Kelly-Marie visibly gulped, her posture changing at the mention of being your older brother. Not only did she remember him but she heard things about the older Halstead brothers, she knew to be wary.

"Kelly, I've got some questions for you."

*****

When you woke up, you couldn't remember a thing. You recalled the competition and you remembered your name being called but that was it, after that, it's all murky and hazy.

Groggily you sat up, wincing at the pain shooting through your body, coming from no place in particular. What the hell happened?

Looking down, you found your hair had been taken out of its tight ponytail and your hair fell freely down your shoulders. You were also dressed in a hospital gown, your teal blue leotard probably cut up in a bin bag somewhere.

Confusion flooded you. Why were you all alone? Not that it hurt not seeing your brothers glued to the chairs by your bedside but you were genuinely curious about their whereabouts.

Before you could press the button to call for a nurse, the curtains were pulled opened and you never felt more relief than you did now.

The first person you saw was Will who did a double take upon seeing you awake, alert and sitting perfectly upright.

"Hey, how you feeling sweetheart?" He smiled at you, coming to your side to gently pull you into a hug, pressing the lightest but a very meaningful kiss into your hairline. "You gave us a scare y'know?"

You winced. "Yeah, about that, what happened?"

"You don't remember?" Will pulled back, looking down at you in concern but for some reason, he didn't seem surprised.

"Um, I remember getting ready and going onto the mats when my name got called but its all fuzzy after that." You said, squinting your eyes as you tried your hardest to try and remember but it only sent a wave of pain to course through your head.

"Yeah, let's not do any of that." Will said, grimacing when you winced through the pain, squeezing his hand as tight as you could without breaking any bones.

"Emily and her mom will be back tomorrow." Jay said, his badge now hanging from his neck. His eyes were on his watch as he walked into the treatment room. "Voight and Antonio are with the Ainsley's."

"The Ainsley's? What did they do?" You asked, genuinely wanting to know what a horrible person like Kelly-Marie and her parents had to do with all of this.

"Y/N." Jay said breathlessly, like all the breath had been knocked out his lungs. He'd never felt more relieved ever in his life than he did right now. "Thank goodness you're awake, we were so worried."

"Okay yeah, I get it. You were worried about me but what about the Ainsley's?" You waved off your brothers concern, curious to what happened to your long time nemesis and her parents.

Will and Jay shared a look, having a silent conversation with merely their eyes. It was something they always did when it regarded you and you always hated it. Even as you got older, they never stopped.

"Y/N, you were drugged." Will told you straight, deciding that beating around the bush would be useless.

Your lips formed on o shape, nothing coming out as you sat in shock. Trying to retain the very short and simple words, you looked at your brothers back and forth until it all dawned on you.

"It was my bottle, wasn't it?" You asked in realisation of when you could've taken any drugs. "What was it?"

Jay looked hesitant to answer you but knew you wouldn't let up. Holding your hand in his, allowing you to squeeze as hard as you wanted, he told you as gently as he could.

"GHB." Jay said grimly, looking at you closely for your reaction. "It's also called the date rape drug."

You felt like being sick.

“Wow.” You breathed out. For a second, you forgot how to breathe. “I know we hate each other but…”

You struggled to find the words, mouth agape as you looked at your brothers back and forth dumbfounded.

Finally, you set your eyes on Jay and asked. “What’s going to happen to her?”

Jay swallowed harshly, you could tell from how his adams apple moved and how tense his jaw was. His eyes met Wills for a few brief seconds before looking back down at yours.

“The most that we can legally do is charge her as a minor. We can request for things such as community service and probation if jail doesn’t stick.” Jay told you carefully, unsure of how you were going to react. “Her parents are rich and have a lot of influence but we’ll be pushing hard, don’t you worry.”

You hummed, fully understanding the means Jay was willing to go through just for you. You couldn’t help but feel guilt but you also couldn’t help the tears of anger that began to blur your vision.

“Hey, hey. It’s all going to be fine, alright?” Will said, squeezing your hand three times before lowering the bedside barriers and sitting besides your legs. “No matter what happens we’re always here and-“

“And worse case scenario, we just happen to know tons of people who are willing to do a favour or two if we need them.” Jay smirked, cutting of Will’s thoughtful words with his own that hinted as illegal violent behaviour.

“Jay, you are literally in my ER. Don’t even try it.” Will said with the smallest smile on his face while trying to sound serious. The threat was very clearly implicated though when Jay held his hands up in surrender.

“Okay but Y/N, let me remind you that Hank Voight is my boss-“

“Jay!”

[jazzythursday]

Prompts: Dressing | Sensitive (721 words)

It’s a known and documented fact that Wylan likes wearing Jesper’s clothes. 

He’s been doing it almost as long as they’ve been together. Slipping his arms into Jesper’s soft shirts in bed, nicking his rings to fiddle with and twist around his fingers during the day. Stealing a jumper left over the bed post or at the back of the wardrobe on colder days to wear as he sketches or tinkers, when there’s nothing to call him away from their room. Lifting his ridiculously loose ties over Jesper’s head and putting them around his own neck before moving to undo buttons. 

It’s like a reminder, like a message that says Jesper Fahey was here. An added layer of warmth and comfort when he puts on one of Jesper’s shirts in the small hours of the night. One that proves every morning they wake up together that it’s all real. 

Jesper’s clothes are as loud as the sharpshooter himself. He mixes patterns and colours Wylan wouldn’t ever dream of considering for himself. But somehow, Jesper manages to pull them off. 

“I dress to impress,” Jesper had said, the time Wylan commented on the fact that going to the Kooperoom in three piece yellow and blue plaid was hardly the casual breakfast he’d proposed. “And I am. Or, so I’ve been told.”

“I can imagine,” Wylan had teased, smoothing his hands over Jesper’s lapels and leaning in close. “You’re very impressive.” And he’d taken Jesper’s matching tie pin and wore it himself for the whole day, just to prove that he could.

Dressing up is part of the allure of Barrel life for him, Wylan supposes. Like the flashy feathers of a male Gouldian Finch or Scarlet Macaw. He wears colours like he wears his revolvers at his hips, proudly and with the express intent of drawing attention. A message to stay away or come closer. A constant reminder to everyone around exactly who he is and what he’s capable of. Jesper treats every day like a fashion show. Each hat chosen with the same flourish that he twirls his guns. It’s not a costume so much as it’s the parts of himself he chooses to present to the public, exaggerated. Jesper Fahey: Crow, sharpshooter, gambler, and renownedly generous lover. 

The last one, Wylan can attest, is not an exaggeration. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

He’s wearing one of Jesper’s shirts now, a silky and wide-sleeved purple thing with embossed curls patterned all over the delicate material. Jesper had worn it the night before while they were out, and the smell of gunsmoke and Jesper’s cologne and sweat still lingers on the fabric. It probably lingers on Wylan too, and he finds he likes the idea quite a lot. Likes the concept that Jesper, bright and dazzling and inexplicably warm, is leaving a mark.

“You’re a shameless thief, Wy," Jesper teases, when he sees, but it’s clear that he doesn’t mind in the least, and Wylan can’t really deny the accusations anyway. It’s no secret that Wylan likes wearing his clothes, and it’s no secret either that Jesper likes it too. He goes soft around the edges every time he notices Wylan’s wearing something of his. 

He’s just come back from the washroom, towel slung low around his waist, and his hair is still a bit damp. It hangs over his forehead in looser coils than his usual style, little droplets clinging to the curls. The sight does things to Wylan that he can’t articulate. 

“Am I?”

Jesper nods sagely. His eyes roam freely up and down Wylan’s body as he grins. “One day I won’t have any shirts left, at this rate.”

“Oh no,” Wylan answers, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging, not bothering to fix Jesper’s shirt—too loose on his smaller frame—as it slips off one of his shoulders and pools down around his arm. “That is a problem, whatever will we do?” 

“I have ideas.”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Jesper says, crossing the distance between them and joining Wylan on the bed. Hands already roaming under the folds of the shirt, replacing the reminders of Jesper with the real thing. Thumbs drawing brackets down the sides of Wylan’s rib cage, coming ever closer. Kissing the sensitive skin under Wylan’s jaw, his neck, further down. “I’ll just have to take it off.”

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

June 18th, 1977 - NME - Is This Man a Prat?

🔸"A rock gig is no longer the ceremonial idolisation of a star by fans. That whole illusion, still perpetrated by QUEEN, is quickly being destroyed. And in the isonoclastic atmosphere of the New Wave, there is nothing more redundant than a posturing old ballerina toasting his audience with champagne."

- TONY STEWART

And in this iconoclastic atmosphere there is nothing more redundant, or meaningless, than a posturing old ballerina toasting the audience as Mercury does, with "May you all have champagne for breakfast."

"You hated that, didn't you?" He replies with a light laugh, colouring slightly. "I loved it, and I think that people love it. It's part of entertainment.

"God! You haven't an ounce of artistry in your veins really.

"What do you know about showbiz? That's the way certain things happen, can be done, and that's the path we've sort of allotted ourselves. That's the way we want to do it.

"Can you imagine," he asks, his voice shaking at the thought of such a horrifying prospect, "doing the sort of songs that we've written, like 'Rhapsody' or 'Somebody To Love' in jeans with absolutely no presentation? (Precisely. - Ed.)

"It's very difficult," he acknowledges, "especially after five albums, to come up with totally outrageous and original things."

Since our initial eventful, sometimes bitter, confrontation he has now mellowed slightly. Various complaints from both of us had been extensively voiced over the splendid fresh salmon lunch provided by the kitchen of Queen's manager, John Reid. On returning to the interview Mercury's dudgeon had diminished and he appears to be more rational and less sensitive to journalistic admonishment.

"I think you've slightly misjudged us in what we're trying to do," he suggests mildly. "You've probably written about all our bad qualities and veered away from the point.

"I am not," he emphasises, "using the band as a vehicle. I like to think we're exploring different areas, and it's also where our interests lie.

"I'm into this ballet thing, and that's why I'm trying to put across this Nijinsky costume'' and trying to put across our music in a more artistic manner than before.

"A lot of people just dismiss it and say I'm wearing a silly little outfit, rather than being critical and saying that formal ballet may not be quite right for rock 'n' roll."

Why is it so important for you to radically broaden the scope of rock' into other cultural areas?

"It's just," he answers simply, "a logical thing. I want to do different things. I don't want to keep playing the same formula over and over again, otherwise you just go insane. I don't want to become stale. I want to be creative."

And dressing up like a party clown is being creative?

"I want to put my music across, as far as entertaining is concerned, with everything: costumes and lights.

"It's a progression with the music and I felt, for want of better words, if our music was getting mature and sophisticated so should our stage act. Our songs needed a different kind of interpretation, and that's what we're trying to do.

“If I felt the band wasn’t going any place,” he answers easily, “it would have been disbanded.”

“Why do you think Hollywood was so successful? It’s the kind of lifestyle,” he justifies, “I’ve grown up with.”

“We will stick to our guns,” he says, adding firmly, “and if we’re worth anything we will live on.”

- Freddie Mercury

Extract from interview 06/18/1977 - NME

Freddie Mercury: Is This Man a Prat?

by Tony Stewart

Pic: 1977, Montpelier Square - Freddie Mercury at John Reid's house (Manager), during this interview with NME

👇 Full interview 👇

https://brianmay.com/freddie/nme/itmapa.html

[talenlee]

Game Pile: I Wish We Were Worse (Faith and the Satanic Panic)

Script and thumbnail below the fold

Content warning, this is a game with a lot of horror elements including demonic possession and catholic imagery.

Spoiler warning, I’m going to talk about the elements of this game that include the ending of the stories.

Tone warning, I guess? I don’t think very highly of this game, and as a direct result I’m probably going to be mean. And as we know, there are few things worse than being mean to a video game, especially an extremely successful and critically lauded one.

Introduction

Faith is a survival horror game from Airdorf Studios that came out in 2017 and has been gussied up and re-released and expanded on pretty much every year since then. It’s notable for a particular aesthetic that you’d have to be actually pretty well informed about historical video game consoles to accurately pin down, but most people will probably say something like a ‘retro computer.’ You know, an aesthetic space that reaches from the Tandi to the PS3.

The aesthetic is big chunky pixels on a solid black background without much capacity to genuinely do ‘behind’ or ‘layers’ in a contextual way, abstracted shapes that try to represent a thing in big, strictly defined, obvious shapes. There are simplistic animations that would normally betray a limited ability of the game to remember information for each entity. Locations are bare and boxy because that’s what the system can do, and colours are defined by outlines, not by fills. I like what it’s doing with how it looks, because it positions itself as being not just limited, but old. It shows what it can and explains what it can in this very difficult to parse, difficult to experience way, because it is an old game, or so it pretends. That oldness positions the story close to when it’s set — which is Connecticut in 1986.

Part 1

In Faith you take on the role of John Ward, a priest, though there’s asterisks around all sorts of things when you simplify descriptions like that. John’s a priest, formerly, and doing the work of a priest and dressing like a priest and considers the world through the mind of a priest, so y’know, priest. Priest enough. John starts the game disembarking from a car on the highway at the edge of the woods, intent on heading towards the wreckage of a failed exorcism that led to the reason he’s a priest (former). To make your way to the house you first must encounter things like an abandoned well, an old shack with a key in it, a pile of bones and a skittish deer, totally normal exploratory things to do until you encounter the flesh-eating monster that will eat you while you explore. These things need to be done in an order that involves exorcising spirits from stuff, getting a key from the shack, reading a bunch of notes, then getting to The House. Once in the house, you explore it, you encounter a… I guess there’s a better technical word for it, because it’s a possessed child, but we’re just going to go with ‘monster.’

Once the monster is activated, you need to go around the place, exorcise some stuff, understand some of the backstory, and avoid the monster hunting you around the house. Eventually you unlock the attic, head on up there, do another exorcism, which involves essentially, a kind of quick time event. At that point, Faith truly becomes a videogame because that’s when you get a gun. Since the gun is the all purpose sign of agency in videogames, the gun is where the story forks off into five different directions for you to pick and choose in true hypertextual fashion. I didn’t, I did one ending and got pretty much exactly what I expected.

I have no intention to comparatively line up all of these different endings one with another though, and try to explicate some kind of ‘true’ or ‘canon’ ending. This is silly, because one, videogames aren’t like that, and two, canon is for cops, but three, this is a game that’s meant to be examined critically. Engaging with the game critically means being able to look at the game closely and in a specific context that determines meaning out of the repeated use of symbols presented in the text. To quote Roland Barthes: Don’t have a cow, man. If a game is worth critical acclaim it’s worth critical regard and critical regard can bring with it a consideration of the ideas it’s using that doesn’t spend its time sucking the text’s dick.

One of the things about treating games as art and regarding things as works that can be critically engaged with is the willingness to say, even if other people like this, here are ideas that I find present in this work that I don’t like and I have this reaction to. It is not a matter of putting things on an objective scale where goodness and badness slide up and down, but rather that if this text is meaningful and artistic and representative of deeper thought, then it is a thing that it needs to be okay to call the story you find there bad. It’s the price of being interesting, I’m afraid.

Faith is interesting. I would never dare to claim it isn’t interesting.

Part 2

Fundamentally the story of Faith is the story of a priest reconnecting with his faith. That is, he had an experience in the past that shook his faith and had him separated from what he saw as the legitimising authority of his faith (the Vatican), then learning through doing that actually, he still had his legitimising authority of his faith all along (God). The story is framed as a horror and a tragedy — after all, a little girl dies, what could be more appropriately tragic in a man’s story than that? And he’s a priest, those, get that, those are meant to protect children, since they are good people, and turns out that the just and loving god they represent doesn’t do anything to protect little girls from being turned into meat portals. It really is rough on poor John.

In terms of engaging with the game, you can treat any given game in terms of the things it lets you do through its interface. These are the game’s affordances, the buttons it lets you push. Faith has at most five buttons, with one all-purpose ‘do stuff’ button, and four ‘move in this direction’ buttons. Four of those buttons give you a sense of material space, letting you move around in the game’s spaces, and that in turn lets you find and define the shape of the world you’re in. After all, a game can show you a wall, but if you can’t engage with that wall (by walking into it), it isn’t making that wall meaningful. Buttons create movement that create material space.

Following the idea that affordances create space in the game, then, the other button, the all-purpose ‘do something’ button that is ‘hold your cross up and hope something happens’ (which is really a killer way to represent faith) shows you a world where an excommunicated priest’s hope for change and presentation of a divinely specified object can change the world. I could not see any other sign the game is trying to represent this behaviour as anything else but ‘do faith at this object/in this direction,’ and imagining that it’s doing something else involves one of those favourite things of the pseudocritical, which is to remove one’s own ability to interpret the obvious in an attempt to determine the potential.

That creates our two affordances: Move around a space, and demonstrate faith in God at something. Eventually, ‘demonstrate faith in this’ turns into ‘use gun,’ which seems to suggest that this is a game where ‘having faith at things’ and ‘shooting them’ are reasonably comparable ideas. “Do faith” and “Do gun” being cognates is a really interesting kind of fundamental overlap but don’t take this as me trying to deliver some sort of deep cognate out of the game’s religiosity. In this game, you do faith at things until the faith doesn’t work any more and then you resort to using a gun. Faith drives out evil spirits that I assume are concealing paper scattered around the forest, gun drives out evil spirits that are inhabiting bodies and keeping them alive.

I think this is a reasonable assessment of what Faith is doing with its play mechanics. What about its setting?

Part 3

Faith is set during the Satanic panic, in the 1980s. It is set in the northern states of the United States of America, a country that has always been Christian and never not privileged Christians, and it’s set in 1986, which is smack in the middle of the period of what we now know in hindsight as the McMartin Preschool trial. This trial, which at the time of writing is the most expensive trial in American history, in which, to not mince words, a bunch of selfish assholes acted on their biases against people who they perceive as even modestly queer and inadequately Christian. Inspired and inflamed by popular fiction masquerading as fact, the book Michelle Remembers and the claims of some mentally unwell fantasists were stitched together into what, to some actual adults sounded reasonable as a basis to then mentally abuse children into corroborating.

The Satanic Panic was an example of a common Christian evil, to establish fictional rules for reality, then punish people for violating them, facts be damned. Some asshole writes a book for scaring people’s mums – sorry, moms – and then their work catapults out because the systems for the public good aren’t capable of looking at the supernatural and conspiratorial claims of people who also have microwaves in their homes and understand that compound interest exists, and go ‘uh, no, we’re not going to waste our time being mad at a guy for wearing shorts.’

Faith uses its visual aesthetic to frame itself as being from around this same time, too. It gives a specific date. It focuses on the heart of the panic, the idea of demonically posessed children thanks to inadequate care and protection of the church. The exorcism failed at first, John re-attempts it without the Vatican’s support and succeeds, which suggests that the Vatican’s disavowing of John is them being wrong.

I’m not divining tea leaves here: Airdorf have said that the Satanic panic inspired this game.

Thing is, the Satanic Panic, a real event, was a massive event of community-wide child abuse. The people who destabilised and endangered a community, telling children to lie about bad things happening to them, gaslit children into trying to support a horrifying experience of engagement with an international satanic cult that I really cannot underscore enough, does not exist. This game looks at that event in history and suggests, hey, what if that happened?

Or, perhaps more darkly, because of opinions on the Satanic Panic: That happened, right? What about using that idea for a game? And make no mistake: it is a very common thing for people to think that the Satanic Panic was based on a real thing. That, you know, sure, it didn’t happen happen but it kinda happened, right? It was kinda a real thing? Right? Didn’t a bunch of people go to jail because of the magical rituals they were doing? And they don’t think that’s a ludicrous thing to say.

Now, do not think I am saying ‘this game, set in the Satanic Panic, sucks, because you shouldn’t set a game in the Satanic Panic.’ I am by no means against the idea of using horrible topics for games. After all, Wolfenstein 3d is a great and classic game and it’s set during World War 2 and starts in a prison where Nazis torture Jewish prisoners. That game, however, is a game where you’re playing the tortured Jewish person breaking out of jail and killing a bunch of Nazis on the way. Wolfenstein 3D is a game where the game criticises the Nazis as bad people who suck and it’s okay to shoot at and hate, a position that really shouldn’t be controversial now but whatever. In Faith, however, whil it’s set in the Satanic Panic it doesn’t seem to be critical of it. In fact, despite being set so intentionally in the time of the Satanic Panic, it represents the Vatican’s unwillingness to properly torture and kill enough little girls to be a failing of the Vatican.

After all, God’s real, John is right, and the Exorcism’s problem was that he gave up on it, not that the Catholic church routinely supports people to tie up children to chairs and torture them because they think that demons are real. Which, videogames? Sure, videogames can work on the logic that demons are real, but if you make a game about demons being real, the followup is then that ‘oh, yeah, I guess real world ways of dealing with demons are legitimate.’

Look, I’m not on Team Catholic. I am in fact kinda on the opposite side of that conversation. To me, in the real world, Faith is not an idea with a meaningful value. It actually strikes me as the opposite of a virtue, a vice that lets you treat your ignorance and emotionality as something that demands other people’s respect. But even setting aside that personal value, Faith is a game that extols its value of Faith as a thing that you can do, that has meaningful, provable agency in its world, and then that agency, at its absolute limit, can’t really do anything that you shouldn’t be doing with a gun.

God is real, and so are bullets.

Conclusion

Fundamentally, the story of Faith is just another fictional work in the lineage of The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby and going back to Lovecraftian works like The Shadow over Innsmouth and then forward to Michelle Remembers. What sets Faith apart from those things is that with thirty years of hindsight, it steps back in time, positions itself as a story of the time, with those elements, and considers the struggle against evil as being very hard, very difficult, bittersweet and tragic, but ultimately worth doing in the name of fighting evil and holding to your faith.

It is a game that looks at how badly the victims of the Satanic Panic were treated and wishes that they had been treated worse.

[red-hot-moon]

@ my fellow Vicies, this documentary is pretty interesting and talks about the impact the show had on... everything, really!

Some of my favourite tidbits under the cut (known to some of you I'm sure but new to me):

It started out as a competitor show to the new and hip MTV and was originally called MTV Cops

Michael Mann originally pitched it as a buddy cop show pilot that he compared to Casablanca… Crockett/Tubbs was there from the very start wasn't it (and now I want a Crockett and Tubbs Casablanca AU!)

Tubbs' character was inspired by Sidney Potier's character Virgil Tibbs in the movie In the Heat of the Night (1967)!

"Johnson's portrayal of Sonny Crockett opened up viewers' and suspects' minds and hearts with a smile, a wink and a look" 👀 Yeah I bet DJ's performance made a lot of people real open-minded real fast…

There was an organized 'rain of panties' from fans dropped from a New York building during a shoot

Edward James Olmos talking about a squabble between him and DJ during their first scene in Castillo's office adding to the tension between the characters aaahh

Michael Mann set strict colour guidelines for the show based on swatches he collected on South Beach, with mandatory exclusion of red and earth tones in the wardrobe and prop department. This started to slip with Dick Wolf though obviously

They couldn't afford to put a real Ferrari Daytona in the show so they just built a fake one?? Putting a fiberglass chassis on a Corvette??? And when Ferrari got mad they made an agreement to replace the fake Ferrari with the Testarossa. And that's why they blew up the Daytona in the show. RIP to real (fake?) one

DJ was dressed by Gianni Versace himself. Also DJ came up with Sonny's look: the blazer to cover the gun and holster, the sockless shoes bc of the heat, and the stubble bc he had to look like he'd been up all night partying and slept in his clothes

Five series of MV remodeled Miami, as the production team created custom neon signs, painted walls and gave many shooting locations a pastel make-over to match the series' design, and so the fake Miami became the real Miami which then started attracting tourists again (tourism was in the toilet when the show first aired)

There is a Miami Vice board game???

"Philip Michael Thomas's performance in Vice City contained plenty of nods to Tubbs" aaaand cut to the scene where Lance Vance says "You're probably gonna wanna kiss me". That's Tubbs alright

Phil Collins played himself in a GTA Vice City prequel game. GREAT

[sunlightmurdock]

Ceasefire | 0.6 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, angst. Smut, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected pinv

…

“Hey, is that Hyde?”

Bradley’s head shoots up. His eyes widen as he steps around Jake to get a better look.

“Oh wow - I’ve never seen her out of uniform before.” Coyote comments. It’s Friday afternoon, on a rare occasion that they all have the day off of work. All three of them are standing in the beer aisle, bickering over what to get for their barbecue tomorrow.

Rooster’s lips quirk slightly. You’re standing at the far end of the aisle, wearing a tank top and a pair of denim shorts. They fit well and the tank sits just right. He has to remind himself to close his mouth.

He stands there, a case of beer tucked under his arm, just staring for a moment.

He’s taking you out later.

“She’s hot.”

Rooster’s head turns to look at Jake. He hides the smirk from his face as he looks back to you. You are hot. And he’s the one that gets to take you out.

“I’m gonna say hi.”

That wipes the smirk off of his face all together. His brows furrow as Jake moves forwards. He and Coyote share a look, then follow after Jake.

“Jake, wait.” Coyote whispers, half-scared that whatever Jake says now is going to get them into trouble on Monday. That’s not what Rooster’s worried about at all.

“Commander Simpson!” Jake grins.

Your head turns, eyes widening slightly as you notice the three of them barrelling towards you. It’s clear that Rooster and Coyote are trying to slow their friend down, and that he isn’t having it.

“Boys.” You reply calmly, giving them a small nod.

Rooster squints at you. He’s a man — and he has shown you how much of a man he is a good few times now. Jake and Javy are a different story.

They’re all dressed for the beach, which makes sense since the store isn’t far from it. Three different pairs of board shorts, navy, black and a forest green colour. Jake’s wearing a tank top, Bradley’s in a fitted tee and Javy’s wearing a loose fitting graphic shirt.

As much as you hate to admit it, the sight of Rooster in a backwards cap and board shorts is growing on you. You don’t let yourself look him over too much, acutely aware of the fact they’re all watching.

Your lips quirk up softly at the way they’re all staring at you.

“Mommy!”

Three heads turn at once, and all three of their eyes widen as your little girl runs over and wraps herself around your waist. She looks up at them, and then at you, then smiles.

“Hi.” Dimpled cheeks and a cheesy grin, she looks up at them sweetly.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Jake and Javy nod together. Rooster stares at her, and then looks back at you. You scrunch your brows slightly.

This feels weird. It’s one thing knowing that you have children, it’s another thing for her to be standing in front of him, beaming. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want him to meet your kids yet, and he’s just doing his best not to be weird.

It’s true, you didn’t want him to meet your children, especially not after this week’s argument with Beau, but this isn’t so bad. In fact, this is probably the best way that it could have happened.

“Hi.” Rooster says finally.

“Are you friends with my Mommy?” Taylor asks, cocking her head at the three of them inquisitively. She’s adorable. Rooster can see so much of you in her that Beau’s barely there at all. Her hair is in pigtails and she’s got a pair of blue corduroy shorts overalls on.

“They work with me, sweetie.” You explain, brushing a hand over her hair. You’re trying not to spend too much time looking at Rooster, but the way he keeps looking between you and her — almost like he’s counting the similarities, makes you want to laugh.

“Boys, this is my daughter, Taylor.”

“I’m five.” She declares proudly, Rooster smiles. “Can you fly as good as my Mom does?”

“No.” You answer for them, giving a soft chuckle. Jake and Javy grin, knowing that they give you the most shit in exercises. They’re constantly trying to better you and have yet to manage it.

Taylor’s eyes turn towards the quiet one. She narrows her eyes at him. You watch him silently panic, trying not to laugh. A thousand thoughts fly through his head at once about what he could have done to make her not like him.

“Are you shy?” She asks him, putting her hands on her hips. Jake laughs as he cranes his neck to get a better look at Rooster’s face.

He gives a quick shake of his head. “No.”

The second he says it, he regrets it. The first time your daughter talks directly to him and that’s all that he manages to say. Idiot. He scolds himself.

She squints dubiously. He seems pretty shy to her. Eventually, she shrugs. “I like your mustache.”

Rooster smiles at her. He gives a small nod. “I like your sneakers.”

“Thanks. They light up.” She explains, stomping her tiny foot on the linoleum and demonstrating the pink and purple flashing light show that comes afterwards.

His heart melts. He looks at you, then back to her and laughs.

Watching him curiously, you wonder what’s going through his head right now. He should be running for the hills, right?

“Mom, can I get this?”

Just when Rooster’s relaxing into speaking to your daughter, he’s thrown off by your son’s appearance. Dylan isn’t as young as Taylor, he’ll be harder to win over. Rooster has been worried about meeting him. He remembers being eleven and hating his mother’s boyfriends.

Dylan holds up a pack of Pepsi cans. You nod and he adds it to the cart.

“This is my son, Dylan.” You explain, putting your hand on his shoulder. “Dylan, these are a couple of my students. Jake, Bradley, Javy.”

Bradley’s more than just your student, though.

Still, the three of them smile politely and greet your son. Dylan nods back at them and pushes his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He’s skinny and tall, his hair grown out and curly but not as curly as his sister’s.

“It was great to see you, Hyde.” Javy decides. You nod at them as he elbows his friends to move along.

“Bye!” Taylor lifts her hand and waves. Bradley smiles and waves at her as he lets Javy guide them away.

After paying, Dylan pushes the cart back to the car whilst you’re deep in conversation with Taylor about her friend Maya and how Maya fell over at school yesterday.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots your three students standing around a blue truck and dropping their groceries into the backseat of it. The broad, blonde one pulls himself up and slides into the passenger seat whilst the one with the mustache takes the driver’s seat. Their friend complains about having to be in the back.

Dylan stares at the one in the driver’s seat. So, it’s his car. It’s the same car that was in the driveway last weekend.

“Hey!”

Dylan jumps, eyes going wide as you grab the end of the cart in time to stop it from slamming into the side of your car. You frown at him and follow his gaze, finding what he had been looking at. Bradley’s car.

“Watch where you’re going, honey.” You say calmly, forcing a small smile as you take the cart from him. He squints at you and turns his head again in time to see the three of them reverse out of the space.

Dylan has been outwitting adults since he started school, but never you. He has never outsmarted you before. But he has, now. He knows who you’re dating. And it’s one of your students.

He silently slides into the passenger seat whilst you check that Taylor’s buckled into her booster seat. She’s old enough to do it herself but she likes to play a fun game where she’ll tell you it’s buckled and then you’ll check the rear view mirror and she’s on the other side of the backseat. It’s not so fun for you.

You drop them off with your mother as planned, ready for Beau to collect them when he finishes work later this evening and then drive home to start getting ready.

All week, you’ve been considering if this is a bad idea. It’s one thing to be hooking up with him in private, it’s another to be out in public flaunting your relationship — if that’s what this is — with him.

Still, even with all that doubt, you find yourself putting more effort into the way you look for your date than you had expected to.

It’s almost therapeutic, standing in your bathroom and leaning over the counter while you do your make up and fix your hair. You leave your hair down. You’ve got to wear it up a lot for work, and you know he likes seeing you with it down.

You aren’t sure exactly where he’s taking you, but you know that it’s dinner. You keep your make-up simple-ish, deciding to save any bolder looks for somewhere you know would be appropriate.

It takes you a while to decide what to wear. Admittedly, you do get a little distracted listening to music from your late teens, but you come to a decision eventually.

A dress you haven’t worn yet. You had bought it to wear to a casual beach wedding last year, but Beau had talked you out of wearing it. Said that it wasn’t mature enough, just wasn’t appropriate.

Standing in front of your mirror, you evaluate it. It can be worn on the shoulder or off, but your boobs look fantastic when it’s a little off the shoulder. It was one of those beach weddings where the bride had wanted everyone to be in white. It’s still not too white, covered in small flowers.

Other than lingerie, it’ll probably be the most feminine thing he has seen you in. You hope that it’s okay for wherever he’s taking you.

Bradley shows up a couple of minutes early. You smile as you grab your bag and head for the door. He knows that you don’t tolerate tardiness.

You pull open the door and he takes a step back to look you up and down. He’s wearing jeans and an open blue button up with a white t-shirt under it. As he looks you over, you take a second to do the same.

One of the things you had fallen for about Beau was that he was so classically beautiful. Timeless, truly. Bradley’s the same but in such a different way — more carefree with it, handsome in such a free way.

“You look incredible.” Rooster tells you, reaching out and taking your hand in his. He lifts it to his lips and kisses your knuckle softly, “You ready?”

“Mhm, so where are we headed?” You ask, turning and locking the front door behind you, then slipping your keys into your bag. He squeezes your hand as he guides you down the steps. It’s his first time seeing you in heels.

“Somewhere special.” He replies, opening the side door to the bronco for you. You smile, chuckling softly as you slip into the seat. He walks around to his side and gets in, wetting his lips with his tongue.

He’s nervous, you can tell just by looking at him.

“Hey, Rooster?” You say softly. He turns his head and looks at you, raising his eyebrows. You lean forwards, giving him a near perfect view of your cleavage as you do, pressing your lips softly against his.

He leans into you, humming softly against your lips. You smell intoxicatingly good, his hand reaches out to rest on your thigh, squeezing softly at the skin under the dress.

You pull back just slightly, still leaned in close enough, and raise your brows back at him. That should have made him a little less nervous, you hope, “Is that better?”

He sits back in his seat and clears his throat, then swallows and adjusts his jeans, “Worse, actually.”

Your lips quirk as you glance down at his semi pressing into the denim on his thigh. His cheeks redden. His neck and ears follow, flushing red as he turns the engine on. You wonder how his blood can manage to do it all at once — rushing up to his face and down south all at the same time.

Bradley curses himself mentally. Five seconds into the date and he’s hard. Twenty-eight years old and he’s acting like a fucking teenager.

He shoots a glance at you, then looks behind him as he reverses out of the driveway. He can still smell that sweet perfume and see you in his peripheral. That problem isn’t going away any time soon.

In fact, it’s still there a couple of minutes into the drive.

Bradley picked a spot a while down the coast, not wanting you to be worried about running into someone you knew. The only issue now is that he has to drive an hour with a boner.

You reach over and rest your hand on his thigh. He shoots a quick look at you, then back at the road.

“D’you want a hand with that?” You offer gently, stroking the inseam of his jeans with your index finger. If he wasn’t on the highway, he’d close his eyes. He glances down at your painted nails, trailing along the inside of his thigh, up, up.

Bradley almost always drives with one hand on the wheel. Now, he drives with two. His fingers curl around the steering wheel, tighter.

“No.” He sounds uncertain, and he is. Really, he would like you to touch him right now. But he had an idea in his head about how this date would go, and it didn’t involve this.

“No?” You double check, quirking an eyebrow at him. He looks across at you and damn near groans. His eyes fall down to look at your fingers on his thigh.

He composes himself as much as he can, lacing his fingers through yours, bringing your hand up to his mouth and kissing his knuckles. “You can manage keeping your hands to yourself, right, honey?”

You stare at him.

His lips quirk upwards, knowing that he just caught you off guard. He shifts slightly in his seat and rests his hand against your thigh, fingers still woven between yours.

Given that he does seem to relax once he has leveled the playing field, you let it happen, squeezing his hand in yours.

The place Rooster picked is almost an hour up the coast, his pants problem subsides maybe twenty minutes in.

Whilst amused, you can’t pretend you aren’t a little bit happy that he popped a tent in his jeans over one kiss with you. It’s endearing, how wanted he makes you feel. Plus, being called honey was something that you weren’t expecting to enjoy so much.

Finally, he pulls up beside a quaint little restaurant on the beach front — it turns out you’re actually dressed perfectly appropriately for the occasion.

The date with Bradley isn’t all that different from what a date should be. But it’s different from any date that you’ve been on in a long time.

He opens the door, pulls your chair out for you, tells you how beautiful you look. He listens to your stories and asks you for more, nodding with interest at everything you’ll share.

Things hadn’t been like that with Beau in a long time.

He tells you about him. That he’s an only child, that his dad passed away when he was young, that he had always wanted to be a big brother. That he played baseball growing up because his Mom was too scared of him getting hurt to let him play football. Then a name slips his lips that has your eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry… your uncle is Pete Mitchell? — The Pete Mitchell? - Maverick?” You gasp. Bradley laughs, he’s used to getting that reaction from higher ups. He nods.

“Shit, if I’d known that I wouldn’t have agreed to teach you!” You joke, smiling as you sip on your beer. He grins across the table at you.

Bradley adores how natural this feels. Watching the sun beam on you, the sea breeze brush through your hair, he’s smitten.

“So, who’s a better pilot — me, or my Uncle Mav?”

You groan as you set the bottle back down on the table, playfully rolling your eyes. “You’re both very… different.”

“Come on, Hyde, that’s such a cop out.” He scoffs, sitting up and resting his forearms on the table, scrunching his brows disapprovingly.

“As someone who has personally seen your ‘Uncle Mav’ destroy three aircrafts, I guess I’d have to say you.” You reply. He beams at you from across the table.

You can tell he’s trying to be a gentleman. You don’t even get a chance to fight him for the cheque because he called ahead and put his card down before the two of you got here. He knows you well enough to know that you would try to.

He drives you home, and walks you to your door. You turn towards him, and wait for what comes next.

“Alright,” He clears his throat just slightly and takes a small step backwards, squeezing tenderly at your hip before letting his hand fall down to his side. “Goodnight.”

Immediately, your brows furrow. You stare at him as he takes another step back, starting down the steps and back towards his car.

“Uh… what are you doing?” You question.

Rooster makes a face like it’s obvious and stops moving, halfway down the steps, looking at you like he’s maybe about to smile.

“Being a gentleman.” He sounds less certain than he looks, reaching into his front pocket for his car keys. His eyes are focused on your face, watching as it first softens in realization and then turns to amusement.

“That’s cute,” You take a step forwards and he’s within arms reach again. You reach out and hook your finger into the leather of his belt, “Now cut it out.”

Those soft brown eyes flicker downwards once more. He watches, allowing you to pull him forwards by his belt until his hips are pressing against yours. You lift your chin and meet his gaze, watching his pink lips quirk upwards into a grin.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He murmurs playfully, hands finding your waist. You drape an arm around his broad shoulders, he leans down and kisses you. You find yourself against his lips as he walks you backwards until you’re pressed up against the front door.

He’s warm, as always, smiling into your skin, hands skimming your sides. There’s a giddy feeling that overtakes your common sense as one of his hands slides down and squeezes at your ass — it almost makes you forget that you’re a grown woman with neighbours to face after this encounter.

“Wait, wait.” You’re grinning at him as you fumble for your keys, turning around and searching for the correct one for the lock. Rooster tenderly brushes your hair back off of your shoulder, turning his face towards your neck, kissing warmly at your perfumed skin.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to focus on getting the lock open whilst his hands squeeze at your hips, his chest pressed to your back, his tongue on your pulse point. It almost makes you shiver.

Finally, you hear a click. You rush him inside with you, kicking the door shut and pulling him upstairs with you. Rooster’s hands find your hips quickly as he tugs you into him.

You pause, pulling back as his lips chase yours. His brows furrow slightly. You push the blue overshirt back until he has the sense to shrug it off of his shoulders. Next, your fingers push his t-shirt up, nails raking over his muscles.

He lifts his arms, lips quirking as you help him out of the shirt and drop it to the ground. You step forwards and press your lips to his chest, hands brushing tenderly over his sides. He groans softly as your mouth works warmly along his bare skin.

You lower yourself to your knees and look up at him as you pull his belt from the loop. Watching you, Rooster’s reminded of just how incredible you are. The same hands that touch him now do incredible things every day. He swallows, brushing his fingers over your hair as you unbuckle his belt.

You press your lips to his hips as you pop open the button on his jeans, pulling them down slowly and following the material with your mouth.

Curling your fingers under the waistband of his boxers, you nudge them down and kiss across the newly exposed skin and the trimmed hair above his cock. Rooster’s breath catches as you look up at him, pulling his jeans and boxers down enough to let his cock spring free.

“Thank you for tonight,” You tell him softly, guiding his jeans down his legs, kissing his thighs, nosing into his skin. He hums, curling his fingers into your hair. You kiss the base of his cock softly, looking up at him again. “I had fun.”

He smiles softly, letting out a quiet exhale then shivers as you trail your tongue along the underside of his erection.

Finally, reaching the tip, you wrap your lips around him.. Your trail your fingernails from his navel to his thigh, bobbing your mouth around his length. He shudders, letting out a deep moan. You adore how vocal he is. He seems to be growing more comfortable with you too, the vibrations of those deep sounds send shockwaves through you.

You pull back and push your lips tight over the tip of his cock, gathering a mixture of pre-cum and spit to spread down his length. He curls his fingers into your hair. Rooster whimpers as you flatten your tongue to take more of him into your mouth.

You take one of your hands and lace it over the top of his on the back of your head. Rooster watches as you press your hand into his, pushing your head forwards just a little. He gets the memo quickly, curling his fingers into your roots and pushing your head down further onto his length.

Your nose nudges his pelvis as you hold him at the back of your throat.

“Fuck, Hyde…” Rooster whimpers, rocking your mouth down onto him.

Your mouth continues to work around him until he’s spent, his body jolts from the sensitivity, grip tightening on your roots and causing you to moan around him. Bradley grunts, choking back a moan that leaves behind a soft whimper as he spills into your mouth.

His groans and whimpers spill out into the air. You swallow his load and kiss gently along his length, then look up at him. He breathes out hard, staring at you.

He has no idea how he got so lucky.

“You look so beautiful right now.” He murmurs, completely serious too. Eyes blinking back tears, lips parted, cheeks warm.

You scoff as you push yourself up, his arms wrapping around your middle. He turns you quickly, pulling your back to his chest and kissing your neck. He shakes his head softly, “I’m so serious.”

“You’re an idiot.” You tease back, feeling him smile into the crook of your neck as he drags your zipper down and pushes your dress off of your shoulders.

“Call me what you want if you keep on sucking my dick like that.” He replies, lips working feverishly along your neck between his words.

“Asshole.” You reply, smiling as you feel him grin into your skin. He pinches the clasp of your bra and pries it open, mouthing at your throat. He feels you pressing harder into him.

“That’s fine.” He replies, pressing his chest flush to your back, reaching around and cupping your tits in his hands. He kisses your pulse point, nosing against your earlobe then trailing that same path with his tongue.

You scoff, amused by this game. “Dick.”

He grabs your hips and pulls you hard against him, wrapping both his arms around you and nipping at your throat, grazing the same spot with his teeth and making you gasp at the sudden pressure.

“Not wrong.” He plays, hooking his thumbs into the sides of your underwear. You moan softly as he drops to his knees, kissing along the bare skin of your back as he tugs them down. “Now, grab the dresser.”

You barely have time to hear him tell you to do it before his hand presses into the middle of your back and bends you forwards. You catch the dresser, steadying yourself, eyes blowing wide open as he knocks your ankles apart and presses his mouth into your core.

“Oh, fuck.” You whimper, fingers curling around the wood as his mouth works eagerly between your folds.

“Keep going.” He tells you, barely stopping to get the words out before his tongue is lapping at your dripping pussy. Your chest heaves, brows furrowing as you try to remember what he’s asking you to do.

“Um… asshole.” You curse out, met with your reflection in the mirror above the dresser as he works between your legs. He snickers, shaking his head.

“You already said that one, honey.” He taunts, loving every moment of this.

“Know-it-all.” You bite back scaldingly, feeling him grin as he pulls back to nip at the backs of your thighs. Immediately, he buries his face between your legs again, bending you over further so that he can reach your clit, sucking at the bundle of nerves.

“That it?” He teases.

“Bitch.”

His teeth tug once at your clit, just enough to make you gasp, then lean into the pain-pleasure of it. He stands upright, catching the nape of your neck in his palm, guiding his cock between your legs as he kicks your ankles further apart.

It’s a fun game, letting you tease him, but he’d like to show you that you’re wrong on that one.

He meets your gaze through the mirror and finds you smirking, caught up in every aspect of him, breathless.

“Is that right?” He asks.

Your lips curve up even further, nodding at him through the mirror as you push back on him, feeling the tip of his cock dip into your folds. He likes seeing this side of you, and you like seeing this side of him. He leans forwards and tightens his grip on the nape of your neck, holding you nice and still for him. You cry out as he pushes himself swiftly into you.

Bradley pulls back again, almost out entirely, then sinks himself slowly back in. Your whimper vibrates against his chest as he presses against your back. Almost completely back again, and then completely flush against you.

“Fuck, Rooster.” You breathe out.

“That’s what I thought.” He corrects you, knowing that you’ve already learnt your lesson. You open your eyes, blinking, finding him smirking back at you through the reflection.

“Smart-ass.” You tease as his hands slide around your midsection, moving up and cupping at your tits as hs starts to fuck into you, hard. Your breath catches in your throat.

“I think you like it when I’m a smart ass.” Bradley comments, planting one hand over yours on the dresser for leverage as he picks up the pace. Your lips quirk up, because he’s right. You kind of do. You’re just as surprised about it as he is.

He moves you, bending you over a little more for a better angle, grabbing the back of your neck and holding you down against the wood of the dresser as he fucks into you. The wood slams repeatedly into the wall, your moans spilling out over the sounds.

His soft grunts into the crook of your neck driving you crazy, every breath is interrupted by a panting moan.

His fingers find your clit, working softly over it as his lips mouth over your earlobe. You reach behind you, grabbing the back of his neck, arching your back. Rooster grunts softly, tightening his arm around you as he kisses your jaw.

“I’m so close.” You manage, panting. Rooster groans at the admission, the chill of his breath making you shiver against him. He nods hurriedly as your walls constrict around his cock, nudging you forwards and covering your body with his.

Your eyes squeeze shut so tight that you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids, your head spinning as he fucks you through your orgasm. Bradley’s right behind you.

He tugs you closer, pushing himself as deep as he can and spilling inside of you. He rests his head against the crook of your neck, holding you tight against his chest for a moment.

It isn’t until you’re both just about catching your breaths again that you realize what just happened. You lift your head and stare at him through the mirror.

His eyes widen as he catches sight of your bedside table, mainly its top drawer, and realizes what the two of you had forgotten.

“Oh shit.”

…

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FILM AND MOVIES

What Went Wrong With… SAS: Red Notice (2021)?

A review of SAS: Red Notice by What Went Wrong Or Right With...?

SAS: Red Notice is the latest Sky Original film to premiere on the satellite platform and unfortunately it’s another dead duck. Based on the book of the same name by Andy McNab, the plot is about a family-based, terrorist group known as the “Black Swans” who take over the Channel Tunnel. Interpol’s “Red Notice” (which alerts police worldwide to internationally wanted fugitives) gives this film its title (at least I think it does, although in S.A.S. terms it could mean a government sanctioned hit). Regardless of its meaning, the main part of the storyline (the hi-jacking) takes almost half-an-hour to get to, and once it does, it’s not exactly enthralling. The film begins with a preamble about “psychopaths” delivered by Tom Wilkinson’s character William Lewis who goes on to say “psychopaths who can learn to love are as rare as a black swan”. This I assume, refers to his baddie daughter Grace played by Ruby Rose or possibly the good guy Tom played by Sam Heughan. This kind of wannabe poignant dialogue is pointless to ponder over however, since this isn’t a character study of someone taught to kill and the parallels between the military and terrorists, or whether someone can switch off their violent tendencies and become compassionate. What this is, is a load of D-list actors saying “awight mate” a lot, posturing, chewing gum to look butch, and shooting guns, largely in the dark. Oh, and apparently, the elite of the elite in the S.A.S. are also bilingual botanists.

I’ll admit that I haven’t and probably never will read an Andy McNab novel, so I’m judging this adaptation against similar action movies. The plot to me, seems very late-80s or early-90s, very much like Ruby Rose’s bowl hair cut. SAS: Red Notice wishes it was in the same company as the original The Taking Of Pelham One Two Three, Die Hard, and every classic derivative action movie such as Speed, Under Siege, and Executive Decision but it’s instead more of a Chuck Norris or Michael Dudikoff-type flick.

Directed by Magnus Martens, the look and feel is more “TV” than cinema, and bad television at that. Magnus can’t seem to coax a believable performance out of anyone, and that’s alongside his appalling framing and camera movement, not to mention the seemingly non-existent art direction which leaves us with what looks like a home-made movie. The cast aren’t much better. Aside from the always decent Tom Wilkinson, the acting talent is also firmly in made-for-TV territory. We have Noel Clarke looking as convincing as Major Bisset as his Detective Inspector in Bulletproof, Anne Reid who played Jean in dinnerladies is still Jean from dinnerladies, and Andy Serkis plays Clements by overacting and probably wishing he was dressed in spandex and covered in white dots playing a different kind of gorilla.

We also have the aforementioned Sam Heughan as Tom or Thomas Buckingham III, a contrived yet somehow unbelievable rich, posh, heterosexual white male who lives in what looks like Wayne Manor with a butler not too dissimilar to Batman’s. Sam is a terrible, soap-opera-esque actor and as the lead, he’s the main reason why this film looks so cheap and tacky. Bad acting doesn’t end with Heughan however; we also have Ruby Rose playing his arch-nemesis Grace Lewis.

I suppose it’s progress to see a British Prime Minister played by a person of colour (Ray Panthaki) and someone from the LGBTQ community play the villain or antagonist in an action film but Panthaki is essentially a one-term baddun, and Rose is so lacking in charisma and acting skills that she won’t be spoken about in the same breath as Alan Rickman’s Hans Gruber or even Eric Bogosian’s Travis Dane, which kind of defeats the purpose. Grace Lewis is instead, in the same league as Thomas Gabriel or Alik from the inferior Die Hard sequels. Rose can’t even act like she’s been shot in the neck or smile convincingly with her “this isn’t a disguise” wig on whilst trying to ward off authorities, let alone look menacing or have a knife-fight (or spoiler alert: die).

Whilst on the topic of Grace, her tactic of “kill the men and the boys, leave the women to spread the fear” conveniently leaves out the all-too-common rape and torture. Make no mistake, this is a sanitised view of conflict where mercenaries, contractors, war criminals, and terrorists are completely unconnected to any military unit. The film begins with contractors tasked to clear a village in Georgia in order to lay a pipe line, and this seems very War On Terror and Black Water-esque (especially the name “Black Swans”) but the way in which this story is told, it’s less Iraq and more Tie Rack with a bunch of suits trying to make some soulless and shallow money from militarism. There’s no real opinion on whether contractors should be used in war, it’s more “it’s okay until they leave witnesses” which is a dodgy message to convey. That being said, even our hero Thomas hears his butler recount a story of Buckingham’s forefathers chopping off a Maharaja’s finger during an Indian “uprising” in order to take their ring, which means even the protagonist has a lineage of wrongdoing but I’m sure viewers of this trash will glaze over this. In order to bolster the concept of “good guys can do no wrong”, the wedding vows at the end of the film are cringe-worthy and go to show how not only the writers, but everyone involved in making this crapfest, love the idea of the infallible war hero who cannot and should not be criticised (or prosecuted) because they do such a difficult job… “For better, for worse, in war [and] in peace, knowing that in war, your crazy brain is always right”. 🤮

Whether pro-war or anti-terror or just unadulterated militarism, all this criticism is of course pointless to mention, as nobody watching Red Notice is looking for deep, meaningful subtext and opinion-challenging concepts. The camouflage-covered cinematic cliches of “this isn’t what I signed-up for!” and “take the shot!” are both present which means this is a hackneyed, straight-to-streaming, non-action, action film. I wouldn’t have minded if this shite contained a plot about what great jobs snipers do or how difficult counter terrorism is, instead it’s another mindless, gung-ho release. And while I’m at it: who gives a toss about what happens to a fictitious government and this film’s uninteresting characters during the end credits? Please don’t make a sequel or try to start a franchise about the exploits of Tom effing Buckingham the pissing Third!

As a Sky Original, I have to mention the inclusion of Sky News presenters Gamal Fahnbulleh and Jayne Secker (and Ben bloody Shephard of ITV’s Good Morning Britain) doing some suspiciously, similar-to-real-life acting. Similar to Jeremy Thompson in Shaun Of The Dead, the news casters’ or broadcasters’ acting looks as convincing as the actual news and their “breaking news” bulletins are read with the same vigour. Ignoring the fact that Sky are both feeding and eating itself in the creation of this film, it’s always disconcerting to see real-life news presenters read scripts as well as they do on air, which goes to show they’re not journalists but actors who err… read scripts for a living. But I guess that’s for another article.

Back to the film, no matter its formulaic-ness, it would have been a much better idea for John McTiernan to direct SAS: Red Notice, for the sole purpose to try and get his post-prison reputation back to the level of his original Die Hard and Hunt For Red October heyday. I’d like to think that the maker of the original action masterpiece from which all others originate could surely make even the lamest of scripts buzz with exhilaration? Instead, thanks to a director who cannot direct, especially action scenes, I wasn’t thrilled or excited at all.

Apparently notices of the rouge variety are very popular right now because confusingly, there’s a Dwayne Johnson “Red Notice” movie in the works too, unconnected to the McNab book but an action flick nevertheless. One thing’s for certain: this version isn’t the one that stands out. Even with a large Andy McNab fanbase, this is gonna go

BY WHAT WENT WRONG OR RIGHT WITH...? ON MARCH 11, 2021 • ( 7 COMMENTS )

This is the time to remember! the time is not gonna change 😬