#its so fun to write

[taintedcigs]

and what if i made this fboy king!steve smutty fic im writing to a x fgirl!reader? and then what?

[r0ttenb0gb0dy]

Coda "Rex" Morelli — After The Fall

“You heard me.” Graves’ voice rings out, making Rex’s vision tunnel as he focuses on the men before them.

“You’re crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro quips, but Graves seems to already have a reply locked and loaded.

“It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it — so, I'm takin’ it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves’ tone was low, vicious even. Rex looked over with worried eyes, the information he had just learned minutes prior still fresh in his mind. What had happened in Russia, what Shepherd was asking them to do. It felt wrong, but at the same time he knew that when it came down to the wire he would always choose Shadow Company. Every time, without fail.

“No, no, no, no…I don’t take orders from you.” Alejandro stepped forward slightly, earning a glare from Sergeant MacTavish. Rex grips his rifle with an iron touch.

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now, that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord.” Graves says with all of the coy confidence of a fox, tilting his head slightly before everything exploded

In an instant, Alejandro stepped forward, beginning to close the distance between himself and Graves. MacTavish grabbed him by the arm, stopping him just short. Still, Rex couldn’t blame him. This was absurd from either perspective.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo?” Alejandro barks.

“You’re out of line, Graves — Rex, yae can’t be alright with this —“ MacTavish speaks up, but before Rex can reply he’s spoken for.

“Don’t…Don’t do that. Don’t talk to them.” Graves’ voice cut like a knife, a searing red pain sending signals through Rex’s body. He looked up, eyes locked with MacTavish, wanting to tell him to run. His gaze shifted to Riley, to Rodolfo and Alejandro. Rex went to take a step forward but Graves’ grip locked on his vest strap stopped them, even yanking him back slightly much to MacTavish’s surprise.

They hadn’t seen it before, had they? It was a blatant display of their power dynamic, and Rex felt embarrassed. His cheeks heated up and he tensed up.

“No one needs to get hurt here.” Graves spoke again, his voice low and dark. It terrified Rex. He had no idea up until this moment, right here and now, that the mission with Shepherd had failed. So, on top of mourning dead friends that had supposedly been on an extended leave, he was now faced with the immediate future.

Graves was going to take direct orders from Shepherd to harm the 141, and he was going to go along with it.

“Are you threatenin’ us?” Lieutenant Riley asked, his hand wandering but not quite grabbing the rifle hanging from his carrier.

“Soldier, I don’t make threats. I make guarantees. So, let’s not do this.” Graves replied with a smug callousness that sent a chill down Rex’s spine, even in the Central American heat. Their gaze shifted between the men in front of them, locking eyes with Lieutenant Riley. He gave them a knowing glance before looking at MacTavish.

“I’m callin’ Shepherd.” MacTavish spoke up, pointing a finger at Graves.

“General Shepherd sends his regards.” Graves' hand left Rex’s vest, traveling to the assault rifle in hand. His finger lingered on the trigger. “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.”

“He knows about this?” Lieutenant Riley asked, disbelief in his voice, but when he looked at Rex he knew it was the truth. He was too scared to speak, truthfully, so he didn't. He knew if he spoke up he would only defend Graves and Shadow Company. It would only stoke the flames.

“He’s put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” Here Graves stood, betraying the people that Rex had grown to trust. They’d laid their lives on the line right alongside themselves and Graves this entire time, this is not what they deserved. “And why the hell are we talkin’ like this is some kind’a negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders, and now you have yours.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!” Alejandro snapped, eliciting a response from Rex. They looked to Graves, stepping back slowly, out of his peripheral vision. Their back was met with the broad side of Wasp’s chest. It only took a moment for Wasp to grab his plate-carrier strap, quelling the desire to jump to Graves’ defense. He could feel it welling, some kind of vicious remark, but he couldn't have anticipated what was coming.

“I’m afraid not. Your men have been…” Graves bit back a smirk, looking to the ground and then up at Alejandro. “Detained.”

It all happened so quickly.

Alejandro was zip tied and held against a vehicle whilst Rodolfo, MacTavish and Riley made a run for it.

Everything in Rex’s head was quiet. All he knew was that he had to finish the mission, find Hassan and the final missile. It didn't matter the cost. Rex felt Wasp let him go and his rifle was aimed upwards in an instant, boots already migrating down into Las Almas after the escaped Task Force operators.

Indiscriminate killing did not begin to describe what MacTavish and Riley were doing. Rex stepped over corpses around every corner, over shattered ceramics that smelled of gunpowder, and spent shell casings. He couldn't breathe. It was a vicious effort to recover every tag that he could, knowing that they couldn't drag every single Shadow back to base, but he began to run out of room to carry them. It didn't take long before he started shooting back at the ghosts he heard around the streets, pulling familiar knives out of bodies if only to throw them back at Riley when he saw him.

This was unnecessary. Just make the escape, that was all they needed to do, and yet here they were. Slaughtering Shadows in a fucking massacre. His anxiety got the best of him and he returned to base to regroup whilst the others cleaned up the streets, ensuring Hassan wasn't anywhere to be found and that both of the 141 members had escaped before they did.

He sat in the stolen MexSpec-Ops facility with shaking hands and wired nerves, every little sound setting him off. No amount of comfort from Graves quelled it. Cigarette after cigarette, taking in deep breaths and letting them go to no avail, images of what could come to pass haunting him. It should've come as no surprise whenever Graves formulated a plan for the coming days. He should've known it would be a disaster plan.

“I’m what? You’re not sending me back to HQ, not fucking now.” Rex barks at his Commander, his partner, shoving him with open palms. He’s angry, being cornered back into a Jeep with little more than Graves’ orders telling him to do so. The Commander would never lay a hand on him, he knew that, not now anyways.

“You have to, Rex. This is what that fucking promotion was for, now use it.” Graves replies, calm in comparison. He’s riled up too, though, and Rex can tell. “If I get blown to hell here, then someone needs to keep the Company afloat. That someone,” he places a finger in the middle of Rex’s plated chest, “is you.”

“No.” Rex huffs. Their back is to the door of the Jeep. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“That loyalty'll get you killed.”

“Good. Better me than you. I want revenge for the Shadows, Graves, I need it—”

“Then go home, tend to our wounded and wait for me there.”

“You promised me I’d never have to run this shit by myself, don’t be a fucking liar.”

“You won't have to. I’ll come home when this is finished, we’ll get what we need from Valeria in the meantime and use it to find that last missile. Take Hassan down and come home, right t’you, sugar.” It was a promise, a big one, and Rex was unsure if Graves could hold up his end of it. Coming home was an uncertainty that most would not try to guarantee. Especially up against the likes of the 141, trained killers that were unlikely to stop at the orders of anyone except Laswell or Price.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Rex scoffs. “If you had any self preservation instincts, then you'd have me stay here and deal with their inevitable assault. I’d do anything for you, Graves—”

“Then go home.” Graves says quietly, pulling Rex in by the front of their vest, hands gripped onto the sides of it. He can see something flicker across those lovingly familiar green eyes, something rebellious, but Rex bites it down. “S���just two hours t’get there, babe, I bet I can make it back ‘bout an hour or so.”

“Better not be lying to me, Shadow.” Rex murmurs, grabbing Graves by the collar of his blue dress shirt. He pulls the blonde down to be eye-level with himself before crashing their lips together in a heated exchange, all terror and feverish tension, not knowing what was going to impact them. It left them breathless, wanting to take a moment longer to revel in the fact they were both alive, but a loud thunk of the Jeep door slamming cleared Rex's mind of any impure thoughts.

“Let's go, LC.” Maverick’s voice calls, the Sergeant Major entirely oblivious to what's going on around the opposite side of the vehicle he’s in the driver's seat of.

“Go on, Coda. Just a few days.” Another brief kiss and Rex is ducking away wordlessly into the Jeep, glancing back only to see Graves smiling back. Cobalt blue eyes and a pipe dream about a perfect world in which the 141 shows up alone, but they both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Rex regretted staying silent the moment they saw the American border come into view and passed into Texas. He wanted to call, but he also knew that he had things to attend to at HQ that required his immediate attention. Assisting the medical staff in tending to wounded Shadows from Las Almas, who had somehow survived the trip back. Filling out the after-action reports for all of the missions, writing detailed explanations of what had gone down with the help of bodycam footage — sifting through tags to catalogue the deaths. It was a lion’s share of work, but he thought that whatever he couldn't put a dent in, Graves would return to finish off with him.

Days passed sitting in that office.

He had started sleeping in there, the bed far too empty without Graves in it, an increasing stack of files sitting before him. There were at least twenty-five dead from Las Almas, another fifty or so from the prison they were keeping the Vaqueros in, and an unreported amount from the MexSpec-Opsnbuilding. No correspondence yet about what had gone down, not until Wasp walks into the office with a sort of fear in his eyes that instills immediate terror into Rex.

“Where’s Graves?” Rex asks, quiet at first. If Wasp has returned, that means that they finished up in Mexico. He was staying there to assist in the defense of the facility.

If he was back, then Graves should be too.

“Rex, I—” Wasp starts, patting at his vest to search for something in his pockets.

“Where. Is. Graves?” He’s angry now, standing up, hands planted firmly on the desk in front of them. Their eyes are firmly affixed on Wasp’s hands as he pulls a chain out from one of his pockets, the tags clinking together. It's realistically quiet, but it sounds like gunfire the way Rex’s brain shuts everything else out.

He holds his hand out and it's trembling.

“I did everything I—”

“Give.” Rex barks, more wrath than sadness. The chain coils up in their palm and the crinkled metal of the tags follows suit. He turns them over, caked on blood and soot making them hard to read at first, but whenever he can read them it's like a shot to the head.

CDR PHILIP GRAVES.

SHADOW 0-1.

OPOS. CATHOLIC.

He doesn't say a word at first. He turns the tags over again and again, gently smudging off the stains until they're mostly silver once more. It's impossible to believe that these came from thee Philip Graves. They’re mangled. Rex looks up at Wasp, who is just barely holding it together himself.

“What do we do?” Wasp asks just above a whisper.

“What happened?” Rex doesn't give him the grace of an answer, not yet. He sinks back into his seat — Graves’ office chair — and clutches the destroyed tags between shaking fingers. Feverishly rubbing over the embossing like prayer beads, hoping that maybe if he holds them tightly enough then this will be over sooner.

“You don't wanna know.” Wasp replied without hesitation.

“Oh no, no, I do want to know. What happened?”

“Rex, I swear—”

“Don't fucking promise me shit, Walker, what the hell happened?” Rex is firm in his questioning, knowing better than to take more oaths from men around here. He didn't care if anyone thought he didn't need to know, if they swore he was better off unaware. There was no sense in dancing around the facts, plain and simple. Graves was dead. He was likely not in a box outside, and if he was then he was likely unrecognizable. If anyone ever deserved an answer about what happened to someone in full truth, it was Rex.

“We attempted a counter-assault on the 141, but they brought the Vaqueros as well as their, uh, friend in the chopper. Nikolai. Facility was in rubble, we needed to use a last resort and Graves hijacked a tank from their hangar—”

“He specifically did? He didn't have someone else do it?”

“Yeah, he…he said that we needed to get as many of our wounded out as possible, that he would take care of the remaining assailants.” Wasp speaks like he’s giving a mission report. Partially because it's easier than the alternative, which is greeting Rex like a newly widowed spouse. He takes in a breath through his teeth and looks up at the ceiling before his eyes met Rex’s again. “Between MacTavish and his…um, proclivity for explosives and — the, um, Nikolai in the chopper…”

“He didn't stand a chance.” Rex murmurs. Explosives? That would explain the state of the tags.

“Not even a little.” Wasp replies. Solemn. “I rallied the survivors, they left after they I.D’d him. Aggressively. I’m surprised that they didn't take his tags, but…”

“That’s it, then, isn't it?” Rex unclasps the clip on the back of Graves’ chain before placing it around his own neck, clipping it shut once again. It's warm, the metal, as he tucks it underneath his shirt.

“What do we do now?” Wasp asks again, and while he’s relieved that Rex didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces at the news, he’s certain that a hurricane is coming. Brewing deep in his chest, just waiting for the right moment to spill out and take everything down with him. Rex hadn't ever thought about what was supposed to happen whenever this day came because he was promised on repeat like a broken record that it never would, but there’s only so many ways to break the news to an entire PMC of men and women. He glances around the desk, pushing papers and files aside to grab the microphone to the P.A. system. They rarely used it, given that little had changed in long enough that no service announcements needed to be made, but that changed today. Rex blew the dust off and pressed the little red button on the front, which started glowing afterwards, signifying that he can begin.

“Alright, Shadows, I need all units to report to the tarmac ASAP. This is your Commander speaking.”

Nothing felt worse than dragging himself down there, than fixing his face in the reflection of some picture hung in the hallway, taking a deep breath and attempting to look like he had some sort of clue. It got easier, though. There were hang-ups in the first few weeks, but eventually Rex adjusted to being called Commander. He knew that this was on his shoulders now, that handling the legal case was on him and so was continuing to make Shadow Company a profitable business as its CEO. Aside from burying the charred remains of his person, that was the worst part of all of this — trying to seem as though he could keep his head above water as well as everyone else's.

There was a part of him that thought if he simply pushed hard enough that he could ignore the grief. Maybe he could avoid it entirely by just working until he forgot that he was unhappy, that his bed was going to be half-full forever; that his husband was dead.

Rex looked up one morning and didn't recognize that person in the mirror. His hair was down past his shoulders now, his cheeks less full than they had been. Every scar felt more apparent with every passing day that he spent running drills outside with the Shadows, because his skin was flushing a shade of tan that it never had before. He stopped taking hot showers. Fucking warmth reminded him of Graves. Winter came quietly to Texas as it always did and still he slept with the windows open.

Graves would've wanted them closed.

He left the television on all night.

Graves would’ve wanted it off.

He got a new vest without the strap on the back because who was he supposed to kneel to now? A patch on the front reading Commander still doesn't feel at home on his chest, neither does the Shadow 0-1 callsign so he refuses to use it outright. Rex pushes the court case against Shadow Company back even further due to the lack of a man to charge, as they can't be held liable for a dead man’s crimes. He knew it was getting bad whenever the Justice of the peace actually let it slide.

Shadow Company returned to some semblance of normal within six months.

Rex never felt like himself anymore, but at least everyone else seemed to have recovered. The newest Shadows never even met Graves — brought on by Rex to replace the mass losses taken in Mexico. He could barely believe it, he was actually doing it all alone and somehow he hadn't given up on the people or the place. It was running smoothly as far as anyone was concerned, at least further down the ladder of command.

The Shadows knew. The officers, at least. Wasp and Spitfire weren't fucking stupid, keeping a close watch on everything Rex got his hands dirty with to ensure he wasn't just running headfirst into his own death. They watched him take a backseat to his own life, everything he worked for passing him by whilst others reaped the benefits. Graves would be proud of how efficiently the Company ran, that was for damn sure, but he wouldn't be happy that it came at the cost of Rex’s spark.

He lost it. That quick wit, the bite that backed up his bark, the things that made him…well, him.

The day that a ceasefire was pushed across his desk by Kate Laswell, she knew it, too. This wasn't the Rex that would kill someone for speaking ill of his Commander, no, this was Commander Morelli, or what remained of him at least. She looked up at Rex with an understanding in her eyes that the 141 could not possibly fathom, not for a monster like Rex that would turn tail on them so quickly.

“You don't have to sign it, I…I just want you to know that they’re intent on closing this chapter. We have work to do, business that needs tending.” Kate says with all of the bureaucratic charm she usually has, a kind enough smile tugging at her features. Rex nods slowly as he looks it over, seeing a spot at the bottom for his name. Captain John Price has already signed it. It’s August. He looks out the window of his office before looking back at the paper, pressing his pen to it with nothing short of defeat. “Thank you, Rex.”

“No problem.” He sort of nods as he pushes it back to Kate. “I just want this to be over with. Any luck finding Shepherd?”

“Not yet…we have bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.” Kate purses her lips in thought. “Would…Shadow Company be interested in working with—”

“Absolutely not.” Rex cuts her off. “I appreciate the kind gesture of the ceasefire, but I won't need a gun if I have to work with a single one of them brits again.”

Point made.

“I understand. Just…don't hesitate to reach out, alright? I know we have a rocky relationship now, but the C.I.A. is happy to continue to administrate your contracts as we have been. I’ll leave Price's men out of them.” Kate is nothing short of a saint. Rex is all teeth and flattened ears, somewhere in the valley between anger and depression. He’s armed with those emotions because it's easier than admitting he’s nothing like how he used to be on the inside, and though Kate can see right through it she chooses to say nothing.Professionalism is what she aims for and it's not exactly the picture of it to call him on his bullshit.

She disappears as quickly as she came to HQ and Rex can safely say he’s relieved. His hands find the top drawer of the desk and he pulls out a half crumpled pack of Newports and a lighter, not hesitating to spark one up inside. The window is open anyways. A playing card shaped ashtray on the desk with a spade in the center taunts him, though he chooses to ignore it whilst he looks down at his copy of the ceasefire.

…hereby agrees to cease all hostile contact with Shadow Co. as long as said agreement is upheld inversely towards Task Force 141…

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Rex mumbles to himself as he stuffs it into his desk, sighing as his forehead meets the warm surface of the hardwood.

It changes nothing. They operate as per usual, carrying out the typical business that they had beforehand without any special addendums. No intentionally risky missions, no smuggling American made missiles for a disgraced General, nothing out of the ordinary for a privatized military group. A ceasefire only matters in wartimes and as far as Rex is concerned, they aren't involved in any wars. Kate doesn't contact them about any ongoing changes in the worldwide political climate, so he rightfully assumes that everything is coasting along as it should be. He never asked about the PMC that assaulted them in Urzikstan and stole the missile shipment for Hassan because, truthfully, he knew nobody outside of Shepherd would have answers. The Konni PMC was placed on a back burner in his mind, at least until his phone starts ringing.

It's a Tuesday when Farah calls him.

He doesn't pick up.

Instead, he goes outside.

There's a tree on the back of the property, a weeping willow in all white. Whenever Graves passed, Rex knew they weren't going to be able to give his remains up to some mortuary, so they buried what they had out in the back 40. It's what he would've wanted, anyways, not some cramped cemetery. Rex came out whenever he needed to think or breathe, mull things over with the only motherfucker that would've been real with him. Graves would always be honest about things even if it meant knocking Rex down a peg or two. Rex crossed their legs and sat down, pulling out an all too familiar flask from their pocket. P.G. embossed in the leather casing, a playing card shoved in there too. The ace of spades. Rex threw back a shot and let the warmth settle in his stomach.

He isn't sure how long he's out there when he hears someone behind him.

Footsteps, then the clearing of a throat.

“You mind?” Rex doesn't even look back. He knows that only a newer Shadow would be so dumb as to traipse on up whilst he’s sulking out here. Commander Morelli is very famously armed at all times, this they know. “I’m a bit busy, recruit, what do you want?”

“Didn't anybody ever teach you some god damn manners? Your daddy didn't hug you enough or somethin'?” Rex whips around with all of the fire of a sun, his eyes locking with a set of cobalt blue ones that stand behind him. He stares for just a moment, entirely slack jawed, his hand still gripping the flask as if it's a lifeline.

He clears his throat again, whoever it is, and Rex makes a mental note about making them run laps later.

He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt, a Lacoste, and faded blue jeans. The belt around his waist is black with a red stripe down the middle, matching the magazine holder that dangles from it, a snake embroidered on the front panel. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets save for his thumbs, a silver watch on his left wrist that Rex recognizes well as he was the one who purchased it. There’s a nauseatingly familiar scar just below the man’s right eye, running back across his cheek and back through the top of his ear. Clipped like a feral dog that’s been taken to the vet.

“He didn't, actually, how’d y'know?”He says with a hum, rocking back on his heels ever so slightly. He has boots on, casual ones, though the leather is worn all the same as a pair of tactical ones. Rex can hear the material creak. It's been a long while since anyone wore them. “Well? You just gonna stare or what?”

Rex has pulled his sidearm before he can even consciously think about doing so and its pointed at the imposter’s forehead, pressed up against it actually.

“Bit much, ain't it, sugar?”

“Go fuck yourself — who the fuck do you think you are? What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Huh?” He taps the barrel against the man’s forehead. The imposter’s hands are up and behind his head in a quick movement that almost gets him shot. Rex is so certain this isn't Graves, because he isn't smiling about it. He doesn't have that smug grin that says ‘surprise’ as if this is something laughable.

No, he actually…he looks distraught.

“Answers. Now.” Rex slowly turns to walk the imposter backwards from the grave, never taking the pistol from his forehead. They’re not even shaking, hands entirely too steady for how electric all of their nerve endings feel. “Spill.”

“Coda, can you put the gun down?”

“Who? That isn't my name, I’m sorry, try again.” Rex taps the barrel off his head and the lookalike shifts his gaze away.

“Rex. Put the gun down.” His voice is too eerily similar. Rex feels faint. “What do I need to do to convince you that I’m me?”

“Explain how the fuck I buried a body, that’s what. Philip Graves is dead, he’s in a pine box three feet behind and six feet under me.” Rex clicks the hammer back into place on the revolver and the man tenses up, though his pupils are blown out wide. He doesn't look afraid for his life, if anything he looks oddly relieved.

“How else did you expect me to win down there in Mexico, huh? Gave ‘em some bait, they took it. I had to disappear, Rex, or they would've kept botherin’ us. Would’ve really put us both under.” He seems genuine, but Rex isn't buying it. This is all too convenient. Graves wouldn’t have left him out of the plans, would he? Not intentionally. No, this had to have been a last minute decision. Wait. Why is he even believing this sick fuck? Pretending to be a man’s dead husband? Rex shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grabs at his belt, feeling around for his radio. “Who are you calling?”

“My Lieutenants, that's who.” Rex huffs as he picks the radio up.

“Wasp and Spitfire let me in, sugar. Can you put the gun down, now?” Graves isn't quite begging, but he sounds exhausted. Rex falters for a moment, his aim wavering, before giving out all together. The revolver falls to the grass and he clasps his hand over his mouth, looking up at the blonde before him with something close to what they used to share. Things are different now, though. Terribly. It had been a long, hard year. Then his arms are open and are can't process if he wants to hug him or hit him. “C’mere.”

It hurts.

Real, physical pain.

He wants to scream, cry, something.

Don't call me sugar, don't do this to me, look at the fucking wreck I've become.

He can't.

“No, no, this…this isn’t…you’re not him.” Rex stutters, shaking his head. Before he can back away completely Graves has him in his arms, smothered into his chest, and all of those nagging thoughts disappear instantly. He smells how he always did. The cross around his neck is cool metal where Rex’s face presses into it, the expanse of his back is warmed by the sun. His arms are strong and capable, swearing silently to protect Rex from everything he had failed to.

“It's me, Coda. M’home.” Graves says with that familiar sickly sweetness that almost makes Rex forget the suffering he endured. The longest year of his life, burying Coda for good. Graves hadn't really died, but he wondered if he could resurrect the other version of himself that he used to be.

The days and weeks that follow are filled with a kind of tension that everyone is sick of within a few hours. Rex has developed the capability to run the Company with nothing short of confidence and self assurance, becoming much more than just the leashed animal he had been before. He’s skin and bones and claws, all bloodied maw and choked up flesh, a promise to die for this Company.. The problem is that Graves doesn't recognize that person wearing the Commander badge, supposedly his partner, though he can't be sure through the unkempt mess of hair and tired eyes. Rex doesn't look like that, no, Rex is soft on the edges even when he’s baring his teeth.

Whoever he came back to isn't him, but he tries to love him all the same. Rex doesn't let him close enough for that.

They still don't really trust each other whenever they arrive in Urzikstan to meet Alex and Farah. Though, there's something to be said about the surprised smirk Alex gives when they walk into the room. He straightens up, sort of tilts his head like a curious puppy when he speaks.

“The Shadow himself.” Alex speaks, followed by Farah.

“Welcome, Graves.”

“Heard you died in a tank in South America.” Alex smirks.

Rex freezes instinctually. South America? They were in Mexico. Who the fuck told them South America? Farah sounded like she knew what had happened whenever they spoke on the phone, did she not? Either Graves doesn't clock the mistake or he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, I wasn't in that tank.” Graves says with all of his usual smug confidence. He suppresses a smile, though. “What else have you heard?”

“We’re fighting our battles, here, no time for rumors.” Farah cuts off his curiosity. Rex can't help but wonder who gave them their information — as far as Rex was concerned they had only communicated with Shadow Company about the events of the last year. Had they been in contact with John Price? He knew that they'd worked together to retrieve Kate Laswell from captivity at some point, sure, but Rex was of the understanding that they’d ceased contact as Farah didn't even ask about Las Almas over the phone.

Did they not know why Graves’ life had been ‘taken’? What Shadow Company had done to the 141? Rex had a million questions that would go unanswered for far, far too long, but he was at least able to come to grips with the fact Graves was alive.

He didn't understand why he was left out of the plans, why the entirety of the Company was, or where Graves was for that excruciating year. He didn't understand why it had to be so hush-hush. If anyone should've been in the loop, it should've been him. They sit on the jet ride back to Texas, to prepare the shipment of missiles to be cargo-shipped to Urzikstan’s coast for Farah to retrieve. It's deathly quiet for the longest time, just the two of them in the cabin, splitting a bottle of whiskey.

Rex thumbs over the tags still around his neck, crinkled metal against the smooth surface of his own tags, glancing up to meet Graves’ gaze. They still had yet to share a bed again, let alone anything more intimate than a ‘hello.’

It feels more like a mercurial affair than what was previously a marriage, but theres some sort of hope buried in there somewhere. Like maybe if they can dig Farah out of this mess then maybe they can find themselves again, but they both know it's not that simple.

For now, their boots touch and Rex doesn't pull away. They share a drink on the ride home and the silence as well, wondering how many more miniscule heartbreaks it will take for them to need each other again.

—

💫 tags // @simonrriley 💫

a little more of the rexgraves lore in-between mwii and mwii ❤️‍🩹

[wackulart]

reminded me of this little doodle i did of them @zennyzach

best friends share their sinister husband

[umblrspectrum]

i love learning cursive just to write text for exactly one character

[ear-motif]

fanfic is so good bc the premise of some genres of fic are just inherently funny. I want these two grizzled crime drama protagonists to have some fucking fun for once, so they go to a water park. I dont care how i have to logic my way into them going there i dont care who has to drag them Theyre Going

[all-my-ocs-are-evil]

[insert poetic title here]

fun fact: this did not start out as isat fanart

(rambling in tags)

[bamsara]

If you're stressing out about a part of the writing process for fanfic to the point where it's not fun anymore, just don't do that part

Post that fanfic with 1000 grammar and spelling errors. Make your characters OOC and give it a Mary Sue. It is a hobby you're sharing not a literature assignment you have to turn in by midnight

[lucabyte]

monologue

[dapper-lil-arts]

You should read The Princess and the Peasant it's really good lol

[griddleharkbrainrot]

I’m currently thinking about how John and Co. refused to call Alecto by her name. They named her fury and vengeance but could not acknowledge what made her thus. They call her Annie Laurie, reducing her to her looks, those so inhuman and frightening yet beautiful all the same. John gave her the name Annabel Lee, naming her existence as a tragedy in that she was his love lost. In both instances the literary references reduce the woman mentioned to nothing but set dressing for the man of the story and it truly betrays John’s thoughts on Alecto for as much as he claimed to love her, he sees her only as the stepping stone for his own story. “For John so loved her that he had made her she. For John had loved the world.” And that is the crux of the matter, John had loved the world but she is not the world, she is its fury. John wanted her to be calm beaches and lapping waves, he wanted a wife, sister, mother, and daughter all in one, but instead, he got 7 million silenced voices crying out in agony, furious at the injustice done to them. I think subconsciously he understood that when he named her Alecto, fury of wrath from Greek Mythology. But even if he had called her Gaia she would still be furious, for was it not Gaia who gave her children the scythe to kill her husband? Was it not Gaia who roared and shrieked to the depths of Tartarus when her children were torn from her arms? The first bearer of prophecy was forged from the grief and rage of an anguished mother; the earth has always been furious. John’s fatal flaw was that he could not comprehend that the rage was for him. He who promised love and safety but cut and stripped her soul stole her children and butchered her corpse. John could never truly comprehend that what he deemed his perfect creation could resent him the way she did. He took her away and reforged her into something she could never be. John denies the resentment Alecto feels for him and we can see this reflected in how he refers to her. John is the sort of man who thinks that if he sees a woman as nothing but her looks, he can make her lesser. To him, she is Annie Laurie of beautiful bust and a personality nonexistent; To him, she is Annabel Lee, a woman so pure and lovely that the angels stole her away from him. Subconsciously, the lyctors have adopted this as well, calling her these names out of fear and not realizing the implications of what they are doing. Even in writing, she is A.L. to them because somewhere deep down they know that to name her wrath is to invite it and invoke it. John believed that if he could compress the Earth into a beautiful shell then he could control it. The Earth has been around for far longer than he could ever truly comprehend, and she is furious.

For @commanderbabygirl thoughts?

I did not realize just how many opinions I had on this until I started typing

[choccy-milky]

from my new oneshot, 'the vexing village of vellmore' ✨ ao3 / wattpad ((it's about seb & clora visiting a cursed village and trying to figure out how to break the curse, and since it ended up being 50k words i decided to split it into 2 chapters and the next part will be out soon!🙏 also, while it does have spoilers for the raven and the snake, it's a standalone story and can be read blind💖))

[loveisliquor]

There's a strange mix of hesitance and curiosity flooding her bloodstream, but the quiet relief in his gaze does something to take the edge off. She takes his hand, and the soft hit of his magic it brings, and suddenly-- she is in New York. She forget's sometimes, what it's like to be out without people checking in, without people locking metaphorical doors behind you-- she is so hemmed in by the coven, that she's rarely seen a city without someone appearing and telling her what to do, where to go-- and reminding her of her glorious purpose.

She stares at the sprawling city outside, and almost--misses his words. "It's beautiful." She murmurs, her eyes sliding between the buildings and small, bustling people beneath them. She turns to face him eventually, a playful smile on her lips. "...Your grandmother just wants to make sure we don't murder each other." She takes in the apartment, clean lines-- big windows-- and then she looks over the version of him she gets in this space and notes how some of the tightness around eyes have melted away. he looks more at ease here. "Why, Manhattan?" She knows, that she's meant to be receiving answers to another question, but once she gives in to her curiosity, it's always been hard for her to stop. And she won't deny she's curious about him.

She glances at the bar set up, her nose wrinkles in thought-- "Will I need a drink?" She giggles softly, and makes no attempt to smother it, just lets the sound linger, musical and unguarded between them. It's how she feels here, with him. Unguarded. Vulnerable. But not...scared. Her fingers brush along the tops of the bottles before she settles on a particularly vinage looking bottle of Glenlivit. "To get a glass... or drive the boat?" There's a part of her that wants to watch his reaction to her taking his very old whiskey to the head. Would he punish her? What would that be like? She unscrews the bottle, and pours herself a glass. "It's my first time here, if I start putting my mouth on your whiskey, you might never invite me back. Want some?" She takes a small sip of it, and makes a soft sound of contentment. "I might share if you're nice." Maybe leaving had put her at ease too, even if she wouldn't describe it that way. Removing the constant pressure they're both under-- and the constant, watchful judgement had a way of disarming her. She can be playful, and giggle-- because there's no one watching .Well-- there's Marcus. But she doesn't mind that he gets to see her this way. There's a part of her that likes it.

Marcus had always had a knack for reading people. So the mix of fear and desire in Pandora's eyes didn't escape him. Perhaps that was why he felt bold enough to offer her something he hadn't been naïve enough to even hope she might be curious about. When he'd thought about their future life together, it had always been with a dry, mechanical tang. Boring sex with the sole purpose of reproduction. Then separate lives. Cold. Indifferent. More like the business transaction their marriage actually was, and not something for either one of them to enjoy. He'd accepted that - for the most part.

Yet here she was, taking his offered hand despite obvious trepidation, despite having some sense of what his offer entailed. And Marcus returned her smile, a hint of relief flickering in his own gaze just long enough for her to maybe notice it. "We can talk about that list later," he promised, tone only slightly teasing as his fingers folded around hers and he shimmered.

When they reappeared, it was in what appeared to be a New York penthouse apartment. Large, spacious, modern. With big windows and a view of the city. Marcus' shoulders seemed to lower a little, like this was home to him, and he released Pandora's hand gently. "Welcome to Manhattan," he declared, gaze roaming the view before them. "You were saying you'd like to know more about me..." His gaze landed on hers. "This is a start. It's where I've been living for the past... two and a half years at least. I also thought it'd be a better venue for us than my parents' house - what with my grandmother most definitely trying to listen in." He paused for a spell, then gestured towards the expansive bar setup behind her. "Would you like something to drink?"

[grumpy-triceratops]

🌸My Super Long Hopefully Fun Character Ask Game:

👕Appearance

What is your character's favorite physical trait they possess?

What would your character wear if they were told they had to gussy up?

Is there something about your character's appearance that they would change if possible?

Does your character have a favorite material they like to wear?

What are your character's opinion on scars?

How much interest does your character take in trends?

Is there someone your character tries to look similar to?

Does your character have a physical trait that they're known for?

What does your character smell like?

If your character could splurge on a particular garment, what would it be?

Is your character's favorite color a color they wear often?

Has your character gone through major stylistic or physical changes?

What is something your character would refuse to wear?

Is there a style your character is afraid they can’t pull off?

Would your character wear something someone else picked out for them?

Is your character's appearance more telling or deceiving?

What are your character's thoughts on wearing costumes?

Does your character have a favorite outfit?

If your character had to get a tattoo what would it be?

📦Objects

Is there an item your character doesn't like to leave without?

What gift would your character give to someone they didn't like but felt obligated to?

What type of object is likely to catch your character's attention?

Is there an item your character liked that they can’t get back? 

Would your character ever try to haggle?

What is something your character is proud to own?

Does your character ever spend more than they have?

What would it take for your character to give up an item they really like?

Does your character prefer to give or receive gifts?

Is there a type of object your character doesn’t like?

What might an acquaintance think is a good gift for your character?

Does your character personify objects?

What does your character most enjoy shopping for?

Is there an item your character is embarrassed they own or want?

Would your character prefer something bought or made personally?

Is your character willing to ask for things?

What is most important to your character when shopping?

🍽️Food and Drink

What flavor would your character say their personality is?

Would your character prefer baking, cooking or mixing drinks?

Is there a food or drink your character is unwilling to try?

How big is your character's appetite?

Does your character consider eating fun?

Would your character eat or drink something they didn't like to appease someone?

Is there food that has made your character sick?

What is your character's favorite food group?

Does your character like to try new foods?

What is a childhood meal your character cherishes?

Is your character food motivated?

Which mealtime is your character's favorite?

How much does your character care about wasting food?

Does your character prefer restaurant food or home cooked food?

What food or drink does your character consider a treat?

Is there a food texture your character doesn't like?

What kind of drinks does your character prefer?

🌤️Weather and Nature

What would your character do if they were suddenly caught in the rain?

Has your character had a meaningful encounter with an animal?

What season would your character say they're most similar to?

Is there a natural phenomenon that scares your character?

Has your character ever had an animal phase?

Would your character enjoy sky gazing?

Does your character have a good sense of direction?

What type of environment does your character like best?

Is your character good with animals?

How would your character react to snow?

What part of nature would your character most resonate with?

Could your character survive in the wilderness on their own for a week or more?

What element best represents your character?

Does your character prefer hot or cold weather?

Is there a creature that scares your character?

What celestial body would interest your character the most?

Is your character good with plants?

How willing would your character be to nap outside?

What animal would your character say best represents them?

🤝Community and Relationships

Does your character prefer company or solitude when sick?

What is your character's favorite kind of social event?

How comfortable would your character be singing and dancing in front of others?

Is your character upfront about their feelings?

Who would your character first seek if they needed medical help?

How willing would your character be to go to a party with people they don't know?

Who is your character most honest with?

How likely is it for your character to initiate a friendship?

Where is your character's comfort place?

Is there a habit your character has that they learned from someone else?

Does your character have people they think would worry about them if they got injured?

How would your character react to being put in a position of leadership?

Would your character be good at providing medical assistance?

Who would your character say knows them best?

Is there a person your character would turn to for backup in a fight?

Who would your character most want to sign their cast if they got one?

How well does your character work with others?

What is your character's favorite form of affection?

Does your character enjoy celebrating holidays?

What would it take for your character to get into a fight?

💓Mind, Body and Soul

What is a habit your character has that others might find cute?

Are there particular sounds your character is fond of?

Is your character more prone to fight or flight?

Does your character believe in myths and fairy tales?

What words could tear your character down?

How well does your character act under pressure?

Is your character good at practicing self-care?

What scents does your character find comforting?

Does your character have any allergies?

Is your character a light, medium or heavy sleeper?

Does your character have strong willpower?

Is your character more likely to give advice or seek it?

How does your character relax?

Is there a secret thing your character longs to hear?

Does your character have a sleep routine?

Would your character feel confident in a fight?

Is your character more energized in the morning, afternoon or at night?

How often does your character have nightmares?

Are there scents your character dislikes?

Is there a fear your character wants to learn to overcome?

If your character had to act in a play what role would they think they’d best perform?

Does your character have a high pain tolerance?

🎲 Hobbies and Activities

What kind of games does your character most enjoy playing?

Does your character have a secret hobby?

What is a talent your character wishes they had?

Is there an activity your character used to enjoy that they now dislike?

Which does your character try to prioritize more, work or hobbies?

Does your character work better with creative or technical endeavors?

What is a talent that your character is proud of?

Is your character more outdoorsy or indoorsy?

What is a topic your character would be excited to talk about? 

Is there a skill your character doesn’t know they’re bad at?

Does your character have any injury stories?

What kind of music does your character enjoy?

Has your character ever made something for themselves or someone else?

What is your character’s opinion on cheating in games?

How good is your character at following through on projects?

What’s an activity that reminds your character of someone else?

Does your character prefer music or silence?

What is a topic your character wouldn't want to talk about?

[yangcherie]

bathing.

𐀔 pairings: cast (astarion, gale, wyll, lae’zel, shadowheart, karlach, halsin) x female!tiefling!tav (reader).

𐀔 content warnings: suggestive, everybody is a little freak, non-consensual voyeurism, implied scent kink (gale), mentions of scars, afab anatomy. tiefling anatomy.

𐀔 sypnosis: what is a warrior to do when all their companions are peeping toms?

𐀔 author’s note: they are freaks and its been very long since i’ve written. please forgive a lady if what she’s written is unappealing.

“Can you keep it – fucking quiet?!”

Astarion whisper-yells at the entire party of people hiding within bushes and treelines, all fighting tooth and nail like rabid animals for a peek (and taste) of their ragtag, frustratingly attractive leader’s curves.

They didn’t even mean to stumble into eachother, each to their own blindly traversing through the thickets of the woods towards the nearest river. Tav simply mentioned having to retire early to take a bath (much to Gale’s dismay), and they all hungrily jumped towards the opportunity like dogs to a meatless bone, the one of the hopefully many chances they’ll see you naked, vulnerable, and shivering – even if it’s only due to the lack of warmth in the river’s streams.

It’s wrong, debauched, even. Hells, even literal devils, Karlach and Wyll, wear faces ridden with shame. Of course, they (namely Astarion and Lae’zel) poked at the others stalking as if they weren’t shamelessly doing the same.

The tension in the air was thick, each a barrel on the verge of explosion ready to wipe out the recently discovered possibility of rivalries and competition – but they couldn’t blame eachother; there was just something about you that made you so very enticing. They all thought it was incredibly silly to think only one person would want you.

“Well,” Astarion clicked his tongue in displeasure, having his private time foiled. Still, he smiled sardonically. “we’re all degenerates, it seems. We’re all looking forward to having a... fun time.”

A deep rumble came, and it surprisingly did not come from the forest ground. It was simply Halsin, all too polite and calm smiles. Astarion groaned; he was sick of this big fucking oaf with hearts for eyes and a log of wood for brains. “We are not depraved for simply yearning to admire our friend in a state of tranquil—”

“Oh, please! Don’t act like a saint in front of me!” The vampire spawn huffed, hands on his hips. “We’re all here for the same reason, we all want to see Tav fucking naked, no point in lying now!”

Tints of red and pink all rushed to everyone’s faces, and even Shadowheart was reduced to fiddling with her fingers together. Though awkward coughs ensued in the air, not a single word of denial was uttered.

Karlach is first to speak up, ever brazen. “It’s true!” She says with her signature sharp smile. “I wanted to see her tits!”

(Lae’zel and Astarion nodded approvingly to Karlach’s honesty. Halsin and Gale quietly shared their sentiments on their preference to your ass. Shadowheart and Wyll could not disagree to both.)

Amidst their busy conversation and debate regarding your body’s fine qualities, the alarmingly close and approaching noises of branches snapping and leaves crunching had rendered them silent, panicked shivers and goosebumps on their skin. With shared glances and only a few split seconds to react, the party floundered and flailed for whatever they could use to stay hidden.

“Settle down, you circus; Tav’s coming!” Wyll is the first amongst the party to silently and comically dive into a bush with Karlach, clutching their tails to avoid it rustling about in excitement. Halsin had thrown Gale and Astarion atop a tree’s thick branches before joining them. Lae’zel, disappointingly, camoflauges just well with the greenery, watching Shadowheart flounder about and settle for lying on the ground with grass over her face.

“All you filthy ska'keth.” Lae’zel hisses, letting everyone know of your now visible presence, the halting of your footsteps along the other edge of the river. “Enjoy the show.”

Across the distance, their focus had been shifted to you and now solely you.

You quietly groan, trudging towards the river you’ve been searching to no end, you set down your basket of fine oils, herbs and waxes as your armored limbs ache and practically cry for a dip in the clear stream. With no haste, you take in the cool night air, this little moment of peace, away from prying eyes you’ve fought long and hard to obtain. Sweat trickles down your throat, your tail swaying in contentment in the calm atmosphere.

Quickly deciding you’ve had enough of the crisp air, you reach towards your body to unclasp and unfasten the many buckles on your durable armor – starting with the iron top, quickly taking it off to reveal your bare, battle-worn chest and hastily discarding the metal on your legs, throwing them aside in favor of letting the cold air bite at your naked, scarred body before you go into the water; allowing your body a little moment of respite from the suffocation and heat of tight, bloody armor – even letting your tail sway around freely instead of being constricted to being stiff. A content smile creeps its way onto your face.

You lightly step your way from the sand to the edge of the water, continuing to walk until you’re trembling from the cold, until you’re hips-down in the water. A grateful sigh is pulled from your lips as you start to wade about, your hands subtly working to wash the dried blood, gore and grime off of your body and hair – using the oils and wax soaps of sweet woodruff and wine from your basket, even scrubbing your horns. A little part of you finds this normalcy almost unfamiliar, uncomfortable; it’s been quite a while you’ve taken care of yourself. Your thoughts start to drift; prior to your abduction by the Nautiloid ship, were you ever taken care of, like this? By other hands, even?

(You hope so.)

Another sigh is dragged out of you, though wearier as guilt treads within you. Just a little moment of peace, of indulgence before you go back to the dreadful task of keeping your companions and yourself alive and fighting. Just a little more time. You think you deserve it.

A silence was washed over the forest, and the party as they all beheld you and your battle-worn body. It felt almost sacred, like doing this would have them damned to the Hells and below but it was simply too captivating. Your bodice was a web and a product of war, and they were caught mesmerized – with only the dense forest and one another to witness their quickly unravelling need for you. But even then, they felt some semblance to pity. What they wouldn’t give to the gods right now to be by your side and give you some tending to.

The ridges down your back, the swaying base of your tail, the alluring image of your hips and ass teasingly disappearing into the water below, the silhouette of your horns – that untroubled smile on your lips – they all drink it in with their eyes in a fashion similar to Astarion’s throat would with your blood.

They savor it for as long as they can, before stepping out of the trance as Gale himself not-so-quietly attempted to clamber down from the rough-bark tree he was settled in, dropping down to the dirt and crushing the leaves loudly and ungracefully. Shadowheart gaped with mortification at him from the ground, everyone wishing to every god above you would have mistaken the sound as a particularly large animal, perhaps an owlbear and not a wizard along with an entire party intruding on your privacy.

“Gale! What in the Nine Hells are you doing?!”

Astarion had settled for whisper-yelling once again, pointing at him accusingly from his position atop the tree’s branches besides Halsin. Gale waved his hand, silently telling him to shut the fuck up, before urgently pointing at your discarded armor and clothing, then proceeding to give him a big smile and two thumbs up.

Surely enough to the mortification of the party, he quickly cast Misty Step over himself to travel to your area and hastily swiped (stole) anything soft – including your unattended bandages and undergarments, taking a small moment to put it to his nose and re-casting the spell to return below the tree within a few seconds. He wallowed in his pride before with a swift motion, tucked the newly acquired materia into the pockets of his robe much to the discomfort (and mild envy) of all of them.

“A man has to do and take what he can.” Gale reasoned to nobody in particular, nodding solemnly as if he just shared a piece of wisdom. He suppressed a yelp as Lae’zel then threw a rock at him, followed by another as Astarion thwacked a small branch straight to his forehead from above.

“Just leave it.” Wyll snidely commented, fighting with his life to tear away his eyes from your moonlit form, breaking out of a trance. “We should leave, go back to camp. It’d be suspicious if everyone just disappeared.”

“Ugh, you are such a killjoy, Wyll.” Astarion rolled his eyes but complied, scaling down the tree quietly, much unlike Gale earlier, who was still fiddling around his pockets with your intimates. “A party pooper, even.”

As repulsive the idea to leave you was, it was reasonable. Begrudingly, everyone quietly sat up or climbed down and quietly attempted to find their way through the dense, dark forest, sharing little observations and hushed chitchat along the way. And soon enough, the party found themselves in familiar territory, now gathering around and settling down near the campfire like they previously had before you announced your leave, as if they didn’t just claw their way through eachother earlier to see a scrap of your vulnerability.

The fire cast a warm glow over the party as they immersed in chitchat, a few (namely Shadowheart and Astarion) pestering and even offering a bargain to Gale for the underclothes he had nicked earlier. The wizard was not deterred; fair and square, he wagged his finger as if to say nuh-uh to the seething two. It was only shortly after, that you came stumbling back into camp like a lost fawn, hair and body language calm and loose but the armor remaining stiff on your body.

Karlach coughed to let the others know you had arrived from your personal time. “Soldier! You’re back!” You greeted her with a nod, before raising a brow and sweeping your eyes amongst them. Gale swallowed, placing a protective hand over the pocket that held your garments.

“You would not believe what happened.” You sighed in utter distress before plopping yourself down besides Halsin and Astarion on the log to let the fire embrace you with warmth, piquing everyone’s interest and attention with intense ease. “A wandering owlbear ate my clothes.”

They all collectively either guffawed or choked on their spit, Lae’zel scoffing and Astarion groaning amongst them. Right. Of course, you would have thought it was a fucking owlbear. Thieving owlbears that take normal, musky clothes instead of shiny armor.

“Ah, owlbears.” Gale tutted and sighed with faux sympathy, nervously chuckling and shifting to hide the lump in his pockets. “They’d eat almost anything, really.”

Astarion shot him a bewildered look, as if to ask, don’t you? You swallowed two of my books last night!

“You can borrow my clothes, for the night.” Shadowheart butted in, suddenly slotting herself behind you and setting a reassuring palm on your shoulder. You smiled at her, gazing up at her gratefully. “Thank you, Sha—”

“Well, you can have my clothes!” Karlach and Lae’zel shot up in unison.

“Sharing your old filth, I can sew them new clothes!” Astarion argued, until everyone started refuting eachother and proposing that you take theirs and whatnot.

You sighed with exasperated fondness, immensely troubled but somewhat used to it as you watch your companions pointlessly banter, having little doubt that by the end of the night, you’d have a fair share of everyone’s wardrobe into yours.

Still, you hope to the very bottom of your heart that the “owlbear” that stole your clothes had a full tummy, at least.

[hootyhoowoo]

A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!

[pluplupluto]

Chapter 2 of the text fic is out!!