#just to be RIPPED OUT BY THR STEM

[leth-writes]

Yandere Homelander and Predator-prey dynamic

SUMMARY:  There's someone in your house. Smut ensues.

WARNINGS: 18+ as always on my blog. Typical yandere shenanigans. Fem reader.

MASTERLIST 

Requests are open!

If you like it, please comment!

There’s someone in your house.

Normally, you’d be asleep at this hour, safe in your bed and comfortable under your covers. You loved your bed; it was perfect for you, covered in soft, plush blankets and perfectly fluffed pillows. You dreamed of it all day, waiting for the moment when you could climb in and doze off.

Part of the appeal was always the relief of relaxing from a long, tedious day working at Vought. It was stressful, thankless work trying to rehabilitate the images of a group of murderers so filled with blood lust they couldn’t go five minutes without maiming someone, but you did it nonetheless. Still, you’d never enjoy your work; at this point, you were doing it to keep your head on your shoulders just as much as you were to get paid. 

And yet here you are, in the early hours of the morning, shivering in the cold morning air. Your eyes strain against the dark, feebly attempting to gain a peak out into your shadowed room. You glance frantically back and forth, trying to find just what had awoken you from your peaceful slumber.

You sigh, air practically misting in the cold, and quietly sit up, bracing your palms against the soft covers. Your eyes strain against the dark, a deep beam of midnight light just barely peeking through your deep velvety curtains. 

There’s something off about your room. You glanced around again, mentally checking off each corner, each coat slung across a chair. Nothing seemed out of place…

You had no choice. You’d have to get up, to check and make sure no one had snuck in, that no one was hiding for you. Sighing once again, you slung your legs over the side of your bed, wincing as your bare feet made contact with the chilled floor. Goosebumps rose on your skin.

Quickly, you rolled your neck out, sighing in relief at the cracks and the release of tension. You stretched your arms over your head, and stood in one smooth motion. 

You weren’t the bravest person around, but you sure as hell weren’t just going to let someone terrify you all night. Resolve made, you made your way through the room, stumbling and cursing as you tripped over the various objects tossed around.

You should’ve put your stuff away last night, but you’d just been so tired…

Homelander was acting up recently; he’d gotten into a relationship, which you’d previously thought would mellow him out. Yet, he’d only gotten worse. You didn’t know much about her, no one did, he’d been pretty protective. Out of that protectiveness had stemmed a need to keep her out of the limelight, meaning he’d been rougher with the civilians he was tasked with protecting, and the criminals he’d been placed in charge of arresting. 

Only today, or yesterday, you supposed, he’d violently ripped a civilian’s arm out their socket while rescuing them from a bank robber. It had taken hours to scrub the internet of the outrage after, burying it under baseless accusations about Starlight and her supporters.

If there was one good thing about the Starlight mess, it was that it had suddenly gotten a whole los easier to hide any misdeeds; just blame it on the Starlighters, or shift blame, and your work was done. Sage also seemed to consider the complications of her actions, and her influence had radiated out on the rest of the Seven under your watchful eye. For that, you were grateful; you were unable to protest any time someone made a mess for you to clean up. It didn’t help that you were in charge of public relations for the Seven, a floating position without any higher-ups, putting you in constant contact with the Seven.

The Deep was definitely the worst person you had to deal with. He was the most irritating person you’d ever met, always hitting on you and trying his best to get in your pants. You’d even been there when he threatened Ashley, and you got the message loud and clear; nothing stood between you and your untimely, humiliating death but being on his good side. So you’d been forced to work even harder. The octopus rumors were hard to defeat, but you’d worked tirelessly to push the blame onto Cassandra, painting her as the crazy ex determined to take down a good guy. You weren’t sure how long it’d work, but you supposed you didn't have much of a choice.

The Homelander was a close second, however. He was terrifying, always staring at you with those eyes, like he saw right through you, like he was planning to hollow you out, see what made you, see how much pressure it took to unmake you. You knew he was capable of it, knew he was a bigger threat than the rest of the Seven, combined. The hypervigilance was the worst part, constantly monitoring what you said, what you did, in the hopes he wouldn’t be offended enough to laser you through the skull like the last person who’d had your job. You’d been their assistant, poor Amara…

To be fair, she’d insulted the Homelander, called him a moron. The blood had gone everywhere, had soaked you head to toe. You’d just stood there, mouth gaping, blood soaking through your previously clean white shirt, and stared at him. He’d stared back, eyes locked onto your face like he wanted to devour you. You hadn’t protested when he’d given you an impromptu promotion; you knew everyone was currently too scared to say anything to him. 

You were so scared of the look he’d given you. Still, he’d followed you around, never saying anything, just looking at you. After the announcement, internally of course, of Homelander’s new girlfriend, only the very highest on the totem pole knew her identity, you’d also noticed everyone looking at you weird. 

Where once you’d blended in, just one in a sea of people, now you were constantly being singled out. People would bring you your morning coffee, just the way you liked it, assistants and interns you’d never once met. People wouldn’t sit next to you at lunch, keeping a large distance, forming an invisible barrier between yourself and the rest of the Vought employees. Ashley’d even talked nicer to you for once, as though she actually cared, instead of treating you like shit on her shoe. 

You had no clue why; maybe because you’d been promoted?

Shaking your head to clear it of your current line of thinking, you moved forward, pushing your bedroom door open. 

Where your room had been barely illuminated by the night peeking through the curtains, your hallway was pitch black. You padded forward, stumbling in the dark, trailing a hand down the wall.

Finally, after an awkward couple of moments, you made your way to the living room. It was illuminated, bright light from the moon streaming in through your sliding doors. You’d forgotten to close the curtains, though you guessed it was a boon for your current situation.

You padded into the middle of the room, then spun around slowly, taking in each shadow, each piece of furniture.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. 

It seemed like you’d gotten out of bed for nothing.

Shrugging, you turned around.

Homelander was standing right in front of you, smile stretched so far across his face it looked painful. His hand was outstretched, like he’d been about to place a hand on your shoulder.

“Sh-shit!” You cried, stumbling back. Your hand flew to your chest, clasping at your thick sweater. Your chest heaved with the force of the surprise, with the loss of breath. 

He laughed, eyes locked onto you. Periodically, his face seemed to… shutter, like he was trying to hide his true feelings. It was terrifying, the way his face seemed to change and morph under the force of his own emotions. He shifted his weight onto one foot, pulling an expression of bemused surprise onto his chiseled face. 

“Hey, hey, just take a breath, alright?” He said, leaning forward. He sounds as though he’s having a casual conversation, not surprising someone in the middle of the night, in a house he shouldn’t be able to enter.

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and looked up at him. “P-please, you need to leave. Whatever you need to talk about, we can talk about tomorrow morning.” His face barely shifted expressions as you talked, though the surprise drained away.

He laughed, eyes wide. “No need to be so formal, little lady! I’m just here for a little chat…” he leaned in closer, bringing a hand up to caress at your jaw. His stance was casual, too casual, like he had no clue why it would be inappropriate to surprise anyone, let alone a coworker, in their house in the middle of the night.

You stepped back. He stepped forward, closing the distance. You sighed; it seemed he was determined to stay in your personal space.

“Please, Homelander- I need you to leave,” You begged, voice cracking. He simply smirked, like your feelings had no bearing on his actions. You supposed they didn’t; he was superior to you in every way, after all.

“Now, why would I do that?” He brushed his hand along your cheek, caressing it softly. Goosebumps sprang up in the absence of his touch. His hand was warm, almost too warm, unnatural, through the creaky, smooth leather glove. You could smell the barest hint of iron on the material. You jolted back, though you had nowhere to run; your back hit the wall of your living room. You were cornered.

You let out a gasp at the contact, looking up with pleading eyes, begging nonverbally to be allowed to leave. You just wanted to go back to bed, to curl up and pretend none of this had ever happened.

You screwed your eyes tight, head leaned as far away from him as possible. You didn’t want to see your gruesome demise coming; all you could hope was that he would make it painless.

“You know, everyone in the office thinks you’re such an innocent little thing…” He began, voice jovial, though you sensed an underlying hostility. “The Deep bet $50 you were a virgin; I know Black Noir took that bet. But you… you’re something special. I can smell it on you…”

“S-sir?”

“The arousal, everything I walk in a room, the way you squeeze your thighs together through those tight pants, hoping against hope you won’t soak through… Like a gift waiting to be unwrapped for me…” He leaned in closer, nose practically touching your neck, and inhaled deeply, as though he was checking for arousal right that second.

“Ah, there it is, you must be soaking wet, aren’t you? So turned on by your hero surprising you… I bet you’ve thought about this for months, haven’t you? Touching yourself to the thought of me?”

You had. You hated to admit it, but you had. There was just something about his presence, the danger, that truly excited you, that left you wanting for more. You’d thought about him, hand down your pants, for most of your adult life, though you’d never found release like you had once you learnt the bloody truth. Maybe it made you a bad person. Maybe it would lead to your death. You were truly at his mercy now, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help the way the fantasies flicked through your mind, bleeding and mixing together. You clenched your legs, hoping against hope he wouldn’t check.

He bracketed his hand against the wall, pinning you in. You were trapped.

“Mm, I bet this is your wildest fantasy… Isn’t it. Me pinning you to the wall, ripping your shirt off, taking you on the table…” He kissed down your neck, taking extra care to suck at the space you knew your carotid was.

“Your pulse is racing, I can see it, hear it, pulsing through you. It ticked up when I kissed… right… here…” He punctuated his words by sucking at the crux of your neck, and you let out a soft gasp. It felt so good, feeling the brush of his canines against the thin skin, the warmth of his breath, seeing him from your peripheral. Shit, if you were going to die tonight, at least you’d die happy. 

He let out a huff, smile widening, showing off those sharp canines. He was like an animal, viciously attacking your neck. You knew your neck would be covered in marks, if you lived to see tomorrow.

Suddenly, unbidden, you thought of his girlfriend. Was he cheating on her? Would he kill you because of it?

You tried to shove him off. “Please-please, Homelander, we can’t! You, you have a girlfriend!”

He snorted, pulling back, hanging his head. His shoulders shook.

“God, you’re lucky you’re so cute,” he laughed, raising his head to look into your eye. It was like looking into the eye of a storm, a brief respite from the winds viciously tearing at you, ripping through you.

“Wh-what?”

“You are the girlfriend.”

“Oh. oh…” Well, that explained the special treatment.

“Wait, what?! You can’t just claim-”

His lips slammed to yours, cutting off your squawk of indignation.

His lips were soft, and smooth, and hard, like the force of a truck barrelling into you. 

Jesus, it’s everything you’d hoped it would be, and your arousal blooms in you, blossoming and morphing and pushing you forward, into the kiss.

He lets out a groan, hand reaching up to tangle in your hair, yanking at it gently, oh so gently. The force, being able to feel how much he’s holding back, is intoxicating, addicting.

The two of you stand, him pinning you to the wall, lips sliding together. The kiss is hurried, frantic even, like the two of you have been building to this moment for months. You suppose you have.

Finally, he slides a hand down your side, moving it up the inside of your shirt, tracing the contours of your waist and chest. 

You groan at the smooth leather’s glide; his touch is featherlight, so well-controlled, but you can’t help but wish he would give in to his impulse and show you how much he wants you.

The brush of his palm, wrapped in leather, against your sensitive breasts startles you; you jump slightly, breaking the kiss. He pants against your forehead, gently pressing a kiss to the warming skin. You sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

He’s so warm, is the thing. You don’t know why you’d never thought of it that way, always thinking he was cooler than normal; you were wrong. His skin is heated, almost flushed, what would count as feverish on a normal human. You guess he isn’t normal, is the thing.

Just being in his presence is addicting, is intoxicating. You want to spend the rest of your life in these moments, stretched out like syrup, until you’re positively sick of his touch. And yet, he’s already moving his hands down, gliding them down the contours of your side until he reaches where your shorts rest, just below your belly button.

You gasp as his hands reach through to cup at your ass, and he picks you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve never had a partner be able to lift you up so easily, so effortlessly; the reminder of his strength only turns you on more.

He walks quickly, you in his arms, to the table, setting you down gracelessly. Before you can even process the move, he’s already got you laid flat, the vase you had prominently displayed pushed to the side. The crash shocks you and you jolt, staring up at him. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth twists; he didn’t mean to scare you.

It’s odd, seeing him be so gentle. You can’t help but croon, reaching a hand up to card through his hair, playing with the small strands at the nape of his neck. His face clears, and the ever present smirk finds its way back in place. His eyes light up; you’ve never seen the smile actually reach his eyes. His eyes, normally stormy and dull, blaze in the dark room.

He leans down, slamming your lips together. As the two of you kiss, he pulls your shorts down, exposing your panties. He laughs at the feeling of the lace, briefly pulling away.

“Expecting me, were you?” He teases, but you just pull him down. He ignores the mumbled “shut up” you throw his way before practically attacking his mouth.

Homelander runs a hand down your stomach, chuckling into the kiss as your muscles pull taut and flinch at the light touch. He pulls away one last time from the kiss, smirk ever-present and lighting up his face.

He doesn’t bother teasing you, he can read the frustration on your face, knowing you’re about ready to cry from exasperation. He kisses his way down your torso, laving at the flushed skin, taking the time to bite ever so gently. You can see the reddened indents as he continues exploring, before finally stopping right at your panty-line.

“Finally,” he growls, and all your hair stands on end. You’ve only ever heard him sound so dangerous when he’s about to laser someone, but you know he wouldn’t hurt you, if only because it would mean he would go home unsatisfied and wanting.

Without another word, he rips your panties off, ignoring your half-hearted process, and dives in.

You let out a long, low moan, practically punched out of you, and throw your head back. His mouth on your heated flesh feels incredible, god-sent, finally giving you the long-awaited relief.

His hands bracket your waist, keeping you from bucking him off, and you watch as he devours you. You’ve never seen him so intense, so concentrated, on anything except crime and himself. It’s intoxicating, being the one he’s so dead-set on impressing. You run your hand through his hair, tugging gently, though the moan he lets out feels incredible.

The coil in your stomach tightens, tightens, almost ready to snap. You’re close now, teetering on the edge, ready for more.

“Homelander,” you moan, eyes screwed shut. You can’t handle the feeling, the heat building up, threatening to completely overtake you. In response, he simply moves faster.

Finally, you crest the edge, that taut coil snapping. You spasm, hips bucking up, almost out of his grip.

The noise that escapes your lips doesn’t even sound human. 

As you lie on the table, hands outstretched and panting like you’ve run a marathon, Homelander leans back up to kiss you on the lips.

He’s gentle now, the taste of you still fresh on his lips, and he brings his hands up to cup your jaw.

“Well?” He asks, barely pulling back.

Your eyes flutter open.

“Jesus,” you breath, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Not quite, but I’ll take it.”

[comfortless]

write swagger. anything for swagger. anything. i’ll take a crumb, I’ll take medic x swagger i’ll take any overdone trope give me something for this man!!!! i love u and your writing sm syl i’m sorry this isn’t a köni request but..

Spin Cycle

Roland “Swagger” Kaminski x mercenary fem!reader

CONTENT / WARNINGS: 18+ minors do not interact! violence, enemies -> lovers, implications of sex (no actual smut), swagger points a gun at your head sorry, reader may have a gun kink.

i hate(love) you, lele!! i listened to this guys voice lines so many times they’re just embedded in my brain at this point. lil rushed & not proofread, so there may be some mistakes, sorry!

wc: 3k

Cold. Wet.

This isn't the weather for a battle. This isn't a night to die. But some lack taste in the intricacies of being victimized, and as her sight settles on the enemy maneuvering through the war torn warehouse, she realizes he certainly doesn't have a preference in which way he's ripped apart. The mask covering his face tells her everything she needs to know, he's dead already, hiding beneath an ugly cover to conceal his identity; an unknown, evil thing in her eyes. She would be doing him a favor. Mercy for the man marching around wearing a face not his own.

She slowly positions her pistol, quietly aiming as her finger brushes the trigger. Once, to prepare herself for more blood on her hands. Twice, to make peace with his creator in his stead— he wouldn't have the time nor the delicate nature for it. Thrice, because she likes the feel of the cold metal against her fingertip; it grounds her, tethers her to the reality of what she’s here to do. Lucky numbers be damned, it was all for the thrill of it.

She pulls the trigger and the bullet rips from the barrel as she bites her lip.

To her chagrin, it buries itself in the wall behind her target. To her relief, it definitely struck. The man buckles to the dirtied floor with a groan, gloved hands reaching out to apply pressure to the gash in his calf. It's not enough to kill, they both knew it, but it would put the buck down long enough for her to reload and fire a shot right into his brain. She wonders if she could tell what his face actually looked like when his mask was blown off and gray matter spackled  the floor behind him.

"Knew you were in here, you slimy bastard."

The voice pulls her from her thoughts, and if she were forced to have any sort of virtue left she could be honest and embrace the fact she isn't the most coordinated mercenary out there. Her pistol clatters to the floor. She quickly slips further into the dark, not bothering with her lost weapon for the time being as she positions herself behind a crate to hide.

"Your aim is shit. Your hands must be shaking."

The man's voice continues to rasp. He's taunting her, wants to lure her out. There's something playful about his voice that sends a swell of unease from her chest to the pit of her stomach. The man had just been shot, and that surge of confidence couldn't stem from a wounded man unless he had some sort of a plan. She's been here so many times with so many different flavors of prey that the warning signs aren't lost on her.

She swears she hears the click of him replacing his magazine, the static of his radio, the sound of ripped fabric and a lightening quick application of a makeshift tourniquet. The thought that the gunfire gave out her position crosses her mind.

"Come out, fucking coward."

She's been here so many times, in the dead of night, playing this one-sided game of cat and mouse. She's seen blood, felt the sting of a bullet carving it's way through her, and she's never been afraid. Not until tonight.

This isn't a night to die, yet she's pissed off the fucking grim reaper.

A church bell rings out in the distance, some small mercy. It plants the seed of an idea and she follows the path her mind carves with her hand grasping for a knife at her belt. The knife rips through the quiet air of the warehouse, coming to a clatter some three meters behind him after she tosses it. The man takes the bait, fires several shots in the direction of the noise as she quietly finds her escape. Delivered from death by the heavenly portal of a broken window.

But when it comes to the intricacies of being victimized, it's very rare that things play out so simply. Hunting is a messy task, and one slip up can so quickly prove that prey often have fangs, too.

Her target, some Polish elite soldier, Roland Kaminski, isn't a buck at all. Bucks are easy, they're skittish and stupid. You fire off a shot at one of them, they buckle or prance back into the plush foliage of the forest for cover. When thundering footsteps can be heard in the dark, just past the safety of the broken window, she realises she's not dealing with another deer. Shes got a frenzied boar at her heels.

She's defenseless, her arms scattered in the darkness of the warehouse the boar is charging from, and she finds she lacks the will to break her ankle jumping down onto the pavement below. This is the line where the hunt becomes a proper fight. Her pulse beats like the thunder tearing apart the sky above her, every muscle in her body pulled tight like a spring waiting to maul her impending threat.

The fight never comes.

One moment, he's charging through the wreckage inside like a behemoth with a taste for human flesh, and the next he's simply staring at her while he's shrouded by the dark. It's almost comical, really, her thoughts flood with pictures of horror mascots as she teeters on the windowsill, staring right back into the wide, dark eyes of his mask. They remain in a stasis for a moment, both breathing shallow, both watching the other. Then, he does something that surprises her. Surprises and infuriates her.

He pulls his radio up to his mask, breathes out a heavy sigh as the sound of static cuts through this pair's silence. The grim reaper has the audacity to pretend his frustration over arches her own, and she's gritting her teeth wondering how likely it was she could free his esophagus from the column of his neck with her mouth alone.

She feels his gaze rove over her, lingering along the empty holster at her hip and the garter on her thigh.

"Target's down."

He's lying to his team, lying because he pities her, and she can't think of a thing more insulting. A mercenary is no different than a prostitute, money for flesh, pain or pleasure. She's aware of it, she's seen her fellow mercs gunned down without a second thought from their enemies. She's heard the men in her company boast of ravaging paid women without thought. For some time, she's considered they may all be beasts, but the grim reaper is sparing her. Sparing her, because he doesn't see her as a threat at all. A defenseless woman clinging to a broken window like it's the only tether she has to the world at all. He's no boar, no blood-stained reaper, just a person. He doesn't see her as pounds of flesh to march into battle before him. She sees humanity, and he sees an insect unworthy of his bullet.

"I tried to kill you," she breathes out, enunciates each word careful and slow as she tries to get a read on him, praying her assumption isn't true. There's the creaking of broken glass beneath the toes of her boots as she pivots herself to fully face him, standing in the window with the backdrop of a dark sky threatening violence. The man shrugs his broad shoulders, turns away, as though nothing has even happened. Her stare drifts to the tourniquet on his calf, and it dawns on her that he isn't even limping.

"I wouldn't even need a minute with you." He sounds bored. The pity stung enough. She wasn't just a hapless rabbit in his eyes, she was a gnat. A nuisance to top it all off. "Who are you working for?"

She falls silent, teetering on the ledge of the windowsill in silent debate. The jump would end in injury, but the darkened sky and the rain could cover her. There’s a building less than half a mile away and if she just made it there then—

“Answer.” Roland’s gruff voice sounds out in the quiet warehouse again, and she hazards a glance up just in time to catch those dead eyes of his peering at her from over his shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“No?”

“I don’t have a name.”

Roland merely huffs at that, rolls his shoulders a little. He’s confident, a bit too arrogant for a man that’s been shot. She may have seen a boar, and he may have seen an ange, because he has the audacity to give her a comforting pat on the shoulder with a gentle swipe of his thumb along her neck.

Tells her, “Get lost.”

Follows it up with, “Let us never meet again.”

She doesn’t die on this frigid, rainy night, but a part of her is lost with him. Lost with a man that looks at her as though she had tiny angel’s wing, buzzing at her back. Lost with a man who’s entire existence is an enigma to her. Shoot to kill, and she hadn’t. Shoot to kill and not ever would she again, not to him, not to the man who gave her mercy when she deserved none.

— — —

She finds herself working alongside the Polish GROM. Realistically, she had returned sopping wet to her shabby hotel and spent hours researching how to work her way in. She doesn’t know why, but she’s found herself enthralled in a shadow, worshipping him in her own way. All for a chance to see her should-be reaper. And she’s no elite, can barely keep her trigger finger steady, but supplementing for a fallen soldier is the standard and she’s got enough falsified experience under her belt to look the part of a proper gunman.

It pays enough to keep her afloat until the next thing piques her interest or her contract ends, whichever comes first. Her room is simple, a barren mattress and dark walls, a concrete floor. It doesn’t feel homey, but no place ever does nowadays. Small blessings are found in the fact she doesn’t have to share the space, it’s hers and hers alone.

She spends her first few hours inspecting the place for bugs, then takes to staring up at the ceiling, listless, because what the hell had made her so impulsive? Roland could have already had his head blown clean off by anyone else by now. Did she even want to see him? To choke him with his own words or thank him for his kindness?

All of this uprooting driven by impulsivity for a man who told her not to meet him again and yet she’s here, walking about the compound like she truly belongs.

She should have cut her hair, tried to make herself look different from the trembling mouse on the ledge that night, but a part of her wants him to see her. Recognize her, bring him down from that gilded throne of his where women like her are just nuisances instead of a proper challenge.

Only, she’s not a challenge. Not at all, because the second she meets him in the stairwell her mind starts swimming and all she can do is stare. He looks a bit tired, likely having just returned from some dreadful mission, even wearing all black he’s covered in sprays of dust, the denim of his trousers painted darker in some places, blood.

“Ja jebię.”

He hadn’t forgotten.

His breath sounds shaky, and she’s not sure if it’s because the gas mask in its proper place or if he’s actually surprised, startled. If anything could shake him down from his pedestal she imagined meeting the woman who tried to kill him once again would do it.

“How’s your leg?”

“Better than your aim, pizda.”

She imagines that he would probably like nothing better than to put a bullet through her right then. The man merely laughs, something breathy and low. She’s surprised him, probably both startled and impressed that she even had the balls to face him again. She likes that, likes that little laugh, that his voice isn’t angry, that he’s playing with fire just as much as she is.

“What are you doing here?”

“Contract,” she states simply, not bothering to hide the way her gaze rakes over his body in the yellow haze of fluorescent lighting. “Just a few months, filling in a gap.”

He mutters something under his breath, a string of Polish and French that she doesn’t quite catch. She knows that he knows she’s infatuated, taking to follow after a wild coyote like a house pet.

It’s a dirty word, infatuated; dangerous in a way that scares her more than facing down the barrel of a gun.

Roland takes a step towards her, brushes her hair from her face with a touch too rough and leans in close to look at her, inspect her as though she’s not even really here, some figment of his vile imagination. She just… lets him. Despite her better judgement she lets him grip at her face like she’s nothing but putty in his hands.

“Here to kill me?” He asks his question as he retreats from her and drops his hands to his sides, staring at her as though she’s not an implant in his force, but an implant on the planet itself.

“Not this time.”

He gives her a tilt of the head and a grunt in response before brushing past in a hurry.

— — —

The following morning, she wakes to several rapid knocks at her door. Sounding just impatient enough to pull her from her sleep with her heart fluttering like a small bird in her rib cage. She readily hops out of bed and dresses before turning the knob to reveal something she didn’t expect— Roland. It’s the first times she’s seen him without his gas mask, but she recognizes him immediately. He’s more handsome when he doesn’t look the part of a famished buzzard seeking out carrion.

“Kaminski.”

“Swagger,” he corrects and she can’t help but laugh at the usage of his callsign. She wants to know how he got stuck with that, something so embarrassing it makes him sound as though he’s some teenage boy desperate to fit in or perhaps even a pirate, not the man she sees before her.

“We aren’t on the field.”

“Today we will pretend.”

He grabs her arm in the very same boorish way he had grabbed at her face just yesterday, and leads her down an empty hallway in silence. Each step seems to echo louder than the last. She wonders for half a moment if he does intend to kill her, hazards a look up at him expecting to see some flame of gruesome determination in his eyes only to be met with a calmness that makes her reconsider.

Today isn’t a day to die, either, it seemed.

He leads her to a room of bulletproof glass and well-placed targets. Pulls his gun from his holster after inspecting that she hadn’t thought to bring her own. She feels silly when his touch goes to prod at her hip, dips along the waistband of her trousers to seek out a weapon that just isn’t there. She’s ill-prepared and now her face feels hot all while Roland didn’t seem to have so much as a care.

“I’ll teach you to shoot,” he huffs as he steps behind her and places his gun in her hands, an ugly thing she recognizes to be a SIG P226. The metal feels cold and heavy in her hands, but she handles it well enough. It doesn’t particularly help that one of his arms curls around her middle to keep her steady. It’s even worse that one hand remains splayed over hers as she holds the gun.

Shooting when you’re in a desperate situation is difficult enough. The thought that death could be approaching doesn’t keep most grounded, not her at least. It makes her shaky. This is far worse. The man is so close she can smell him, gunpowder and something pungent and clean like mint. She feels his warmth cover her back, his fingers digging a bit into her side.

“I’m ready.”

He grunts in response, maneuvering her a bit closer to a small window carved out in the glass.

“Then shoot.”

So, she does. She misses, of course, and she feels even more silly when he mutters something into her shoulder and deliberately moves and angles her arm properly. The only thing good is that the gun’s recoil is soft, because if she were pushed any further against him she may very well melt down into putty.

Again and again she takes aim and fires at the brightly colored target through the window. After what feels like hours she’s finally hit some place that makes Roland give her an appreciative pat to her tummy.

“I’m improving.” She feigns his confidence, puffing out her chest a little in pride.

“Are you?”

He steals the gun from her hand and draws away to face her properly. There’s a tension she can’t place, something strange in the flicker of his eye.

“You saw—“

Her words are cut off when the man tackles her to the floor, covering her entirely as he pins her from either side. A sharp intake of oxygen is stolen as her spine tingles in pain from the sudden force. She yelps, he laughs, and none of it is funny because he’s still holding a loaded fucking gun. Only, worse, when he presses the muzzle against her cheek and uses his free hand to fix her wrists to the cold floor beneath her.

He tuts at her when she doesn’t try to fight him off, only looks up at him with wide-eyes and parted lips, a face too warm to only depict fear. If he didn’t know before, he knows now. She catches a mischievous glimmer in his eyes right before she tilts her head to kiss the cold steel clutched tightly in his fingers.

Roland stiffens above her for a moment, every muscle in his body pulled taut, jaw clenched and eyes fluttering.

“Not pizda,” he whispers as he clicks the safety back on and shifts to holster the weapon. “You are like a…”

“Ange?”

“Non,” he laughs. “Aniołku.”

If she didn’t know before, she knows now.

— — —

Any training session is spent with Roland.

Every mission they’re tethered to one another.

Any free time she finds yourself having is spent with him, even seeking him out herself just as often as he comes pounding at her door.

It feels both natural and absurd, sharing meals with the man she almost murdered, covering him as he covers her, both finding themselves less and less willing to be on their own as the days pass by. The progression just doesn’t halt, a train plowing off track, the man has his blunt talons curled into her and she just doesn’t have the sense to beat him back because she knows she’s got her teeth embedded just as deeply into him.

It doesn’t even come as a surprise when she starts her mornings peeling herself away from him, still sleeping peacefully in her bed. His room lacks taste— too barren, too bogged down with well-oiled metal and violence. She’s spruced hers up in the free time she has with small items, things she can pack up and carry with her to whichever side she finds herself pulled to next.

The thing she keeps most sacred, however, is a little photograph of him, one he had insisted on her keeping on the bedside table, despite being in flesh, wrapped tightly around her each and every night.

She picks it up, turns it over in her hands a few times before the weight of a heavy hand splays itself out across her middle, languidly tugging her back down.

“Stay,” he murmurs, someplace lost between dreaming and waking.

“Just for a bit,” she whispers in reply, nestling close, curling against his chest.

“Forever, aniołku.”

With a soft inhale, she falls back against him in a tangle of limbs and warmth, a part of her lost to the fantasy of permanence.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

ange: angel (French)

Ja jebię: fuck me

pizda: cunt

non: no (French)

aniołku: angel

[heroquills-a]

@crimsonxblur: (x)

      As soon as things had begun quieting down, he’d made his way back to work without much thought. As inclined as he was to indulge in the unexpectedly warm welcome he’d gotten from people - or most of them, anyway - he still had a lot to deal with in terms of making up for his absence. Notably, after being effectively chewed out by the commander, he’d been sentenced to ten hours of surveillance duty for ever single call he’d missed, that he had to serve during night shifts when things were especially calm and boring, and during which any contact with his team was forbidden.

     Not the brightest of perspectives, but Shadow knew he couldn’t expect his little disappearing stunt to be without consequences. If anything, he hoped to get this particular obligation out of the way as soon as possible, hence his prompt return to headquarters. Or so he gave as an excuse for his somewhat early arrival; in truth, his last encounter of the night had left him too stunned to think of anything else he could do with himself - not to say too hurt.

     As it turned out, doing nothing but staring at a bunch of screens depicting various locations where nothing is happening for hours on end wasn’t ideal when he wanted to avoid torturing himself with wondering what the hell it was that even happened back there. And with every few people who came into the room to share the duty for some time shooting him disapproving glances, the answer came as rather obvious: he’d done something wrong.

     A shame that he had to go and mess this up, really; he’d been in a good mood, what with having a good talk with Zero, a heartwarming reunion with Silver, and hearing from Omega for the first time in weeks. When seeing Sonic on the scene, he’d had nothing in mind but the hero’s letter and the fact that he was legitimately happy to see him - enough to forget why he’d even left in the first place.

     That had been his mistake, clearly. That blinding, momentary joy that had led him to bare his heart even after getting advice that had rubbed him the wrong way; Sonic hadn’t hesitated even one second to stab and twist the knife before running away.

     You had it coming, he told himself repeatedly that night, flicking some black pen up the slightly inclined desk and watching it roll back down only to be sent up again. He couldn’t just ask that Sonic be honest with him, that he fully express himself around him no matter how harsh his thoughts might get, without expecting the speedster to strike at Shadow’s own faults eventually. He should have been prepared for this.

     He hadn’t been, because all this time he’d slowly let himself believe that maybe - with everything that had transpired between them recently - just maybe there was more than spite and resentment and rivalry between them. But apparently, that had been part of the hero’s act, and Shadow had actually fallen for it.

     He caught the tormented pen when his phone buzzed, and a second later gave off a light that caught both his and his current coworker’s attention. He frowned seeing the name that showed up on the screen, gritting his teeth as he flipped the device over to hide it without checking the received message. Except the vibration kept going, three more times in fact, and a bad feeling sank in.

     When the man next to him stood up and excused himself out of the room - failing at being subtle that he was going to see his superior to probably report that Shadow was communicating with his team - the remaining agent gave in and bypassed his phone’s lock screen to see just what it was Sonic had to say to him this late at night after their earlier exchange. Surely it couldn’t make him any more miserable than he already was, right ?

     Reading the texts left Shadow more numb than he’d managed to be for a long time now. It was like they emptied him of any emotion or care he might have had left for this whole situation after picking it apart for hours. Apparently, someone had just put his mask back on and regretted having taken it off. Fuck off, he wanted to text back. But even that didn’t sound very satisfying. Not any more than ignoring it like he had everything else. Or accepting the apology like it was no big deal.

     With a sigh, he got up and headed for the door, which opened just as he was reaching for the handle to reveal his earlier coworker returning. Perfect timing. “I’m going out,” he announced without much ceremony, and slipped past the other agent before he could voice any protest or question or complaint.

     Shadow made a detour his team’s little locker room to grab a jacket before exiting out the back door from where he could easily climb up on the roof of the building. From there it was a long walk to get to the front of it, even more so when trying to ignore his phone and those messages burning a hole in his pocket. Only upon arriving at his targeted vantage point did he aim to grab it again, except he reached for something else instead - something he’d forgotten he’d left in this specific jacket.

     Oh. Might as well, he thought, pulling out the package of cigarettes. Nicotine wasn’t nearly strong enough to affect his system in any way (and it was a damn shame - he could use its intended effect in situations like these), but something about smoking could still calm his nerves at times, even if it was very minor. And so he lit one up without further thinking, letting the sight of the exhaled clouds of smoke soothe what little they could.

     A thought occurred to him then, one that had echoed in his mind just the same a few days ago. Everything goes away. He’d gotten what he wanted. Whatever it was that had been nurturing between him and Sonic recently, he’d effectively killed it now. By not allowing it to grow for long enough, he’d pretty much ripped it out root and stem, it seemed. Why ? Why was this what he wanted ? It certainly didn’t feel good.

     Because it was the right thing to do, he’d convinced himself. It felt wrong, but what was right never felt right to him. He wasn’t hardwired to do the right thing, it didn’t come naturally to him - at least not anymore, if it ever had. He had to believe it was right, even if his instincts and emotions and impressions screamed the opposite.

     He sat down on the edge of the roof, inhaling another puff and looking out the quiet but lit up city before he picked up his phone with his free hand to look at those messages again. How dishonest and fake those few words sounded after what Sonic had said to his face earlier. Did I ruin what we had ? Or did it never exist ?

     If anything, it bugged him that the hero would even bother sending him this. What was he hoping to accomplish ? He knew Shadow didn’t care for his act. He never had, and he did even less now that he’d gotten a glimpse of what Sonic really thought of him. Why was he pretending to care again ? Something felt off, and not just the fact that the speedster had sent him this even closer to dawn than his usual late-night texts.

     Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the kind of gut feeling Shadow could just shake off by reminding himself his morals were questionable and that he couldn’t trust himself with his own impressions. Eyes rose to scan over the scenery again, as if he might discern some tangible reason for distress or worry if he looked hard enough. Flickering lights, an alarm going off, or just the brief flash of a blue blur - anything that could justify this undeniably growing concern of his.

     But the city stayed still, and he was forced down the path to another conclusion. To the fact that he’d made a promise, regardless of how involved he was. To the realization that he cared, even if it hurt.

     Shadow dropped the unfinished cig, crushing it with an open palm, and with both hands now free, he texted back three simple words.

     ‘are you okay ?’

He was drifting in between awareness and unconscious. A state where Sonic felt he were on the edge of a steep cliff, that floating feeling you get when you’re very high up and everything on the ground feels hundreds of miles away.

He’d finally ran himself empty, all his energy finally depleted enough to not even have the will to let his thoughts chase him anymore. Sonic wasn’t even quite sure where he was right now. He knew he ran and ran and pushed himself at full speed till he could feel the first ripple of exhaustion hit him, lungs aching from the strain. Instinct told him to find somewhere sheltered, so he took to the first building in his sights- he assumed it was a barn, and snuck on in. He found a place high up in the rafters, and while it wasn’t exactly an ideal place to crash, he felt perfectly hidden. Nobody would see him now. He could drown in his exhaustion and complications in peace without judgement.

The muffled sounds of barn animals shuffling and sighing in their own nests down below somehow brought on a sense of serenity to the hedgehog’s state of being. He didn’t care much for the smell, but at this point Sonic couldn’t even bring himself to care. He was tired.

Cold moonlight shown through the windows around him, somewhat illuminating the dust particles that floated through the air with a soft glow and casting long shadows behind the long planks of wood stretching across the ceiling. The hero made sure to tuck himself into the darkest corner he could find, and before he knew it he felt too exhausted to even climb back down. Curled up on his side, he hazily watched the floating specs of animal dandruff float through the air, almost dreamlike. Eventually he’d let his eyes finally close while Sonic said goodbye to the waking world, and had been on the edge of completely blacking out.

That was, until a buzzing noise rattled loudly next to him, volume amplified by the wide plank of wood he nested on, rudely jolted him back into awareness. Sonic sits up with a start, head pounding but not nearly as hard as his heart was. It hurt, admittedly. Sonic lets out a pained hiss and pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes in a vain attempt to sooth the throbbing that assaulted his skull, teeth gritting with intense annoyance at whatever just ruined his blissful state. 

Sighing shakily when the ache finally dulled down, hands shuffle against the plank and the underside of his jacket, searching for the source of the disturbance. When he found it, the speedster rolls onto his back with a groan and squints at the offending light source that shines from his phone screen. He was planning to simply just turn the thing off completely, but when the name on the lockscreen came into focus, that plan was quickly forgotten. 

He didn’t think he’d get an answer.

Nor did he think he’d get the one he did.

Sonic has to re-read the words written across the several times before he can finally process the question, and has to think for several minutes before he can actually begin to form an answer.

Are you okay?

It was a simple question. Just three words, but not any three words he’d expect from the person on the other side of the screen. Especially not after the last exchange they had. It hardly felt like any concern he deserved from his rival, so it left Sonic in a state of confused disbelief. Why would Shadow be wondering if he was okay?

Icy tears of exhaustion leak from the corners of his eyes and down the sides of his cheek while he scanned the message again- perhaps searching for some kind of explanation for this written in the text. But none came, and his eyes burned and blurred, forcing the hedgehog to blink several times and rub them with the back of his hand.

Another wave of pain racked against the inside of his head, not as intense this time, but enough to make the hero wince. He didn’t think he even had it in him to try and question how Shadow knew something wasn’t right. He was too tired. Too tired to force any optimism or put on any front. His answer came surprisingly easy to him when he finally focused his vision enough to tap his thumbs against the screen. The honesty in his response almost didn’t feel real to him, further establishing the feeling of being trapped inside a dreamlike trance- as if he were a spirit hovering over his body. Completely out of it, and no will to lie anymore.

[Text]: Youre asking me that?

[Text]: No not really

[Text]: Are you?

[wearewatchman]

Flashback

Nora's face was pale, but she retained the practiced stoic expression of an Officer of the Watch. Officer Gleeson, who had been on the Watch about half as many years as her, wasn't looking nearly as well. "If your going t'be sick, Gleeson, do it outside, and make it snappy. Don't you dare make a mess've my crime scene." Gleeson nodded weakly, and trotted out the door. Nora didn't particularly blame the poor fellow--the room before her was gruesome.A young woman, looked about nineteen, wearing a once blue dress, lay on the floor. The poor man who lived in this house discovered her when he came home that morning, after working a very late night. Nora had a feeling she'd be in for a late night, too. Dark red viscera soaked the fabric, stemming from her chest, which had been carved open. The girl's eyes hadn't yet lost their color, and neither had the blood, although there was an awful smell. She had died recently, then? But no--other evidence contradicted that notion. The blood was all over her dress, but there was hardly a drop on the floor around her. This woman didn't die here, she'd been moved.Nora moved closer, her analytical mind taking over, barely regarding the corpse as a former person--just a piece of the grisly puzzle. Her heart was missing; not ripped out, but expertly removed, for despite the fact that no effort was made to contain the blood, and a good deal of her torso had been torn up, the heart was the one organ which had apparently been taken intact. That wasn't all... a telltale dark brown stain on the victim's lips told a very different story from a frenzied stabbing. Poison--some form of corrosive, which, unfortunately, would explain the stench.Gleeson came back into the room."Sorry about that, Murph. I guess we should get started, huh?""Actually," she said, facing the young man, "We're just about done 'ere. This woman was killed by poisoning, and then moved t'this spot, before 'er heart was removed with surgical skill." Nora explained. "So, our suspect has magic t'preserve a corpse, knowledge of human anatomy, an' of poisons. And for reasons we don't know just yet, they need a human heart." Nora stopped to consider another point, then added, "And they're strong enough to lift the body off the ground. No trail of blood means she wasn't dragged." Gleeson blinked three times, then asked with a perplexed expression, "Could--could it be a witch?""Could be, but I doubt it. Think, Gleeson. With such extensive knowledge of the human body, y'might expect our perp to know that making cuts like these'r easier when your cadaver's not fully dressed. But they've hacked half her body up like a jack-o-lantern. Why d'ya think that is?" Gleeson was lost for a minute, but a look from Nora made it click. "You mean to say that the murderer--didn't want to see her indecent??""Didn't like th' thought of it, anyhow. So, we've a magic user, who also has a physician's skills, but doesn't want t'see the lass without 'er dress. I think it sounds like a cleric with a bad streak to 'em. Send out a message, start rounding up priests with no alibis for last night.""Right!... wait, aren't you going to do that?" Gleeson asked.Nora shook her head. "Gotta finish up here, make sure I've missed nothin'. I'll catch up."Gleeson hurried out the door, leaving Nora alone with thr body. Now that her work with the young lady was complete, Nora regarded her as a human once again, letting the hard-nosed detective fade away. "We're gonna get th'bastard that did this t'ya," she said softly as she covered the body with a sheet, hoping that if the girl's spirit was near, it could hear. Then, a twitch of the face, a wipe of the eyes and nose--Nora let Officer Murphy take point once again, and went to go do her job.

[i-am-very-very-tired]

If you follow any annoying millennial socialites or the offspring of famous people on Instagram, you may have noticed Dolce & Gabbana had a fashion show stacked with many not-quite somebodies (like Dylan Bronson, Presley Gerber, Brandon Lee, Roberto Rossellini and the Stallone sisters). Doing my regular research for Smutty Social Media, I noticed a brewing drama between Miley Cyrus, her brother Braison, and Dolce & Gabbana but I ignored it because I wanted to have a think on what it meant beyond the emojis and exclamation marks. Here is the exchange. Miley instagrammed a picture of her brother with the following message: "Congrats @braisonccyrus on walking in your 1st runway show.... It's never been my little brothers dream to be a model as HE is one of the most talented musicians my ears have ever been given the gift of hearing.... BUT it is a Cyrus family trait to try everything once (within reason HA) and to embrace opportunities that encourage you to step out of your comfort zone! We believe in trying something new everyday! I love you Prince Suga Bear and seriously congratulations on your experience! I am so proud of you always.... From Nashville to Italy! 👑❤️👑❤️👑❤️ PS D&G, I STRONGLY disagree with your politics.... but I do support your company's effort to celebrate young artists & give them the platform to shine their light for all to see!" Stefano responded: "Repost @mileycyrus Noi siamo italiani e della politica non ci interessiamo di quella Americana ancora meno !!! Noi facciamo abiti e se tu pensi di fare politica con un post sei semplicemente un'ignorante. Non abbiamo bisogno dei tuoi post e dei tuoi commenti. La prossima volta ignoraci x favore!! #boycottdolcegabbana 😂😂😂😂❤️ We are Italian and we don't care about politics and mostly neither about the American one! We make dresses and if you think about doing politics with a post it's simply ignorant. We don't need your posts or comments so next time please ignore us!! #boycottdolcegabbana 😂😂😂😂❤" Stefano also left a few comments on a couple of Miley’s post that included “Ignorant!!!” and per THR, “For your stupid comment never more work with him" and the thumbs down emojis with "#boycottdolcegabbana.” While it’s easy to assume the politics Miley is referring to is D&G’s dressing of Melania Trump, it could also go all the way back to their remarks on IVF, “synthetic” babies and same-sex parents. Either way, Stefano Gabbana was not in the mood. They both look bratty here, but in different ways. Miley’s post comes off as entitled. She’s trying to make it clear that she supports her brother (but not the brand) but the way she positions his experience is eye-roll inducing – well he’s actually a musician, he’s just modeling for fun. The show clearly considered surnames in its casting and he’s capitalizing off an opportunity that his last name afforded him. That is all fine and good. So why didn’t she just let him do that? If all this is about her brother, why did she feel the need to insert her thoughts on D&G’s politics in a lukewarm way? She then proceeded to post a lot of his coverage, which… why? If he’s a musician who just models for kicks, what’s with the fist pumping. This was supposed to be his introduction to the world. Hey, look at me, I’m the Cyrus brother without the face tattoos! Miley is incredibly seasoned and would know that her comment could get some attention. Why did she do it? Was it really politically motivated, or was this ultimately a way to get Braison more press? I’ll leave that on the gossip buffet. On the other side, Stefano Gabbana is loving the publicity his brand gets from dressing the First Lady. Many houses have dressed Melania (and Ivanka) since the US election, including Ralph Lauren, Oscar de la Renta, Reem Acra and Carolina Herrera. D&G is seeing by far the most traction for this “controversy” (which Miley has played right into). His response to Miley is not personal inasmuch as it is ultra-sensitive and opportunistic. He loves attention and hates bad press. Business of Fashion, a very well respected trade, just caught his wrath for writing about D&G’s stunt casting and lack of innovation in recent years. He is so salty about it. Stefano wrote about the article on their stunt casting at D&G: "This article is sooooo stupid!!! It's incredible how some can't understand that the young generation is the future!!! I think @bof needs to change some of the writers ❤️❤️❤️❤️" Fashion people being c-nts? My favourite. But there is something simmering underneath it. In his response to Miley, Stefano posted that politicizing fashion is wrong… and that Italians don’t care about politics, particularly American politics. Being first generation Italian (with a huge family in Italy), I would definitely disagree with that. Italy has a tumultuous political system, a financial structure on the brink of a collapse, and it grapples with massive economic disparity, blatant racism and deep anti-immigrant sentiment. (See more here, here, and here.) I think it’s hard for North Americans to marry Italy’s deep problems (like domestic violence at epidemic proportions) with the romantic, culturally rich image we have of the country. Italians are supposed to be uncomplicated, joyful, passionate, pasta-eating bon vivants and with that there’s very little acknowledgement of the machismo, economically stifled social system that has to eek out progress for women and minorities with little support. Keeping the status quo is essential to maintaining tradition, which Italian society guards obsessively. When the traditions keep silent women in pretty dresses alongside the men in power well, what’s not for Stefano to like? To broach the subject of what it means to dress Melania draws rebuke from Domenic and Stefano. They have said dressing Melania is not about her husband, because for them, there can be that disconnect. Their lives will not be affected by American policy or even the constantly changing pendulum of Italian government. Domenic and Stefano have said politics do not belong in fashion. If so, why market an ironic Boycott Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt, which mocks the very idea of political activism? Simply put, it’s because Domenic and Stefano do not give a f-ck. They don’t care about change at home or abroad because the system has absolutely worked for them and their most valued customers. At a time when other brands (like Dior) are making feminist T-shirts (which can also be viewed as cynically co-opting a movement, a whole other discussion), D&G is riding the populism wave against PC culture. And they are doing it by tapping into millennials (probably the most PC generation of all), who are expected to take their $240 t-shirt and show it off on Instagram. With that, there’s another angle to #boycottdolceandgabbana from someone who was asked to model in the show: Atlanta musician Raury. He arrived in Milan knowing very little about the show, was showered in free clothes, and had a huge opportunity before him. Still he chose to educate himself on what was going on. He knows the value of a boycott because he has to. Which is why he ripped off his clothes at the end of the show. The risk he took could have some real life ramifications (unlike Miley, who risked and gained nothing). Stefano might be annoyed by Miley, by it will be the millennials like Raury who are going to effect the change that will make the old guard – D&G included – irrelevant. And no t-shirt can stem that tide.