#once in front of an off duty cop

[saintobio]

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹ ON TRACK.

when being the WAG of a rookie MotoGP rider earns you the front-row seats to a thrilling race and... an unsightly amount of groupies.

▞▞ pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

▞▞ genre. fluff, established relationship, biker boy au, motogp rider au

▞▞ tags. biker!sukuna, motogp rider!sukuna, sukuna rides for ducati, WAG!reader, ooc, profanity, mentions of reckless driving, jealousy, insecurities, accidents, mentions of injuries, sukuna gets a little touchy in the end

▞▞ notes. 1.8k wc. do we miss biker!sukuna? i think we all miss biker!sukuna !! bahaha the influx of biker!sukuna fanarts made me write this. and also bcos i watched motogp clips on tiktok. rbs and comments highly appreciated! :D

Have you ever imagined Sukuna as a MotoGP rider? 

Well, his passion for bikes didn’t just stay confined to the open road. He knew he was destined for more than just the city’s freeways and the thrill of 1000cc machines. He was, as a matter of fact, made for the track. 

Yes, the scary, dangerous, exhilarating world of high-speed competition.

When he had first told you about competing in MotoGP, you were thrilled for him. Truly, because you knew that the series had been his lifelong dream. Before, he was just a little boy who collected bikes for toys, and now he had the chance to make his dream a reality. So, who were you to stand in the way of that?

In fact, you were incredibly supportive—always present at his races, always cheering for him from the stands. It didn’t matter if you’d lose your voice the next day. You had to be his biggest supporter. And today was just another one of those days where your duty as his #1 fan called for you to be there and root for him with all your heart. 

Today’s MotoGP race was in full swing, and your heart pounded in rhythm with the thundering bikes tearing down the track. They all passed by in a resounding zoom! where your eyes could barely keep up from their otherworldly speed. From your vantage point in the VIP section, you watched intently as the riders navigated the circuit, your eyes never straying far from one rider in particular—Sukuna, your longtime boyfriend, riding a Ducati Desmosedici GP24.

“I’m so nervous,” you murmured, hands clasped together as your eyes remained glued to your lover. 

Sukuna was a sight to behold on the track, and he always told you that his bike was an extension of himself as he maneuvered with precision and aggression. Honestly, it must be scary to be the one riding such powerful superbikes, especially when the roar of engines alone was a symphony of speed and power that sent chills down your spine. And while you were filled with anxiety watching your boyfriend on the circuit, the red and black Ducati eventually flashed past, neck and neck with the Aprilia rider, and the two bikes locked in a fierce battle for the lead. 

You could imagine the commentators keeping a close eye as they narrated the race on live television.

But you trusted in Sukuna’s talent. His ability to escape from cops with his old R6 back in his college days was proof enough of how ridiculous he could get with his speed. He didn’t get a single ticket because he managed to outrun them all. Though, of course, that wasn’t something you should be mentioning to anyone. He wasn’t actually proud of notoriety and history of reckless driving before, especially when he recalled having endangered your life once before while you rode with him as his backpack. 

And since Sukuna upgraded to being a professional rider now, you had your fair share of an upgrade, too. That manifested in the form of being part of the so-called WAGs—or wives and girlfriends of the racers. Life as a WAG wasn’t drastically different from your previous one, except now your boyfriend was a huge global sensation in the biker community, and you had become somewhat of a fashion icon yourself. That wasn’t even an exaggeration, because every time you were seen with him publicly, people would soon be talking about your off-duty looks and outfits all over social media. 

But going back to the main star of the show, your hands clenched around the railing, knuckles white, as the race progressed. It annoyed you that the Aprilia rider was pushing him to the edge but never quite managing to overtake. Tailing the two were the riders for Honda, Gresini, Pramac, and KTM among the few.

Cupping your hands around your mouth, you cheered for your boyfriend. “Go, baby! Let’s go!”

The giant screen above the track zoomed in on Sukuna, his Arai helmet fitting the aesthetics of his big, red bike. The effortless way he handled his bike sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd. There were lots of cheering, screaming, roaring, and… well, squealing. Your head naturally turned to the group of girls nearby who were the very cause of the high pitched noises, their squeals of delight making the other WAGs around you shake their heads in amusement.

“Oh my God, he’s so hot!” 

“Look at him! He’s perfect!” 

“Sukuna, marry me!” 

“I’ll give you my number later!” 

“God, I wanna hook up with him.” 

“Girl, me too!” 

“You think we should wait outside his hotel later?” 

“Count me in!” 

Groupies. You felt a surge of pride mixed with a twinge of jealousy as you watched their frenzied adoration for your boyfriend. Literally. Your fingers were itching to gouge their eyes out. You wondered if he had ever been tempted to cheat, that when you were busy with your own corporate life outside of being his girlfriend, he might have rewarded himself by sleeping with an influencer or two. Probably models, too. Those tall, gorgeous women who often get partnered with him on ads and photoshoots.  

But the thing was, you couldn’t blame them—yes, your boyfriend was undeniably handsome, and his chiseled features and intense gaze made him a magnet for attention. A true eye-candy if you may add. Not to mention, he had the most attractive tattoos you had seen in a man. Ever. 

But he was yours, and that knowledge filled you with a sense of triumph over the hundreds and thousands of girls that were fantasizing about him.

Then, in the middle of your trance, an accident struck.

It was a blur of red and black as Sukuna’s bike suddenly wobbled after the rear wheel slipped on a patch of oil left behind by another rider. You held your breath in, praying to every saint that he remained safe, as you watched him struggle to regain control while the bike fishtailed dangerously. 

“Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh.” Your brain rattled with anxiety as you gripped onto the railings. “Baby, no. No, be careful! You got this!” 

For a moment, it seemed he might manage to stay upright, but then the inevitable happened. Sukuna went down in a matter of seconds, and his bike skidded out from under him in a shower of sparks.

“Oh, shit!” 

A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and your heart was lurching in your chest as you saw how your lover hit the tarmac. The medics immediately rushed onto the track, while you were still awestricken as you stared at the screen displaying his fall. 

“Please be okay, baby! Please,” you muttered under your breath again and again. 

A fellow WAG eventually placed a hand on your shoulders, rubbing you comfortingly. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Their gears are made for this.”

She spoke like true champ, and you knew you could put some trust in her words since she was a seasoned WAG. She had probably seen worst accidents that her husband had gone through while on track.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself. What if Sukuna sustained really terrible injuries? What if he broke a bone or two? What if he experienced a concussion? And if he did, what if he’d no longer remember you when he wakes up? Oh, Jesus. Your overthinking was the true culprit here. Yet there was nothing you could really do but wait for good news and hope that nothing too serious happened. Seconds felt like hours, and you were almost about to faint until you saw Sukuna finally standing up between the medics that surrounded him, waving to signal that he was okay albeit limping a little.

“Thank fuck!” 

“See? I told you he’s fine.”

Relief flooded through you, but unfortunately, such joy ended up being short-lived. Sukuna had lost precious seconds in the fall, seconds that allowed the Aprilia to pull ahead. And by the time he got back on his bike and rejoined the race, the gap was already too wide. 

He crossed the finish line in fifth place, a position that felt like a heart-shattering defeat after having been so close to victory.

As soon as the race was over, you didn’t even think twice when you made your way down to the paddock, pushing through the crowd and the throng of zealous fans just to reach your boyfriend. Your heart was still racing, almost akin to the superbikes that were speeding on the track moments ago, as you desperately looked for the love of your life. Only when you rounded the corner did you finally see him, helmet off and leathers dusty from the fall, talking with his team.

“Lovey!” you called out, face full of worry.

Sukuna was quick to turn at the sound of your voice, his expression softening the very moment his eyes landed on you. With long strides, he removed hi’s gloves and closed the distance between you two, and before you knew it, you were wrapped in his arms, the scent of leather and motor oil enveloping you in a comforting hug.

“Are you okay?” you asked, pulling back just enough to search his face for any signs of injury. “I was losing my mind back there!” 

As if he didn’t just experience a dangerous fall, he had a mischievous smile displayed when he looked at you. “I’m fine, baby. Just a little bruised ego.”

“It’s not a joke,” you whined, arms crossed at his lack of seriousness to the matter. “I was so scared when I saw you go down."

Very sweetly, he cupped your face in his hands and nuzzled his nose against yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m still alive, right?”

That’s true, you thought. But also… “You came in fifth,” you said, letting out a quieted sigh. 

But the Ducati rider himself was merely chuckling. Not even an ounce of heartbreak was shown on bis face. “Fifth place isn’t the end of the world, babe. I can live with that.”

You shook your head, not understanding how he could be so calm. Really. “But you were so close. You could have won!” And you’d blame it on your hormones, but you remembered the group of girls who cheered him on and decided to bring it up. “By the way, you had all those girls ready to throw themselves at you earlier. One of them even suggested waiting outside your hotel to hook up with you.” 

“Really? Where are those baddies?” he joked, looking around and trying to spot the girls until you flicked his forehead. “Ow! I was just kidding, babe. You’re the only one riding this dick day and night.” 

“Not funny.”

“But you’re so cute when you’re jealous.” He started attacking your cheeks with squeezes. 

While you, you tried your best to swat his hand away. “I’m not. Stooop—! You’re so annoying!” 

“Okay, okay!” He let out a deep chuckle as he raised his hands in surrender. “Anyway, I don’t care about them. I’ve already won the most important race of all."

You blinked twice in the same second, not comprehending his words. “What do you mean?”

Sukuna’s eyes soon softened into a teasing gaze. “I have my beautiful girl in my arms right now. That’s the only victory that matters to me.”

As much as you tried to contain it, a smile eventually broke across your face. “You’re such a sap!”

“Only for you,” was his elfish response, pulling you closer. 

The celebrations continued around you as the media and the crowd swarmed into the paddock. Sukuna held your waist tightly the entire time, all while acknowledging the people that greeted him and asked him for signatures. While in his arms, you realized that he was right. Winning or losing on the track didn’t matter because he already had you—and that was his true and greatest victory.

As cringe-worthy as that may sound. 

“I do have a request, though.” Your boyfriend focused his attention back on you, giving your bum a playful squeeze in front of everyone before he moved his face closer to your ear. “Make me feel like a winner in bed tonight.”

[ryin-silverfish]

A Guide to the Chinese Underworld (and what it isn't)

As many FSYY and fox posts as there were on my blog, I am actually a huge fan of the Chinese Underworld mythos. Mostly because I was once a morbid little kid that loved reading about the excavations of ancient tombs, and found the statues depicting hellish torture in the Haw Par Villa "super cool".

Apart from the aesthetics, the history of its evolution is also fascinating. Most of us, Chinese or not, only know the most popular version of the Underworld——the "Ten Kings" system, yet that isn't always the case. So today, I'll start off with a short summary of that.

In pre-Qin era, there was already this generic idea of a "Realm of the Dead" called the Yellow Spring, Youdu, or Youming, but we know very little about it.

Then, in the Han dynasty, two ideas start to emerge: 1) the Underworld is a bureaucracy, 2) the God of Mt. Tai ruled over the dead.

This early bureaucracy might not function as an agent of punishment; the main focus was on keeping the dead segregated from the living so they wouldn't bring diseases and misfortune to the latter, as well as using those ghosts to enforce collective punishments upon people for their lineage's wrongdoings while they were still alive.

Post-Han, after Buddhism entered China and took root, its idea of karmic punishments and reincarnation and the figure of King Yama was merged with folk and Daoist ideas of the Underworld bureaucracy, and, came Tang dynasty, resulted in the "Ten Kings" system that first appeared in Dunhuang manuscripts.

It was very rudimentary and far from well-established, as seen in Tang legends, with some adopting the Ten Kings system, some sticking to the Lord of Mt. Tai and some favoring King Yama, and overall little agreements on who's in charge of the Underworld.

But the "Ten Kings" system would become the mainstream version from then onwards, used in Ming vernacular novels and made even more popular by folk religion scrolls like the Jade Records (Yuli Baochao).

As such, most points in the following sections will be based on the fully matured "Ten Kings" system of the Underworld, as seen in the Jade Records and JTTW.

What happens when you die?

(This is a fictionalized walkthrough of the posthumous fate of souls under the "Ten Kings" system. I try to stick to the very broad progression outlined in the Jade Records, but many creative liberties are taken on the details.)

Let's say there's a guy named Xiao Ming, and he had just died of a heart attack. Bummers. What now?

Well, the first thing he saw would be the ghost cops.

There isn't really an unanimous agreement on who these ghost cops are: they may be a pair of ghosts in white and black robes, wearing tall hats (Heibai Wuchang), they may have the heads of farm animals (Ox-Head and Horse-Face), or they can just be generic ghost bureaucrats. For convenience's sake, let's say it was the first scenario.

"Who are you guys and where are you taking me?"

"Glad you asked!" The taller ghost cop, being the cheerful one of the pair, replied. It wasn't very reassuring, considering that his tongue was dangling out of his mouth way further than it should. "I'm the White Impermanence, my sour-looking colleague here is the Black Impermanence, and we are taking you to the City God's office."

This City God, a.k.a. Chenghuang, is just like how it sounds: the divine guardian of a city, who also pulls double duty as the head of the local Dead People Customs Office. They are usually virtuous officials deified posthumously, and in JTTW, they fall under the category of "Ghostly immortals", together with the Earth Gods a.k.a. Tudi.

So Xiao Ming went with the two ghost cops——not like he had much of a choice, made his way through the long queue at the City God's office, and was now standing in front of a gruff old magistrate in traditional robes.

"Name?"

"Wang Xiao Ming."

"Age and birth dates?"

"21, April 16 2003…"

After he was done asking questions, the City God flipped through his ledger, then picked up a brush, ticked off Xiao Ming's name, and told him to go get his pass in the next room. More waiting in a queue. Wonderful.

"I never heard anything about needing a pass to get to the Underworld," the girl in front of Xiao Ming asked the ghost cops, who were standing guard nearby. "Is this a new policy or something?"

"Yeah. In the old days, we'd just drag y'all straight to the Ghost Gate." The ghost cop in black said, then muttered to himself, "Fuckin' paperworks and overpopulation, man…"

(This "Dead People Passport" thing was popularized in the middle-to-late Ming dynasty, as shown by the discovery of such documents inside tombs in southern China. )

(It might have evolved from similar passes to the Western Pure Land in lay Buddhism that recorded their acts of merits. Which, in turn, might be traced back to the "Dead People Belongings List" of Han dynasty, to be shown to Underworld bureaucrats so that no one would take away the dead's private property down there or something.)

Anyways, after he received his pass, Xiao Ming departed together with the rest of the bunch, to be led to the Ghost Gate. It was like the world's most depressing tourist group, where instead of tour guides, you got two ghost cops in funny hats, and the only scenery in sight was the desolation of the Yellow Spring Road.

They weren't the only travellers on the road, though. Xiao Ming noticed other groups moving in the far distance, behind the fog and the flickering ghostfire, led by similar figures in black and white.

It made a lot of sense; realistically, there was no way two ghost cops could fetch hundreds of thousands of dead people all by themselves.

(SEA Tang-ki mediums believed there were multiple Tua Di Ya Peks——Hokkien name for the Black and White Impermanences, working for different Underworld Courts.)

At last, the Ghost Gate stood in front of Xiao Ming, guarded by two towering figures. Normally, they'd be Ox-Head and Horse-Face, like what you see at Haw Par Villa's Underworld entrance.

However, older Han dynasty works like Wang Chong's 论衡·订鬼 also mentioned two gods, Shenshu and Yulei, as guardians of the Ghost Gate, who would use reed ropes to capture malicious ghosts and feed them to tigers, making them possibly the earliest incarnation of "Gate Gods".

So here, they were what Xiao Ming sees, standing side by side like proper doormen, silently watching herds of ghosts being funneled through the entrance.

The place was more crowded than a train station during the CNY Spring Rush; the ghost cops had already said their quick goodbye and left to fetch the next group of dead people, leaving the resident officials of the Underworld proper to maintain order and quell any would-be riots.

Now you started seeing the Ox-Head and Horse-Face guys, poking at unruly ghosts with their pitchforks and dragging away the violent ones in chains. Among their ranks were other monstrous beings, blue-faced yakshas and imps, but also regular dead humans who look 100% done with their jobs, like the lady who stamped Xiao Ming's pass when it was finally his turn.

After this point, Xiao Ming had entered the Underworld proper, and his next destination would be the First Court, led by King Qin'guang. Here, his fate should be decided by what is revealed in the King's magical mirror.

If Xiao Ming was a good guy, or someone who had done an equal amount of good and bad things in life, he'd be sent straight to the Tenth Court for reincarnation. However, if the mirror, while replaying his life events, had displayed more evil deeds than good ones, he'd be sent to one of the 2nd-9th Courts for judgment and then punished inside the Eighteen Hells.

Each of the Ten Kings was also assisted by ghostly judges. Many of them were righteous and just officials in life who had been recruited into the Ten Courts posthumously——Cui Jue from JTTW is one such example, while others were living people working part-time for the Underworld, like how Wei Zheng, Taizong's minister, works part-time for the Celestial Bureaucracy in JTTW.

We decide to be nice to Xiao Ming, so, after reliving some embarrassing childhood incidents and cringy teenage phases in front of a bunch of dead bureaucrats, he was found innocent and sent to the Tenth Court.

The queue here was almost as long as the First Court's, stretching on and on alongside of the banks of the Nai River. King of the Turning Wheel made his judgment without even lifting his head when it was Xiao Ming's turn:

"Path of Humans, male, healthy in body and mind, ordinary family. Next!"

Exiting the Tenth Court building, Xiao Ming saw the Terrace of Forgetfulness, standing tall before six bridges, made of gold, silver, jade, stone, wood, and…some unidentified material. Before he could get a good look at them and the little dots moving across those bridges, he was hurried into the Terrace by the ghostly officials.

Now, both JTTW and the Jade Records mention multiple bridges across the Nai River. In the former, there is 3, and the latter, 6. The bridges made of precious materials are for people who will reincarnate into better lives, as the wealthy, the fortunate, and the divine, while the Naihe Bridge is either the common option or the terribad shitty option.

However, the Naihe Bridge proved to be so iconic, it became THE bridge you walk across to reincarnate in popular legends.

Anyways, back to Xiao Ming. He found himself standing in a giant soup kitchen of sorts, with an old lady at the counter, scooping soup out of her steaming pot and into one cup after another.

This is Mengpo, the amnesia soup granny; according to the Jade Records, she was born in the Western Han era, and a pious cultivator who thought of neither the past nor the future, only knowing that her surname was Meng.

Made into an Underworld god by the Jade Emperor, she cooks a soup of five flavors that will wipe the memory of the dead, making sure they do not remember any of their past lives once they reincarnate.

It tastes awful. Like what you get after pouring corn syrup, coffee, chilli sauce, lemon juice and seawater into the same cup.

Such was Xiao Ming's last thought, as he gulped down the soup, and then he knew no more.

Things you should know about the Chinese Underworld:

1. It's not the Christian Hell.

Rather, the Chinese Underworld functions somewhat like the Purgatory, in that there are a lot of torment, but the torment's not eternal, however long the duration may be. Once you finish your sentence, you get reincarnated as something else, though that "something else" is not a guaranteed good birth.

Other people can also speed up the process via transferring of merits: hiring a priest/monk to chant sutras and perform rituals, for example, or performing good deeds in life in dedication to the dead, or they can pray to a Daoist/Buddhist deity to save their loved ones from a dreadful fate.

Interestingly enough, a thesis paper I read mentions that, whereas Buddhist salvation from the Hells was based on transference of merits——you give monks offerings and pay them to chant sutras, so they can cancel out the sinners' bad karma with good ones, Daoist ideas of salvation tend to involve the priest going down there, sorting it out with the Underworld officials, and taking the dead out of the Hells themselves.

(The paper also stops at the Northern-Southern and Tang dynasties, so the above is likely period-specific.)

2. Nor is it run by evil demons.

Underworld officials are not nice guys and look pretty monstrous and torture the sinful dead, but they are not the embodiment of evil. Rather, the faction as a whole is what I'd call Lawful Neutral, who function on this "An Eye for An Eye" logic, where every harm the sinner caused in life must be returned to them, in order for their karmic debts to be cleansed and move on to their next life.

They can absolutely be corrupt and incompetent and take bribes——Tang dynasty Zhiguai tales and Qing folklore compendiums featured plenty of such cases, but that's a very mundane and human kind of evil, not a cosmic/innate one.

This is just my personal opinion, but if you want to do an "evil" Chinese Underworld? It should be a very bureaucratic evil, whose leaders are bootlickers to the higher-ups, slavedrivers to their rank-and-file workers, and bullies who abuse their power over regular dead people.

Not, y'know, Satan and his infernal legions or conspiring Cthulu cultists.

3. The Ten Kings are not Hades.

Make no mistake, they still have a lot of power over your average dead mortal. But in the grand scheme of things? They are the backwater department of the pantheon, who only show up in JTTW to get pushed around and revive the occasional dead people.

When Taizong made his trip to the Underworld, the Ten Kings greeted him as equals——kings of ghosts to the king of the living. If they see themselves as equal in status to a mortal emperor, then, like any mortal emperors, they are subordinate to the Celestial Host, and the balance of power is not even remotely equal or in their favor.

Also, it isn't said outright, but under the Zhong-Lv classification of immortals JTTW is using, Underworld officials will likely be considered Ghostly immortals, the lowest and weakest of the five types, much like Tudis and Chenghuangs.

Essentially: they are ghosts that are powerful enough to not reincarnate and linger on and on, spirits of pure Yin as opposed to true immortals, who are beings of pure Yang.

It's pretty much the shittiest form of immortality, the result you get when you try to speedrun cultivation (the Zhong-Lv text also made a dig at Buddhist meditation here), and if they don't reincarnate or regain a physical body, there is no chance of progressing any further.

Oh, and fun fact? In the Song dynasty, commoners and literati elites alike believed that virtuous officials in life would get appointed as ghostly officials in death.

However, the latter viewed it as a punishment. Which was strange, considering how they still held the same position and the same amount of authority, just over dead people instead of living ones, so there should be no big losses, right?

Well...it was precisely the "dead people" part that made it a punishment. See, a lot of the power and prestige they had as officials came from the benefits they could bring to their families and kins and native places, as well as the potential wealth and reputation bonuses for themselves.

A job in the Dead People Supreme Court would give them the same workload, but with none of those benefits. Since all the dead people had to reincarnate eventually, they couldn't have a fixed group as their power base, or keep their old familial ties and connections. At most, they could help out an occasional dead relative or two.

Like, working for the Underworld Courts was the kind of deadend (no pun intended) job not even living officials wanted for themselves in the afterlife. That's how hilariously sad and pathetic they are.

4. In JTTW at least, they aren't even the highest authorities of the Underworld.

That would be Bodhisattva Ksitigarbha, who is technically their boss, though he seems to be more of a spiritual leader than someone who is actually involved in running the bureaucracy.

Which makes sense, since he has sworn an oath to not attain Buddhahood until all Hells are empty, and his role is to offer relief and salvation to the suffering souls, not judging and punishing them.

Now, historically...even though Ksitigarbha in early Tang legends was still the savior of the dead, he seemed to be unable to interfere with the judicial process of the Underworld, merely showing up to take people away before they were judged by King Yama.

However, in the mid-Tang apocryphal "Sutra of Bodhisattva Ksitigarbha" (地藏菩萨经), he had evolved into the equal of King Yama, with the power of supervision over his judgements. By the time the Scripture on the Ten Kings came out, in artistic depictions, the Ten Kings had become fully subservient to him.

5. Diyu usually refers to the prison-torture chamber part, not the courthouse, nor is it the entirety of the Underworld.

And for the majority of souls that haven't committed crimes, they'll only see the courthouse part before they are sent to reincarnation. That's why I personally don't like, or use the name Diyu for the Chinese Underworld: I prefer the term Difu ("Earth Mansions"), which encompasses the whole realm better.

Also: even though historical sources like the Scripture on the Ten Kings and Jade Records seem to suggest that the dead were just funneled through this Courthouse-Prison-Reincarnation pipeline with no breaks in between, in practice, that isn't the case.

According to popular folk beliefs, after the dead were done with their trials/sentences, they stayed in the Underworld for a period of time and led regular lives, while functioning as ancestor spirits and receiving offerings.

Which would imply that the Underworld had a civilian district of sorts, populated by regular ghosts, making the whole realm even less of a direct Hell/Purgatory equivalent.

6. It is located in a different realm, but still part of the Six Paths and doesn't exist outside of reality.

In Buddhist cosmology, like the Celestial Realm, the Underworld is part of the Realm of Desires and thus subject to all the woes of samsara.

The pain and misery of the Path of Hell may be the worst and most obvious, but becoming a celestial being isn't the goal of serious Buddhists either: despite all the pleasures and near-infinite lifespan they enjoy, they are not free from samsara and will eventually have to reincarnate.

So if, say, the world is being destroyed at the end of a kalpa, all beings of the Six Paths will perish alongside it, leaving behind a clean slate for the cycle to start anew. The dead won't all end up in the Underworld and face eternal damnation.

7. The Black and White Impermanences would not appear in the Underworld pantheon formally until the Qing dynasty.

The concept that when you die, you get fetched to the Underworld by petty ghost bureaucrats is already well-established in Tang legends, but these were just generic ghost bureaucrats in all sorts of colorful official robes, with yellow being the most common color.

The idea of there being two specific psychopomps in black and white would only become popular in the Qing dynasty. Mengpo is kinda similar: although she existed before the Ming-Qing era as a goddess of wind, venerated by boatmen, her "amnesia soup granny" incarnation came from the Jade Records.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Tim Testing

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: After transferring to the Mid-Wilshire division because of toxic male officers harassing you, you find yourself partnered with Tim Bradford. When you are injured during a Tim Test, you hide the injury so he doesn't think less of you.

Warnings: angst to fluff, misogynistic comments and actions toward reader (from police officers), reader is injured and passes out, Tim is a softie

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

A/N: This was such an amazing request!! Tim (and everyone at Mid-Wilshire) would be so welcoming after dealing with something like this, so I really enjoyed writing this one. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to let me know what you think!🤍

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Picture from Pinterest

You knew from the beginning that it would be different for you, that being a female cop would have its pros, cons, and tough moments. What you didn’t expect was the men who were supposed to be your equals harassing you and making each moment far worse than it should have been.

Between the crass comments about how your uniform fit, questioning whether it was your time of the month whenever you tried to stand up for yourself, and their inability to trust you in the field, you learn your place quickly.

“I’d like to request a transfer to a different station,” you tell your commanding officer.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because there is no respect, no trust in this station. Looking over my shoulder while I’m trying to work, and having to defend myself against the very people who are supposed to have my back is exhausting and it makes me unable to do my job.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes as he slides a form to you. “Your decision. Though showing how weak you are by moving around every time things get hard, or your feelings get hurt isn’t plausible.”

“And you had to ask why,” you mutter, snatching the paper off his desk and walking out to fill it out in private.

“Hey, princess, before we leave on patrol I need to know you don’t have your gun at the front of your belt,” someone calls. “Don’t want to risk getting killed by your poor aim.”

You remain silent, which makes them quit or spurs them on to push you further. As if your day isn’t going poorly already, they take your silence as a weakness.

“Just her gun? You should be more worried about how her attitude changes if her bra rides up or her hormones spike,” a second voice adds.

“You’re on your own today,” you reply. “I’m on desk duty.”

“Finally, someone put you where you belong.”

The men laugh as they walk toward their shops, and you take a deep breath as the quiet settles over the station. Once your paperwork is complete, you take it to the captain. You can only hope it goes through quickly before you get fed up and quit forever.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your commanding officer yells your name as you walk in, intercepting you on your way to the locker room. 

“Your transfer just came through, you’re expected at the Mid-Wilshire division for roll call first thing in the morning; today’s PTO while we complete the paperwork,” he informs.

You accept the paper he hands you and pretend not to hear as he adds, “I hope they know what they’re getting into and have the patience to deal with you.”

Smiling as you empty your locker, you hope things are looking up. Although, you know it will be hard to open up to new people and trust new cops, even if they are different than your previous team.

✯✯✯✯✯

Entering the Mid-Wilshire station, you cross your fingers that transferring was the right decision. Sergeant Wade Grey is your new commanding officer, and your day (and your future) relies on this meeting going well.

“Sergeant Grey?” you ask, knocking on his open door.

He looks up, smiling as he beckons you inside. Saying your name, he opens a folder and compliments your arrest record. “I was surprised to hear you asked for a transfer, it seemed like you were doing well at your previous station.”

“The environment was making it difficult to do as well as I know I can, sir,” you answer.

Grey nods. “I can understand that. Our people are good, though, so I expect you will fit in well and succeed in all you do here.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“And you can drop the ‘sir,’ we’re not as formal as some other stations.”

Blinking in surprise, you look away from Wade when another cop enters the small office. 

“Sergeant Bradford, I’d like to introduce you to your new partner. I will warn both of you this is likely a temporary partnership, but one I trust will do you both some good.”

You smile at Bradford, who tilts his head to the side as he looks you over. It’s clear that he isn’t thrilled about having a partner, having grown used to working alone since becoming a sergeant. As long as he doesn’t treat you like a boot, or worse, like a girl who doesn’t have what it takes to be a cop, you can survive working with him for a few weeks.

What you don’t see, though, is that Tim can look at you and tell you’re a good cop. He reviewed your paperwork and arrest record with Wade yesterday, and he’s impressed by you. You’re good, but you have the potential to be better with the right help. And, for some reason, Wade is convinced that Tim can give you the push you need to be your best.

“Okay, let’s go,” Tim says, turning away as Wade tells you to have a good day.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim acknowledges that you’re not a rookie but warns you from the beginning that you still have something to prove.

“I know you’ve been a cop for a while, but I haven’t seen you in action. Your records are admirable, but I need to see proof that you’re still that good,” he explains. “So, I will test you and challenge you while we’re riding together, but don’t view it as starting over, more like proving grounds than qualifications.”

You nod, remembering something Wade muttered about “Tim Tests,” which you’re sure are unique to Bradford.

“I understand. I’ll do my best, and I want to learn to be better.”

Tim doesn’t reply, and you raise your guard, unimpressed with how shut off he is with you. In general, your past has made you wary around men; after Tim’s insistence that you have something to prove, you are determined to hide everything that could be taken as a sign of weakness. You will do whatever it takes to show you are a good cop, worthy of respect.

Slamming on the brakes, Tim yells, “We’re being ambushed; what do you do?”

“Radio for backup, stay in the shop, stay low, and fire only if necessary,” you answer, nearly robotically, as he catches you off guard.

Tim eases back onto the road, ignoring you once again.

✯✯✯✯✯

Just before your scheduled lunch break, something which you haven’t actually enjoyed in far too long, Tim parks between two old warehouses.

“There’s a suspicious package in the gray building, you’re riding alone and need to check it out,” he explains. “Radio any information as you find it.”

You switch your radio to a private channel with Tim, accepting the call as you exit the shop and enter the building. It’s dark and wet, but you refuse to accept any comments or disdainful looks from Tim if you fail this test, so you will find the package and impress him as quickly as possible.

“7-Adam-9, located suspicious package: brown paper bag situated between steel beams,” you radio.

“Dispatch, requesting additional information,” Tim replies.

You sigh, moving forward to look at the bag because you can’t touch it. When you move, the beams sitting upright in the warehouse shift. Stepping back a second too late, one side of the heavy structure hits the back of your shoulder, shoving you forward into the crate holding the package.

Pain radiates through your shoulder as you move to the side, pulling yourself away from the mess you made with a sharp inhale.

“7-Adam-9, false alarm. Suspicious package is empty. Code 4.”

“Copy 7-Adam-9.”

Taking a step toward the door, you hiss in pain as the pain moves from your shoulder around to your ribs, where you fell against the crate. It seems likely that you broke something or at least got a deep bruise, but telling Tim would be like admitting that you’re weak. So, as you level your expression and cover your pain by walking normally, you decide to hide your pain.

Being labeled weak or incapable, or as before, giving Tim a reason to view you as less than is not an option anymore. Buckling your seatbelt, you press your lips together to keep your pained sounds muted, and the feeling of the seat on your shoulder makes you count down the minutes until you can get out of the shop.

✯✯✯✯✯

As the day goes on, your pain grows in intensity. Each breath causes immeasurable pain, and your stomach turns when you move your shoulder in any direction.

“Wade’s going to ask me, so how’s your first day going?” Tim asks, turning down a residential street to respond to a noise disturbance.

“Fine,” you answer quickly, clenching your jaw to stay quiet.

“Good,” he replies, though his voice sounds different. “Glad you found a station that works for you.”

You can’t tell if his comment is passive-aggressive, implying that you are the issue rather than the station you transferred from. The overbearing pain you’re feeling makes it nearly impossible to care.

“You take point on this one,” Tim offers as he parks by the curb.

“Yes, sir.”

Asking questions and explaining the city’s noise ordinances to the tenant, you’re momentarily distracted from your pain. The moment you turn to return to the shop, though, you’re reminded that your new position isn’t quite as enjoyable as you were expecting.

“Take us back to the station,” Tim says, tossing the shop keys to you.

When you raise your hand to catch the keys, your shoulder screams in protest, and you close your eyes momentarily to hide the pain.

“You alright?” Tim asks.

Nodding, you release a sigh when Tim climbs into the passenger seat, too easily convinced by your answer.

✯✯✯✯✯

After a quick meeting with Wade, discussing your new role, and signing a few documents, you head for the locker room. When you pull your shirt off, you glance in the mirror, surprised to see the size and color of the bruise; your entire shoulder, over to your neck and down around the front of your ribs, is a sickening purple. The yellowish tint around the edges is a sign that it will only worsen before it begins to heal. Attempting to raise your arm again, you feel something shift under your skin and step into one of the bathroom stalls, kneeling as you try to keep yourself from being sick. When you lean your head against the metal wall, the coolness is soothing, and as you finally let yourself acknowledge the pain, it becomes all you can feel.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim opens Wade’s door, furrowing his brows when he sees you’re not there.

“She left a few minutes ago,” Wade answers.

“Her car’s still here.”

“Must be in the locker room then.”

“Why’d she transfer?” Tim asks, stepping inside to close the door.

“I don’t know, Bradford. You’re going to have to ask her.”

Tim nods, turning away to search for you. He knocks on the locker room door, and when no one answers, he opens it and says your name. Once again met with silence, he steps inside and looks around. Your locker is open, but you’re nowhere to be seen. As he rounds the last row of lockers, he sees someone sitting on the floor in one of the bathroom stalls.

Tim says your name, knocking on the door. It opens at his touch, and he catches it before it hits your arm. Kneeling beside you, he looks across your face, pressing his hand behind your neck as he tries to find the source of your unconsciousness. His hand dips to your upper shoulder, and you groan, opening your eyes.

Tim ignores you as you wake, gently leaning you forward as he surveys the bruise where it’s visible past your tank top.

“Stay awake,” he says, moving you again. “Just your shoulder?”

You nod, and he demands to know: “Home or hospital?”

“Home,” you whisper. “But I can-“

“Obviously you can’t,” Tim snaps, his arms gentler than his voice as he lifts you from the ground.

✯✯✯✯✯

You stay conscious, fighting against the pain as you give Tim directions to your home. After getting you inside and as comfortable as possible, he leaves your side to gather a few things before returning. He gives you a glass of water and a few pain reliever pills, waiting until you’ve taken them to lay an ice pack across your shoulder. You take a deep breath at the cold before catching yourself.

“What else hurts?” Tim asks.

“My ribs,” you admit.

He leans you back gently, pushing your tank top to your sternum as he surveys the darkening bruise across your lower ribcage. Gently moving his hand across your skin, he doesn’t feel anything obviously broken, apologizing as you whimper at the pressure. Pulling the first aid kit he brought from your kitchen to his side, he places several cooling packets over your ribs. 

Satisfied that he’s done all he can do for you, Tim moves to sit across from you, making himself comfortable in your living room.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m not leaving,” he answers quickly, “what if you collapse again?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Tim silences, closing his eyes as he leans back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You’ve heard that question dozens of times, but previously, it was asked in a much different tone. Always an accusation that you hadn’t handled something correctly or that you should have let someone else do whatever it was that needed to be done. 

When you look back at Tim, his eyes are on you, and you shrug. His eyes narrow as his gaze intensifies, demanding your answer.

“The last station that I worked at made me nervous to tell people things, especially other cops. All of the guys that I worked with harassed me constantly, and they tried to convince me that I wasn’t a good cop because I was a woman. So, I have trouble trusting other police officers with personal things. During your Tim Tests, I thought that if I acknowledged something had happened, you’d see me the same way.”

“Which way?”

“Weak, incapable,” you answer, trailing off.

“They were bad people,” Tim explains. “They may have been okay cops, but no one deserves to be treated like that.”

You nod, licking your lips as your gaze drops to the blanket across your lap.

“Want to tell me what happened today?” he pries.

“The steel beams around the bag?” Tim nods, so you continue, “They fell. One of them hit my shoulder and knocked me forward.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known that would happen. Besides, you helped me. My last partner would have found a way to blame be.”

“Like I said, bad people. But you… you’re a good person and a good cop,” Tim continues. “I’ve known that since you walked in, but I needed to know that you knew. Getting hurt or being unable to do something on the first try doesn’t make you less of a person, or a cop. Being a woman doesn’t either. And if they didn’t see that, it’s their loss.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, looking into his eyes.

“And my gain.”

You furrow your brows at Tim, but he leans back and closes his eyes instead of elaborating.

[lipglossanon]

Desire (I’m Hungry)

Corrupt Cop!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

<< previous installment >>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Leon POV, dark thoughts, being filmed without consent aka Leon’s making a sex tape and reader has no clue, dirty talk, daddy kink, kissing, biting, blood kink, oral (m & f receiving), pussy spanking, clit biting, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread ✌️

today marks one year that I officially published my first Leon x reader fic that just happened to be Corrupt Cop Leon! 💜 so happy anniversary to the OG! 😘

Title from Desire by Meg Myers 💜

It’s not unusual to see a police cruiser parked outside the library on any given night. Especially when you’re inside, finishing up whatever class work you can before heading home. 

Leon leans back against the passenger door, one leg crossed over the ankle of the other, arms folded over his chest. His walkie’s turned off since he’s not on duty and he can hear the whispers of people passing him by, from the curious looks of kids to loose women giving him sultry smiles. Except for a cursory glance, his mind doesn’t linger on any single one of them. 

Drumming his fingers on his bicep, he tilts his head as he catalogs the outside of the building. He’s done this a thousand times at this point. Even before you knew he came around, when he would follow you home and watch you from his squad car. He kind of misses those days.    

The sound of a door opening pulls his attention up the library steps. Once you fully step out into the cool evening air, your eyes immediately seek him out. Satisfaction coils deep in his gut as your face breaks out into a bright smile at seeing him. Although he loved quietly following you, having you seek him out is much better. His eyes track your body as you carefully take the stairs and walk over to him. 

He only had to chastise you one time about not rushing down the steps. (You cried so prettily on his cock after he spanked your pussy raw. But the lesson stuck and he hasn’t had to remind you once, such a good girl). 

“Hi,” your soft voice hits his ears and he’s smirking at your shyness. 

“Hi, pretty girl, ready to go?”

You nod, “All set. Thank you for taking me home.”

“Of course, don’t want you getting hurt,” he murmurs, uncrossing his arms to brush a thumb across your cheekbone, “here, let me take your bag.”

Eyes fond, you hand him your book bag and wait for him to open the passenger door for you. Watching as you sit, he sees when your skirt rucks up around your thighs and it makes his blood run hot, pulse quickening in his neck. He walks around the trunk of the car, placing your bag in the back before climbing into the driver seat. 

He checks his mirrors and blind spots before pulling away from the curb. As soon as he’s on the street, his hand grips the dough of your thigh closest to the gear shift. A giddy thrum of excitement bleeds through his thoughts when he hears your little gasp. You’re so easy for him. His pretty, perfect girl. 

He no longer stifles those thoughts or impulses that once might have gotten him locked up. You invite his dark urges in with wet eyes and an even wetter cunt. Today’s special even if you don’t know it. He’s planned a little surprise, something he’s been wanting to do for a while now. 

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he watches you surreptitiously, taking in the  changing expressions as he drives closer and closer to your house. Just seeing your face makes him ache all the way down to his marrow. He wants to sink his teeth into you until he tastes blood.

“Should we eat out for dinner?”

He glances over at you and tightens his fingers, giving your thigh a quick squeeze. 

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He parks outside your house, letting you walk up to your front stoop first as he grabs your bag. You unlock the door as soon as he joins you, his hand palming your lower back to usher you into the house. Dropping your school bag down onto the floor, he uses both hands to grip your hips, pushing you back against the closed front door. 

Desire pulses throughout his body, a deep seated hunger that makes him want to crack open your rib cage and crawl inside. He’s sure your beating heart would sate this visceral reaction to the possessive want that engulfs his thoughts.

But kissing you will have to suffice for now. 

Your lips part on a sigh as he licks into your mouth, tongue greedy and hot as he tastes you deeply. His fingers dig into your skin, thumbs pressed uncomfortably against your hip bones; he gloats to himself as the twinge of pain has you arching into him. If he could, Leon would rip you apart at the seams, swallow you whole til nothing’s left. 

You whimper into his harsh kisses while your hands grab onto his chest, badge nearly pricking your fingers as you try to find purchase against his uniform. He lets go of your waist to circle his fingers around your wrists, pushing them against the door on either side of your head. Pulling back, his sea dark eyes take in your dilated pupils and swollen lips. 

Now, he thinks, is the perfect time to drag you into your room.

Leon kisses you again, heatedly, pulling you into the bedroom with little preamble. For the surprise he’s been planning, he made sure to sneak into your house earlier in the day. He then hid a camera perfectly angled on your nightstand where you couldn’t see it. 

His mouth waters at the thought of filming everything he wants to do to you. Excitement heightens his aggressiveness. He can’t wait to take you apart in front of the lens, especially without you knowing. He shivers as he licks hungrily into your mouth. 

“Leon,” you whisper when he drags his mouth down to bite your neck, “thought we were going out to dinner?”

“Well, I am gonna eat you out,” he crudely states with a grin, “but first let’s see those pretty tits.”

Biting your bottom lip softly, you step back and pull your shirt off. His eyes watch as you nervously take off your bra and drop it into the floor with your shirt. Leon lets his hands reach out to grope and pinch your hard nipples. His cock throbs where it’s trapped in his pants.

“Get naked, pretty girl, wanna see you,” he coaxes, smile wicked when you do as he says.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, he faces the camera, pulling you down into his lap, your back to his chest. The juxtaposition of having you completely naked on his lap while he’s in uniform makes him bite down on your shoulder hard. You squeal and try to move, but he wraps his arms around you, pinning you in place. 

After you settle down, his hands move to squeeze the fat of your breasts until it dimples between his fingers. Your nipples tighten even further under his palms as he runs them across the stiff buds. 

“Such a good girl,” he kisses the side of your neck, eyes glinting when they look over to the hidden device, “bet that cute pussy’s soaked, sweetheart.”

Squirming against him, you whine pitifully, grinding your wet cunt down onto his bulge, “Daddy, please.”

“Such a well mannered girl,” he coos sweetly, luring you into relaxing against him further. 

The flat of his fingers come down in a hard slap against your pussy, a sharp gasp parting your pretty lips. Leon spanks across your fat cunt until you’re hiccuping little cries, tears streaming down your face to drip onto your chest. Even with the pain, you still part your legs for him, letting him drag his fingers across your wet slit. 

He wonders absently as he toys with your clit if you’d let him bite you here, sink his teeth in your sweet little bud til you scream. That thought alone has precum dripping from his tip, making his briefs damp. 

“Such a slutty cunt,” he whispers in your ear, feeling you shiver, “like when daddy shows you who’s in charge, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” you sniffle wetly. 

That ugly need to hurt you ramps up again and he pinches your clit roughly until you bleat in pain. 

“Good girl,” he chuckles, fingers softly petting your cunt, “my perfect girl.”

“All yours, daddy,” you automatically respond. 

Your voice is hoarse from all your crying and it makes his chest burn like his solar plexus is caving in.

“That’s right,” he croons, cupping your breasts in his hands, thumbs swiping across your nipples, “daddy’s got such a smart pretty girl.”

He wants to laugh at how those words make you press against him, praise making you stupid and pliant for him.

“Get on the floor,” he pushes at your shoulders, “think that sweet mouth deserves a reward.”

Eagerly, you slide off his lap onto your knees, turning around to face him. He unbuckles his belt and undoes his pants, pushing them down his thighs so he can tuck his briefs underneath his balls comfortably. His weeping cock bobs in front of your face, tip brushing across your cheek and smearing precum across your skin. 

“Kiss it, baby, show me how much you want daddy in your mouth,” he grins at you. 

Your shyness just makes him harder as you press a feather light kiss to his dick. He watches as your lips and tongue work in tandem to gently kiss and lick at his fat cockhead. You sigh hard enough he feels the dampness of your breath before your tongue lathes underneath the foreskin, lapping up the sticky precum dripping from his slit. You moan while you taste him, eyes fluttering closed as you get more and more eager at sucking him off. 

Thighs twitching, he grunts when you suck him into your warm mouth, tongue cupping the head when you withdraw, lips tightly wrapped around the tip of his dick. He feels as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue, dipping the slick muscle into his slit to draw out more precum. 

“Good girl,” he groans when your mouth drops down to kiss and suck at his balls. 

Leon keeps his gaze on you as you try to suck both of his balls into your wet mouth, whimpering when you can only fit one. Smearing your own spit across your face, you nuzzle into his squishy sac, mouthing and lapping at the sensitive skin before sucking each of his balls again. 

Whining, you eagerly lap at his sac, tongue slowly tracing up the seam. Your lips meet the base of his cock before you flick your tongue back around his balls. Reaching down, he grabs the back of your neck, pulling your mouth up to suck on his cock. A choked off moan reverberates around his dick as your lips part to sink down around the first few inches. His abs tense when he feels the spit drip down his dick onto his balls. 

“So good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, halfway tempted to gag you on his dick— maybe even choke you on it til you pass out.

More precum blurts across your tongue as he pictures your eyes rolling back, body going limp from lack of air. His fingers spasm around your neck as the tip bumps into the back of your throat. Bucking up into your mouth, the tightness around his cock increases and you retch loudly. 

“Take it or I’m going to get mean with you,” he narrows his eyes down at you.

You cough again, a wet dirty sound as he pulls his cock halfway out of your mouth only to press back in deep, the fat head kissing the back of your throat immediately. It would be easy to keep you here, swallowing around him til he came or you blacked out. His eyes cut to the hidden camera before flicking back down to you. Maybe next time he’ll try it, but for now he wants to make this last longer for the video. 

Rolling his neck til it cracks, he lets you go, watching with hidden glee as you pull off with a gross coughing fit and wet eyes. The dough of your thighs press together drawing his gaze where he can actually see a light sheen of slick coating them. Taking a hitched shuddery breath, you lean forward and kitten lick the head, soft tongue cleaning up any precum spilling from the slit down his cock. 

A flash of your mouth split open and a bloody chin makes Leon place his hands under your armpits and yank you up, turning sideways to toss you onto the bed. He crawls on top of you and kisses you hard enough to bruise. Sinking teeth into your lower lip, he brings his vision to life as he works the wet skin til it splits, the warm taste of pennies flooding his mouth. 

Growling like an animal, he sucks your bloody lip raw. He finally leans up, taking in the mess of your mouth with unreasonable pride. 

“So pretty,” he smiles down at you, blood coating his teeth, “my sweet girl.”

“Yours,” you nod dazedly, eyes blown in arousal, “m’yours, daddy.” 

He moves off the bed and begins to undress, taking extra care to set his holster and gun on top of your dresser. Once his uniform is off, he lays it out on a nearby chair in order to keep it off the floor. It just wouldn’t do to get it unnecessarily dirty. 

He climbs back onto the bed, eyes zeroing in on your bleeding mouth with the awareness of a predator tracking prey. He smiles and grabs your thighs, shoving them up until they’re nearly touching your shoulders. 

“Think it’s time I kiss my sweet girl hello,” his eyes drop from yours down to your soaked cunt, “aww, she always cries so hard for me, baby.”

He shuffles down onto his stomach, hands still pressing on your thighs as he leans in and kisses your swollen cunt.

“Greedy little pussy,” he chuckles derisively, “always begging for more.”

He slides his hands down from your thighs to the outside of your cunt, pulling your pussy lips apart to spit on your clenching hole. 

“Daddy!” 

He hears your voice crack before you gasp when he plunges his tongue into your pussy, fluttering the wet muscle as deep as possible into your spasming walls. You always taste like heaven, like he could die suffocated on your cunt and he’ll never find anything better. His eyes roll back when your slick floods his mouth, clit fat and swollen against his nose as your cunt squeezes down on his tongue.

Leon’s tongue laps at your hole before he runs the wet muscle up your slit to suck sloppily at your clit. He’s being as messy as possible; he knows you love it when your cunt’s coated in his spit after eating you out. The only thing better is when he cums all over your pussy, making you wear your panties to keep that sweet cunt wet and sticky with his seed. 

Your cries and whines fall on deaf ears as he eats you out at his leisure. He makes you cum twice before finally trying out the little earworm that has eaten away at his brain since earlier. Thighs shaking from the last orgasm, you're completely out of it when Leon dips his head and bites down on your fat throbbing clit. 

He growls and humps the bed as you thrash under him, hips trying to buck up to throw him off, hands digging into his hair but he doesn’t budge. He closes his teeth even tighter around your swollen bud and you screech, legs kicking out at him. Leon laughs at you, arms coming up and pinning your lower half down onto the bed. He readjusts his mouth and bites your clit harder than before. 

“No, no, daddy! Please!”

You sob brokenly and Leon feels like he’s going to cum all over the sheets. Letting go, Leon pulls his mouth away for a second wanting to see your tortured little bundle of nerves. It looks so swollen that it makes his jaw ache. He licks and kisses over your clit until you’re whimpering in pleasure, hips writhing as Leon bathes your cunt with rough swipes of his tongue. He works you up to another orgasm and right as your pussy cums, clenching around nothing, he sinks his teeth back into your clit with a groan. 

“Daddy, daddy! Leon, please!”

Your cunt gushes slick as the pain morphs into pleasure, babbling and pleading for more even as Leon sucks your bud into his mouth, hot tongue circling your abused clit. 

“Ready for daddy to to fuck your pretty little cunt?” He rumbles, tongue lashing across your bundle of nerves making you whine. 

“Please, daddy.”

There’s drool and blood all down your chin and he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. If he were a better man, he would tell you so. 

Leon crawls back up your body, dragging his cock against your thighs until the tip bumps against your sopping wet pussy. His eyes catalog your wince when his dick drags across your clit and he kisses you until spit runs down your jaw. Balancing himself on one forearm, he brings his other hand down to notch the tip of his cock at your soaked hole. 

“Let me in, pretty girl,” he licks up the blood on your chin as he works his cock into your cunt, “let me stuff this soft little pussy with cum.”

Keening high in your throat, you grind your head against the pillow and Leon takes that opportunity to savagely bite into the side of your neck. He can feel you wheeze in pain underneath his teeth at the same time your pussy walls flutter and clamp down on his cock. Sweet satisfaction hums like electricity in his blood. He trails kisses from the nasty bite mark up to your ear, nipping the lobe. 

“You like what I do to you, don’t you, sweetheart?” He kisses your temple before shifting until his forearms are on either side of your neck, hips rolling back before thrusting forward. 

The tight clutch of your pussy makes him dizzy with lust, knowing he can do anything to you and you’ll not only take it, but like it. The camera is practically an afterthought by this point. Leon’s focus is now on making your hot little pussy cream all over his cock before he shoots his load deep into your hole. 

“Always take it so well,” his baritone rumbles low in his chest and you shudder under him, “got daddy addicted to your soft chubby pussy, baby, always wanna be buried in her.”

Your nails dig into his skin but he loves the stinging scratches you leave on him; proof that you need him just as much as he needs you. He has half a mind to drag this out for hours and hours, but he really wants to send the tape over to Chris. Smugly show off his pretty girl and the sweet sounds she makes for him. 

Leon prides himself on keeping his cool even when he’s buried to the hilt inside your deliciously hot pussy. This time, his nerves fray quicker than he’s used to; too many fun things have happened and all in front of the camera so he can look back on it later. Being able to watch your face again as he bites your clit makes his hips rabbit fast and hard against yours, pussy squelching loudly between your bodies. 

“Got me so worked up,” he laughs, one forearm moving all he can glide his fingers down your side and across your hip, seeking out your sore clit, “squeeze the cum out of me, sweetheart, let daddy give you a nice thick creampie.”

“Ohhh,” you moan shakily, “daddy, please, w’nt it.”

“You’re gonna get it,” he promises, voice dark, “you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hot pulsing walls of your pussy makes his hips flex harder, bullying his cock into your cervix, needing to get as deep as possible in your body. 

“Sucking me in,” he murmurs, fingers gently circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, “your sweet cunt’s made for this, isn’t she baby?”

“Yes, Leon, ‘m made for you,” you babble out, eyelashes sticking together from tears as you pant and moan, “daddy, I’m g’nna cum.”

“Fuck, then do it, pretty girl, cream all over me, work this cum into that sweet hole,” he groans when your walls clamp down on his dick. 

He swipes across your clit a few more times as he ruts his cock in and out of your pussy, grinding the fat tip across your g-spot until your back arches, a loud scream pouring from your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he praises, knowing you can't hear him, “doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

As your soft walls pulse and flutter around his dick, he adjusts his hands to hold him up above your body so he can rail you into the mattress. 

“Too much,” you whimper, “Leon, s’too deep.”

“Shhh,” he reaches down to twist a nipple until you clench around his cock, “let me rearrange those guts, baby, daddy needs to cum, too.”

You nod, tears falling down your temples to collect on the pillow and his hips snap harder— the sight of you crying on his cock always does him in quick. He thrusts half a dozen more times before his hips begin to stutter. Burying himself balls deep, Leon’s cock kicks and throbs while he spills hot sticky cum all inside your clenching pussy walls. 

While he fills your cunt with rope after rope of thick jizz, he groans long and low against your ear, “Perfect baby, taking it so well for me.”

“Leon,” you whisper lightly, hands carding through his hair and giving him goosebumps.

He settles his body weight down on you, cock plugging up your pussy so his cum doesn’t leak out onto the bedspread. 

“Gotta surprise for you,” he kisses the side of your head and slowly maneuvers until he can quickly shuffle you around to face the hidden lens. 

He pulls out his half chubbed cock, cream colored slick oozing from your pussy when he spreads it open. 

Smiling up at you, he nods to your nightstand, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Show’em what a messy little pussy looks like.”

He watches in utter delight as your brows pinch together before realization dawns across your face. Tears bead in your eyes and he chuckles. 

“Aww don’t be that way,” he croons, fingers digging into your used hole to work more cum into spilling out between your thighs, “be a good girl and let everyone see the creampie daddy left in your pretty cunt.”

Your cubby lips stay spread as he fingers more of his cum out of your hole. 

“So swollen baby,” he groans, fingers glancing across your fat clit, “can’t wait to watch this back.”

You squirm but he catches the hitched breath and dilated eyes. Grinning darkly, he nuzzles against your ear. 

“Maybe next time it’ll be a livestream of how I ream my pretty girl’s tight little pussy,” he kisses the shell of your ear as you moan quietly, “yeah, or maybe we’ll get someone in to watch me take you apart.”

You shiver and writhe against him, pussy sucking his fingers in even as he slowly drags them out of your spent cunt. 

“Guess we’ll need to save that for later though,” he clicks his tongue, moving away from you to shut the camera off, “now let’s go get a shower so we can go out to dinner, sweetheart.”

[mvltisstuff]

hi!! could you possibly do a one-shot where buck and reader are flirting during the dosed episode? like they get high and are handcuffed and are just giggling and flirting and then accidental confession or something and then the next day they’re just like “i’m pretty sure we’re dating now..” thank you so so much!! this idea just made me giggle so <33

you get me so high - e.b

summary: request

evan buckley x reader

gif does not belong to me

a/n: i adore this idea, thank you for sharing <3 i worked on this very sporadically, and i’m not the biggest fan of it but i hope you enjoy!

whoever brought those brownies in was an angel to y/n. yeah, a felony for sure, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t secretly enjoy it.

even though the whole station had been haunted by taylor and her team the entire day, all of the worries of the job seemed to vanish. buck wasn’t sure why, but he just saw everything different than he has before. nature called for him and he was more than excited to be at his job.

he just wanted to laugh at everything, each little girl in front of him was the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. he watched y/n from across the room, sitting on the floor and playing with a girl in a massive dress shaped like a pastry.

“where did you get this dress?” she asks, running her fingers down the satin on the side.

“my mommy bought it for me!”

“can she buy one for me?” y/n asks, turning her head to see the grown firefighter skipping over.

“y/n!” he shoots out quickly, jogging over to lean next to her on the ground.

“hi buck! will you buy me a dress like this?”

“only if you buy me one,” he smiles. “maybe we should put bobby in one.” he starts completely laughing at the thought of bobby in a pretty pink dress, with a sash and a tiara.

“what is going on- buck!” chim shouts. “can someone help us over here?”

“how are we not helping?” buck asks, leading y/n to just shrug. they glance over at eddie in the corner, looking at all the pageant girls like they have 5 heads. he almost looks fearful of them, swaying in his spot.

the next few minutes were a blur, and suddenly they were all handcuffed together against a wall. hen, eddie, buck, and y/n were all connected by their hands, being watched by athena like they misbehaved at school.

“ooh, you made him cry!” buck teases, looking at the tears streaming down eddie’s face. y/n just looks closer to athena’s face.

“you’re a hot cop, thena,” y/n speaks airily, just smiling cheekily at the officer in front of her.

“you guys are high as hell and you’re on duty.”

“what?” hen exclaims. “i didn’t smoke anything-“

“well you ate something! someone brought marijuana brownies into the station, so you’re all off work.”

the team just looks around in shock, not fully caring until y/n and buck start giggling once more. “just- just sit down against this wall, and do not move.” athena demands, walking away to deal with the other emergency in the main room.

y/n and buck sat fine against the wall, comparing hands and very lightly slapping each other on the sides. a few spouts of silence would happen for a few minutes while the group of stoners just watched the world pass in front of them.

“buck,” y/n whispers.

“what?” he asks.

“you’re really cute, like i just figured i’d let you know.”

“thanks, you’re a cutie, too,” she giggles at his words, throwing her head back against the wall as he just glances at her. normal, sober buck would’ve had a racing heart and nerves fluttering all over his body because she told him he was cute. he knows he’s not bad looking, but hearing it from her is when he truly believes it. now, he just figured why not? yolo, anyway.

“no, you’re like cute cute. like hot oiled up firefighter cute.”

“that means so much, y/n,” he says, the sly remark almost making his heart clench.

“i want you under my christmas tree.”

“well, i want you in an easter egg for me.”

“well, i want you-“

“can you just shut up?” eddie asks, still distressed about being handcuffed and drugged. “we get it, you’re into each other. and what happens when you’re not high?”

“i don’t remember talking to you,” buck teases, giving eddie a side eye but keeping his head directed towards the pretty girl next to him.

“alright,” athena comes back into sight. “let’s get you all home, maybe sleep off some of this.”

the next morning, y/n remembered every little thing she said to buck, and he remembered every little thing he said to her. they hoped maybe it was like alcohol, making them forget what they may or may not have said, but nope. it was clear as day. it didn’t feel as awkward, though. it felt easier. like a weight was off their shoulders after being weighed down for so long.

when they both arrived at work, the look from the other just told them everything they had to know. buck meant everything he said, and so did she. her eyes lightly wandered over his, and he didn’t even make her say anything. they both knew that those cookies made a great thing burst open.

[grimesgirll]

you love forcing your guys to watch tv with you.

snuggled up on the sectional together, there’s nothing you’d rather be doing with your saturdays.

your head is on daryl’s chest and your feet in rick’s lap while the old vhs tape plays an old episode of six feet under.

one of the alexandrians who’d passed long before your group arrived had a considerable hbo collection, along with some of the other most popular television series of your time before the end of the world as you knew it. from dvds of mad men to nip/tuck, there was enough to keep you preoccupied binging the best of the 2000s.

your duties in your new neighborhood kept you to a constant schedule but making time for tv wasn’t hard. slipping away to rock judith asleep in your arms was made easy with an episode of grey’s anatomy. it was nice to feel normal for once - like someone who wasn’t holing up behind ten foot high walls from hordes of the dead.

it’s even nicer getting your busy, go-getters to simply sit and enjoy your company, and the glow of the tv.

having never had a tv aside from the busted flatscreen merle’d once ditched at his place before everything went down, you were shocked when daryl told you he didn’t have a favorite show. it seemed every dvd or vhs you inserted had the man mocking the media.

dexter is dumb. arrested development’s cast consists of assholes. house bored him. psych too. and don’t get him started on desperate housewives.

at least you could count on wrestling rick into the couch for an episode of cops. rick’s rambling on everything the show got right and wrong was worth it if you could get him off his feet, because then it wouldn’t be long before you were teasing a foot along his leg.

still on top of daryl, you’re hoping the two pick up on what you’re putting down without you having to be too obvious. rick ruins your perfectly scripted scene with a single clearance of his throat. that’s all it takes for his attention to be diverted from the screen and for a hand to settle on your foot.

your tongue swipes across your lips. your twinging foot eventually brings rick’s attention from the limb to your lust addled expression. daryl’s probably half asleep. he doesn’t give a fuck about cops.

“they’re all gettin’ caught doin’ some dumb shit merle’d do,” he’d gruffed when you first played the title.

regardless, he’s relaxed beneath you. the hand wrapping your frame into him pulling him close. a lightly planted hand on your breast that lures your gaze back to his. you curl into the warmth of his arms and into a balmy kiss.

rick blisters his own impressions onto your calf. “ah,” you hum off-guard into daryl’s mouth. that only spurs the sheriff further up your thigh until you feel a finger over top the crotch of rick’s your boxers. between two pairs of masterful mouths, you could care less about cops. you have your own pulling down your underwear with his teeth and an outlaw on your lips. the latter is laying a hand on your head, savoring the feeling of your soft hair beneath his rough, calloused hand. you don’t mind it at all when he ushers you crushingly closer.

“were you even watchin’?” rick asks, the breath of his laughter panting onto your thigh.

“a bit,” you admit in a puff of breath. “cops is boring.”

“say that again,” daryl snarks into your neck.

rick shakes his head. those bronzed locks brush against the sensitive skin of your thighs, with rick now situated front and center facing your dripping core. he parts the light bush you’ve been maintaining to spread open your plush pussy. cool air makes you whine just as the roving pucker on your pulse point pulls the same sounds from you. “you want a finger? or my mouth?” rick leaves it to you.

you choose the hybrid option.

rick should know that you live for the way he prods you open with a nice fat finger, then letting his tongue wander up and down your clit.

knowing you inside and out, rick is ready to do just that. so it only makes sense that his tongue and a thick finger is already driving you up the sofa, so far gone already that all you can do is muffle your cries with daryl’s mouth.

the brother of georgia’s most wanted has no problem absorbing your pleasure. in fact, he works in near tandem with rick to get your heartbeat racing on both ends. fingers fall into a deft hold on your breasts, going from groping to taunting the buds popping up through your thin long sleeve. bunched up over your chest or your head seems to be the only fate that typically befalls that shirt. the thin material is always accenting your headlights in a cold room or straining holding back your bust enough that your boys always take note of it.

daryl loves it. loves getting a fistful of the flowy, flexible, blue and white flowered fabric. loves it even more when it’s out of his way. bunched up over your tits, it goes. “you gon’ come, pretty girl?” daryl questions, ducking down to capture your breast in his mouth.

you don’t know what to say. the answer is obvious but your words are mere babbles and all you do is moan and huff and pant yes.

all you can see of rick is that fluffy mop of brown. hands dug into your hips, he’s not relenting even as your clit pulses beneath his tongue. he only takes it as an opportunity to run his skilled appendage along the single pronounced ridge of your pleasure point.

“rick takin’ care of ya’? givin’ you a break from the pig show?”

you feel a snort against you, but it’s not long before you’re bucking your hips against rick’s face and he’s steadying your hips. that damn tongue just has to drag against you and you’re ready to flop off the couch. you can barely manage a smile at daryl’s dig because your mouth is contorting into an open o shape - o for orgasm because that’s the only thing on your mind. not the dead stalking the gates upon hearing a single human breath, not the responsibilities of running the community within those gates, not worrying about who’s on watch, definitely not anything other than the burst of delight coursing through you.

sunlight tumbles through the windows onto the perfect center of the living room. it would be blinding rick had he not still been between your thighs. squeezing your eyes shut, the last thing you see is rick’s sunlit head grooving up and down.

feeling snug on rick’s two fingers is enough for you to feel completely unbound. clenching but not clamping like daryl is now on your tit.

“fuck me,” you groan. the vulgarity comes out wispy as the man flattening his tongue and pancaking a new finger to your soaked clit steals your breath.

the denim hardness beneath you has you guiding daryl’s mouth from your chest to your face for another kiss. your hand is wound in his hair, almost like the kiss could distract you from the overstimulation rick’s so hellbent on.

a stripe of gold beams across your faces - and rick’s - so once you’re parting from the messy mash of tongue and lip you’d shared with daryl, the sight of rick has you squeezing your thighs again. with a finger still inside of you, rick’s slowly massaging your newly drenched cunt, and he’s never looked better. pink glossy lips have you yearning for a taste.

luckily, you and rick are always on the same page, thus, he’s leaning up on forearms to croon, “wanna taste yourself, baby girl?” and with a sure nod, your mouths are connecting so you can sample the fruits of your labor.

a hand on daryl’s dick, a bit of maneuvering on your part, and some sweet sounds from rick are all it takes for the television to be ignored. it feels like you’ve all fast forwarded through a season of cops by the time anyone recognizes the television’s still on but no one gives a damn. not when there are better distractions.

[adnauseum11]

Listening Post (John Price x Reader)

John goes M.I.A, and all is not as it seems at first.

900 words

CW: swearing

feedback welcome!

You’re starting to get worried. It’s out of character for John to ignore you. Even when he was still on active duty, he would tell you if he was going to be in the field. He’d never compromise himself with any details but he’d at least let you know he was away. And he always let you know when he was back on grid, his simple ‘back here’ text enough to reassure you that he had made it home once again. You stand in your kitchen, gnawing a thumbnail and obsessively looking at your phone. 

He wasn’t in the field any more, and he shouldn't be away, you had plans to do Trivia Thursday night this week at the pub. He would have told you if he had left town. If you weren’t dating the wretched man, you would send him a text about being a miserable bastard and try him again the next day to see if his mood had improved. 

You scroll back in your texts, checking the timestamps. He’s never let a text go unanswered all day before. What kind of trouble could an ex-SAS Captain possibly get in to? He can take care of himself. Surely, he’s fine. He’s been in his share of fights. If the cops had picked him up for something, you would have got wind of it, you’re certain. You’re trying to convince yourself to remain calm, annoyingly something that’s normally John’s job between the two of you. 

You realize you’re going to spend the evening standing in the kitchen, agonizing in silence, so you resolve to sort the situation out one way or another. You pull on your jacket, thumbing through your phone to a ride share app. You find yourself in front of John’s flat less than 20 minutes later. His car is there, and instead of making you feel better you get a sinking sensation in your stomach. At least if he was away, you could tell yourself he was busy. Now it looks like he’s just dodging you. 

You let yourself in using the key he gave you years ago, knocking gently and calling for him. Nothing. No signs of life in the kitchen or living room. His neat flat looks immaculate. You’re heading down the hall when you hear low groaning. A flame of anger licks at your belly and you have to keep yourself from stomping the rest of the way down the hall. 

If he’s cheating on you before you’ve even had sex, you’re going to string him up by his balls. If you have to pay to find someone who knows how to do that, you will. It will be worth it – 

By the time you clear the doorway, you’ve convinced yourself of what you’re going to find. Even brace for it, your face screwed up into a wince. So, when it’s just John, sweating buckets and groaning in pain in the middle of his bed it takes you a full ten seconds to reboot your brain.

“What’s wrong?” You’re leaning over him, not bothering with pleasantries or admonishments now, running your hands over his face and chest with anxious movements. You’re instinctively looking for a wound of some sort before you can process your own actions. He squints at you, grabbing your hands and covering his eyes with your palms, curling towards you.

“My fucking head. Holy shit.” His voice is like gravel, and you wonder how long he’s been like this if he’s openly admitting to what ails him. You’re crawling into the bed, moving on autopilot despite never having seen him like this. John’s misery does not like company, thanks very much. But it seems those old rules of engagement for you both are shifting. You’re pillowing his head on your thighs, curling over him protectively and making sympathetic noises softly. As relieved as you are he’s not up to anything nefarious, guilt at it being a thought at all is hot on its heels.  

“A migraine?” 

He confirms with the tiniest tilt of his head, pressing his cheek into your thigh while you gently cup his forehead. He’s burning hot, sweaty to the touch. You’re stroking a palm over his hair slowly, easing him off your lap so you can run around his flat, gathering anything you can think of that might help - ice water in a bowl with a facecloth, a bottle of water, fruit from the bowl in his kitchen. He’s groaning again by the time you get back and arrange everything on his bedside table. 

You spend the rest of the night playing nurse, finally able to get more information out of the miserable man on what might make him feel better. The cool cloth helps, as does the darkness and gently stroking his scalp. You’re able to get him to lightly doze after a few hours of concentrated efforts. Grateful for the small stash of clothes and essentials John insisted you bring over a few days prior, you keep one eye on your sleeping patient while you change into pajamas. The thought of leaving him alone like this makes your stomach drop and your skin crawl, as does the slow realization he’s likely been dealing with these episodes alone for some time. 

You manage to crawl back into bed without disturbing him, resuming your slow stroking passes over his scalp. Your insides are wobbling dangerously, like you might fall into a heaving cry at any moment. You’re supremely grateful when exhaustion takes over, silencing any and all thoughts. 

Next Chapter

[weepylucifer]

Disco Elysium if it was a Hollywood Blockbuster

(inspired by the trailer by @brainrotdotorg)

Harry has to have a glowup arc where he regains his faith in his job and ability to be a good cop. The police isn't criticized here apart from maybe some handwaves at "a few bad apples" rhetoric. In the climactic moment, the phasmid appears and tells him it is his duty and his destiny... to reform the RCM

Because we don't have time for a nuanced take on addiction in this 90-minute movie, the narrative just turns on a dime halfway through to portraying Harry's alcoholism as rugged and badass instead of pathetic, or he suddenly stops drinking when he gets his groove back, with no withdrawal effects shown. The whole thing about speed helping him be better at his job doesn't factor in; Harry drinks and does drugs because he's sad about Dora and there's nothing more to it. All he needed was to buck up and focus on being the best cop in all of Revachol

Klaasje is portrayed as a one-dimensional scheming femme fatale. Her backstory doesn't really come up. She's dumbed down so that Harry can triumph over her, and is also genuinely attracted to him for some reason, "I am Sherlocked" style

Ruby is either cut entirely, or she's genuinely a predatory lesbian and that's it. If the latter, she shoots herself in the head in front of Harry and Kim and they make a MCU-style "Well that happened" quip about it

No political quests! We don't have time for that. Actually, both communism and fascism are only mentioned once in a backstory dump as stuff that happened in a bygone era. If anything, the film ends up really riding for moralism by complete accident

The film makers don't really know what to do with Kim, so he gets reduced to a guy that stands around and delivers snarky one-liners

The Hardie Boys are in one short interrogation scene, not quite enough to make casual moviegoers care when half of them are gunned down

Fan-favorite characters such as Cindy, Cuno or the Speedfreaks can be seen once in the background of a group scene, but have no lines (you KNOW hollywood couldn't handle the Cuno). It's announced on the director's insta as "a little easter egg for eagle-eyed fans"

Joyce has a way more active role, but also her character turns into an utterly flat "milf girlboss" type who gives Harry and Kim direct instructions on what to do, Madame Director style. The movie writers pat themselves on the backs for being more progressive and feminist than the source material. Also she has nothing to do with the mercs, they just sort of... appeared. Don't think about it too hard! It's stressed repeatedly that they're "rogue agents" and it's really nobody's fault that they're there

Evrart is a corrupt mob boss and that's it. He will be played by a skinny actor in a fatsuit. He also doesn't help find Harry's gun, Joyce has someone retrieve it offscreen so she can gravely and meaningfully hand it to him just in time for the mercenary tribunal

The Deserter just kinda being a shitty sad old man would be too anticlimactic for our summer blockbuster, so he is rewritten to be some kind of evil mastermind. Maybe he even directly communicates with Klaasje and tells her what to do, again "I am Sherlocked" style

The tribunal absolutely does end with RCM backup triumphantly arriving to save the day, led by Jean who underwent a mini-arc offscreen about putting his differences with Harry aside because at the end of the day, they're both cops, and goddamn it, cops help each other. He dramatically takes the wig off and chucks it on the ground to signal his character growth, and everything

No homo-sexual underground thought. The Smoker on the Balcony is allowed to show up in one scene, where he flirtily waves at Kim and Harry. Kim nods at him. Disney's first gay character--

There's a moment where Kim talks to Jean, expressing doubt about Harry. Cut to Harry doing something goofy across the room from them. Jean briefly glances at it, shakes his head, turns back to Kim and says gruffly: "He's a loose cannon... but he gets the job done." This is supposed to be a good thing

[iamjacksragingboner]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: Johnny's horrific catcalling and borderline harassment that he thinks is flirting

A/N: Going away for a few days to visit family for Christmas, so I will supply you with this first little chapter of the Cowboy Soap fic to keep you fiends satiated. Tried spending a little longer on the writing so hopefully it flows a bit better! Also, this is my first time writing Ghost, so look forward to more of him as he pops in through this fic :)

Clean up people's plates. Wash and dry cups. Pour drinks. Wake up the sorry sod that fell asleep at the bar. Collect tips. Sneak out back to wipe the sweat from your face and smoke.

It was a shift like any other. You sighed, the smoke pluming out in front of you in a tired cloud, then dissipating, and you snuffed the cigarette with the heel of your boot. The afternoon sun beat down on you like a sluggish brute as you smoothed the apron of your smock and stepped back inside, the muffled sounds of clinking glasses and patrons chatting amicably becoming clear once more.

Slinking your way back to the bar, you nodded at a gruff old man who tipped his hat at you, poured him his usual and slid it over to him. In turn, he flicked you a single coin as a tip. It was a relatively slow day in comparison to the usual lively energy of this dusty little inn, and you were thankful for the copious smoke breaks you could cop, thanks to your brother being on shift with you.

The brother in question bumped your shoulder, and your gaze flicked to his figure towering over you, black bandanna covering the lower portion of his face. "You good to handle the place while I pop out for a bit?" Simon asked, putting down the glass he was wiping. "Got an old friend coming into town sometime soon, I wanna go make sure there's a room set up for him upstairs."

You nodded in affirmation, blowing a strand of hair from your face. "Fine by me, 's not like there's anyone here anyway." As proof of this, you gestured to the sparsely filled room, the usual crowd of cowboys having been out for the past week or so. Simon was usually amongst them, but had chosen to stay behind this week, helping you man the tavern so you weren't on your own.

Cowboys were a generally thick bunch, in your opinion. Some of them couldn't tell their dick from their asshole, and you'd dealt with enough drunk and rambunctious cowboys to have a general distaste for the rest of them, no matter how 'intelligent' they claimed to be. All except your brother of course, who was smart enough to co-run the tavern with you, but had enough casual idiocy in him to coexist with other cowboys, yet not entirely enough to bother you completely. In your mind, he was gaining insider info, as it were. You'd never tell him this, however, for fear of copping a playful smack to the side of the head and a night of solo dish duty awaiting the end of your shift.

Simon nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling into a smile—he was never one for many words, often opting for silent looks you had to spend years trying to decipher, even now you have moments where you aren't quite sure what he entirely meant—before he patted you on the shoulder as he passed, walking upstairs to the rooms, kept open for travelers and folks too drunk to walk home. In turn, you picked up where he left off with the dishes, wiping dry mugs and placing them in their respective shelves.

From the little Simon had said and the magnitude that he had alluded through a myriad of looks, his friend—Johnny as he affectionately called him—was a lovely man, despite his cowboy career path. Lively, a bit on the rowdy side of things, but he was sure you and him would get along just fine.

The tavern doors open with a slam that you cringe at—you'd have to check the hinges before you went to bed that night—and in waltzed a troop of unruly looking cowboys, with dust in their hair and hands in their pockets; it wasn't hard to tell they thought they were the shit. They weren't all faces you recognised, but that wasn't all that uncommon—most cowboys tended not to settle in one town for too long, preferring a life of travel that you just couldn't get behind.

They sauntered up to the bar with an air of authority and almost pompousness, as if their very presence in here was something you should marvel at, almost as if they weren't the bane of your existence. Almost. You shouldn’t hate them too much; they provided the majority of the income that kept this tavern alive, even helped build the damn thing, but fuck they could be annoying sometimes.

You served the first two their drinks with as little communication as possible; if they caught you in a conversation, you'd be subject to a half hour's earful of their latest travels that you really didn't feel like listening to.

The third seemed hellbent on making his presence known to you, refusing to prowl over to the tables with the rest of his friends once he'd been served, instead choosing to sit and ogle you as you worked. Which was fine, it wasn't as though you weren't used to men's lecherous eyes linger on your body as you worked; wasn't exactly pleasant, but you never felt particularly unsafe, knowing your brickhouse of a brother was usually close by to scare them off.

What annoyed you was the way he would smirk any time your eyes happened to meet, which was more than once. It didn't help that he was attractive in most senses of the word, so you found yourself stealing glances more than you would have liked. Your eyes grazed along his thick arms, dense with muscle and tanned from days spent in the sun, down to his hands wrapped around his whiskey, and you made quick note of every detail you could make out through stolen glances when you were sure he wouldn't catch you. Dirt under the nails. Gnarled and scarred knuckles. Callouses on his palms. Strong hands. Worker’s hands.

You almost felt guilty, sinful even, admitting this to yourself, but he was a mightily attractive fellow; didn't stop you from shuddering when he caught you eyeing him up, and winked.

"Like what ye see, lass?"

Fuck, even his voice was attractive, an accent you couldn't place and a gravelly, casual tone that you were sure rumbled in his chest like thunder or falling stones when he spoke. You wouldn't ever admit this to him though—too many issues in falling in love with a stupid cowboy, in your opinion. You chose to instead keep your trap shut, and turned your attention to pouring another drink for the grizzled old man at the end of the bar.

"Strong silent type? I like it. Means I get ta haver yer ear off as much as I want. Yer not a bad lookin' lass either, I certainly wouldnae turn down a chance to bed a bonnie like yerself."

And just like that, any inkling of a budding attraction that was forming for this handsome young cowboy disintegrated right in front of your very eyes in an instant. You found yourself chewing the inside of your cheek raw with the effort of not kicking him out of the tavern and banning him from ever stepping foot in here again.

"Ye can call me Soap—it's what the bonnies call me—they say I give the best baths, and my massages after are highly rated too, but ye didnae hear that from me, lass."

Grit your teeth. Breathe in deep. Close your eyes. Turn around and do something else, anything else, just distract yourself for long enough for him to lose interest.

A low wolf whistle when you turned around was what did it, made you whip around with a bottle in hand, held high over your head and poised, ready to crack over his sorry head in that stupid fucking hat and his stupid fucking grin that stupid handsome cu-

"Johnny!"

Simon was thumping down the stairs, and you didn’t think you'd ever heard that amount of sheer joy in his voice. That wasn't what caught your attention however. Your eyes go from Soap—who turned at the mention of the name, a beaming smile plastered on his face—to Simon, who wrapped the man in a bone crushing hug and turned to face you with his arm around Johnny's shoulder. Soap's shoulder. You put the bottle down, for your brother's sake.

"This is Johnny," Simon said, and you could practically feel the sunbeams peaking out from under his bandanna.

Of course it is.

Contrary to your expression of shock, anger and mild embarrassment, Soap was ecstatic. "So this is yer bonnie lass of a sister I've heard so much about!"

Go choke on a tumbleweed and die, cowboy.

[darkonekrisrewrite]

Ever notice that villains are held to higher standards than the heroes both in the series and often the fandom?

Where if someone is labelled a villain they must be a saint who has never so much as raised their voice at anyone, or they'll be treated like an irredeemable monster.

But if they get the hero label, they can constantly threaten murder and assaulting people for the pettiest shit (aka Bakugou), endanger people and cause mass property damage (Bakugou again, and Endeavor, he literally didn't care if he killed a vigilante in the sister series Vigilantes) or break the law for shits and giggles (Miriko, Vigilantes, repeatedly going to fight clubs as a student just for fun, which at least back then her opponents were somewhat consenting).

The heroes are excessively violent often being worse than the actual 'villains' Does anyone remember the double assault of that purse snatcher in the first episode? Including Mt. Lady violently attacking them, a purse snatcher, after they had already been apprehended (And literally contained) by Kamui Woods.

Deku violently attacks Gentle Criminal and La Brava, who he knows are non-violent, and very appearance-based in their crimes, cause of oh no the school festival for the school that has been continuously failing to protect their students might get cancelled. He never made any attempt to tell them what will happen if they crash it, just immediately jumped to 'I better break their bones'

Hawks doesn't even pause his conversation with Endeavor when once again violently apprehending a streaker (in the general public, this wasn't targetting individuals or children). He could of easily just kept the trench coat closed and questioned them, but the heroes ALWAYS jump to violence and escalation.

I didn't even need to use the League/Front or comb through the chapters to get three blantant examples in the main series alone

And as with cops in the real world (and a large part of why I take this so seriously), they are the ones who have received training to deal with conflict. They are the ones that should be expected to be better, as they have supposedly been trained

---

Recently in my A Moral Scapegoat For Who? I got in a bit of a debate, where the other person immediately was going in with 'well the villains aren't actually deep' I never said in that post that the villains were blameless or deep, I was literally talking about using AFO as a scapegoat for them, my point about the villains was they are right (and I thought the following thought was obvious enough that I didn't have to say it but "and they shouldn't be, so what are you going to do?". Second, while later in the debate they say they also think the heroes were shallowly written, they only held the villains in my pretty neutral (all things considered) rant accountable in their first reblog. But we had 1 volume focusing on the villains, and 30+ focusing on the heroes. So even if we agree with them on they are equally shallow/deep (for sake of arguement) the villains (specifically the League) got the same amount done, with only one volume and small tidbits fragmented across the rest of this very long series, that the heroes took over 30 to do. One would typically expect the protagonists to have more characterization than the villains.

In the actively antagonistic, we constantly see "Oh but their suffering doesn't justify their actions! OwO" Which once again as I have said before What the fuck are/were they supposed to do? Second, care to hold the heroes to even a fraction of that standard? Endeavor openly doesn't care if he kills a known and well liked Vigilante if he (the Crawler) gets in the way of killing the villain he's going after, he did not hesitant to kill during the nomu attack, and his high-end battle, where the nomu was fully capable of speech. That is just some of his shit, on the job, I haven't in this whole thing even touched on his dispicable off-duty activities.

The villains are taking their actions from a place of being disadvantage, the heroes a place of extreme power.

Part of why I like the villains is that they are exaggerating how bad they are, so they are either delivering on what they've said, or they are doing better. The heroes are lying about how good they are and expecting constant praise, even if they aren't demanding the praise be personal they are demanding praise. Deku seeing the UA press conference after they literally just had a student kidnapped, multiple injured, at least one child from fucking elementary school almost killed, is shocked and disturbed that the media would dare critise them.

I have noticed that, all the time.

All of this is very true and very well written.

So much so that I don't think there's anything I can, or need to, add to it.

👍👍 ♾️

[palin-tropos]

So recently I posted about Kim and Harry hook up while he’s on the bender AU? Last night me and @excalibutt got a little inspired and co-wrote a scene set in that AU. Pre-Tribunal but some time after Day 3 or 4. 

—————

WHIRLING-IN-RAGS BALCONY: Apparently, the lieutenant has taken you out here before you both retire for bed to tell you something important. KIM KITSURAGI: He laces his fingers and presses hands onto the top of the balcony. He’s struggling mightily with himself.

COMPOSURE: His sense of propriety with…

ESPRIT DE CORPS: … his sense of duty. Guess which one wins.

KIM KITSURAGI: “You’ve been working on one of those mind projects, haven’t you? I think I can save you the time. In fact—I am obliged to. Yes, we did have… relations, the night before you lost your memory. I am so sorry I didn’t know how to tell you.”

DRAMA: The truth.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Extracted from his mouth like pulling teeth.

EMPATHY: He’s really sorry. It’s rare for him to be the Sorry Cop.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You got in his pants and can't even remember it!?

COMPOSURE: Don’t think about that. This is…

CONCEPTUALIZATION: This could be very bad.

INLAND EMPIRE: This feels bad.

RHETORIC: It’s probably bad.

SUGGESTION: It’s bad.

EMPATHY: Really bad.

VOLITION: Everyone be quiet. This is bad.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Ask him how it was! Do it right now!

New task: Ask Kim how it was

YOU: “… How was it?" ESPRIT DE CORPS: The lieutenant is flustered. Ashamed of himself. He doesn't feel his actions were becoming of a police officer. YOU: “It's not fair if I can't remember it...” SUGGESTION: You've pried at his fears about this encounter; that he now holds some kind of unearned power over you. He doesn't think he deserves that. KIM KITSURAGI: "... It... it was..." He struggles for the word. "Frenetic. One could say desperate. But you..." His ears have gone pink. "You performed well enough. It wasn't bad."

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: ... You were good.

COMPOSURE: You know a bit about Kim's self-control. He wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been good. Really good. Beyond what he could resist.

VOLITION: ... He was willing. You didn't force yourself on him, Harry.

HALF LIGHT: But you went at it like it was the end of the world.

PERCEPTION: You can almost remember what aftershave he uses. The taste of it was still in your mouth when you woke up.

INLAND EMPIRE: ... Pine needles...

YOU: Your tongue is sliding and pressing up to the roof of your mouth, as if some olfactory trace of him waits there to be tasted and remembered.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The source is right in front of you. That bobbing apple of his throat. KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant is wringing his hands, unable to meet your gaze.

EMPATHY: He's guilty about this, although it's a confusing sort of guilt. He wishes this were a lot simpler than it is.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Take him by the face and force him to look at you!

SUGGESTION: Don't let the doubt sway him. His principles are ironclad, but he bent them for you once before. Kiss him. Kiss the guilt away! He's clearly telling you all of this for a reason!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Look at him. Really, really look at him. He's biting his lip, just the barest bit from the inside. You could do it better. You could kiss him better. Make him forget all about this...

VOLITION: I see. That's how it is. Nobody has a better idea. Just "kiss him", "kiss him", "kiss him". I'm not going to get through to you, am I?

YOU: And what do you think I should do?

VOLITION: ... He might not kiss you back. But it won't be the end of the world. Just be gentle.

ENDURANCE: Don't be too gentle. YOU: "Kim..."

YOU: Your enormous bearpaw of a hand is made delicate and clumsy as an exploratory moth trying to light on a lampshade. You lift it to reach for the lieutenant's face, past his wall of propriety and professionalism.

LOGIC: You're both off of the clock right now.

EMPATHY: It's fear. That wall is fear of connection, fear of vulnerability. Fear of being mocked.

DRAMA: Sincerity is required, sire. Tread with caution.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.

YOU: You catch his chin, and his gaze snaps towards you.

SHIVERS: —two achingly lonely men wearing RCM halogen patches on their jackets stand close enough to share breath. The rotten-fruit smell of booze permeates the air, twirling and mingling with the soft, somber notes of The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns drifting up from the miserable speakers. This is a stolen moment—heavy. Wrong... but not unwanted. They breathe ragged and shallow... but in time. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: This... this is what it was like. That raw potential crackling in the heavy air. That ever-present fear in his eyes.

SUGGESTION: He thought it was just the one time. He thought that when you finally remembered, or figured it out with your brilliant detective skills, that you'd find what happened humiliating, just like you did every other hint of your drunken rampage across the district. He thought he found it humiliating too.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: His breath hitches. His eyes dilate. He's drawn to the lingering traces of sweet rot on your tongue. Back then, inhaling the fumes coming off you must have been enough to make him tipsy. He doesn't drink. He doesn't ever indulge like that.

INLAND EMPIRE: He kissed you first.

COMPOSURE: He won't this time. But he did then.

DRAMA: Your slow tenacious press halted...

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A moment. Look right there... at the purse of his lips. They're open.

DRAMA: Now.

YOU: You lean in and let your eyes flutter shut, and this isn't the desperate hunger of a man trying to die.

INLAND EMPIRE: You're virginal like this. You don't remember kissing anyone before.

YOU: You're kissing him.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: But your mouth remembers. Your hands. Your nose, your blood... all of you. It remembers. KIM KITSURAGI: His lips barely twitch at first, but his hands—his hands press against you, slide up your chest and clutch your shoulders, digging in tightly. Bracing against you.

PERCEPTION: Tighter pressure on your lips. The barest suction. A restrained, quietly voiced huff of air against your inner cheek.

SUGGESTION: He is.

INLAND EMPIRE: The pine tree bends in the wind...

VOLITION: He's kissing you back.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Fuck.

SAVOIR FAIRE: He won't even mind if you touch him more. Get your hands in there—

HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Hold Him. Drag him closer. Press closer.

YOU: You do. You sneak hands inside the warmth of his open jacket and feel the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of the flimsy white shirt he wears underneath. You kiss his mouth open, and he's not even stopping you.

PERCEPTION: He tastes like—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: —like the cigarette that's smoldering on the floor of the balcony, forgotten. Dropped. You've taken its place.

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant moves with you. His chest presses up against yours. The line of exposed skin between shirt and pants twitches under your glancing touch. An uncharacteristic half-noise erupts from the back of his throat.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: His lean, bony arms have flung themselves around your neck. He's clinging to you. A shudder runs down his spine.

SUGGESTION: You've still got it—whatever allure pulled him into your orbit before. You're still irresistible.

ENDURANCE: Stop. Now. Before you take it too far.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You can take it all the way. He's not objecting!

DRAMA: Stop here, sire. While the moment is ripe for the taking! Slowly...

VOLITION: He's more to you than just an opportunity.

ESPRIT DE COPRS: He's vital.

YOU: You break the kiss, panting heavily as a dog from the intensity of it. Your forehead crushes to his, and your eyes open.

PERCEPTION: His are still closed but—

CONCEPTUALIZATION: —he's the most beautiful thing in the world right now. If you could actually paint, he would be your burning muse.

KIM KITSURAGI: His breath is just as heavy as yours, but as slow and measured as he can manage. It's fluttering.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: In time with the waves of complete bliss coursing down his spine.

SUGGESTION: It has changed things, that you've pulled back and waited. The moment is no less intense, but it is of a different sort than before.

VOLITION: He's basking in that newfound self-control of yours.

KIM KITSURAGI: He still has yet to open his eyes. His upper lip twitches, quirking that faint little mustache of his.

KIM KITSURAGI: He exhales, "Harrier."

AUTHORITY: You like this. A lot.

RHETORIC: Your full first name. The one he told you was a revolutionary name, when it sounded foreign to your ears.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He has no idea how tempting he is making it to grab him by the shoulders and pin him up against the balcony door and kiss his face off.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Get. Between. His. Legs.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: It's where we belong, brother... the primal call of warm flesh to rub against. To sink into. To wrap your tongue and teeth around...

VOLITION: No. Wait. Just... wait.

YOU: All of that is burning in your eyes when you play your thumb along his top lip, brushing the faint mustache... making your fingers erupt in tingles.

YOU: "Kim..."

DRAMA: Gently, sire.

YOU: "... Look at me, Lieutenant."

KIM KITSURAGI: He blinks his eyes open. The glasses magnify those black-brown windows into his soul.

EMPATHY: Still full of fear, but a tinge of wonder. Staring at you reminds him of every reason why this is a poor decision, but equally reminds him of every reason why he's giving in to it.

HALF LIGHT: Why isn't he more frightened? Why can't he see that you're a living corpse?

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Your half-brother trusts you.

SUGGESTION: Don't... don't call him that.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Unless you want to be naughty.

KIM KITSURAGI: "So..." His voice is practically a weak croak. "You... don't mind that we did it."

RHETORIC: That's an attempt at humor. It's a little awkward, but let him off easy, he's struggling for words.

LOGIC: Wait. Why didn't he mind that you did? It doesn't make sense.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It doesn't take the depravity of a seasoned pervert to find features like yours attractive.

ELECTROCHEMSITRY: ...or maybe he is a seasoned pervert.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Please. Please, oh my god.

AUTHORITY: If Kim didn't want you kissing him, you would be eating asphalt with your hands cuffed behind your back.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: PLEASE.

VOLITION: No. This isn't just base depravity.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: ... He sees something in you. Something you haven't the skill the recognize.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Don't betray his trust. Reciprocate.

YOU: "...I don't mind," you admit. "Unless... I did anything weird?"

KIM KITSURAGI: Something tugs at the corner of the lieutenant's lips. Rueful, disbelieving, wry... His eyes dart up to the right, unfocusing.

DRAMA: My liege. The tell-tale glance. You've seen it in countless now forgotten interrogations. He is about to lie.

KIM KITSURAGI: "Not particularly."

SUGGESTION: You did something very weird.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It could have been the good kind of weird.

PERCEPTION: Kim's arms are still firmly settled around your shoulders. The outsides of his knees are rubbing the insides of yours.

LOGIC: It's clearly not weird enough for him not to want to kiss you again.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You might not be done here tonight. In fact, he might not be done with you.

SUGGESTION: Ask him to walk you through the night. In detail. In fact... to demonstrate it.

YOU: “My memory is still foggy," you remind him, letting your cold fingers drift down to the bare strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his pants. “How did it happen?"

COMPOSURE: You've put him on the spot. He is squirming under that re-forming mask of his. He adjusts his glasses with the tips of two fingers pressed to the bridge.

KIM KITSURAGI: "Khm. Well. If I'm being honest, it started out as an argument. Things had gone downhill." He purses his lips, but not at all in the same way as someone anticipating a kiss.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It seems like your body heat still relaxes him enough to keep him from clamming up completely.

KIM KITSURAGI: "It's hard to explain. You were nothing but intense. You kept talking about loneliness, and longing, and the apocalypse, and the woman who broke your heart, and then you told me I didn't deserve to be in the RCM."

ESPRIT DE CORPS: What. What could have possibly prompted that? Lt. Kitsuragi is unwavering, loyal, precise, assiduous. He is a perfect officer.

RHETORIC: No... that's not what you meant.

KIM KITSURAGI: He shakily exhales. "I responded with... considerable anger. There was a physical altercation. But it seems I'd misinterpreted you. You said I was a good man, and good men shouldn't become police officers. You went on to elaborate in somewhat poetic terms what sort of a good man I was."

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: How did that altercation go down? Look at his skinny arms. You must have overpowered him. Were you pinning him in place while you told him all that pansy crap about how virtuous he is?

PAIN THRESHOLD: Some people like it like that.

LOGIC: ... and yet...

YOU: "... You kissed me."

INLAND EMPIRE: You know he did it first. You just don't remember exactly why.

KIM KITSURAGI: His eyebrows jump up.

REACTION SPEED: He didn't expect you to remember that.

KIM KITSURAGI: "I... I did. In that fight, I assumed your remark was derogatory, and that it had something to do with... what you had deduced about me just prior."

RHETORIC: That he was a homo-sexual? With some of the guys in here, I'm not surprised he got that impression. Right, Coach?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: W-What? Coach hasn't got a problem with the homos. Just with the sissies and pansies—

LOGIC: There is no way you didn't participate, enthusiastically, in the act that Lt. Kitsuragi is now avoiding having to describe.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And you’re going to do it again.

KIM KITSURAGI: "It was an impulsive thing to do. If I'm being honest, spending multiple days with you when you were still... compromised... seemed to affect my own judgement."

REACTION SPEED: Does that mean…?

CONCEPTUALIZATION: You were his bender.

ENDURANCE: Your throat is dry.

HALF LIGHT: Is he disappointed now? Would he rather you high and drunk as a beast?

YOU: Cold, clammy sweat creeps down your neck beneath your satin shirt.

YOU: "I'm not compromised in the same way anymore…”

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim nods, slow and grave.

EMPATHY: There is a kindness in his dark eyes.

INLAND EMPIRE: He shouldn't have seen you in that state. It wasn't fated to be. He must have sought you out, a fish to a lure in the dark waters of the Esperance.

KIM KITSURAGI: "No. You're not. And that's a good thing. Earlier, you seemed like you were about to... explode."

VOLITION: Just don't forget that his arms are still around you.

KIM KITSURAGI: "What's the matter, detective?"

VOLITION: He’s inviting you to share your irrational fears. You trust him.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You really trust him.

YOU: “… Am I still what you want?"

COMPOSURE: There it is. Your heart hanging outside your body.

EMPATHY: Kim can tell how painful it was to ask such a question. That's why his features are so stiff. He's struggling to find a reasonable, responsible answer to someone who he had a one-night stand with.

COMPOSURE: Nothing about his feelings are responsible.

REACTION SPEED: Tick-tock. If he doesn't answer fast, he'll hurt your feelings, won't he?

KIM KITSURAGI: "... The temptation to take more than I already have… is there."

VOLITION: Oh.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: All the blood in your body races south, and you feel a telltale twitch at that naughty little admission.

SUGGESTION: Meaning he's currently being tempted. Right now.

YOU: You lick your lips for a moment. Not slowly and teasingly. Nervously.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Put the moves on him! Forget being self-conscious. He’s into you.

YOU: "It's free for the taking, baby,” you murmur, eyes hooding.

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant subtly nods, and glances around. His ears are pink.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He's belatedly noticed that the two of you are exposed. While you were swapping spit, there were plenty of opportunities for you to be spied on. Anywhere you can see right now can see you.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Oh. Right. You definitely could have been a little more cautious.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim drops his arms from your shoulders and quickly withdraws them behind his back. He pivots on a heel, moving to your side. "Should we... khm... finish this conversation somewhere more private?"

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He's saying yes. Yes, I will take you again.

INLAND EMPIRE: He's burning next to you bright as a star, and he wants you.

YOU: You manage a graceless, coughing noise, and reach for the door handle.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION: It's broken. The door is broken. Oh god, you can't get inside.

HALF LIGHT: They’ve barricaded the balcony! You’re going to jail for all the sex crimes.

PERCEPTION: It says pull, not push.

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant brushes aside your sweaty, fumbling hand and opens the door for you. His features are schooled to be unreadable.

KIM KITSURAGI: … But as you stand there gawking, his other hand swiftly snakes itself around your horrific necktie and sharply pulls you inside.

Task complete: Ask Kim how it was

+10 XP: gained experience.

[ereardon]

That Summer || Epilogue [Bradley Bradshaw x Reader]

A Bradley Bradshaw AU

Synopsis: One night during the summer you turned eighteen, you woke up to a surprise. Your father, a retired Navy Admiral, had posted bail for the son of a former colleague who was now orphaned and had gotten himself mixed up with the law. Instead of letting him get lost in the judicial system, your father signed himself up as Bradley Bradshaw’s guardian to prevent him from going to juvie. You were explicitly told to stay away from the boy in the attic room. But as the summer went on, you and Bradley struck up an unlikely friendship that turned into a forbidden relationship. Bradley tipped your world upside down, challenging everything you had once thought you knew. How could the two of you think it would end any differently than it did when your father called the cops the night he found the two of you in bed together?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, angst, illusion to smut, happy endings, time jumps, premature baby, hospital scene

Chapter summary: Twelve years after the night they're torn apart, Bradley and Birdy reunite in San Diego

Wordcount: 4.5K

Series masterlist here; Part Ten here

“Do you know him?” 

You looked at Amanda and then back to where you had been staring. 

You’d recognize him anywhere. Even though it had been twelve years since you had last seen him. Even though you hadn’t heard your voice falling from his perfect lips since that late August night, all those years ago, when your world was turned on its axis. 

Bradley Bradshaw was a part of you. Your thumb automatically touched the gold ring around your fourth finger. 

You watched as Bradley slid the sunglasses off of the bridge of his nose, squinting into the distance, trying to place you. 

And for a fleeting moment it was just the two of you, standing in a hospital parking lot. And you were eighteen again, with everything spread out in front of you, a future that you were desperate not to do alone. 

You dropped your gaze and shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “Not anymore.” 

*the aftermath*

You went off to Stanford three weeks later. 

It was the longest three weeks of your life. 

By the time you got to the police station a few hours later, Bradley was gone. No one would tell you where he was or what had really happened. 

You spent the first week in a daze, barely speaking. And then, one night, drunk off of a bottle of stolen Sancerre you had pilfered from your mother’s stash, you barged into your father’s study. 

“Tell me what you did,” you demanded, swaying from side to side, a dull ringing in one ear. 

He looked up, dejected. “Not now, Y/N.” 

“Yes, now,” you countered. “Tell me or I never speak to either of you ever again.” 

He sighed, folding his hands on his desk. “Fine. You want to know the truth?” 

“Yes.”

The story your father wove sounded improbable. Unbelievable for the Bradley you had known. 

He said that Bradley had stolen. From him and from others at the debutante ball. A pilfered wallet here and there. Pierce’s wallet. That he had found Bradley in his study a few nights before the incident, combing through his files. That when he confronted him, Bradley denied it. 

Your father shook his head. “You’re better off, Y/N. We tried, your mother and I. I owed it to his parents to try. But he was an unruly kid, just like I expected. Look what he did. He corrupted you.” 

You lifted your gaze. “He didn’t corrupt me, daddy. I love him.” 

His face hardened. “You’re too young to know love, Y/N.”

“Were you too young when you fell in love with Carole?” 

He was silent. The air in the room stilled. 

Finally, your father looked up. 

“You can hate me,” he said, “for the rest of your life, if you want. But it’s never going to change the fact that I did what I did because you’re my daughter and it is my duty to protect you. Your mother and I, we just want the best for you.” 

“Did you ever stop and think that maybe Bradley was the best thing that ever happened to me?” you asked, standing up and crossing the room to the doors, flinging them open. “And that maybe instead of saving me, you broke my life apart?” 

You stormed out of the study and up the stairs, to the third floor. Louise had cleaned out Bradley’s room. All that remained was the bed, stripped of sheets and pillows and comforters, just a mattress on a rickety metal frame. You laid down on the bare mattress and cried. There was nothing you could do to bring him back. 

*Four years after*

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back? Texas A&M is only an hour away.” 

You frowned. “I got into Stanford’s medical school. Why would I decline that?” 

“Because Texas is your home.” 

You shook your head at your mother. “No, it’s not. Not anymore.” 

“Y/N.” She laid a hand on your arm and you brushed it off. The California sun was strong as it beat down on your shoulders. Graduation had taken nearly three hours and you had only just packed up the final box in your car. 

“Mother,” you said coolly, “it’s done. I’m not coming back. California is my home now.” 

“Is this still about that boy?” 

“Do not speak to me about Bradley.” Your voice was sharp. 

She sighed. “Y/N, it’s been years. You can forgive us now.” 

“I will never forgive you,” you whispered and the simmering violence beneath your words scared her. You could tell by the way she inched backward. 

“Leave her be, Evelyn.” Your father stepped forward, closing the trunk door. “She’s made up her mind.” 

“But–”

He cut her off. “We dug our grave, Evelyn. Time to lie in it.” 

You opened the car door. “I’ll see you in November for Thanksgiving.” 

“Can we at least help you move into your new apartment?” your mother asked. 

You shook your head. “The movers are there, and so is Ivy. Nothing more you can do.” You looked at the two of them. Bright under the blinding sun. In four years they had aged. So had you. 

Leaving Texas had been the best decision you ever made. Going back after Bradley never felt like an option. 

You sank into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto the road. In the rearview, your parents grew smaller and smaller, until they were only specks in the mirror. 

You blinked, and they were gone. 

*Six months after*

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you repeated into the phone. “He would have come in on August twenty fifth.” 

“Sorry, ma’am, that’s classified information.” 

“I just need to know where he was released,” you begged. “Any information you can give me would be so helpful.” 

The receptionist sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I can’t.” 

You hung up, frustrated. Your phone was clamped so hard in your hands that you thought you might break it. Leaning back on your dorm-issued bed, you pulled up a new Safari window and pressed return, finding a phone number instantly. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” you said, voice shaky. “My name is Y/N Sullivan. Admiral Sullivan’s daughter. I’m looking for any last known address for Bradley Bradshaw. His father was a Top Gun instructor years ago, Goose?” 

“Ms. Sullivan,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “One moment.” You jiggled your knee. “The last known address we have for the Bradshaws is here in San Diego.” 

“Can I have it please?” 

You grabbed a pen and your biology lab notebook, scribbling it down on the corner. After hanging up the phone, you sat there, looking at the address before ripping the corner piece off and tacking the triangle of scrap paper to the corkboard above your desk. 

*Five years after* 

Bradley smoothed his hands over his hair. He locked the door of his rental car and started up the familiar driveway. 

Galveston has taken on an ethereal quality in his mind. He closed his eyes and saw you – swimming in the ocean late at night, laughing with your hair thrown back under the skylight, eating breakfast in the kitchen nook, driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other fiddling with the radio. 

Being back felt like bursting that bubble. 

It felt duller. Even the house, which held so many memories, felt like it had faded with the years. 

He knocked on the door, heart beating erratically. 

It opened and Bradley gulped. Your father stood with one hand on the large wooden door frame. “Bradley.” 

“Admiral.” 

The two men looked at each other. Finally, your father stepped to the side. “Come in.” 

Bradley nodded, ducking his head. Inside, the house felt like a time capsule. Everywhere he looked, Bradley saw you. And yet, you were nowhere to be found. 

If he looked closely, he could see the chip in the wood trim of the doorway where his handcuffs had scraped the night he was dragged out of the house. 

The last time he saw you. 

The two sat down in the study, staring at each other wordlessly. 

Finally, Bradley opened his mouth. “I report to Pensacola next week for training.” 

Your father’s mouth drifted open. “So you finished at the Academy.” It was a statement, not a question. 

Bradley nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“Will you become a WSO, like your father?” 

He shook his head. “Aviator, sir.” 

Your father took him in for a moment. Then, “I always knew you’d come back.” 

“Did you?” Bradley asked. “I didn’t.” 

“What we did, son, we did for her own good.” 

Even at the slightest mention of you, Bradley’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to attack your father with questions. How were you? Where were you? Did you remember him? Were you seeing someone? But he settled with, “I understand.” 

“You do?” 

He nodded. “Now, yes. Back then I didn’t.” Bradley folded his hands in his lap. “I loved her, you know. It wasn’t some kind of game.”

“I know it wasn’t.” Your father stood up, pouring himself a drink and handing Bradley a second glass without him ever asking. “She never forgave us for that night. And I don’t know if I can blame her. I did what I thought was right. But now, I don’t know.” 

“Why did you do it?” Bradley asked. “Was it just to keep me away from her?” 

Your father shook his head. “You were a thief, Bradley. Why would I want that for my daughter?”

“I thought it was the only way to provide for her,” Bradley said. “I’m ashamed of what I did, sir. I thought, I don’t know. That maybe I could go with her to California. But to do that, I needed money. I wanted to provide a life for her. I just didn’t know how.” 

“You were a child, Bradley,” he said. “A child can’t provide for a woman. A wife.” 

“I know.” Bradley hung his head. “Is she?” 

“She’s happy,” your father said. That was all he said. It was enough and they both knew it. 

Bradley stood up, setting down the glass. “I just came here to say thank you.” 

“For what?” Your father let the shock ring through his voice. 

“For protecting her,” he said. “It forced me to grow up. To be realistic. I appreciate you taking me in. But having you kick me out did more for me than shelter ever would have.” 

Your father nodded. Bradley stepped out into the foyer and opened the door. “Son.” 

He stopped, looking over at your father in the doorway to the office. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For knowing when to walk away.” 

*Twelve years after* 

“Dr. Sullivan, triage on room five says the baby isn’t breathing.” 

“Fuck.” Your sneakers squeaked along the linoleum floors as you sprinted down the hallway. You rounded the corner, tugging on a gown, skidding through the door. “I’m here, walk me through.” 

A nurse gave you the verbal run down as you approached the baby on the warming table. 

“She needs a trache. Call anesthesia, tell them we have a thirty-three week preemie and page an attending.” 

“Dr. Kettering is with a patient in OR two, uterine hemorrhage after a c-section.” 

“Shit,” you whispered under your breath. “OK, gloves.” 

You carefully sliced a small opening in the baby’s neck, inserting a tiny breathing tube, waiting with baited breath until her chest inflated. 

You sighed, hair sticking to the underside of your scrub cap. “Page Dr. Kettering and tell her to meet us in OR three. Tell her we’re bringing in baby Katherine.” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

You watched the nurses wheel away the baby in the warmer before peeling off your gloves, stepping over to the woman in the bed near the window. “Mrs. Yates? Are you doing OK?” 

The tiny brunette shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “She’s too small. It’s too early.” 

You patted her hand softly. “It’s going to be OK. We talked about this. We’re ready. Right?” 

She nodded. Behind her, her husband had the same look of apprehension. You recognized it instantly. It was the same with most patients. 

“I’m going to go see your daughter. Get some rest, I’ll be back soon.” 

They nodded weakly. Five hours later, you returned in a sweat-drenched pair of blue scrubs. Mr. and Mrs. Yates looked up the moment you walked in. 

“Katherine did perfect,” you said and they collapsed into each other with joy. “Our team is closing right now and then you can go visit her in the NICU. One of the nurses will take you down there.” 

“Thank you.” The husband gathered you into his arms and you hugged him back. When he pulled back, there were tears in his eyes. “Seriously, thank you.” 

You grinned. “It was my pleasure.” 

***

The sun was blinding. Sinking down against the sky toward the water. You stepped out of the hospital doors and took in a deep breath. 

“Birdy.” 

Every atom in your body froze. Then, you turned, eyes wide. 

Bradley stood ten feet away, wearing a long-sleeve shirt and jeans. He smiled and you felt it in your toes, your stomach, your inner ear. 

“Bradley,” you breathed. So it had been him the other day. Not a mirage like you thought. 

He smiled and it lit up his entire face. “Birdy.” 

A part of you wanted to jump into his arms. Toss your hands around his neck, breathe him in deeply. Make up for lost time. But you held back. What if he was married? Or engaged? 

Instead, you smiled back. 

“Hey there.” 

He pushed his right hand into his pocket. You fiddled with your badge. “Are you, uh, do you work here?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s great.” Bradley couldn’t take his eyes off of you. “Sorry, I just—” 

You shook your head. “I know, it’s been a while.” 

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked. “Can we get dinner? Drinks? Whatever you want.” 

You frowned and Bradley’s heart broke. 

“Or if you can’t, I understand.” 

“No, that’s not it,” you said and he brightened. “I just, are you here with someone?” 

“My friends had a baby,” he said, “but she’s out of surgery and doing OK, I guess.”

“What’s her name?” 

“Katherine.” 

You smiled. “I did her surgery this afternoon. She did great.” 

“You did her surgery?” 

A nod. “Well, there were a few of us in there, but yeah.” 

“I always knew you’d be amazing,” he said softly. And suddenly you were eighteen again. Lying on your bed holding hands with Bradley, dreaming of the rest of your life. “Listen, I should go tell Mel and Jim that I’m heading out. I’ll meet you for dinner. Charlie’s, by the water. Do you know it?” 

You smiled. It was less than a five minute drive from your house. “Yeah, I know it.”

“OK. See you there in like thirty?” 

You nodded. As you turned to leave, Bradley reached out, grabbing your wrist lightly. The electricity of his touch set you on fire. 

He smiled. “God, I missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you, too, B,” you whispered. 

“I don’t want to let you go,” he admitted and you chuckled. “Promise me I’m not going to show up to an empty table?” 

“I promise.” 

***

By the time you arrived, wearing a light linen dress and a pair of sandals, Bradley was already there. He stood up when you came into view and waited until you sat down to take a seat. 

“You look great,” he said softly. 

“Thank you.” You opened the menu, trying to stop your heart from racing. Peering over the top of the menu, you caught Bradley staring. “You look good, too.” 

He blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m probably being so awkward.” 

“I am, too.” 

Bradley held out his hand across the table, palm up. You set the menu down, sliding your hand into his. It was the easiest thing in the world. He looked down, fingers tracing your ring, before looking up with wide eyes. “Is that?” 

You nodded. “I never took it off.” 

Bradley could barely breathe, let alone speak. “Just to be clear, you’re not dating someone, are you?” 

You laughed. “With all my spare time? No, I’m not. There’s barely enough time outside of the hospital to do laundry, let alone meet someone.” You paused. “Are you?” 

He shook his head. “Same here, never really had the time.” Bradley took a sip of water before lifting his gaze. “Besides, why bother when I know it’ll never live up to what I had and lost?” 

“Bradley,” you breathed. 

His hand squeezed yours. “It’s you, Birdy. It’s always been you.” 

“Tell me what happened,” you whispered. “That night. All of it. I spoke to my father, but I want to hear your side.” 

Bradley squeezed your hand before letting it fall back onto the table. “Of course. You deserve to know the truth.” 

Your gaze was locked on Bradley as he recounted it all. How he had pilfered one wallet at the debutante ball out of desperation so he could afford to go to California with you when you left for Stanford. That he had gone into your father’s study, but only to look for documents about his parents. How he had floated for a minute before finding his footing, using his father’s connections to reconnect with his father’s best friend, a man named Maverick, who had taken him under his care and helped Bradley get into the Naval Academy. How he had gone back, five years later, to your parent’s house in Galveston, to apologize. That he had wanted to ask for your contact information, but when your father said you were happy he decided to let you be. He had lost you once. It was more important to him that you were happy, than that you were his. 

“I thought about trying to find you,” he said softly. The plates in front of the two of you were empty. Most of the other dining patrons had cleared out. Once again, it was just you and Bradley, sitting hand-in-hand, two of you against the world. “A hundred times. A thousand, even. But I was always worried that if I did, maybe you wouldn’t want me anymore. Or worse, that I would ruin your life all over again.” 

“You didn’t ruin anything. Not then, and not now.” 

Your heart was fluttering. 

And then the waiter came around. “Check?” 

You smiled, pulling out your wallet. Bradley slipped his card onto the leather bill holder with a frown. “I’m paying, Birdy.”

“Things have changed,” you whispered. 

“Some,” he said softly, signing the check and standing, holding out one hand. “And some things are the same.”

You took his hand. “Can we talk more?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Follow my car, I live just a few miles from here.” 

Bradley squeezed your hand before letting go. You slid into the driver’s seat, setting off down the road. A few minutes later, you hit the blinker, turning into the shallow driveway of the blue bungalow. Bradley’s Bronco appeared in the rearview, slowly before parking behind your sedan. Bradley stepped out of the truck, his eyes locked on the house. 

You unlocked the front door, ushering him in and sliding off your shoes. “Wine?” 

“Sure.” 

“Make yourself comfortable.” 

You stepped toward the back of the house to the galley kitchen, pulling out a bottle of white wine and two glasses before making your way to the living room. Bradley stood in the center of the room with one hand pressed against his jaw. He turned around. “Honey, I have to tell you something.” 

You set the glasses and wine bottle down. “What is it?” 

“I, um, I used to live here,” he said quietly. “When my parents were alive.” 

“Bradley?” 

“Yeah?”

“I know.” 

He squinted. “You know?” 

You nodded, sitting down on the couch and patting the space next to you. Bradley sat down. “I called Top Gun that summer, trying to find any way I could to reach you. They gave me your last known address and this was it. I bought it after my first year at Stanford and used it as a rental property until I finished medical school and got my residency at UCSD.” 

“I–” Bradley shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Nerves flooded your body. “I hope it’s not weird. I just, I wanted to feel closer to you. I thought maybe one day you’d come back and you’d find me.” 

He placed one hand on your bare knee. “I lived in your house. Only makes sense that you would live in mine.” 

“I never thought about it that way.” 

The two of you sat in silence for a minute. Bradley’s hand was warm on your bare skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment. 

“What are you sorry for?” 

“I made you promises I was never going to be able to keep,” Bradley said. “I just loved you so much, I wanted to make you happy. Even if that meant telling you what I thought I should say instead of what I could say.” 

“Bradley,” you whispered, reaching out softly, placing one hand on his cheek. He had a mustache now, and the stubble scraped against the skin of your palm but it felt right. There were small crows feet in the corner of his eyes from too much time in the sun. Your fingers slid back toward his hair. “You made me happy and that’s what mattered. We were both naive. It wasn’t either of our faults. We were just kids back then.” 

“You always seemed ahead of things,” he murmured. “When you set your mind to something, I knew it would happen. That’s why I really thought we might be able to do it. Run away together. Instead, I was just running. I think I was always running.” 

“When did that stop?” you asked.

“Four hours ago,” he said and your breath caught in your throat, “when I saw you again.” 

“Oh.” 

Bradley’s fingers trailed up your extended arm, from where your fingers were threaded in his hair, down past your elbow, toward your shoulder, tugging you in closer until his face was only a few inches away. “I know it’s been twelve years, Y/N. I know that in reality we’re strangers. But I think a part of me stopped growing without you. It’s like I was on pause and I’ve only now gotten the remote back and I can press play again.” 

“I know what you mean,” you whispered. “Even though it was crazy, somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I’ve always been waiting for you.” 

Bradley had both hands pressed to either side of your face. He smelled familiar, but with something else, something new. You thought about the men you had been with since him. How empty it would feel after, or even during. How you’d lay there in the darkness and think about what it had been like with Bradley. 

“I thought maybe everyone has something like we did when they were young,” you murmured. “That I needed to stop comparing everyone to you. Because maybe your first love is just different. I didn’t know if what we had was real, or if it was just powerful because it was the first time.” 

His thumb stroked your cheek delicately. “It was real, Birdy. At least for me it was.” 

“It was real for me, too.” 

“This is going to sound crazy,” he said, lips pulled back in a smile. You remembered the first time you saw him smile. The first time the two of you swam in the ocean together. 

“I like crazy.” 

He grinned. “I still love you, honey. I never stopped loving you.” 

You held him tightly. “I know,” you whispered. “I never stopped either.” 

And then his lips were on yours as you fell back against the couch cushions, Bradley’s more muscular and defined body slotted between your legs as he pressed you back against the couch, his kiss powerful and familiar and perfect. 

You melted into him. His scent, his touch. A tear slid out from your eye as Bradley’s lips moved slowly, choreographed, against yours, his hands smoothing over your body slowly, as if he was reminding himself about the lines of your figure, tracing a path to a map he had read once but never forgotten. 

Twelve years disappeared in a fleeting moment as you and Bradley moved together, your fingers tight against his biceps, his mouth trailing wet, open kisses to the bare expanse of your neck as the two of you clung to each other tightly. 

You would know Bradley Bradshaw anywhere. You would know Bradley Bradshaw with your eyes closed. You would know Bradley Bradshaw until the moment you died. 

He was bonded to you. He was infused in every single atom in your body. He ran through your veins alongside your blood. He haunted your dreams. He patrolled your memories. His touches were tattooed on your skin like a glow-in-the-dark map that only you could see.  

He was your home. 

THE END 

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read this!! I originally was going to do it as a simple one shot but it truly took on a life of its own.

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[melswifeasf]

Find my way back to you pt 1

next chapter || series page

Pairing: Samantha Carpenter x Fem!OC

Summary: Estelle and Sam were each others first love until one day she leaves without a goodbye leaving her behind with only the memories of what they once were. until Tara is attacked by a fucking ghost face.

Warnings: minor description of injury.

word count: 1225

Estelle Garcia had been many things growing up, a cheerleader, the sister of a drug dealer and an addict amongst many more she couldn’t list off the top of her head.

she just never thought she’d be a cop. the twenty three year old had been one for a year now. she was an amateur which she was reminded of everyday, fortunately for her she had connections which helped her see a higher ranking in just one year.

Sheriff Judy Hicks made sure the girl saw properly taken care of which resulted in her making a lot of enemies in her line of duty. not that she cared, anyone else would’ve done the same if they were in her position.

the raven haired girl sighed as she drove around Woodsboro aimlessly. she was on patrol duty which although was considered the most dangerous, it was also extremely boring. most of the crime seemed to always happen across town from where she is which always annoyed her to no end. she spent most of her nights handing out tickets to reckless drivers or to teenagers who thought speeding at eighty miles an hour in a forty would be deemed safe.

the girl sighed as she took a sip out of her redbull and listened to the muffled dispatch beside her, hoping there would be reinforcements needed near her.

the patrol car came to a stop as the red light shined above her illuminating the bottom half of her face the bright red color. most of the streets were empty, it was a school night so most of the partying was put off until the weekend. just as she thought her night would consist of her driving around aimlessly for the whole night her phone rang. her eyebrows furrowed as she reached for her phone and pulled the patrol car to the side of the road, never one for reckless driving.

the small screen reflected on her tan skin as she looked at the text message on her phone.

Tara:

SOS

Estelle felt her heart rate pick up for a second as she shot the girl back a couple of question marks, confused on why the girl would be sending her a message so late at night and when she’s on duty. three bubbles popped up on the chat before they disappeared. the raven haired girl let out a small breath as she began to type again when a loud alert popped up causing her to flinch.

emergency call from Tara Carpenter

without a second thought Estelle turned on her sirens and stomped on the gas. she was only five minutes away thankfully, having been assigned to the nicer side of town by Judy’s orders. she always thought it was because the woman knew it was the safer side of town which meant less danger for the young girl. she wasn’t very appreciative of that, the whole point of her job was to be around danger twenty-four-seven so it was quite stupid that the women tried to protect her from it.

the girls grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles turning white, the patrol car going fast enough it shook the cars around her as they pulled to the side to let it through. in minutes - she wasn’t quite sure how many, not able to focus on anything but her rapidly beating heart and the road in front of her. she had already called in backup but they were all more than five minutes away.

the tires screeched to a halt as the young girl quickly opened the door and got out of the car, not even caring to turn the ignition off.

Estelle pulled her gun out of her holster and ran to the front door when she heard a loud scream.

Tara.

the house looked as it did every other day, no cars parked in the driveway or on the street but Tara had called SOS which she knew was only for emergency’s and there was something in there causing the girl to scream.

Estelle quickly reached for the doorknob but it wouldn’t turn which meant it was locked. she cursed silently before she took a step back.

“Tara!” she yelled loudly but the only response she got was an ever louder scream.

Estelle didn’t think twice before lifting her leg and bringing it down onto the door. it shook for a second but it didnt buge. three kicks later she knew the lock she had set up wouldn’t be breaking, she was counting on that when she put it on.

her heart was pounding against her chest as she turned around and grabbed the nearest rock to her and rushed over to the small windows beside the door. Estelle threw it to the smallest one, the glass shattering on impact. It broke apart with a loud bang and fell to the floor. she avoided the small pieces of glass stuck to the window as she put her hand through an unlocked the door from the inside.

Estelle threw the door open, “Tara!” she called ourtpointing her gun up. she took slow steps at first, her boots causing the glass to crush under her. she turned her body quickly to the first room which was the living area, her eyes scanned it in a singular second before she heard yet another scream.

the kitchen.

she ran toward it expecting to see a man or woman with a gun or some kind of weapon about to attack Tara, maybe expecting the house to be empty but they were instead met with a teen girl and were trying to harm her for fucking up their plan.

but that wasn’t it at all. the color drained from her face as her eyes trailed over a person wearing a Ghostface costume hovering over Tara with a knife in their hand.

her reflexes sprung into action as she began to unload her gun, the bullet hitting the top left side of their back, a groan leaving their lips. Ghost face turned quickly, obviously surprised anyone else would be in the house before they bolted out of the house, gun shots echoing as Estelle emptied out of the clip but missing each one.

she moved her body in an effort to run after them but hey eyes glanced down to see Tara’s body causing her to put her gun away quickly and drop to her knees. she could hear the echo of sirens meaning there was back up and they could go after Ghostface themself.

she couldn’t leave Tara alone.

Tara was unconscious with piles of red liquid surrounding her body. her bright clothes were soaked with blood, and the way small drops of it rolled down the sides of her lips made Estelle’s heart drop.

she saw there was a huge gash on the girls stomach causing her instincts to kick in. she reached for the injury and applied pressure with one hand as the other reached for her neck where she found a quiet pulse. it was soft but it was there meaning she was still there.

“it’s okay, i’ve got you” Estelle whispered as she heard loud footsteps coming in with the shout of her name. she didn’t say anything as the paramedics began to do their job, simply watched from afar.

[grimesgirll]

like your weapons trainings or conditioning, getting to rick’s place for bedtime had become a nightly duty.

and okafor stressed the importance of being on time to you. after all, he needed his best soldier bright eyed and bushy tailed in the mornings.

you had to have your ass in rick’s bed by the time he was ready to hit the hay. it didn’t matter if he was planning on fucking you that night or just enjoying having another warm body around. okafor had clocked that you somehow increased the average hours of sleep rick gained each night and assigned you to a semi-permanent sleepover.

you watch from your elbows as the handsome man in front of you brushes his teeth.

this isn’t the first time okafor’s utilized your “girlish charm” or whatever the fuck he sees in you to get what he wants.

this is the farthest he’s ever asked you to go however. it was always innocent before; distracting important people, taking advantage of certain perversions to finish the mission. you shouldn’t complain. okafor did get you the job of your dreams, all things considered.

where else could you spend hours designing maps, establishing operation routes, and do it all with the help of formerly world renowned military engineers and some of the most advanced technology still left on the planet?

besides, the lieutenant colonel had kept his word; there isn’t a thing you want for at the moment. aside from the occasional homesickness which was gradually dulling into a numb, nearly nonexistent feeling, you didn’t yearn for much - only rick.

so now you spend your days in your new state of the art geospatial mapping studio and on your rare but highly anticipated surveying trips. okafor had reviewed your past surveying maps of the delaware valley with general beale and other senior staff - including rick - and your work proved fruitful enough to allow you a small team to continue surveying operations under the umbrella of logistics.

in all reality, okafor’s rewarding you handsomely.

and so is rick.

his southern drawl breaks you from your staring.

“huh?” utterly oblivious, you fall under his deep blue gaze.

“i asked you if i can turn the lights off." he repeats, fingers hovering over the light switch.

you nod. "yeah, i'm ready for bed."

the bed dips with rick's weight and like routine, you're drawn into his crushing embrace. rick liked to cuddle before bed. you don’t ask but there has to have been some wife or some woman somewhere who used to be in your position.

the soldier is stoic and stands on business, but that sour expression had begun to soften since you’d first seduced him on his sofa. little bits and pieces of a southern, east coast kind of background popped up through the twang of rick’s accent. anyone with a history with law enforcement instantly picked up on his past as a cop. you’d playfully asked if he had to cuff anyone before and just received a dim smile that started to sour until you threw yourself into his lap and cast away whatever storm clouds you’d brought on with kisses.

he’ll never outright tell you why he sleeps better with you or how he slept before he was even a consignee, but you don’t mind. the cozy embrace really gets you conked out every night, without fail. his dick does too.

that’s how you end up backing against him and tempting the hard outline that never seemed to disappear due to his size.

rick chuckles behind you but doesn’t move, just pulls you closer. "good night." he says with a kiss to the back of your head.

"night," you return, like you’re not jutting your ass backwards into him.

you’re shocked that he hasn’t said anything. rick doesn’t always take your touch so lightly. he’d punished you for teasing him in front of some of the air fleet’s officers by fingering you until you were begging to come in the repurposed law library next door just the other day.

the man only speaks up once your tight ass is rounding indisputable, deep circles against his groin. you couldn’t be anymore obvious with the gasp that flies out of you like a kite as soon as rick’s newly throbbing length twitches through his sleep pants.

“honey.”

“please, rick!” you pull out the begging already, having expected you would be fucked silly tonight.

“tonight’s not the night, darlin’.”

needy and craving the man beside you, your knees squirm. it’s only when you’re lightly kicking rick that he pays you any mind; your legs are shut closed by the force of his human hand and the prosthetic digging into your soft flesh.

the look he gives you is lacking patience. “now, what’re you doin’?”

“i need you tonight, rick,” you state plainly.

he scoffs and lets go of your thighs. “c’mon, honey, why don’t you just lay down and get a good night’s rest?” the gears are turning in your head and you’re lifting your legs and shifting between his legs before he can even try to draw you back to your pillow. he croaks your name when you start pawing at the drawstring of his pants. “honey, you need to-,”

“you need this,” you insist.

you’re not giving him enough time to complain with his sensitive head already on your tongue. rick curses his traitorous groans, and himself when he does nothing to fight against the firm hand you're utilizing to usher him onto his back.

"so, you want to relax?" he manages, despite the shudder inducing way in which fully go for it and swallow around him. midway down your throat, a light thrust and a near gag from you is all he needs to know your answer.

rick can only lean back and take what you give him. he's pretty sure that you're going to have him coming in your mouth but before he knows it, you’re face to face again. there’s no reason to be disappointed by the firm hold you still have on him with your hand. a few more sluggish licks and you’re readjusting, straddling him to tease his tip with the slick of your entrance.

"what about you?" rick’s rasping, not yet prepared after you removed him from your sweet mouth.

"what if i told you i came here ready?"

the statement has his cock jumping. you swivel slightly, clit bumping his own sensitive slippery skin. spit strewn, his head falls back at the feeling of his dick dipped into your engulfing heat - even half an inch.

“you sure, honey?”

“mhmm,” you confirm with a kiss and a grind onto him.

“really wanted it, didn’t you, darlin’?”

your confirmation comes out as a whimper. "i just wanna be full before bed. i wanna be full of you rick," and once those words leave your mouth, rick is decided and sending you from your knees to your back. he could never say no to those watery eyes.

a courtesy finger and some intricately placed kisses on your knees, thighs, and clit have you straining upwards. you're not burning for long because rick is ready to indulge you just as you wished tonight. without warning - not that you were wanting it tonight - rick fit himself as far inside your thick muscle as he could on the first thrust.

the stretch is familiar but striking enough for you to nearly double over onto him. you won’t fold in the face of your reward - at least not yet. determined to hold on, you plant two hands on the older man’s chest as you sink onto his thick length. his groans and your steady breaths are enough to lower yourself, and even fuck yourself you and down on him.

"thank you for fucking me tonight, rick." you cry through swollen lips and damp lashes. "i really need you to fall asleep," you confess in a tone no higher than a hushed hiss.

you don't know if you're expecting an answer but the quickened pace is to be expected. without a doubt, the man is sinking deeper inside of you as he forces his hips flush to yours.

"does this satisfy being full enough to fall asleep?"

the jolt he’s sending through your abdomen with each maddening plunge into you, has you fluttering around him.

“rick!”

you wake up with a hand on your ass and a breath behind you in your hair. it doesn’t last though. rick is gone before you know it and you’re left aching, craving him. you get him out of your system with your early morning physical training - pt - and a meal with your favorite fellow soldiers.

you’re not expecting to see rick again soon.

the office facing the arboretum and the airfield is typically a still place, plagued by the constant thrum of the planes and helicopters, yes, but those who worked in the building had grown accustomed to the white noise. you're so grateful everyone in your division is out at lunch when rick slams the thick wooden door open.

stirred from your half drafted map of the midwest, your head surges up. you don't have time to open your mouth before rick is talking at you in his sergeant's voice.

“there are ten minutes until i need to be down at the helicopter hanger. you need to get me off in eight.”

stunned, the command doesn't urge you to your feet just yet. it's the sudden slamming of the door that jostles you from desk to the plaid loveseat where you settle onto your knees on a cushion facing sideways.

rick shakes his head. "no, i want you on your knees on the floor in front of me. now." you sigh and carry yourself down to the polished wooden floors. "i don't have time to sit."

"why?"

"because what i said was an order. don't question it."

with that preamble, you waste no time finding his belt and expertly undoing the buckle in record time. your hands move as fast as they can given all of the work this bulky uniform requires. somehow you breeze through the layers and ignore the ache growing in your knees. your second pt of the day is going to destroy you.

as you strip down rick's thermal boxers, you wonder if he's keen on fucking you now too. perhaps you'd gotten your allotted pounding last night and this would be it for the week. you really can never know with rick.

the issue of time returns to your mind however, so when you grip his length, you only lick up and down enough to get him taking coordinated breaths through his nose and tautening.

“you’ve been demandin’ lately, doll.”

your thighs squeeze together at the nickname.

“maybe i want to be a little demandin’ of you.”

a gloved hand shoves your head down. the incentive to keep your moans quiet doubles when you hear commotion outside your office. right on time; your colleagues are returning to lunch.

“think you can quiet that big mouth enough?”

no words leave your mouth, you just swallow around his length, glancing up into his expanded pupils; almost void of blue. hollowing your cheeks, you remember the time crunch he’s in and put a little more pep into your step. this leads to you rocking a bit on your knees.

rick snorts once he catches sight of the development. “so needy, even just with a cock in your mouth, huh?” his teasing is cut off by the orgasm building up as he throbs against your tongue.

putting in the effort to counter more than a couple of gags, you allow your jaw to slack so rick can enjoy the unobstructed tightness of your throat - perfect for him to come without the mess, leaving it to your mouth.

you weren’t prepared to suck rick off in your office today but you’re determined to leave no trace of this interaction. when he spills down your throat, only a little bit remains on your reddened puffy lips. you wipe your mouth nonchalantly once rick flops out of your mouth, still gazing down at you.

“clean me up.”

an order is an order.

exhaustively, you trace patterns from his base to the spit covered tip that’s still twitching. “fuck,” he utters when you take him into your mouth again. “don’t have time for this,” he’s scolding and palming himself back into his pants, grabbing your hand to stand you up with him for some scattered kisses across your forehead.

he presses a kiss to your temple, traveling lower to embellish purple marks on your collarbone. you’re sure he’s about to do more than just wantonly groping your perky tits but a few more moan inducing punches for your nipple and he’s sealing the interaction with one wolffish kiss. you’re nearly stumbling after him when he pulls away, tugging the last of his belts on.

the door is flung shut and that’s that. rick’s gone.

you’re on rick’s bed before he retires for the night.

“good to see you again today.” you purr, nearly kicking your feet. “i’m feeling spoiled seeing you three times in one day.”

the soldier rolls his eyes. he drops his tactical bag on the ottoman in front of the bed. “you here to sleep? or mess around?”

you shrug. “your choice.”

hints of a sly smile are on the sergeant’s face but he walks away shaking his head before you can call him down to bed just yet.

you could just sleep tonight. rick had been turning you on enough for you to take a night off, preferably drifting off in his arms until you had to wake for your quarterly river survey with the geologists, engineers, and biologists in your neighboring divisions. you had a lot to prepare for come the morning. it wouldn't be terrible to unwind by getting off tonight.

the thought's put on pause once rick's arms wrap around you as he sinks into the soft, bedding. smelling of fresh toothpaste and some kind of beard balm, he’s more than ready to hold onto you like a vice for the night.

“hey.” you coo.

“hey there,” an arm escapes you to turn out the wall light still on over on his side of the bed. only the dim glow of the hallway light touches the darkened room now.

you turn slightly so rick can at least see the outline of your face - your eyes, nose, and lips in the dark. “what was that all about early?”

“hmm?”

"the asshole act earlier?"

“you needed to remember rank.”

an exasperated heave almost sends you to a seated position. “rank?”

“yes.”

the lack of playfulness in your voice has you wondrously thankful that he can’t see your eye rolls in the dark.

“that’s kinda fucked, rick.”

“says the one who just loves getting fucked.”

you shut up.

“getting on her knees, i don’t remember you complainin’ once i got you beneath me earlier today.”

you can’t say that you recall complaining either.

it feels like muscle memory when he gets you onto all fours.

set up on his knees with your cunt under his nose, rick licks a devastating stripe from top to bottom. then he’s coming back up again and squeezing muffled shrieks from you.

“you like that, honey?”

“i do, rick,” you reply breathlessly. you dig a clenched fist into the comforter. “fuck!” tears threaten your waterline already.

“like my tongue?”

“mhmm,” you writhe as he makes it his mission to bury his warm, wriggly appendage as far inside of you as he can. he’ll never be as deep as his cock but the difference in sensation has you nearly folding into the mattress.

the added finger has you squirming in conjunction with the taunting, flickering tongue working back out to your clit. eventually there’s a two pronged attempt to open you up. you’re clenching around his fingers when you hear him ask, “do you think you’re ready?”

“one hundred percent,” you breathe.

“‘kay, i need you to be one hundred percent sure of that, soldier.”

you tease on top of him at the mention, nearly jumping once you feel him at your entrance. lust centered, you nod your head assuredly. “yes, sergeant. i’m ready for your cock. ready to fulfill the mission.”

rick’s smirk and tousled curls are the last thing you see before you’re manhandled like a rag doll into the mattress.

then that rhythm that had you so worked up is paling in comparison to how full you feel with just a few inches of rick. whispering sweet praise and reminding you of the task at hand, you exhale and puff soft cheeks. the biting kisses from rick as he settles inside of you have your eyes already rolling back. his newfound rhythm only fulfills the trance you knew only ne could put you in.

crammed tight full of cock, you’re chanting his name and he’s petting your hair, praising you as you squeeze around him just excellently.

“you gonna come on my cock, soldier?”

“only if you’ll let me, sergeant.”

his balls slap against your clit, wonderfully matching the dull tap he’s testing on your cervix. it doesn’t matter though as he’s repositioning constantly and brushing the forlorn parts, placing his fingers in a painstakingly strategic position on your clit.

“want you so bad, rick.” the words tumble out as rick brings another hand from the fat of your ass to your tit. the touch has you arching, gasping and clawing at the sheets. “rick, rick!”

“love hearin’ you say my name,” he’s grunting into your hair when he lowers himself down to fuck you deeper.

this new angle that rick’s fucking you at has you incoherent. hips pistoning you into the mattress and closer to the mounting heat in your core that was threatening to ruin rick’s sheets. the pressure has tears cascading down your cheeks. if it was lighter you’d see them on the sheets but your bleary eyes only take in pillow, as your cunt takes all of rick.

a palm pushing down on the flat of your back. you sink further into the bed, allowing rick to penetrate you deeper. this newfound depth has you face down with a single trembling clawed hand to the sheets.

“rick,” you’re croaking, crying out for him.

one more thrust of his hips and you swear he’s going to break you.

he mutters a “fuck” and croons deep;

“michonne.”

pt. 1

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝕭𝖑𝖚𝖊 & 𝕽𝖊𝖉

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: This one was a roller coaster to come up with.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan.

TW // None.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

“Thanks Joe, you’re the best.” I sighed, tippy toeing up to take the warm cup of coffee from the older man in his trailer. 

“Ahh, don’t worry about it!” He said, waving his hand at me. “It’s on the house yeah?”

I hummed, settling back down on my feet and carefully took a sip out of the disposable cup. Groaning when the warm liquid ran down my throat, warming up my body. The bitter sweetness sedating my morning hunger.

“You are still the best.” I huffed out, seeing my breath in the crisp, dawn air as I brought my lips back down to drink the liquid once more.

“Hey, slow down with that!” He waved at me. “Don’t want you to have a stomachache now. You’re one of the best here!”

“Awww, is Mr. Holder admitting something?” I teased him, taking another sip out of my coffee, but slower. Taking his words into consideration. I really wasn’t in a mood or position for a tummy ache.

“Aaah, I swear you guys are addicted to those things.” He huffed, preparing another order for someone else while he flipped some food in a pan as it sizzled.

“Geez, I hope not.” I said, looking down at my cup like it cursed me. My radio giving me some static. “But you do make the best coffee around.”

“Don’t flatter me, youngster.” He countered, putting ketchup on the order. “You know I make the best coffee.”

“That you do.” I agreed, raising up my cup for him. Taking yet another sip out of it and answering my radio. Getting details of an ‘old wild lady’ that's been refusing to get back into her home with her nurse.

“Well, I guess I'll see you around Joe.” I sighed, putting my hand in my jacket pocket to find the car keys. “Duty calls.”

“I’ll see you around, Sergeant!” He yelled out to me while I made my way towards the police car. Finally, getting the keys out of my pocket and unlocking the car with the keys and a beep.

Opening the driver door, I plopped right down in the seat with another sigh and placed my cup in the cup holder before closing my door and putting the key into the ignition. The vehicle starting up with a soft rumble.

Rubbing my hands together, I blew into them and shivered before turning up the heat in the car and moved the vents towards me. Geez, who decided this morning was going to be this cold?

Putting a hand on the wheel, I put the other hand to shift my gear into ‘reverse’ and looked backwards before pulling out smoothly. Turning my torso back around to look in front of me, I shifted my gear to ‘drive’ and slowly drove up to the stop sign to get out of the parking lot.

Flipping on my blinker, I looked both ways. Watching for a clear spot before driving off onto the mainroad and made my way to the old lady’s address. Picking up my cup and taking a sip out of it while I was at it. Warming up my body once more.

Stopping behind another police cruiser. I put the car in park and observed how this situation was playing out for a moment. Shifting and preparing my vest.

There was, in fact, an old lady dressed in a white floral shirt with a light brown crocheted denim-jacket and a beige crochet skirt with beige tights and black loafers on, waddling up and down the sidewalk. Cursing up a storm to a cop I never saw in the division. His hands coming up in surrender as the old lady stalks up to him, waving her wooden cane at him.

It honestly was an amusing sight to see. Well, until she started wacking him with it.

Stepping out of my car, I closed the door behind me and walked towards the very agitated granny. Shifting my vest more comfortably, resting my hands on the neckline of it.

“Whoa there Ms. Would you mind not hitting my fellow recruit here? It is a crime you know.” I stated, stopping just short of her, not wanting to get thwacked by her cane next.

The lady huffed, glaring at the young man and settled her cane back to the ground. Grumbling underneath her breath.

“You see, that man!” The lady started, lifting her cane back up and pointed it at a man on her house porch that was getting talked to by another officer. “He’s not supposed to be here!”

“I’m your nurse!” The man suddenly yelled back. “I come here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday!”

“Why isn’t he supposed to not be here ma’am?” I asked, shifting my weight as she turned her sights back onto me.

“My Marine doesn’t like him!” She said, wobbling a little in her shifting steps. “Been seeing things that were there, but now they're gone. Stolen!”

“And you believe he’s been stealing from your home?” I questioned, watching as another police cruiser pulled up to the sidewalk behind the lady.

“I know he’s been stealing from my home! Necklaces, bracelets, rings, all gone!” She grumbled, stomping her cane into the sidewalk. “That hoodlum has been stealing from me ever since he was hired!”

“I have not!” The man yelled back, throwing his hands up in the air. The officer over there giving him a verbal warning.

Sucking on my teeth, I watched the officer from the cruiser jogging up to the little group.

“Hey, I can take over for you two. Figured you needed some time to get your new boot situated.” Officer Duran said. Wait, new boot? Looking to the younger male to my left, I observed him more closely. It was no wonder I didn’t recognize him the first time.

He was a young male possibly in his early 20’s or 30’s. No taller than a teenager. Brown eyes and golden brown hair in the style of an undercut. Clean shaven too, but boot? Since when?

“Yeah, Sargent Zavala picked you as a candidate.” Duran informed me, turning her attention to the lady as I gave a ‘huh?’

Shouldn’t he have come to me beforehand and ask me about it? Did I accidentally agree to something I wasn’t aware of? No, Zavala wouldn’t do that, would he? Only one way to find out.

“…Come on then, boot.” I gestured to the recruit to follow me. “Let's get you properly set up.”

“Really? You don’t look too thrilled to have me as your recruit though.” He speaks, quickly following me to the cruiser.

“I’m not.” I huffed, pulling open the driver door by the handle.

Briskly entering the doors of the department. I headed straight for Zavala office. Nearly bumping into several people and Astartes alike.

“Sorry there big guy.” I grumbled, sliding past a blue ultramarine and into Zavalas’ office where he sat, looking through some files as gently as I could, closed the door behind me.

“Since when was I to be assigned a boot?” I immediately started, folding my arms. “I don't recall signing up for one.”

“That right, you didn’t.” Zavala confirmed one of many of my concerns, plopping the files he had in his hands on the desk.

“Then why did I get a recruit assigned to me?” I asked, leaning all my weight to one side. “I’m a Sergeant not a training officer.”

“I know that, but a recruit was assigned to you because I believe you can train him well.” Zavala spoke, leaning forward in his chair to place his arms on his desk. “There were also more recruits that came in and they need their training.”

I huffed, not liking that he was right as he made a rather good counter on that one. Can’t leave the recruits untrained. It doesn’t make the department or the people inside look good.

“And Xerxes is to accompany you on your patrols.” Zavala said, pointing past me.

“Who? What?” I questioned, turning to look out the window the Sergeant pointed at, spotting the Ultramarine that I swiveled to get into here. “A Space Marine? Why?”

“Considering your latest… lost. He’s to monitor your health.” He responded, picking up another pile of papers on his desk and tapping them on his desk. Stacking them nicely off to the side.

“You think, assigning a Space Marine and a recruit to me is to help me?” I scoffed, unfolding my arms. “To replace that?”

Did he think I couldn't take care of myself? That I wasn’t capable of this job?

“I am not asking you to replace what once was. I am asking you to train a recruit and watch your health.” Zavala sighed, standing up from his desk. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you pulling extra.”

“I fought in battles. What makes you think I can’t overcome this one too?” I asked a little too quickly for my liking. My eyebrows scrunching up at the many thoughts going through my head.

“This is not about fighting battles, Sergeant.” Zavalas’ tone dropped, his chestnut eyes sternly looking at me. “This is about your health and your job. Not a war, not a battle. Your job.”

I couldn’t say anything, knowing he was right. Yet it still hurt to think I must be babysat by a Space Marine. That I looked like I couldn’t take care of myself. Though, it was my problem.

“I just– .” He sighed, closing his eyes, coming over and placing his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want our best to fall.”

Those words should have soothed me down, and they did slightly, for being the “best,” but I kept thinking that he could find somebody else to do it. Find someone else that was better. That he could do their own damn dirty work. That I know I wasn’t the best, but at the same time it was my whole career. It’s all I ever known and be best at.

I twisted my tongue and bit down on it, shutting myself up to avoid anymore of my stupid thoughts. I know I wasn’t in the best of health. How could you not? How could I not?

“Go and meet Xerxes and give your boot a chance, Sergeant.” Zavala said, patting me on the shoulder, telling me that I was dismissed despite us being the same rank as one another.

“I’ll be watching your progression.”

[kivaember]

re: drabbles: i would be interested to see any kind of take on what life in the PCA is like; the EKDROMOI and HC/LC-HM duos in particular always seemed like funny Just Guys Being Dudes dynamics

OH I LOVE IDEAS LIKE THESE... i ended up just going on a ramble dear god... uh i hope you enjoy! a bit of worldbuilding for PCA and RLF (with a surprise Flatwell mention!)

Thanks for the prompt!

When Erik had been handed his posting for Rubicon-3 (or "ISB2262" as most within the UEG knew it), his first dismayed thought had been: i've hit a dead-end in my career.

See, the PCA were not viewed favourably within the UEG's pilot corps for a multitude of reasons, ranging from their infamous reputation as "space cops" to the fact that their direct chain of command was an actual, literal AI called The System, and whom many within the PCA spoke of as if she was their divine god that had descended from heaven itself to guide them.

Also, there were no glorious battles with the PCA, no chances for winning spoils of war during inter-corporate conflicts or achieving swift promotions by looking good at the right moment. All you did in the PCA was sit on some quarantined rock - normally out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere - and weren't allowed to take souviners or salvage anything profitable from the surface. It was basically guard duty but for years.

At least with guard duty on solar colonies you had some form of civilisation to visit. On Rubicon-3? Civilisation had been razed into nothing but ashes after that catastrophic industrial accident almost fifty years ago, and the remanents were just a ragtag group of stubborn colonists who refused to relocate because this is our home! Nevermind that their home was basically a hole in the ground full of contaminated soil.

Needless to say, Erik's expectations had been low when he reported to the PCA's main base on Rubicon-3. The planet had looked ugly when he came in, the atmosphere riddled with enough chunked up asteroids to make navigating the mess an absolute nightmare for the autopilot and what little surface he glimpsed looking grey and lifeless. The oceans looked good, at least, but Erik didn't have gills, and he doubted he'd be spending any time on their blasted-out beach resorts.

His expectations had been this: he'll sit in whatever passed as their guard room watching the live feed from their defence satellites, bored out of his mind except for moments of fleeting excitement when some wildcat miner came barrelling towards the planet in delusional hopes of striking it big with a Coral deposit. The nights would be long, the days even longer, and he'll be cold, miserable and wondering when he'd be posted out so his career could start again.

Instead, reality had been this: piloting the most advanced MT he'd ever sat in, wielding the most powerful weapons he'd ever laid hands on... yet trapped in an endless struggle against ye olde BASHO ACs on a near regular basis like he was in Hell and this was the ordeal he was condemned to endure for the rest of his afterlife.

The Rubiconian Liberation Front. Erik had heard of them back on Earth when he was in the UEG's main pilot corps, but no one had thought them as any serious threat. Just a group of colonists who had hijacked a construction MT or two and occasionally threw rocks through the PCA's figurative windows. They weren't a real threat. They were just civilians with guns. They'd be scared off easily just by shooting a few warning shots their way.

Wrong.

They were like rabid racoons that refused to leave the PCA's dumpsters. Almost every night, Erik and his squad would be crashed out when the perimetres alarms would trip, and almost every night he'd be chasing after RLF ACs and MTs running off with whatever the hell they could carry. Telephone poles. Copper wires. Vehicles like jeeps or vans. One of them had ran off with a fucking HVAC system once and to date Erik was still baffled about that.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was him.

Middle fucking Flatwell.

The RLF leadership was a bit strange, but every PCA pilot knew of Flatwell. He was a Gen Three and had been part of the Rubiconian militia as a qualified, albeit green, AC pilot when the Fires had hit Rubicon. Guy was likely pushing seventy and still piloted rings around the PCA like he was bioengineered in some fucking lab somewhere to be the bane of their existence.

The System - their chain of command, their AI - knew everything it could dig up about Flatwell. His AC schematics, his habits, his history, his fighting profile and even including some interesting yet bizarre factoids like 'has a legitimate Earth citizenship due to successful seduction of a high-ranking Arquebus executive' and 'suspected illicit affair with an intelligence officer within Arquebus HQ', which meant not only was Flatwell a demon in the AC, he was a demon under the sheets too, forbidden knowledge that Erik could've gone without knowing.

But forbidden knowledge or not, the simple fact was: Flatwell was a damn good pilot, and most of the PCA pilots were just average.

In high-tech MTs and using even higher tech weaponry, sure, but still average. But, when Erik had been new to the post, had been dazzled by these amazing MTs and beautiful plasma weapons, he'd charged headfirst into a fight against Flatwell without hesitation, ignoring The System's soft bleat for him to use caution.

Needless to say, Erik had totalled that shiny MT and ended up ejecting before even a full thirty seconds had passed. Guy was fast.

Fortunately, however, the PCA were a lot more forgiving when it came to totalled MTs. Back in the UEG that would've come straight out of Erik's paycheck, as all repair bills did (he was still paying off his previous repairs... just thirty more years and he'd be debt free!) - but the PCA had brushed it off. Turned out they had a pretty sweet fabrication system and could churn out MTs in the hundreds within hours. Where they got the raw materials for that, Erik wasn't so sure... but the PCA were a branch of the UEG, so it was probably legitimate and not at all illegal or suspicious.

(One of the first rules you learn in the PCA: do not think too deeply about how it functions for legal reasons)

But, while the posting was leagues more exciting than he had initially believed, and incredibly more dangerous, his initial dismayed thought still held true: it was a career killer, because here was another, hidden rule he hadn't known until his boots were firmly on Rubicon-3 and his transporter was flying away from the planet:

Once you're on Rubicon-3, you die on Rubicon-3. No transfers, to retiring, no early-release. The PCA's mission was lifelong and no amount of bellyaching or protesting wold change that. Erik had been sprinted through the five stages of grief before he accepted his grim fate.

Maybe he had died on the way here, he had thought. Maybe this was his punishment for contributing directly to the voracious war machine that was the UEG... how many unionised workers had he killed over the years? How many colonies had he visited to stomp down on burgeoning independent movements so corporations didn't lose a source of revenue? How many had he stomped down on, just for his own continued comfort within the callous galaxy that humanity had made for itself?

Rubicon. It really made you think about these things. Erik slowly began to understand why the PCA's relationship with the RLF was how it was. Yeah, they crashed out every night, and yeah, sometimes Flatwell was there waiting for them, but most times...

Erik would crash out with his squad and only chase the thieving RLF a few miles before breaking off pursuit. He told himself there was no point. What they stole could easily be replaced within a few days. It wasn't as if they were stealing weapons or whatever. If they wanted a fucking HVAC system or a bunch of telecommunication wiring that badly, then they could have it. No skin of Erik's nose, and the PCA didn't bill him for failure to retrieve stolen goods.

He didn't sympathise with them, and the RLF certainly didn't sympathise with the PCA. They killed a lot of each other over the years Erik had been posted here, and Flatwell was particularly merciless. But.

They were both stuck on this planet, either willfully or not. They were both on Rubicon-3 for the long haul, and one way or another, they were gonna share the same fate: they were going to die here, eventually.

They were never going to leave this razed shithole.