#play based dog training

[fayeandknight]

This was taken an hour after getting back to the hotel post seminar on play.

I thoroughly enjoyed learning more about play and it's role in relationship building, confidence boosting, and training. Specifically how using play allows one to link the emotions of the dog during training to how it feels about performing that behavior later.

Forte thoroughly enjoyed playing with me and the big improvements the small tweaks the instructor had me make made for him.

Before I brought Forte out I was asked what I wanted to work on. I said his outs because Forte still has a tendency to chew on toys as he's releasing them. But I confessed that I was afraid he'd see a room full of people, start making eyes at everyone and I'd have a hard time convincing him to play with me.

I ended up getting really good in the moment help with his out. But more importantly the entire time I had Forte out he only once sort of drifted away from me once while the instructor and I were talking. Other than that I had Forte's full and enthusiastic attention.

I also got compliments on how into me Forte is and how it's clear I've put a lot of time and effort into our play.

[abirddogmoment]

I'm feeling a lot more confident in my training with Rory than I ever did with Mav, which is really cool, and the single best thing I started doing this time around was Rory Appreciation Time.

Allocating mindful screen-free time to be silly with Rory helped me avoid the puppy blues, creates a lot of levity, diffuses tension, and helps me learn more about what she finds rewarding. It's been really cool to see.

[crayonurchin]

Day 4- Skeletal

There's more than one way to train an attack dog, but sometimes the simpliest techniques are the most effective

[benvenutio]

ok can't lie the constant cracks at the raf are starting to seriously annoy me LMAO !!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Children's Dialogue

Language is extremely complex, yet children already know most of the grammar of their native language(s) before they are 5 years old.

BABBLING

Babbling begins at about 6 months and is considered the earliest stage of language acquisition

By 1 year babbles are composed only of the phonemes used in the language(s) they hear

Deaf babies babble with their hands like hearing babies babble using sounds

FIRST WORDS

After the age of one, children figure out that sounds are related to meanings and start to produce their first words

Usually children go through a holophrastic stage, where their one-word utterances may convey more meaning

Example: "Up" is used to indicate something in the sky or to mean “pick me up”

Most common first words (among the first 10 words uttered in many languages): “mommy,” “daddy,” “woof woof,” “no,” “bye,” “hi,” “yes,” “vroom,” “ball” and “banana”

WORD MEANINGS

When learning words, children often overextend a word’s meaning

Example: Using the word dog to refer to any furry, four-legged animal (overextensions tend to be based on shape, size, or texture, but never color)

They may also underextend a word’s meaning

Example: Using the word dog to refer only to the family pet, as if dog were a proper noun

The Whole Object Principle: When a child learns a new word, (s)he is likely to interpret the word to refer to a whole object rather than one of its parts

SYNTAX

At about two years of age, children start to put words together to form two-word utterances

The intonation contour extends over the two words as a unit, and the two-word utterances can convey a range of meanings:

Example: "mommy sock" = subject + object or possessive

NOTE: Chronological age is NOT a good measure of linguistic development due to individual differences, so instead linguists use the child’s mean length of utterance (MLU) to measure development

The telegraphic stage describes a phase when children tend to omit function morphemes such as articles, subject pronouns, auxiliaries, and verbal inflection

Examples: "He play little tune" or "Andrew want that"

Between 2;6 and 3;6 a language explosion occurs and children undergo rapid development

By the age of 3, most children consistently use function morphemes and can produce complex syntactic structures:

Examples: "He was stuck and I got him out" / "It’s too early for us to eat"

After 3;6 children can produce wh-questions, and relative pronouns

Sometime after 4;0 children have acquired most of the adult syntactic competence

PRAGMATICS

Deixis: Children often have problems with the shifting reference of pronouns

Children may refer to themselves as "you"

Problems with the context-dependent nature of deictic words: Children often assume the hearer knows who s/he is talking about

AUXILIARIES

In the telegraphic stage, children often omit auxiliaries from their speech but can form questions (with rising intonation) and negative sentences

Examples: "I ride train?" / "I not like this book"

As children acquire auxiliaries in questions and negative sentences, they generally use them correctly

SIGNED LANGUAGES

Deaf babies acquire sign language in the same way that hearing babies acquire spoken language: babbling, holophrastic stage, telegraphic stage

When deaf babies are not exposed to sign language, they will create their own signs, complete with systematic rules

IMITATION, REINFORCEMENT, ANALOGY

Children do imitate the speech heard around them to a certain extent, but language acquisition goes beyond imitation

Children produce utterances that they never hear from adults around them, such as "holded" or "tooths"

Children cannot imitate adults fully while acquiring grammar

Example:

Adult: "Where can I put them?" Child: "Where I can put them?"

Children who develop the ability to speak later in their childhood can understand the language spoken around them even if they cannot imitate it

NOTE: Children May Resist Correction

Example: Cazden (1972) (observation attributed to Jean Berko Gleason) – My teacher holded the baby rabbits and we patted them. – Did you say your teacher held the baby rabbits? – Yes. – What did you say she did? – She holded the baby rabbits and we patted them. – Did you say she held them tightly? – No, she holded them loosely.

Another theory asserts that children hear a sentence and then use it as a model to form other sentences by analogy

But while analogy may work in some situations, certainly not in all situations:

– I painted a red barn. – I painted a barn red. – I saw a red barn. – I saw a barn red.

Children never make mistakes of this kind based on analogy which shows that they understand structure dependency at a very young age

BIRTH ORDER

Children’s birth order may affect their speech.

Firstborns often speak earlier than later-born children, most likely because they get more one-on-one attention from parents.

They favor different words than their siblings. 

Whereas firstborns gabble on about animals and favorite colors, the rest of the pack cut to the chase with “brother,” “sister,” “hate” and such treats as “candy,” “popsicles” and “donuts.” 

The social dynamics of siblings, it would appear, prime their vocabularies for a reality different than the firstborns’ idyllic world of sheep, owls, the green of the earth and the blue of the sky.

MOTHER'S LEVEL OF EDUCATION

Children may adopt vocabulary quite differently depending on their mother’s level of education.

In American English, among the words disproportionately favored by the children of mothers who have not completed secondary education are: “so,” “walker,” “gum,” “candy,” “each,” “could,” “wish,” “but,” “penny” and “be” (ordered starting with the highest frequency).

The words favored by the children of mothers in the “college and above” category are: “sheep,” “giraffe,” “cockadoodledoo,” “quack quack,” the babysitter’s name, “gentle,” “owl,” “zebra,” “play dough” and “mittens.” 

BOYS / GIRLS

One area of remarkable consistency across language groups is the degree to which the language of children is gendered.

The words more likely to be used by American girls than by boys are: “dress,” “vagina,” “tights,” “doll,” “necklace,” “pretty,” “underpants,” “purse,” “girl” and “sweater.”

Whereas those favored by boys are “penis,” “vroom,” “tractor,” “truck,” “hammer,” “bat,” “dump,” “firetruck,” “police” and “motorcycle.”

Tips for Writing Children's Dialogue (compiled from various sources cited below):

Milestones - The dialogue you write should be consistent with the child's developmental milestones for their age. Of course, other factors should be considered such as if the child has any speech or intellectual difficulties. Also note that developmental milestones are not set in stone and each child is unique in their own way.

Too "Cutesy" - If your child characters are going to be cute, they must be cute naturally through the force of their personality, not because the entire purpose of their existence is to be adorable.

Too Wise - It’s true kids have the benefit of seeing some situations a little more objectively than adults. But when they start calmly and unwittingly spouting all the answers, the results often seem more clichéd and convenient than impressive or ironic.

Unintelligent - Don’t confuse a child’s lack of experience with lack of intelligence. 

Baby Talk - Don’t make a habit of letting them misuse words. Children are more intelligent than most people think.

Unique Individuals - Adults often tend to lump all children into a single category: cute, small, loud, and occasionally annoying. Look beyond the stereotype.

Personal Goals - The single ingredient that transforms someone from a static character to a dynamic character is a goal. It can be easy to forget kids also have goals. Kids are arguably even more defined by their goals than are adults. Kids want something every waking minute. Their entire existence is wrapped up in wanting something and figuring out how to get it.

Don't Forget your Character IS a Child - Most of the pitfalls in how to write child characters have to do with making them too simplistic and childish. But don’t fall into the opposite trap either: don’t create child characters who are essentially adults in little bodies.

Your Personal Observation - To write dialogue that truly sounds like it could come from a child, start by being an attentive listener. Spend time around children and observe how they interact with their peers and adults. You can also study other pieces of media that show/write about children's behaviour (e.g., documentaries, films, TV shows, even other written works like novels and scripts).

Context - The context in which children speak is crucial to creating realistic dialogue. Consider their environment, who they're speaking to, and what's happening around them. Dialogue can change drastically depending on whether a child is talking to a friend, a parent, or a teacher. Additionally, children's language can be influenced by their cultural background, family dynamics, and personal experiences. Make sure the context informs the dialogue, lending credibility to your characters' voices.

Sources and other related articles: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Writing Notes: On Children ⚜ Childhood Bilingualism More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[crescenthistory]

Where Padfoot Lays His Head

Summary: Inspired by @thewriterghost's reblog of my last animagus!reader fic, this is just a sweet drabble of Whiskers comforting Padfoot:,)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, your marauders/animagus name is whiskers, walburga black, black family dynamics and trauma, vaguely implied abuse, sirius spiraling into self-loathing, platonic physical affection, romantic!regulus x reader but platonic!sirius x reader is the main focus, background platonic!moonwater

Note: this is based on the same reader from Feline Touches, Sweet Like Honey and Padfoot vs. Whiskers, sirius' beloved almost-sister-in-law that he has frequent (loving) sibling squabbles with

Sirius pretended he didn’t feel the humiliation burning through his veins from his friends’ worrying looks.

Stop looking at me, stop caring so sodding much.

His internal begging was all for naught; this was apparently what he signed up for when he strolled into the train compartment that housed the largest smile Hogwarts had ever seen and his pack of make-shift slightly-fucked-up-but-lovable friends.

Most days, Sirius was grateful to the bone for the family he had been able to assemble at Hogwarts, stretching from his boyfriend to his boyfriend’s childhood best friend to his biological brother and the boys that became his brothers. However, on days that Walburga Black, the hag to end all hags, sends him a Howler berating him for leaving home over the summer, few sentiments besides anger, self-loathing and isolation remained in the young boy’s body.

When he eventually stops reeling and wallowing, all this attention would make him feel warm once more, especially when he sees they didn’t stop showering him in it even as he retreated perhaps a bit rudely from it. Right now, though, it just kept the wound open and Sirius was sure the infection would kill him this time around.

He was sure of that every time.

It became evident quickly that he would not be able to get away from his friends. James was practically glued to his side from the moment he left the Great Hall after Walburga ruined everyone’s lunch. His brown eyes were so wide beneath his glasses and Sirius was sure he could almost see tears in them as he swung his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and kept telling jokes like his life depended on it. Remus was not much better. He had learned by now not to soften his touches when Sirius was in these moods – on the contrary, harsh, direct touches helped ground him – but his hands rarely left his being, as if he would fall apart without him. Even Lily tuned down her playful banter with him, swapping it for concerned questions and checking in on him throughout the day. Sirius loved them all, but he hated it.

Even Regulus showed him more compassion than normal, though he didn’t say much. His entire being seemed to radiate I get you, I understand more than anyone, because frankly he did. Even as hearing Walburga’s voice must have rattled Regulus too, he didn’t show it, instead holding space for Sirius, carrying what was supposed to be his burden.

Humiliating. 

All of which to say, Sirius did what Sirius does best; he ran from them all, in the one form none of them would be able to hold a conversation with him in.

Padfoot had turned out to be a blessing that way. Sirius picked up on it from you, who only ever was in your animagus form when you felt particularly well or horrifically poorly. Difficult to ask how a dog is feeling, yeah? 

He laid in front of the common room fireplace, stretched out in a position that showed he was ready to pounce should anyone try to pet him. Around him, his friends were cuddled up on the sofas and armchairs, chattering lowly amongst themselves and playing the occasional game of wizarding chess. Padfoot had his head placed on his front paws as his gaze flickered all over the room, unable to settle. His nerves always seemed to transform with him, manifesting as the most anxious dog Gryffindor had seen.

Perhaps the only one, but the sentiment remained.

Their stares were still on him, penetrating and with downturned frowns over their faces. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He couldn’t string too long sentences together in his dog brain – part of its fantastic appeal right now – but that sentiment remained steadfast.

You were sat in Regulus’ lap opposite the fireplace, murmuring something in his ear as you both intermittently looked at Padfoot. Your hands were playing with his hair, lips almost grazing his skin as you talked, even pressing the occasional kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his ear. Love. Padfoot loved love and he loved his little brother getting to experience it so wholly, even as he laid here, destroying the moment with the same misery that haunted any children raised by the Black family. He felt as if he was sucking the joy out of the room with his wallowing, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Padfoot couldn’t help the low whine that escaped him at the darkness swirling around inside him. Upon fearing having to meet the gazes of anyone who caught the noise and see the goddamn sympathy and pity in them, he brought his paws up to cover his eyes, pathetically hiding within himself.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

In his internal chanting, he didn’t notice when the chatter died down a bit, nor did he see the glances exchanged. He felt the footsteps reverberating through the floorboards, suggesting somebody was walking away, but he didn’t register its true implications. Leave, was all he could think. Good, leave. Go.

What he did notice to its fullest extent was when a few moments later, soft fur collided with his own as something was rubbing against him.

A bit too quickly, almost too violently, Padfoot’s head snapped up from beneath his paws to see what this intrusion was – only to come face to face with a white-and-grey cat, blinking slowly at him. His mouth fell slightly open, and he thought a complaining bark may be on its way out, but then you – Whiskers – butted your head against the side of his neck, caressing him with your feline body.

The adventures of Whiskers and Padfoot were a running joke, especially one Remus and Regulus loved to team up to tell. Whether it was chasing each other around, hunting rats – preferably Wormtail, but any would do – and mice or playing with the house elves, you two loved to conduct mischief together in the one form you could never be properly caught in. There had been the occasion where you cuddle or pet one another, but it was rare and usually unspoken, attachment growing deeper and softer without either properly addressing it. 

So, this was not necessarily out of left field, but it surprised him nonetheless. He couldn’t say it wasn’t quite welcome, though.

You had started purring as you walked up and down his body where he was laid in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth he was bathed in and oddly calming the vibrating nerves within his own body. Whenever you reached his head, you bumped your snout against his, rubbing the space between your ears all over his face.

Cats are weird, Padfoot thought. Like it.

Mere minutes ago Sirius had been surveying his friends and his effect on them intently, digging himself deeper into his self-inflicted hole. Now, his attention was captured by the much smaller animal beside him, and he didn’t see how most conversation had stopped to witness the interaction. Lily and James looked at them in almost shocked awe, both having been snapped at and ran away from when they attempted to pet Padfoot themselves. Regulus and Remus, however, sat there with soft, knowing smiles – seeing the girl they loved most go for it with no fear and comforting their favourite dog. Remus would deny it to anyone who asked, but there were tears in his eyes.

The next time Whiskers came up beside his face, you stayed there, leaning yours against his. You laid your body down over the paws Padfoot had previously rested his own head on and made yourself comfortable in a position no one but a cat could possibly conjure up. From there, you began cleaning his fur like you were his personally-assigned cat mother, licking the strands in their correct direction. When his face was too far away, you lightly brought your paw up to his snout to bring him further towards you.

Despite being placed in front of a fire, warmth didn’t truly spread through Sirius before now. When he brought his head down, he laid it on top of you and let it rest there across your midsection, careful not to hurt you, as your upper body curled around his head. You continued cleaning up his fur as you purred loudly, easing the tension from Padfoot’s poor body.

A cuddle only animals could come up with, an embrace Sirius would deny anyone today, yet like this, it just worked.

When his eyes became heavy, Sirius let them fall. You continued your ministrations without hesitation, carefully and slowly tending to Sirius face, only stopping occasionally to nuzzle your forehead further into his fur and purr even louder. 

He didn’t quite fall asleep, he rarely did as Padfoot, too alert and awake in this form, but he let himself fall into a place of tranquillity. Walburga’s harsh words seemed almost funny in their anger now, and Sirius’ own spiral was becoming a thing of the past. 

Would he still be red-cheeked tomorrow and avoid his friends’ eyes for the first half of the day? Perhaps, but they would reel him into their arms and hearts regardless. Would he sputter and fall back into his evil cycle of thoughts if anyone brought this specific moment up? Without a doubt, but that’s why they would not, at least not before he settled. 

Padfoot was suddenly safe in the Gryffindor common room. He was safe with this warm weight over his paws and beneath his head, he was safe with love being quite literally carded into every strand of fur on his body. He was safe with the hearth behind him and his pack in front of him, quiet voices further lolling him further into a state of peace.

Padfoot was safe – maybe even loved.

Across the room, Remus and Regulus had gravitated further towards one another, as theirs were the only eyes who never left the scene of cat-dog-solidarity displayed before them. 

Regulus bumped into Remus’ arm with his elbow and whispered, “He doesn’t like cats, he says?” with a knowing smirk.

The other boy huffed a laugh at that, lips remaining softly upturned. “I believe he has an exception or two to that rule.”

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 1

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; dom/sub elements; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Some warnings only apply to future parts!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Simon remembers telling Price to ‘piss off with that shite’ when the latter had approached him with the brass’ announcement of granting the Lieutenant the rare permission to become the handler of an emotional support hybrid.

There aren’t many officers on base who are allowed to have one, and Simon knows why that is. In his opinion, the whole handler/hybrid deal has all the negative connotations of a toxic and borderline abusive relationship, and Simon simply doesn’t want to be part of that.

Did anyone of those fuckers ever bother to read his file? He bloody well doubts it.

He does respect the official handlers and trainers of the military K9’s on base, though. Whatever bond they share was forged and solidified in battle and goes way beyond that odd and shallow power play that happens between some officers and their so-called “pets”.

So, Simon said no to the offer, firmly and several times at that. He doesn’t care for the bloody permission, no matter how rare it is, no matter how fellow soldiers who’d caught rumour about it had blatantly stated their envy about the possibility of gaining a hybrid pet themselves. Truthfully, Simon becomes sick to his stomach whenever one of the other officers and NCO’s talk about wanting to own a pretty pleasure puppy; something dumb and docile to have fun and unwind with in their time off duty.

Fucking hell. No, Simon doesn’t want to be part of that, let alone be responsible of some freakish hybrid mutt.

Weeks pass, both thoughts and arguments about hybrids and handlers are pushed back and filed away in some nook inside Simon’s mind as he falls back into his daily grind and familiar routine; running drills, paperwork, field trainings, preparing for missions, more paperwork.

Until one fateful day in January.

The UK weather has been more terrible lately; icy rain and howling winds beating down on base while Simon was trying to keep the rookies in line at the shooting range. By the end of the day, his fatigues were drenched and clinging to his broad frame while the chill was seeping through his pale skin, settling into his bones; making his limbs heavy and turning them stiff as if he’d carried a rucksack full of boulders on his back for a week straight.

The moment Simon arrives at the front door to his flat on base, though, the hairs at the back of his neck bristle immediately. The hallway is empty, but–

Something isn’t right. He can practically sense that someone was here, perhaps even inside his place in the worst case.

Halting in his measured steps while his breathing levels out to that eerie shallowness he’s adapted to on missions, his ears perk up under his skull balaclava as he listens for any odd noises coming from inside. Unable to pick up anything unusual, Simon still chooses to rather be safe than sorry as he reaches for his pistol in the holster strapped to his right thigh.

Simon manages to open the front door without any noise before he slips inside effortlessly, living up to his name as a ghost as he stalks through his flat on high alert; checking the small storage room before sneaking down the short, dark hallway leading up to his open living room. He can bloody sense that something is different, that someone has tampered with his safe space; he can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, sweat, and tangy cologne even through his damp balaclava.

The sight that greets him on his old, tattered couch when he eventually flips on the light switch, is unlike anything he expected and Simon’s whole body tenses, eyes widening comically as if he’s met face to face by a firing squad.

But it’s just you, a bloody dog hybrid, curled up on his couch like you belong there–which you don’t.

And Simon slowly lowers his pistol, watches your fluffy white ears appear from under your hair as they perk up before you lift your head, like pristine cotton balls popping open in the sunlight; your body uncurling and stretching slowly while you squint against the bright yellow drop-light.

“What the bloody… fuck,” Simon breathes, chest deflating with a deep sigh as he puts his pistol back into his holster, securing it once more. Dark eyes flicker around the room before he catches a large black suitcase next to what looks like a gift basket.

Simon approaches the basket the way he would a bomb threat while his vigilant eyes keep shifting towards you as if you could attack him any moment, although you’re clearly still waking up, all discombobulated and sleep-drunk.

When Simon catches a clear view at the assortment of goodies and the black folder tucked between them inside the basket, his cold heart stutters and his blood freezes in his veins. At the sight of the pale pink collar with its matching leash, the vein in his temple throbs with a mixture of fury and revulsion.

The sound of your soft, sickly-sweet voice chirping out a greeting nearly makes his wretched soul leave his body. “Hi… Hello.”

Simon takes a step back, needing a protective wall at his back and as much space between himself and you as possible as he tries to assess the situation.

��How the fuck did you get inside my flat?” Simon mutters under his breath, dark eyes widening when he realizes the thumping in his ears doesn’t match his rapid heartbeat but belongs to your fluffy white tail gently wagging against the soft leather of his couch; just as fluffy and white as your ears, like freshly made cotton candy.

“I was brought here and told to wait for my new handler,” you answer as your head tilts to the side curiously, gazing up at the large man with bright doe-eyes. “Are you Simon?”

Simon’s narrowed eyes widen instantly again at the sound of your voice uttering his name so sweetly, so... casually. It makes him sick to his stomach, and he swallows back the sour taste in his mouth as it fills with saliva.

“Who the fuck brought you ‘ere?”

He needs a name, so he knows who to beat to a pulp before he grabs the first poor bastard who crosses his path next.

“Uhm–oh!” Your small, triangle-shaped ears perk up, and the giggle you let out makes Simon grimace underneath his mask. “They had silly names for humans,” you tell him, still giggling softly to yourself before adding: “Gaz and Soap.”

Simon huffs in exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, it explains the “special orders” his bloody Sergeants had gotten from Price today; the reason he couldn’t attend today’s training session. And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

“You’re all wet, Simon,” you remark about his appearance; sweet voice laced with a concern so genuine that is has his spine tense and his stomach churn with aversion. “Are you not cold?”

He wants to bark at you to stop calling him by his name, to stop trying to appeal to him just because your bloody stupid nature tells you to, to stop imprinting on your so called “new handler” just because someone told you that you belong to him now. He wants you out of his flat and out of his life before anything terrible and out of his control can take root and blossom behind his ribcage.

“Get up,” he snaps at you before his thoughts can spiral any further and he almost, almost feels bad when you flinch in your seat, ducking your head submissively while your ears flatten against your head. “I’m taking you back. You’re not staying here, lass.”

“W-What?” Your face drops, your fluffy tail stops wagging; eyes glossing over as you begin to tremble and shrink on the spot. The sound of your soft whine only angers Simon more, because it tugs on his heartstring, makes his protective instincts flare.

“You heard me. Get up and grab your fuckin’ suitcase. ’m taking you back to wherever you came from.”

When Simon glances back at you, something mean and violent lodges itself into his chest cavity; twisting and squeezing his rotten heart as soon as he sees the devastated look on your face; ears drooping and shoulders slouching in defeat while another soft whine vibrates in your chest.

“Okay,” you answer eventually, snivelling when fat tear breaches your lower lash line and runs down your supple cheek as you untuck your legs from under yourself to move off the couch. “Okay…”

There’s a shrill ringing in his ears when Simon’s mouth seems to move on its own, making a decision for him. “Wait. Stay–Stay right where you bloody are.”

And you immediately do as you’re told, like the obedient pup you obviously are, settling back and perking up again as you blink dumbly at the brutish man with bright, big eyes and an expectant look that makes Simon groan internally before he reaches into one of his many pockets to retrieve his old smartphone.

He mutters and curses under his breath as the cracked screen lights up, and it doesn’t take long for him to find his Captain’s name in his short contact list. Simon taps the screen with his gloved thumb to call the man, ready to argue tooth and nail to have you picked up by from his flat again, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

Simon’s jaw is clenched tightly while his sharp gaze keeps flickering back to you, still not quite believing you’re not some stress-induced hallucination, or nightmare.

It takes two rings before Price picks up.

“Ghost–“

Simon inhales deeply. “Price–“

“Getting acquainted with your new companion, son? She’s quite the sweetheart. Easy on the eyes, too, judging by what the lads told me.”

His chest deflates, air rushing from his lungs in a long exhale. That comment alone is enough to make him even more furious. “I don’t want her. Take her back to wherever she came from, Captain.”

There’s a beat of tense silence before Price speaks up again, and Simon can hear the squeak of the old office chair as the other man leans back in it.

“Did you read her file yet?”

“No, should I?” Simon counters gruffly, feeling his patience grow thinner by the second.

“Aye, son, I suggest you should.”

“Gimme the short version, Price. I’m this close to handing her over to the next lucky bloke who passes by my fuckin’ flat.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Price says decisively on the other; his gruff voice way too calm for Simon’s liking. “She’s a rescue, Lieutenant. Got rescued from one of those terrible puppy mills.”

That makes Simon shut up as his eyes flicker over to you; softening somewhat when his eyes lock with yours. You keep watching him with the slightest pout, waiting for orders or for him to finally send you away. He’s still considering it, though the revelation of your background makes him hesitate for some odd reason. Empathy.

“Simon?”

Simon squeezes the phone harder in his grip; hard enough he thinks he might break it once and for all. “You better find a new handler for her, Captain.” He bites out through clenched teeth. “It’s not gonna be me.”

Price sighs. “Alright.” There is another pause and Simon can hear it when Price scratches his coarse beard in contemplation before he speaks up again. “Just keep an eye on her for the night, aye? I’ll make the necessary arrangement to have her transferred to someone else.”

“Good. She can stay for one night. One. Night.” Simon growls before hanging up.

The soft sound of your tail thumping against the couch catches his attention again and when he looks back at you, you’re practically beaming at him.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

[parfaitblogs]

i NEED a angst fic (with a happy ending ofc) based on tolerate it by taylor swift please 🙏 big chance it’s been done before though and im just the most unoriginal bitch ever

tolerate it ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid gets out of prison, and you baselessly feel like your relationship is growing increasingly one sided.  pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: angst tags: post prison reid. neglectful bf spencer reid. happy (open) ending. communication yippee. themes of self doubt in reader. mentions of spencer not eating.  word count: 2k a/n: writers block isn't real you just need to watch criminal minds season 12 episode 13 'spencer' and then listen to tolerate it on repeat for three hours straight. iiii know human beings don't talk in long monologued speeches but for the sake of my sanity let us pretend i am shakespeare and spencer reid is my leontes. plzzzz tell me if u liked this or if u didn't yay thank u ily

i sit and watch you. i notice everything you do, or don't do. (lines 3–4)

A fork scrapes against ceramic. It emits a scratching sound that hurts your ears, and you're cringing from your curled up position on the couch as you hear it. Silverware shines beneath the bright, warm glow of his kitchen light, his food barely dented as he pushes it around his plate. 

He's been playing with it since he sat down to eat it. 

You're not too sure what's going through his head as he takes barely there bites of a meal you cooked. You don't think you want to know. But it takes him all of twenty three minutes to come to the same conclusion he made last night, and every other night before that. That he isn't going to eat any more of the food, and just like his fork, his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. 

He wraps the plate in aluminium foil, the crinkling of metal being your only indicator that he has plans to eat it later. At least, that's what you hope. 

When he disappears into the bedroom, you follow him. Like a lovesick puppy, you're trailing after him, and your chest feels hollow with how embarrassing it all is. 

He doesn't know you're watching him, though. 

At least, not to the extent you are. He's field trained enough to know that you're keeping an eye on him, but your silence is only indicative of you giving him the space he so politely asked for three days ago. He's not in his right mind to assume you're silent for any other reason, and you've battled to a loss with the thoughts of letting him into your disaster of a brain. 

He doesn't need to know that.

The ensuite door shuts behind him, and you hear the water turn on minutes later. You take the cue to curl up on your side of the bed, your fingers toying with the paper edges of a book you now had in your lap. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, for you were rediscovering your love for children's novels amongst this trying time between you and Spencer. 

"Hey, did you buy me more shampoo?"

Your head lifts at the voice, the snowy Narnia world you had built in your brain shattering in an instant, as you're met with the dull colours of Spencer Reid's bedroom, and a showered and dressed Spencer Reid standing only a few feet away. His bedroom hadn't always been dull. Really, nothing had actually changed artistically within it to make it dull. But there's something about no longer laughing in a room once filled with so much love that mutes its vibrance. 

"Yeah," you say, dog-earing the page you were on and slipping it onto the nightstand. "I saw you were running low."

His lips part as he exhales, and you hate that you can tell he's pushing away something snippy. It wasn't that he was actively trying to start fights with you, but his temper has grown short, and he has more anger in his heart than before. 

"You didn't get the right one, that's all."

And though it isn't said rudely, your chest opens up like a black hole regardless, and a thick ball of emotion lodges in your throat.

"I'm sorry," you force past your lips, despising the hollow sound of your sad voice, and the fact that he notices it. His eyebrows frown towards each other at the sound of you, and he takes a step towards the bed.

It's pathetic, right? To be this upset over him letting you know the thing you bought him wasn't correct. In that almost fake sounding soft, kind voice he has when he is trying to keep his unnecessary frustration at bay. 

But it wasn't like this was the first time you'd done something for him in recent, and been told you did it wrong, instead of simply being thanked. Acts of service he was finding problems within no matter what they were, each new critique chipping away at the scales of your self confidence. You don't even think he's meaning to do it.

Every time this happens, memories of the other times flash violently in your head, reminding you that he could not find the beauty of being cared for by you the way he had before this. This, this thing you were barely even able to string the letters of together, because it seemed so foreign and faraway to you. Spencer Reid in prison is not a sentence that makes sense in this — or any other — timeline. You don't think it ever will. And yet.

You'd cooked him meals every single day since he got out. Meals he'd barely ever touch, wrap in foil, then put in the fridge for his work lunch the next day. You don't know if he's even eating them at work, or if he's just taking them there to throw them out. You've been too scared to reach out to any of his team members to ask. Knowledge is power, but knowledge makes his negligence all too real. 

There's a fear in calling it negligence. It isn't fair of you to expect the same man before and after prison, and you know he's dealing with more than you can fathom. You were prepared for distance. 

Just not this much.

The submerged sound of your name tugs you from your thoughts, and suddenly Spencer is closer than he was before, and he's repeating your name over and over in calling. Once you rapidly blink and shake your head, he determines you've returned to Earth, and he's falling silent again. There's concern knitting his eyebrows together, and he's got his hands hovering in the air, as if he's reaching for you, but second guessing himself at the same time. 

"Whats going on in your brain?" he asks you after a few beats of the two of you just staring at each other. 

Like a dam breaking, his question triggers an onslaught of emotions, and every fear and insecurity you've had inside you spills out.

"I feel like you suddenly hate me," your eyes rapidly search the duvet in front of you for your words. "Or—or I annoy you with my presence? Or my care? I mean, I try to do things for you and you barely even spare them a second glance, or thought. You barely talk to me anymore outside of updating me on your schedule. We sleep with miles of distance between us," you gesture to the bed beside you. "I cook you meals you don't eat, I wash your clothes you don't fold. Both of which are things that I'm fine with, because I can't imagine how skewed your appetite is, and I—I know laundry is a trigger now. But there is not even a slight hint of you—you being thankful. You know, appreciative. I feel like I'm following you around like a servant, and I'm doing things with no gratitude in return. I'm doing things I shouldn't have to, because I'm your girlfriend. Not your maid. But they are things that I want to do, because I care for you, and I love you," you pause, a self deprecating smile appearing on your face. "And—and you haven't even told me you love me since the day we got you home. Do you even love me, still? No, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. I mean, I do. I don't know. God, Spencer, can you say something?"

He doesn't. For a long while, he stares at you, and you train your eyes on the pattern on the bedding you're currently sitting under. His gaze is pulverising, and every second that passes is another limb turning to dust beneath it. His silence should be enough of an answer for you. Yet, you hold onto groundless hope still.

It feels like eternity has passed you by, by the time you hear his voice again.

"I don't mean to make you think I don't love you," he says. "I do love you. Which feels meaningless to confess to you now, knowing how you feel, and I wish my expansive knowledge of words could come up with a confession that does justice to how you feel, but also makes you feel better. I can only hope you take it at face value, and don't assume I'm saying it because it's what you want me to say." 

He finds a seat on the bed in front of you, fingers fidgeting with each other as he fixates on the wooden flooring in front of him. 

"I am grateful for everything you've done for me recently. I'm sorry I haven't expressed that. I'm having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other, let alone stringing together sensical thoughts. I wish I could tell you what my mind sounds like without feeling guilty about it. It isn't nice, and every thought I have is far from positive," he lifts his eyes to you, and you watch in real time as they soften, for the first time since he came home. "I will tell you that there's you. Among every awful thought and feeling I have, there is you. I think I... I think I've been coming across as ungrateful because you are a breath of relief after every bad thought and feeling. Am I making sense?" you nod your head, and he sighs in, namely, relief. "I take a step back from processing my emotions and figuring out how I'm going to talk about them with that bureau therapist when I think about you, because you are the one good thing I have to hold on to. So I just bask in the thought of you, or the sight of you, and focus on nothing else."

You aren't sure when you began to cry, and you only realise it when you have to sniffle before speaking. "You can focus on so many things at once, though." 

"Not anymore," he admits, looking back down. "I don't know what's happened. I've gone from having a brain that works inhumanly — which is objectively an incorrect statement, but I digress — to one that cannot multitask on two separate things at once." 

"Oh," you whisper. "I see."

"I'm so sorry I've made you feel as though your efforts go unnoticed, honey," he murmurs. "They don't. This has just been really difficult."

"I know," you say, wiping your tear stained face with the back of your hand. 

There's a part of you that wants this to be the end of it. The end of self doubt, and distance, and instead the beginning of your relationship rebuilding itself alongside Spencer. 

There's a larger, more logical part of you, that knows you cannot just sweep every self conscious doubt under the rug and move on. 

"I just want some time," you tell him, and his shoulders tense as you speak. "Not to—not to break up. Or even for us to have a break. I don't want that. I've just felt very... unloved. Like you're merely tolerating my presence in your life. And now, I know you aren't. But I have to find my confidence in myself in this relationship again before I can move on."

"Okay," his voice is strained as he speaks, and you know he's not exactly content with your request for space.

You try not to focus on that, in order to stand firm in your decision. 

That is where the conversation ends. And just like every other night, he climbs into bed and leaves a considerable amount of distance between your two bodies. You choose not to dwell on it, because this is now him giving you the space you so politely requested. You were catastrophising, and you'd be damned if you let such a thing control your life any longer. 

It maybe wasn't all in your head, but you still had to take the self doubt shaped dagger from your stomach out.

now i'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life. (line 30)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[flawseer]

Became curious based on a Smaugust piece: What are your thoughts on everyone's favorite royal suck-up, Pike? (also ofc compliments to your writing and art)

Surprise, I am still kicking. And thus my Sisyphean quest to answer all the questions in my inbox continues.

I like Pike. I used to think moderately favorably of him, but pondering this question and then drawing a bunch of pictures of and about him made me realize that, yeah, I am rather fond of him. He is funny and cute in the same way a small, yappy dog is.

I remember once talking to my partner about Pike and I asked: "Do you think the JMA staff has to deal with Pike constantly trying to sleep in the hallway in front of Anemone's room?" Only to then realize, upon re-reading the books, that this actually happens in canon. I was thrilled.

Most of the time when people ask me what I think of a character, they want to hear what my take on them is, so I'll get into that.

Background

I don't think a lot is known about Pike's life, outside him having been assigned as Anemone's (questionably) covert bodyguard. He is one of those background characters that fill out the student roster at JMA but don't get a lot of development, though he is one of the more lucky ones as he gets comparatively more lines and scenes than, say, Barracuda, or Garnet.

We don't ever hear about his home life or familial situation, but I think he comes from a common military family. Not a particularly prestigious one, but rather one of middling significance. I imagine one of his ancestors--like his great grandmother--once made it to captain and ever since the whole family has prided themselves on their military legacy and loyalty to the Seawing throne, even though nobody else really knows who they are.

Pike's parents are both bottom rung palace guards; trusted enough to be stationed vaguely near the seat of government over a remote outpost, but nothing more. As is tradition in their family, they signed up as soon as they were old enough to hold a trident. Pike was expected to follow in their footsteps, and so did the same. He is naturally eager to please, doesn't ask many questions, and knows how to follow orders, so he took to this life relatively well.

One thing immediately apparent when observing Pike is that he is very blunt, headstrong, and reckless. He is prone to self-injury and mishaps, routinely making a tail end of himself during exercises. One day, I imagine, he was out in the courtyard, practicing his combat maneuvers, when he somehow managed to trap himself underneath a training dummy in a humiliating way. Unbeknownst to him, the Queen and Princess were walking past a window overlooking this scene, and the latter happened to spot him.

Princess Anemone, starved for normal social contact due to being permanently leashed to her overbearing mother, immediately took a liking to the clumsy guard and wished to take Pike into her service. The Queen though, hated the idea. Anything she couldn't control with 100% certainty was not to be let near her only living daughter. She didn't even let her own sons approach the Princess for this very reason. So she refused.

But Anemone, sensing an opportunity to finally snatch a tiny mote of control over her own life, didn't relent. She would never overtly defy her mother, but pushed back against her in the most passively aggressive way she could muster. She WOULD have this one thing that was hers, no matter how many times she had to sigh wistfully or forget to eat.

Coral meanwhile still disliked the idea, but after some pondering figured this could work to her advantage. Granting her daughter this favor would make her grateful, and thus easier to keep in check. It was not like the boy would be able to do anything undesirable since she would always be there to watch anyway. And if he ever displeased her, a random guard was easier to dispose of without turning heads, than if she let Anemone play with one of her brothers.

So eventually, she acquiesced, and extracted Pike from the palace guard to assign him to her daughter's protection.

The news hit Pike's family like lightning. Suddenly, after decades of being nobodies with delusions of grandeur, the whole palace was paying genuine attention to them, and the new recruit who, overnight, got assigned to be the Princess' personal retainer. Pike's parents took him aside and impressed on him how important of a task this was. If he did his job well and kept the Princess content and safe, not only would the current Queen think favorably of all of them, but Anemone would remember his service and reward him once she took the throne herself. For his sake and theirs, this was an opportunity not to be squandered.

And thus, Pike shouldered this great responsibility suddenly thrust onto his wings and embraced being Anemone's personal servant and protector. Pushed forward by his sense of honor and loyalty, a desire not to disappoint his family, and the knowledge that, if he were to fail and lose the only heir, Queen Coral would surely kill him.

Day-to-day life

Pike takes his duty very seriously, both out of loyalty to his liege, and because of how much is at stake for him personally. I picture him getting up during the small hours each morning and beginning his daily exercise routine, to stay in shape for his job. His roommate Flame often wakes up to him noisily doing squats in the middle of the sleeping cave and yells at him. "Am I cursed to be tormented by a diminutive idiot Seawing wherever I go!??!" Pike is lucky that his other roommate, Bigtail, is a heavy sleeper. Otherwise the training session would likely be cut short, with Pike tied to the ceiling lamp.

After wrecking Flame's sleep, Pike usually seeks out Anemone and attempts to stay near her at all times. Initially this caused friction between him and the teachers, as he would often skip his own classes to attend Anemone's. He only stopped doing this when Tsunami made it clear skipping classes would get him sent home, and thus away from Anemone permanently.

As they spent time at the Academy, the Princess began to get better and better at giving Pike the slip whenever she got fed up with his overprotectiveness. He freaks out whenever she vanishes, which is often. To help manage his stress, the JMA staff make him attend regular seminars on inner peace and meditation hosted by Fatespeaker. He is not very good at it, but enjoys the exercises that involve listening to running water.

He began to mellow out for a bit after initial growing pains, until the History cave incident occurred. The bombing shook him back into the bodyguard mindset and he began sleeping in the hallway outside of Anemone's sleeping cave. It weirds out Ostrich whenever she has to climb over him. Attempts to get him to stop this have been unfruitful. The current policy seems to be to let him do this until things calm down and he stops on his own.

Anything else

I believe Pike may have a thing for Rainwings. He is generally hyper-aggressive and rude towards everyone he talks to, with two notable exceptions. One of them is Anemone, whom he is sworn to serve and keep safe. The other is Tamarin, whom he is uncharacteristically kind to. My personal impression is that he may have a bit of a crush on her, but keeps himself from pursuing it as to not upset Anemone.

To my knowledge, Pike never really interacts with Turtle. That is a shame, because I would like to know how they would get along. Pike may be greatly disappointed at Turtle's general un-regal-ness, but still begrudgingly respect him out of obligation. I can picture a scene where he berates Turtle for his demeanor, only for someone else to chime in with an affirmative "Yeah Turtle, you suck", upon which Pike turns around and starts ripping into them about disrespecting Seawing royalty.

Concerningly, Pike's future is very uncertain. He is actually in grave danger right now. If Queen Coral ever finds out that he allowed a murderous, seawing-hating ancient wizard to abduct Anemone, she will have some opinions on that. If Coral has one consistent character trait, it is homicidal vengefulness against anyone who fails to protect her children, regardless of circumstance, regardless even if the perpetrator IS one of her children. That means there is a very real chance she will recall Pike from Jade Mountain and try to tear him apart.

I don't think Anemone would allow this to happen, mind you. She has been privy to her mother dragging poor sods out to the plaza to rip their teeth out, enough to recognize the signs of it coming. If she suspected Pike's life was in danger, I believe she would prevent him from leaving.

For now though, he remains at Jade Mountain, doing the best he can with the responsibility he was dealt, acting as Princess Anemone's retainer. It is a difficult, stressful, at times thankless job, but he would not have it any other way.

"Honor, and duty."

[starlightdelrey]

the view between villages

platonic ! f1 grid x reader

summary: f1 is a dangerous sport - it's common knowledge. but accidents - bad accidents - aren't as common. seeing the youngest (and only female) driver crash and not immediately respond is something the boys never thought they'd have to experience, and the rest of the world is just as devestated.

cw: major accident, graphic descriptions of injury and vehicular damage, graphic descriptions of car accident, mentions of death, blood and gore, negative emotions such as sadness and regret, angst, mentions of religion,

song pairing is "the view betwen villages" by noah kahan

(not based on any particular race)

today's race felt off to begin with. When y/n had attempted to leave her aging yorkie, comet, in her hotel room - like she had done for the past couple months - he began to whine.

"poor baby," she mocked, but turned the small TV on and switched it to the channel that would be broadcasting the race live. "look, com. watch me on the tv."

the dog had complied and jumped onto the un-made bed, but when she left and closed the door, he had whined once or twice before calming down.

she made a mental note to get him checked out at the vet, but got distracted when she showed up to the paddock and got a look at the track.

"the weather wasn't as shit yesterday during quali," she said off-handedly to max verstappen, who was chatting to the engineers.

"are you worried?" y/n was a good racer, it was clear - but whenever max saw how small she looked in comparison to everyone else on the team he had a small sense of dread. it wasn't new, just annoying.

"nah." she grinned at him, her hair already pulled back into a french braid for ease during the race.

---

"lights out.... and away we go!"

the lights blink out and y/n is already gunning it, attempting to bypass the boys from mclaren.

she discovered early on that locking up would be her main issue today, and she made it clear on her radio.

"i keep locking up."

her voice was calm but shook a little as she struggled to steer, and she spoke only in short sentences to prevent stuttering.

"copy."

finally, she worked out a system to braking that prevented the struggle, but in speeding up, found that she'd made her way into a mass of cars.

"watch out, y/n. keep out of trouble - wait until everybody else has moved out of each others way."

"ok. pulling back-" the radio crackled and then went silent as a car careened into the side of her.

---

the audiences at home got to watch a replay of the impact.

somewhere in australia, a family consisting of two parents, a teenaged boy and a little girl are watching the race.

the boy reacts first, jolting. "was that logan sargeant and y/n y/ln?"

"yeah... turn up the volume?"

the mother grabs the remote and obliges, terse.

"was that the girl driver?" the barely 5 year old asks, brows furrowed.

"baby, go play in the other room." her father dismisses her, and when she slowly shuffles out, eyes trained on the screen as the commentators relay the details, her dad huffs.

"now. and don't look at the screen anymore."

she squeals and runs out, and the boy starts to jiggle his knee up and down as they wait for more information.

across the world, houses go silent.

---

"and it looks like logan sargeant attempts to pull away from the crowd but misjudges the distance between himself and y/ln. we can see him here slam right into the right side of the body of her car, and she goes spinning out, right into barricades. oh! and if we slow it down, you can see that the force of her chassis hitting the barricades not only forces the car to lift fully off of the ground, but it also tips - the top of the vehicle flips up into the barricade until it falls back into place. that is a nasty hit for rookie red bull driver y/n y/ln."

the commentators keep talking, thinking nothing of the accident, until the cameras switch to the red bull team, who are trying to get into contact with the girl.

"y/n, are you okay?"

silence.

"can you respond? y/n we need a vocal response. anything, okay kid? even if you can just hold down on the radio button so we know you're there."

no response.

the commentators continue.

"and it looks like we're getting no response from red bull driver y/n, who has just crashed."

---

his whole body jerks on the impact, and he spins out off the track, coming to a shaky stop.

"shit, shit, shit!" his voice cracks.

"are you okay, mate?" the radio crackles at him as he's fighting back tears.

"yeah - was that y/n i hit?"

"yes, we can confirm the crash involved both you and y/ln. we are receiving word that it is a red flag crash."

"is she okay?" he doesn't get a response at first, so he tries again. "is y/n okay?"

"no word yet. sorry, logan."

"fuck! i'm so sorry - i really thought it was clear, i just... fuck."

"calm down, sargeant. wait for pick-up and keep yourself collected. we'll tell you as soon as we find anything out, okay mate?"

"sure."

he lifts himself from the smoking chassis and the world watches as he kicks it out of frustration before letting his head lower.

there's a sickening feeling in his stomach as he sees the girls unmoving vehicle.

he pictures her inside, and the fact that she's so much smaller than the older men cause his mind to unravel with pictures of her limp and unconscious.

---

inside the car, y/n blinks her eyes open, groaning.

her ears are ringing and her head hurts, and the body of her car is so warped that it's vacuum sealed her into the vehicle.

in the back of her mind, y/n feels the pain in her right thigh and left ankle, and her right shoulder feels dislocated.

"kid, we need an answer." the radio's muted and crackling, and when y/n tries to respond, she realizes that something on her end is fucked because they're still begging for an answer.

she goes to climb out of the car, but a sob tears out of her chest at the immense pain that suddenly blooms throughout her whole body.

she falls heavily back onto the seat and pants, closing her eyes.

she feels slight relief from the pain when she fully relaxes and closes her eyes, and nestles into her seat a little to get comfortable.

the need to sleep takes over her and she obeys, nodding off.

---

inside her hotel room, comet's ears pull back in concern as he hears his owners name being called out repeatedly from the television.

---

"red flag, max. we need to restart the race."

verstappen stills, his ears suddenly ringing. he has a bad feeling about the red flag but just can't place it.

"what's happened?"

"there was a crash between a williams and y/n. to the pit lanes, please." the voice on the other end seems calm, but there's a waver to it.

"fuck, are you joking? are they both okay?"

"the williams driver... logan sargeant, we're hearing, is up and out of his chassis. we've heard nothing from y/n yet."

he'd fight them, ask for more information, but knows that red bull would be the first to hear anything.

"tell me if you find anything out."

"copy."

as he drives to the pit lane, max replays her grin at him as she reassures the dutchman.

"nah." her nose is scrunched and hair pulled out of her face.

he thinks about how bulky the helmet looked on her, the barely 20 year old driver somehow never managing to put on any muscle, no matter how hard she tried.

he prays to jesus, zeus, allah, and even the virgin mary - surely she'd have sympathy to max's prayers, as she's lost someone dear to her before. any deity he can think of is immediately begged to ensure the safety of his partner.

---

a whining noise pulls y/n back into consciousness, and she furrows her brows.

"i'm trying to sleep, com. shut up." when she opens her eyes and sees the battered cockpit in front of her, she realizes that she's not hearing her dog cry, it's just the ringing in her ears that are back.

and then suddenly all she can see is comet waiting for her. comet, waiting in a hotel room that she'll never re-enter. what's gonna happen to the mutt if she dies? her parents are over-seas, she has no boyfriend to look after him. comet would be all alone.

and then all the guys on the grid are flashing through her head. she knows, vacantly, that logan crashed into her. he'd never forgive himself if she died. verstappens win streak would be fucked if he was grieving over his teammate. even lewis hamilton, who was the first driver to openly back her as the only woman on the grid.

she screws her eyes shut and lets out a heavy sob, steeling herself.

---

the commentators are no longer focused on the race.

"and i think i can speak for all of us when i ask, where is the goddamn safety car and ambulance? young driver y/n y/ln has been stuck in the wreck for about a minute and a half now, and there has still been no aid for her. which is a cause for concern about the overall safety of f1, as- oh my god!"

---

charles is already on his way back to the pit lanes, muttering manifestations under his breath for y/n to be okay.

he's shaking, filled with lead and a lump in his throat. he and y/n aren't super close, due to their team differences, but every time he spoke to her she had a certain gleam in her eye that one only had when they weren't afraid of death.

this worried him. racing was her life - would she succumb easily? it was a known fact that many drivers drove as if they had nothing to lose.

the idea of her choking on mortality in her chassis scared him more. maybe her body was broken, and the pain was all she could feel as the life drained from her? he worried for those that would have to witness the blood and bruises when she was pulled from her car.

"we've got an update on y/n."

he was pulled out of his mind. "tell me. please."

"she's getting herself out. the paramedics were taking too long, so she took it upon herself, apparently." a startled laugh falls out of charles' lips as he cheers back.

---

muscles screaming, y/n forces herself to lift out of the cockpit, allowing her body the only relief of rest once her upper half is slung over the halo. for about five seconds she stops, before she forces herself to continue.

the safety car and paramedics are here now, and camera crew for the live footage plus the netflix crew are close behind.

people are shouting at her to stop, but she continues to claw her way out of the wreckage.

she's crying and praying to a god she never knew she believed in as she forces her broken legs out of the car, sliding over the side to the ground.

she stands and looks around at the medical crew who are advancing towards her and tries to take her helmet off. she can't, and they're reassuring her that they'll do it for her.

y/n looks out at the audience and raises one arm to greet them. she's met with immediate raucous applause and, swaying for a few seconds, she falls.

---

"you would never believe it. this lady is pulling herself out of her car. as the camera zooms, you can really see the absolute strength this is taking her - hold on, we're getting audio now."

the world watches with bated breath as the coverage of her climbing out of the car begins to play. you can hear the agonised screams she lets out as she forces herself to exit, and just how broken some of her limbs look. her left ankle hangs limply, and she has to use both arms to force her right leg out of the cockpit.

"what a magnificent scene. y/n y/ln has kissed death, and still lives to tell the tale. we see her now, standing on the track as the medical staff come to her aid, and she falls. a very fair response to what she has just gone through. a round of applause to y/n y/ln, the girl who kissed death!"

---

"so lando, congratulations on p4. obviously, the whole crash between logan and y/n caused a damper on the overall race. how do you feel about it?" the interviewer pushed a mic at his face.

"the crash? yeah, it was terrifying not knowing if she was okay or not. i'm not surprised she ended up climbing out of the chassis herself," he laughs softly. "i've never known her for being patient."

"how do you feel about her new nickname?"

"nickname?"

"people are calling her 'the girl who kissed death'."

lando can't stop a high-pitched laugh from escaping. "girl who kissed death? that's stupid. oh god, i can't wait for her to find out about that. she'll be proper pissed off."

"right, well, thanks lando. have fun celebrating!" the interviewer bids him farewell.

---

a few months later:

over the healing process, y/n was forced to give multiple statements, post social media posts, and even a quick video from the hospital bed, but when she sees comet, her resolve finally fails.

she begins to tear up as the scruffy dog barks at her, jumping up and down.

"someone's excited to see you," lewis hamilton, the temporary guardian of the dog, grins.

roscoe stomps his feet and licks y/n, panting at her.

"awe, little babies. i was so scared of dying and leaving comet all alone, but i think he would've been fine."

lewis glances down at the kneeling girl in front of him and tsks, nudging her with his foot. "don't say that, y/n. nobody would've been fine."

"yeah?"

"yeah. have you seen all the tiktok edits of your crash? people were terrified. i was terrified."

y/n doesn't say anything, but stands to hug the british man.

he holds her back, before clearing his throat. "save that love for death. heard you've kissed it before."

"fuck off."

--- la fin ---

[wizardrousactivity]

The Rat, Dead Dog. 

The Rat, Dead Dog. 

“I’ve told you, it’s not me-” — You were trained to never fall under pressure, your pleas falling under his deaf ears. Another cut to your calf when he doesn’t hear you forthwith giving up the information, it doesn’t matter how desperate you sound, nobody is here to save you anymore. They can’t trust you anymore. 

He’s trying to convince himself he doesn’t feel bad, that he’s only doing his friends a favor. Getting rid of you for good - dispensing with the waste of the world, which unfortunately had to be you, didn’t it? The only person that he thought he could trust, you bewitched him. The mask had slipped off because of you, the imperfections were perfected because of you. Now it’s only a cold shoulder - if he’d even give you that. “Give us the fucking information,” The use of your moniker is the way he’d gain your sultry glare. 

You’ve been beaten and battered for days by Simon, and it still feels like months the longer his torture traverses. The metal of the chair you sit on starting to turn red with gore. You fear to lose yourself, if not for the keen rage that fumes, revenge written on its blemishes. “I don’t have the information you want.” You never thought you’d be in such a position with him, a foolish hound falling victim to your framing.  

It’s surprising you weren’t immediately cut off with another lash, the gash he’s continuously spread starting to reach your bone, you dread the stinging of your flesh, held back by a grunted-sob.  For only a second you see his gaze soften with emotion he lacked, like he truly wanted to believe you, and by-god did he wish to - in the event that the threads didn’t lead to you. He swallows. 

There’s too much evidence against you, and his team. His own pathetic feelings aren’t worth the risk of keeping you around, he doesn't think he could handle having you captive with them for long, holding a rat that was dressed up with a story just to use them, use him after everything that happened. The sight would haunt him if you weren’t gone, the weight of his loved one turning out to be a spy, living in a room on base.

The depravity of reality sets on him now, painfully dawning on him. 

He needs to dispose you. For everybody’s sake. 

His hand white-knuckles around the knife, your chest tightens while the behemoth starts to stand to his full stature - an unpredictable mongrel you can only imagine what is coming next, his dilating pupils trembling as he looks at you with terror. The task of your murder would save his mates, and eat him from the inside once he was finished. If there is no information you have to spout - you are better useful dead to them, they could get it themselves. “Simon..” There's no response from him. You are not needed anymore. Don’t make it painful. 

Yet you’re saved by the bell, his head turning as the call from the mohawk is made. Shouting for his arrival with urgency. You only look to the floor as footsteps echo, signifying his leave for the day. "Fuck you."

The gashes in your legs have pooled themselves and made home around your feet, cold air running along the insides of your flesh, and you shudder against your constraints - the feeling is enough to make you nauseous with the sensory you experience. There’s nothing for you to throw up anyway, if there was, it would be your intestines. 

Your heart cinches, as you sit there with the thought of having to live with the fact you’ve been framed, then to die known as the rat in 141, that’s all you’ll ever be now. You’re just another damaged dog, you’ve joined their cult of forever deprecating. Their muffled banter plays beside your ear as you weep.

You’ve accepted that your funeral won’t be made, that nobody will ever honor your death or mourn during it.

[sweetnothingtm]

every man gets his wish // simon riley

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ "i learned how to make love from the movies" ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

pairing simon x fem!reader

content pure unadulterated smut, maybe a daddy kink?

summary the one where ghost is obsessed w a camgirl

note based off my drabble, thank you for the love ♡ lmk if you want a part twooo

There’s a special place in hell for people like Simon Riley.

He could’ve gone to heaven - but he won’t.

Simon has vices. He has anger issues, and he doesn’t like to share. He doesn’t take precautions, he’s cocky with his wallet and he most certainly doesn’t take orders from anyone.

He’s impulsive, abrasive, and most importantly - Simon Riley only thinks with his dick.

You’re the opposite of him. Careful, gentle and patient, you come across as bubbly and approachable. The sparkle in your eyes just never seemed to die, and an innocent smile is always playing at your lips. You seem to embody everything that Simon could never be.

Not that he would know - you’re just an eager camgirl with a big audience.

Every night, Simon Riley comes crawling to you like a stray dog. It wasn’t meant to be this way, so vile and naughty and delicious. He swore it would only happen once, and yet here he is, pining after the taste of you. He always finds himself with his cock in his hands, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and filthy curses slipping past his lips.

You’ve already started - much to his disappointment.

He’s usually so punctual. Never wasting your time. Always appreciative of the way your eyes sparkle with adoration when he joins the stream. Today was no different - he was just a little too eager and spent the last hour jerking off to the thought of you.

And he’s gonna do it again

The room is cast in a soft glow, your legs tucked beneath you and the soft hum of music playing in the background. Your soft skin is covered in red lingerie, pillowy tits covered by the lace that he bought.

It’s a damn shame - the way Simon can’t be there to take it off himself.

In contrast to the natural shine you give off, Simon is drowned out by the dark moonlight. His body casually leans back against the headboard, eyes trained on the illuminated screen that separates you from him. While he is adorned in shadows, you shine with the soft glow of your exposed skin.

Your lips, pulled into a little pout. Your delicate fingers, dipping between your plush thighs. The ebbs and flow of your body, curves and blemishes that he’s memorized like he owns you.

It’s quite pathetic, really - how infatuated he’s become with a camgirl. But he can’t help himself. He’s got all your videos saved in a folder that he opens at every opportunity.

He’s cum to you more times than he can count, always groaning as the hot ropes of white liquid splatter against his skin. He’d tip you relentlessly, always accompanied by a foreboding message that sent chills along your spine.

Missed you, princess. What a good girl. Finished so soon? What a beautiful little slut.

Your hands are wrapped around a little pink toy that you push between your thighs. It hums against your skin, causing Simon to angrily palm himself through his pants. The sickeningly sweet sound of your gasp has him reeling, cock already beginning to twitch and drip with precum.

His hand continues to palm at it, ignoring the little stain that starts to form on his pants as you continue to stimulate yourself. You gently part your thighs, hair framing your face as you give him - yes, him - a little preview of his deepest desires.

You’re already wet, and he curses himself for being late today. Simon is memorizing the little bow on your panties, the way you push the vibrator against the soft fabric and let your little plump lips part for a moan.

He’s got a toothy grin, rubbing at the tip of his cock and imagining that it’s your delicate hands struggling to wrap around him.

You’d blink up at him with full and eager eyes, lip pulled between your teeth. You’d gently unzip his pants, fingernails dragging against his skin and causing his dick to perk up. He’d rub the pad of his thumb against your cheek, a nasty smirk plastered across his face.

Simon imagines that your tongue would give gentle licks against his irritated tip, that you’d hollow out your cheeks and suck him off until his cum is coating your throat. He would continue to lazily fuck your mouth, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes as you hummed against his cock.

The sound of your little gasps pulls him from the daydream, eyes sharply trained on the screen as you pull your panties to the side and rub the vibrator against your clit. Your chest is pressed outwards, nipples hard against the red lace that separates him from you.

Before he can stop himself, with his cock twitching underneath his touch and thumb rubbing softly over his tip, he absently clicks on the keyboard. It’s a good thing he’s got his card number memorized.

$250 from Ghost_Stalker

-smile pretty for me, princess.

You pause your movement, vibrator stuck between your folds as you writhe and twitch against it. You squint your eyes, rolling over the message once. Twice. Three times before a smile is tugging at your lips. A hand comes up to squeeze your tit, fingernails dragging against the lace as you lean into the camera and smile sweetly.

“hi ghost - i missed you.”

His belt hits the floor before you finish your sentence.

Your voice is thick like honey, laced with desire that Simon is convinced was meant just for him. The vibrator begins to move again, pressing into your wet core with a little squelch as you mewl out in pleasure.

He follows your pace, eyes fixated on the pink toy that dips in and out of your little pussy. It stretches you, pushing against your folds and humming against you.

Simon is messily jerking himself off as you roll your hips against the vibrator, letting soft pleas fall from your lips. He spits on the tip of his cock, palm rubbing it against his shaft as he grunts happily. The slick and lazy strokes mirror the way you rub the vibrator greedily against your clit, thighs parting like the gates of heaven.

He wants in.

When you pull the toy away from you, the sound of your dripping cunt follows along with it. You wiggle closer to the camera, eyes blown out with pleasure as you press the pink toy into your mouth and lick. Tongue sloppy, eyes rolling in ecstasy and hips bucking against the pillow underneath you.

$300 from Ghost_Stalker

-i missed you more princess. missed your pretty little pussy.

“prove it,” you challenge.

His head slams against the back of the chair, cock covered in his spit as the sounds of your soft laughter that plays from his screen. He bucks his hips up with his movements, imagining that your body is curled around him and bouncing on his lap.

Your nails would drag against his skin, leaving harsh red lines in their wake as he’d let his hand fly to your ass with a sickening smack.

You’d jump, grinding your mound into him with desperation as your perky tits rub against his chest. Simon imagines himself nipping, licking and biting at them, his dick throbbing at the way you’d drool out his name.

In his dreams, you’re an obedient little slut. Ever a tease, you’d bounce on his dick one minute and beg for a kiss the next. He’d wrap his hand around your throat, choking you until you’re seeing stars and begging him for more.

You’re chatting away with sleazy men who can’t afford you, and it makes Simon enraged. It’s him who matters. It’s him who should have your attention. It’s him who you should open your legs for. His stroking gets aggressive, jaw set and hardened as you blow kisses and make false promises. Simon is rubbing himself raw, his free hand going to cup his balls and gently squeeze.

And then someone asks you where you got your cute little outfit. And like the vixen you are, you smile sweetly into the camera and push your tits together.

“Oh? these? they were a gift from someone special.”

And it’s true. He’s your favorite. He’s the one who you’re dreaming of - and it’s embarrassing to pine after a man you’ve never met. But it’s washed away by the burning desire to please him. Only him.

He’s trying so hard to hang on. To regain some sense of normalcy as his dick continues to twitch and warmth spreads throughout his body like an inferno. His eyes are trained on your curves, the way you’ve got a smile lighting your face up as your hips grind into the soft pillow below you. He’s slapping the tip of his dick against his abdomen, letting the beads of precum splat against his skin and forever stain him a sinner.

Here he goes again, thinking with his dick.

$500 from Ghost_Stalker

-put on a good show for daddy.

And you do. The red lace has been slipped off of you, tossed to the side as you reach over and off the screen to grab something. A perfect angle of your tits in full view. Simon follows every movement. He licks his lips in anticipation, stomach heavy with desire.

You sheepishly pull the dildo out, smacking it against your outstretched tongue and dipping a hand between your legs. Dripping, wet beyond comprehension and Simon is lucky enough to watch as you curl your fingers inside your pussy and mewl.

His hips are rutting up, hand fisting his cock in desperation as you suck on the dildo while fingerfucking yourself. His chest is tight, sweat glistening against his skin while he watches intensely. So fucking wet.

You hope he’s watching. You’re praying that he’s jerking off to the sight of you. That you’re both staring up at the ceiling, eyes searching for the constellations that brought you together when the stars aligned.

Is it wrong? To want something that you’ve never known?

Simon can tell you’re becoming undone. You always get riled up with his words, eyes full of excitement as he showers you with attention every stream. In his fantasy, Simon thinks you wished that your delicate fingers were his. That you wanted him to slowly rub at your bud of nerves and press his fingers into your cunt. And then he’d have you sit on his cock and make him watch as he licked his fingers clean.

He can’t help himself when you’re like this, messy and needy on screen with your wet pussy smearing against the pillow that he wishes was his face. You’re whining and panting, fingers dipping in and out of your core as Simon picks up the pace and lets the heat travel up his skin and light him ablaze. Your voice is music to his ears.

“i’m so close- fuck. please, i- gonna cum.”

When you climax, your chest is heaving and a layer of sweat has covered your soft skin. Your hands are dancing across your soft tits, twisting at your hardened nipples that all but scream bite me. He’s smearing more spit all over himself, breath coming out in short pants and eyes dark and heavy.

The dildo rests against your folds, almost as if it’s taunting him. And so what if he blows all him money in one night? It’s going to a good cause - at least, that’s what he’s convinced himself.

$2500 from Ghost_Stalker

-again.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the message, ignoring the chat as it blows up at the extra show. You’re already eager, smacking the tip of the dildo against your folds and rolling your hips upwards.

“a little desperate tonight? i don’t mind - anything for daddy”

It takes everything in him not to cum right then and there. Simon feels like he’s died and been reborn. Like a siren has sung him to a peaceful sleep. Like the explanations for his bank statements are worth it. And when you press the tip of the toy into your dripping wet hole, it feels like Simon can practically smell your sickeningly sweet pussy.

He thinks it smells like candy.

You wince at every inch of silicone that slides into you. Your thighs are trembling, an arm propping yourself up as you whine and mewl like his favorite little kitten. The camera is shaking from your movements, head hung back in ecstasy as you bottom out the dildo and sigh happily.

Such a dirty slut, Simon muses. So nasty. At this point, his strokes are quick and methodical. Tugging at his tip that’s still producing precum, almost as if it’s desperate for release. His balls ache, his eyebrows are knitted in concentration and his abs are tight with anticipation.

“m’ so wet,” you gasp, the sounds of your pussy flitting against the dildo playing on repeat in Simon’s mind. Your thighs are spread fully, and your pillowy tits are jiggling with the movement of you fucking yourself. “are you watching?”

There’s a frenzy in the chat, a hundred eager men thinking that your words are meant for them. You raise yourself to your knees, angling to toy to press against your folds as you bite your lip. “i bet you are. guess what?” You breathe, eyes twinkling with mischief. “i wish you were here.”

Oh, how wrong they were.

He's close. The edge that he’s built is about to fall beneath him, collapse into a million pieces while you get drunk off the way the dildo slips in and out of you. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your chest is heaving, lungs struggling to take in air as you climb that high once more.

You whine and beg to yourself. Simon curses and lets his hips snap up against his stroking. His cock is unbearably hard, skin tingling with the sensation of pure lust that consumes him. You bounce and grind on the dildo with need, hair falling back against your bare shoulders as Simon drinks in every ounce of you.

Legs shaking, tits bouncing and hands coming up to play with your nipples, you look like a goddess. He’s never been so entranced, so enthralled and so obsessed. The way your nails dig into your skin, squeals of pleasure ripping through your stomach as you cum around the toy. You roll your hips greedily, savoring the orgasm and rubbing quick circles against your clit.

It’s all that it takes to have him squeezing the tip of his cock and shooting hot cum all over his stomach. It’s shameful, pathetic and downright heavenly. He promises that he’ll never cum to anyone but you.

The overstimulation has you reeling, chest heaving and eyes watering in excitement as a wave of pure bliss is crashing against you. The chat is singing praises to you, falling on deaf ears as you lazily still your hips and lean forward - dildo still firmly shoved in your pussy.

“are you satisfied?” You ask innocently. No, never. You don’t say his screen name, but it doesn’t matter, he knows it’s him you’re talking to. He knows by the way you slide off the toy, hair sticking to your skin as you slip on the red lace as a sign that the shows coming to an end. He knows by the way you dip your fingers between your wet folds, gathering the sticky cum around your digits - before you lick it off them like such a good girl.

He has to have you.

$5000 from Ghost_Stalker

-i’ll double it if you do it again

[skepticalkoi-catastrophe]

𝕊𝕜𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝔹𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: Mutual Friendship, Hinted Mutual Crush, College Au

⚠️Warnings⚠️: None

Word count: 769

𓆩 ♡ 𓆪 [10:45 PM] - "Should I be worried that you know how to replicate fake blood this well? I probably should be, right?" Jinwoo jokes as he enters your dorm room.

You decided to be a killer playboy bunny for the Halloween party tonight. The five-kitchen ingredient mixture drips from your neck as only moments ago you finished your makeup.

"If you want to get bloody tonight, I've got enough to share." You chuckle, placing the bowl of red liquid on your desk. "Where's your costume?"

Originally, it was supposed to be you and your best friend. She got hit with a bad stomach virus the night before and was still in recovery.

He offered to be your plus one once you gave him the news. It's somewhat of a favor he owed you from before. He's dressed in a black cotton button-down, partially unbuttoned, with matching black jeans. Black high-top Chuck Taylor's on his feet.

"My package got delayed, so no Ghostface mask. You're my plan B."

"Plan B?"

He takes a seat at your desk, crossing his arms as he leans back into your chair. "You've got any ideas?"

You squint, trying to picture a look at him. Something that would take no time at all.

"A Skeleton." You snap your fingers, having an 'aha' moment.

His mouth curled into a smile as he nodded, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug. Digging through your makeup bag, whatever wasn't in there was strewn about.

Your posters, tapestries, and post-it notes with reminders and daily affirmations on them catch his attention. Everything had a similar color palette, from your sheets to your laundry basket to your rug beside your bed. It made him wish he'd stop by more often.

"Do you want me to paint your neck and chest too?" You asked, sizing him up as you organized your brushes and body paints.

Your question hangs in the air. He hasn't had his face painted since he was a child. Tonight was the one night he could be truly himself. Carefree and stupid like every other twentysomething. Based on your makeup alone, he knows he's in good, capable hands.

Jinwoo scoots forward in your chair.

"Yeah, go all out. Make me a skeleton."

You smirk, standing between his legs. Raking your fingers through his hair, you attach two larger hair clips. His exposed forhead meets a cooling sensation from your primer. Its slushy to then tacky consistency threw him off.

You trace a black outline around his eye sockets, whispering for him to close his eyes. He does so, allowing you to deepen the shadows. Drawing on his nasal cavities and each tooth across his upper and lower lip, you're deathly close. Your thumb smudges away any mistakes, much to his confusion. He almost thought you were doing it on purpose. Almost.

Down his neck, your thin brush goes as he twitches a tad. "Are you ticklish?" You take a go at him. There was no reply. He merely blinks and scoffs.

You keep going, carving out each spinel vertebrae. From the cervical to the thoracic vertebra, brushstrokes flowed into his ribcage. His toned chest surprises but doesn’t shock you. Guess all that excessive training paid off.

"Tell me, what made you take this route this year?" A cheeky grin plastered across his face. "Never would've thought you were one for the classics."

"Classic easy access, you mean?" You joke, applying the white body paint next. It fills in the shaped skull of his face like an X-ray. Your brush strokes earn another twitch out of him.

"Jin, quit moving, or you're gonna look like shit." You huff, sucking your teeth.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I can't help it. It feels weird."

His mischievous glint in his eyes trails up and down your neck and exposed chest.

"I guess I'm playing guard dog tonight, too? All things considered?"

"If you're looking for an excuse to kick some guy's ass for looking at me too hard, be my guest. You don't need my permission."

You straightened your stance, making sure every marking was symmetrical. Up went your thumb. It splits his face into two halves. Closing your right eye, your tongue sticks out from between your lips.

He leans his head to the left, taking your thumb in his larger hand and pulling you forward.

"Whaddaya doing?"

"Admiring my work, you're one hell of a canvas." You thread a hand through his hair, removing the hair clips. His bangs flow back where they were.

Jinwoo rises from your chair. His hand never lets go of yours, nor does he break his gaze.

"Paint me again sometime, yeah?"

If you enjoyed it, please comment, like, and reblog!

Divider created by @cafekitsune

A/N - HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🎃

[peggyao3]

Holy Seed

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: Feyd so badly wants to plant his seed deep inside his wife's belly.

WORD COUNT: 2,554

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her pronouns, AFAB FMC, porn without plot, smut, explicit sexual content, Dom/Sub undertones, vaginal sex, Switch!Feyd, Switch!FMC, breeding kink ❗, without actual breeding, Orgasm Denial, Power Play,  Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, cum eating ❗

A/N: This is pure breeding kink and filth, you might need a shower after this one 😩

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

There is no possible way to resist when his wife seduces him in the sanctity of their shared bed chamber. A wisp of translucent, gauzy gowns that flow around her curves while she lounges on the bed teases him, and then that modicum of fabric is gone too, pulled over her head by nimble hands. She rolls on her stomach, arching her back, elevating her ass. Her little toes with painted nails wiggle invitingly in the dim light of the glow orbs.

Not even a string of words whispered by a manipulative Bene Gesserit mouth would have been more effective than this. Feyd strips his sleeveless tunic and kicks off his lounge trousers, nearly tripping over the fabric around his ankles.

She makes a show of trying to crawl away from him, towards the pillow and headboard, spreading her thighs a smidge so Feyd sees the shimmer of wetness that clings to her lower lips. Swiftly, Feyd leaps on the bed, dragging his knees over the comforter to get to her quickly.

Pale hands capture her hips and she makes an adorable, little squeak when he yanks her backwards and her pussy bumps against his cock head whose texture is like taut velvet. Immediately, a palpable twitch goes through his manhood and his length cranes upwards, throbbing against her folds, once, twice.

She lets out a seductive chuckle, squishing her thighs together to trap his cock, but Feyd pulls back and brings the plump head to her hole with one fluid stroke, knowing her body like he knows his blades.

"Ouch!" She yelps and Feyd presses harder, taming her squirming hips with a harsh squeeze of battle-calloused hands that have been trained to know that a tight grip can be the difference between life and death. His teeth slide over her back and close around the softness between her nape and shoulder. Quickly, she succumbs to him.

She is unprepared save for the wetness she's mustered from watching him from across the room. "You can't tease me and expect me to play with your pussy before I come and fuck you."

"I c-can't really, can I?" She gasps and chuckles, instinctively trying to inch away from the abrasive pressure against her tight walls, but Feyd hooks one wiry arm around her hips, angling her ass up the way he needs. Willingly, her spine adjusts to his soft manhandling and her cunt flutters lightly. A primordial part of her thinks there is nothing greater than being taken like this, by a beast that comes and mounts her when she lures it.

Feyd's perception is narrowed down to what transpires between their bodies, the slow throbs of her cunt, the wetness that begins to slick up her walls, the tremors in her flesh while he splits her open, forcing her puffy lower lips to spread themselves around the thick base of his cock. His wife mewls and snarls like an angry kitten, purring and writhing against his taut chest.

She blatantly enjoys the physical strength of him - superior to her in any way, hard where she is soft, his flesh bulging with lithe muscles. His torso curls against her back, bending and moving as he ruts into her like a dog, bringing one arm to the front to support his weight on his hand right next to her own smaller one that clutches the sheets.

Feyd thinks there must be a reason why most animals choose this position to consummate their mating. Even though human anatomy allows for a myriad of different ways, there is nothing like bending over your woman and trapping her in a cage of arms and legs while she takes your cock like she was built to.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" She purrs, trying for a smug tone, but her breath is labored and strands of hair cling sweatily to her neck.

"I quite enjoy it when you know your place, my wife." Feyd's hand slides around her body, cupping her lower belly where he knows his cock is buried and will be pumping an offspring into her. "This'll be round and full soon," he grates out, moaning when he presses down harder on her abdomen.

"Ahhh, it's too deep!" She complains and he feels so sorry for bruising her poor little cervix.

"It must be deep, so it'll take."

She chokes out a moan and her arms buckle, chest and face falling against the mattress while her ass remains high, cunt spread open by his thick, milky cock. She is beautiful, back arched into submission, ass cheeks burning from the constant smacking of skin against skin.

"Your body likes that, wife," Feyd giggles. "There, you clenched again." He repositions his supporting hand, planting it in the nape of her neck instead. A hoarse whimper is muffled by the comforter and her toes curl. Her knees move in a pathetic attempt to crawl, but Feyd shifts his knees closer together, bracketing her body with warm, smooth thighs on either side while his cock pounds into her puffy hole over and over.

"You're trapped," Feyd purrs and bends over to nip at her back. "And you're going nowhere until I've planted my seed in you. And then I'll stay inside you as long as I feel like it. I won't let a single drop escape until it's nestled in your womb." He hits some higher notes in the end, growing immoderately excited over the idea of finally seeing her belly distended with his spawn.

His wife chuckles like she thinks that's a cute idea.

She brings a hand under her body and reaches back between her thighs. At first, Feyd thinks she's just going to play with her clit (things like that sometimes end up being neglected when one's mind is in a mating frenzy), but her nails scrape against his inner thigh. A soft moan escapes him as she traces the rippling muscles under perfectly smooth, hairless skin. His heavy balls wildly smack against her forearm. 

"It's time you stop," she purrs, wriggling her ass against his pelvis. "I can feel you twitching."

"No, not this time, wife! I won't pull out, you can't make me- Agh!"

Her hand forms a claw around his sac and her nails dig into the smooth, flushed skin, squishing the globules full of seed that are nestled inside, aching to be spent.

Stubbornly, Feyd's hips keep snapping, filling her pussy with more cock than it should be physically able to take. His torso undulates and shivers against her back and a low groan reverberates in his throat, like a cornered animal threatening to bite, but she knows she's got him on a leash.

"Husband…" She threatens and Feyd is ready to strike, both hands snapping to the meat of her hips to pin her down and rut hard and bestially until his seed is spilled into her willing cunt while her unwilling mouth screams and curses him.

But his wife has learned to strike quicker than he does. She curls her fist around his balls, gripping them right by the base, and tugs until he wails and withdraws, pulling out of her pussy. Her terrible hand releases him and his cock is left throbbing, angry and hard like steel, the head flushed dark grey with inky Harkonnen blood. Her pussy taunts him, her lips still parted, puffy and wet with her juices.

"No…" Feyd weakly declares, shaking his head when she turns around and sits on her knees. Her skin shines damp with sweat in the low glow orb light and she points her index finger to the side of the bed. "No, don't make me spill it," Feyd whines and brings his hands in front of his cock, protectively cupping it. His flesh is hot and sticky and the lightest of touch makes him buck into his own palm. His balls look swollen and darkly flushed, peeking out behind his fingers.

"Don't be sulky. There. To the edge of the bed."

Feyd pants heavily, jaws twitching. Then he obeys, stunned that his wife dares to talk to him like that, as if she had a chance to stop him if he really wanted to pump her full or seed. He kneels on the bed, chest and hips pointing towards the open room.

"That's a good husband."

Feyd's mouth is still turned downwards and he stares at his pelvis until his wife's hands gently curl around his and pry them off his manhood. The sound she lets out at the flushed, twitching sight he is, can only be labeled as admiring. Feyd-Rautha surrenders to fate when her fingers curl around his length and he is ever shaken by the size of himself and how she struggles to encompass the entire girth of him, squishing the bulging veins so her fingertips can touch.

She is at his left side, intimately close, and begins stroking him with her left hand. He moans softly, watching with awe how her smaller hand slides confidently up and down, spreading her juices over his solid shaft and the swollen head. Feyd thanks her with whimpered voice, fists twitching at the sides of his body. 

Her right hand slides over his flexed glutes and between his thighs from behind, cupping his tortured balls with a much gentler grasp. Still, Feyd twitches fearfully and a bead of pre-cum gathers at his slit.

Her head then pushes between his arm and his side, so her cheek is pressed against Feyd's ribs while she strokes him with one hand and fondles his sac with the other. The way she holds him is like only a wife would dare to hold him, never a pet,  and Feyd's hand defeatedly settles on her head, cupping it against his heaving side.

"I'm so close," he whines, eyes fluttering shut. "It's not too late."

"Your cum goes right where it belongs, my husband." She nips at his soft, milky flesh over hard muscles.

"N-No, ahhh~"

She feels his climax in his balls first, how they churn and lift against his pelvis, how the flesh pulls taut, followed by lazy throbbing that translates into his impressive cock and culminates in the swollen head. A pathetic moan rumbles in Feyd's chest as glistening strings of inky semen spurt on the floor tiles, going to waste. His climax ends with a few last droplets that dribble sadly into the black, little puddle.

Proudly, his wife purrs against his side and kisses his torso while cruel hands still gently massage his manhood, even though he is spent and softening.

"You know they're all waiting for an announcement." Feyd's voice pitifully trembles and he sounds like a pouting boy, hips twitching with each soft tug on his cock and balls. The royal court probably thinks him impotent by now.

She slips away and leans back, lounging on her back like a cat. "Well that's too bad because I have so much fun playing with you. And I know you like it when your holy seed spills on the floor" His wife chuckles a little and Feyd bares his charcoal teeth, far too aware of how right she is. The shape of his balls feels heavy and hot and they throb against his smooth thighs with each pulse of his own blood.

"One day I won't let you do this to me," he threatens with grating voice.

"Come, snuggle me." She spreads her arms and Feyd obliges at once, nestling his face against her collar bone while she traces his shoulder blades. His flaccid cock is squished between his tummy and her side. They calm their breaths for a peaceful little while.

"Should I call in the servants to c-clean up?"

"No!" His wife snaps and Feyd endlessly enjoys her visceral reaction. "It's all mine and no one will touch it."

"It's all yours, my wife." Feyd's eyes are like black, shiny marbles when he peeks up at the possessive expression that adorns her face. Plump lips press against her neck.

"Would you fetch it for me, please?"

A tremor of excitement seizes him and he dutifully gets up and squats down next to the bed, briefly mourning what had become of his spend when he looks down at his empty cock and the inky puddle on the tiles. But at least he gets to do this to her. For a moment, she only sees the smooth shape of his head bobbing slightly back and forth, his rounded, muscular shoulders moving. He reminds her of a hairless beast, feasting on a corpse, but he only scoops up his cum as best as possible and smears it against his hollowed palm. It's by far not everything, but it'll do. 

Feyd climbs back on the bed, approaching his wife whose expression is much more docile now and her hands are clutched over her chest as if she's impatient or nervous or both. Her thighs rub together, but he can still see her swollen lower lips peeking out. Grinning, Feyd settles down at her side, supporting his weight with the elbow of the arm that holds his precious cum.

"Open," he purrs and she obediently parts her lips, covering her bottom row of teeth with her pink tongue. "That's my darling," he praises and gathers cum on the tip of his middle finger which then finds the center of her tongue. Whining quietly, she suckles the offered digit into her mouth, curling tongue and lips around it, careful not to scrape him with her teeth, as if she hadn't nearly squashed his balls only minutes prior.

Feyd reverently watches, and when he slowly slips his finger out of her puckered, pouty mouth, it comes out clean and glistening. She opens her mouth and presents her tongue, proving that she's dutifully swallowed his holy seed.

"Pretty," he praises with a low rumble. "Do you want more?"

His wife nods with her tongue out, so Feyd feeds her semi-translucent, inky cum from his palm until there's nothing left to scoop up. She grabs his hand then, one hand curling around his wrist, the other snatching his calloused fingers, and brings it to her mouth. Greedily, her tongue flicks out and she licks every last remnant of sticky seed off his skin, big eyes peeking at him over the edge of his pale hand.

"You're so messy." He whispers it as a compliment. His wife's lashes flutter and she nods.

Her submissiveness makes Feyd's core clench agonizingly with the need to breed her, but his balls are empty. "If I still had anything in me, I'd fuck you right now until you're full of child. I wouldn't stop!"

"Mmm-hmm~" She slurs around the heel of his hand, suckling on it before letting go of it with a pop.

"I'd put it deep in your belly."

"Your seed is in my belly, my na-Baron," she giggles.

"Or I could simply scoop up some more from the floor and stuff it into your cunt with my fingers." Feyd's pupils widen and flicker as he cups his wife's cheek with his saliva-coated hand, caressing her wetly. She doesn't flinch.

"You wouldn't do that," she confidently purrs and cups his smooth cheek in return. "You want to breed me honorably."

"Will you let me someday?" Half-lidded eyes study her face.

"Perhaps," she coos. "If you behave."

A/N: Going through a reeeaally mentally draining period of my life right now, so all I can do is upload one of my "old" fics from ao3 🥺 But I'm working on Relic and I should have a new chapter for you this weekend!! <3 Whoever reads this - I hope you're doing well today!

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

[2kiran]

゛ KEEGAN P RUSS ⸝⸝ “damn, kid, who taught you that?”

synopsis. a man who's too starved of attention and a man who's low on patience. you two make a great pair, in spite of the prominent presence of your denial. | word count. 0,9k // 978 ◞

caution. bratty keegan. top male reader. mentioned spanking. gun play. degradation kink. dumbification. rough anal sex. no use of protection (wrap it before you tap it). namecalling (whore, slut).

3KVENT NAVI ﹑ MAIN MASTERLIST

keegan russ who's the epitome of need. he'll shamelessly yearn for your presence, grabby hands clinging onto your shoulder to feign friendliness with the gesture. he grips harsher than necessary, stepping a little bit too close. it's normal; unordinary out of sight, until his clothed cock purposely brushes against your thigh and you decide that act alone is your final straw.

his face nuzzling the pillow within his arms, muffling the high-pitched whimpers that fleed his quivering lips. “please- haah.. don' be a tease.” keegan russ who lazily pushes himself back into your face when your harsh hand relents it's assault on his ass, now replaced with your mellow and wet tongue tracing the red prints.

spittle dribbles down your chin, gathering on his lower cheek. it stung, tears prickling keegan russ' lashes. the angry head of his cock spat out pre, weeping at the feeling of the pink muscle lapping at him. you were right there, his muscles contracting around nothing as he felt your breath hit his hole. if only he knew how to make you move closer.

“or what?” cold and deadly. something so familiar trailing down and down until it heavily rested against the base of his dick.

he's internally panicking, heart skipping beats until his hips gently rock, pursuing that sensation. keegan russ' mouth is lost and locked on his face. “you're fuckin' pathetic. are you not ashamed? a man like you gets so wet from a gun.”

he loves when you use that tone on him. he tilts his head enough, eyes peeking above his shoulder and he nearly cums on polished wood when his stare lands on your kneeling form. your teeth grazes him, tickles his flesh, injecting into his skin and you're suddenly a drug that's inscribed into his being. engraved into that distant heart of his, pounding with life solely for you.

“that's your doin'.” keegan russ states, matter-of-factly. he lets out a drawled whine when you pull away, saliva sticking to him and it's concerning how he doesn't feel an ounce of disgust. the sight has you itching to snap an image of his ass matching the crimson on his flushed face. “did i say you could speak, whore?”

you rise to your feet, fingers wrapping themselves in his strands and tugging him closer to you. he's like an obedient dog, well trained to know the signal, locking his lips onto yours. an intimate tangle, shoving your tongue into his awaiting mouth and swallowing down his surprised moan.

pressing your straining cock against his sensitive backside, it's as if you're sucking the air out of his lungs. he's the first to free himself from the kiss, panting harshly to recover.

“you - hnnn - asked me a question, and 'm not ashamed. i want it, want you.” he's murmuring through dreamy breaths, hips gently rolling to wordlessly convince you to finally fuck him.

the muzzle of your gun coaxes out a bone-chilling pattern up his length, rubbing along the underside of his tip. your jaw tenses, clenches, attempting not to lose your temper and give in immediately. his teasing undeniably worked on you, the memory of that daring look he passed you too tempting for you to rid of.

the hard structures built in his mouth dug into the silk case of the pillow, drool seeping and smearing across the material. his groans barely dulled, sobbing freely to eradicate the blur in his vision. keegan russ reduced to a stupefied slut, bent to your will as he's teetering both on the edge and your last nerve.

“is that th - the best you can do?” he gasps, clenching around you.

you grind inside of him, cock caressing his prostate with slow, smooth motions. drawing out, rim taut around the thickness. “shut it.” your hips slam forward, jolting the man and it has pain striking his abdomen when the edge of the desk jabs him.

the pistol sits neatly within your hold, pointed to the back of his head. it sends an abrupt shiver to his spine, the sense of death overwhelming him. “shit, you're so tight. what, you don't want me to pull out that badly?” he doesn't get to answer. you don't let him.

keegan russ who almost shrieks when your other hand grabs his hip, the bruising grip failing to genuinely hurt as you force him to fuck himself on your dick. “hnnngh! it's—” he interrupts himself with a loud gasping-moan, muzzle pressing on him harder.

“not your fault? just look at yourself.” you guide him, hole clinging onto you desperately, as if he's keeping you in - begging you to stay inside of him. he's never felt so full, unable to form rational sentences that would defend his current state. “all dumb 'cause of my cock. can't believe it took a few touches to get you like this.”

the pace quickens, body numbing from the force. you wrap an arm around his middle, yanking him upwards. the weapon against his temple, reminding him of it's presence, a weak whimper falling in between the pleasure-blinding moments. “what a slut you are.”

your leaky tip repeatedly rammed his sweet spot, his walls carrying the shape of your size. keegan russ cries out, hands reaching your forearm to ground himself to reality. a zip of ecstasy runs through him and up to cut his train of thoughts. brain idly sensing how your finger was centimeters away from the trigger.

his dick twitches, pearly, thick ropes spurting from his neglected slit. he would've doubled over if it wasn't for your strong hold keeping him in place, lowering the gun and kissing his cheek whilst he comes down from his high.

keegan russ groans out, the sound mixing with a half-whine. he was needy, and you lacked the copious amount required of patience to tolerate it. he had to have more. “why'd you stop?”

[mickandmusings]

love you, miss you, mean it (ii)

*part two of the original!*

**read part one here!**

pairing: bob floyd x f!kazansky reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: during his time back at topgun, bob finds a found family within the daggers. now that the special detachment mission is over, the daggers are being recognized for their success, and all of their families are gathered around them. when rooster recognizes an esteemed guest arrive with shiny new wedding bands, bets are on who the admiral's daughter is married to.

based on this ask! (thanks for the best ideas frank <3)

warnings: mentions of injury and hospitals, a small section of angst, dagger family love, phoenix being my fav ever, angst followed by more bubble gum fluff.

-

Years later, after a long engagement and an intimate backyard wedding, flight school and master's programs, TOPGUN (the first time,) and a handful of deployments and moves, Bob and Y/N Floyd now lived in a cottage-style home not far from the beaches of North Island. Well, they did for the past few months, since Bob got his call back to TOPGUN. Y/N didn't mind, she knew what she was signing up for when she married a Navy man, she only missed Bob now more than ever. She occupied her time by walking their dog, visiting her Dad who lived only a ten minute drive away, and rewatching her favorite TV show while she waited for Bob to come home at night. This mission had been different from the others, not that Bob nor her Dad could tell her much, the details had been fairly secretive. Y/N only knew that Bob left early in the morning, almost always before the sun, pushing his glasses up his nose and kissing her forehead. He'd return home after the sun had set, reeking of jet fuel and sweat. He'd be exhausted and dirty, but he'd make sure to take his sleeping wife from the couch to their shared bed before going to shower the day off of him. He'd be gone by the time she woke every morning, but there was always a post-it on her coffee mug in his scratchy handwriting:

Love you, miss you, mean it.

Y/N knew about his new teammates, the cocky Hangman, the kind and charming Rooster, the pranking, jokester duo of Payback and Fanboy, the smooth talking Coyote, and of course the infamous Maverick, who she knew better as Uncle Mav. Maverick had been in and out of her house throughout her whole life, which Bob was somewhat shocked and also unsurprised to know. She knew every time he was about to go into the air, accompanied by his new partner, Phoenix, who he talked about most of all. Y/N would hear her phone ding with a message, checking it quickly to see Bob's name flash across the screen.

In the air with Phoe, love you, miss you, mean it. x

The phrase that had started as an inside joke had slowly become a term of love that she looked forward to every day. It gave her something to look forward to, a sign that he was okay, that at least for a brief moment in time, he was okay.

After a week or so into his new training, Y/N began to notice some differences in her husband. He was still mostly himself-quiet but talkative in her presence, talking about his day with an upbeat attitude, but any mention of their present mission would send the corners of his smile downward a bit. Y/N didn't fully understand why, but with the amount of talented pilots and WSO's on this mission, she knew it was a dangerous one.

Several days later, Y/N woke up feeling...out of place. She had woken earlier than normal, considering how late she had stayed up waiting for Bob to get home. She felt uneasy, but blamed it on her lack of sleep. She continued her routine like normal-coffee, breakfast, walking the dog, starting the laundry-but every time she started a new task her mind began to wander. She knew she was likely overreacting, her mind playing tricks on her. When she came in from her walk, she immediately checked her phone, her thoughts taking over. She breathed a sigh of relief, there were no terrible messages or missed calls, only random notifications from her installed apps. Y/N still feels shaky for reasons she can't explain, so she reaches for the one person she always calls when she feels this way. It rings for a few seconds before the call picks up and her father's voice fills her ears.

"Hey, pumpkin! What's going on?"

Y/N sighs, biting her lip.

"Hey, Dad, sorry to bother you at work, I just, I've got a bad feeling I can't shake...I-I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Hey, hey, none of that. Nothing's wrong with you," her father's voice was calm and comforting. "Remember what we do when you have thoughts like this?"

Y/N was about to respond when her phone beeped with another incoming phone call from an unidentified number. Y/N's eyebrows furrowed, she recognized the local area code.

"Dad, let me call you back, I'm getting a call."

Her father signed off quickly, and Y/N's heart hammered as she answered the other number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Y/N Floyd?"

"Um, yes, this is she. May I ask who's calling?"

"Mrs. Floyd, this is the Naval Medical Center of San Diego. You've been listed as the emergency contact of Lt. Robert Floyd-"

Y/N's ears seemed to flood with water, unable to hear anything the nurse on the other line was saying as she sank onto the nearby chair, forcing her brain to tune into the words coming through the speaker.

"He is in stable condition, he is alert with no serious injuries. We would just like to keep him overnight for further observation."

"O-Okay, um, thank you. Am I allowed to see him?"

"Of course, he's in room 431, just visit the desk before to get a visitor's pass."

"Thank you."

Y/N hung up the phone and collapsed against the back of the sofa, her chest heavy and eyes overwhelming with tears. Her phone beeps, reminding her that her father was still on hold. She takes a deep breath, wiping away her flurry of tears before pressing the button and rising form the couch, in search of her keys.

"Hey, everything alright?" Her dad's soft voice entered her ears.

"Uh, no, no," She couldn't keep her resolve, her tough facade faltering quickly. She knew that Bob was fine, that he hadn't been hurt, but the phone call had terrified her. "Bobby and his partner had to emergency eject, he's at the hospital. I-the nurse said he was fine, but it scared the shit out of me, Dad."

She pulled her keys from the bowl by the door, all but racing towards her car as her father tried to calm her, reassuring her everything was fine.

-

Bob leans back against the pillow on the hospital bed, his few scratches and cuts already bandaged. Phoenix had been the same, the dark haired pilot now sitting in a chair next to her backseater's bedside.

"My wife is gonna kill me," Bob's quiet voice finally broke the silence, his eyes toward the ceiling.

Phoenix wasn't an idiot-she knew that her partner had a wife. Bob was quiet, private, especially with the other members of the squad, but Phoenix was incredibly observant. She noted the gold band on the chain around his neck under his flight suit, and the Polaroid picture of him and a girl tucked into his chest he glanced at from time to time. She'd never press him to talk about it, but she noticed.

"Doubt it," came her reply. "She's probably freaking out though. Not a common occurrence that your loved ones have to eject a fighter jet."

Bob's eyebrows raised, "When your father is the Commander of the US Pacific Fleet, you get used to it."

Phoenix's eyes widened, her jaw dropping. "Holy shit, Floyd! You married an Admiral's daughter?! Iceman's daughter, no less! I never would have thought that. Innocent little Bob, with an Admiral's daughter."

Bob chuckles lightly, sitting up with a slight groan. Footsteps sounded behind them, Y/N appearing before both of them. She had been crying, Bob noted quickly, her clothes disheveled as if she had simply ran out of the house.

"Baby," Bob's voice came, Y/N saying nothing as she approached him, doing nothing but wrapping her arms around his torso, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. She nearly cried at his familiar touch, his familiar smell-jet fuel, sweat, the lingering scent of his cologne. Any other time, she would've pushed him off lightly, telling him he needed a shower, but now, she wouldn't have cared if he smelled like rotting food. Bob's muscular arms held her tight, kissing the top of her head.

"Robert Floyd, you scared the living shit out of me. Never do that again."

He knew his wife's words were in jest, she had been shaken by the news of his ejection, but was thankful he was okay. The couple broke apart, Y/N's hands pushing Bob's hair that had fallen in his face, his hands on either side of her hips. Y/N turned to the girl in the chair, her face clouding over with embarrassment.

"I am so sorry, I completely barged in without even speaking. You must be Phoenix. I've heard so much about you, it's so great to meet you. I'm Y/N."

Phoenix smiles, "Natasha, it’s great to meet you too. Although I can’t say the same, Bob here keeps all intel about you on pretty tight lock. Don’t blame him though, the others would probably give him hell for snagging an Admiral’s daughter.”

Y/N blushes but laughs heartedly at Phoenix’s jab, the two quickly falling into a conversation with one another. Bob sits back and watches, his thumb rubbing his wife’s diamond ring and wedding band where their hands intertwined. As he watched the two women bond, he began to think of the rest of his found family. He wanted to introduce Y/N to the other Daggers, for his favorite people to finally all know one another.

-

The perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of the Daggers’ recognition ceremony after their successful mission. All of the Daggers and their respective families would be present, and of course, Ice would be there as well, as long as numerous other Navy personnel.

Under the summer sun of North Island, each of the Daggers sported their dress whites, their families in chairs in the crowd. Bob sat next to Phoenix, the pair exchanging knowing glances when people they knew arrived, or when certain family members arrived in a sort of over-the-top fashion. Phoenix had nudged him harshly with her elbow when Y/N arrived, dazzling in her sundress, sunglasses over her eyes as her arm was interlaced with her father’s.

“Since when was Ice Spice married?” Rooster’s voice sounded amongst the small crowd the Daggers had formed. “I swear I saw rings on her left hand. I mean I haven’t actually seen her since we were like sixteen, but I didn’t know she got married.”

“Ice Spice? The hell are you talking about, Bradshaw?” Hangman’s southern accent responded, eyes squinting as he looked into the crowd. “You mean Admiral Kazansky’s daughter? ‘Ice Spice’ where’d that come from?”

“It was her nickname, we grew up around the same people, most of the kids nicknames were extensions of their Dad’s call signs. Baby Goose,” he gestured to himself. “Ice Spice.” He gestured to Y/N. “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend though, God I’m out of the loop.”

Bob couldn’t help but grin to himself, almost glad he’d not told anyone other than Phoenix, whose brown eyes were piercing the side of his head, as if to say ‘are you gonna say something?!’

“She’s gotta be married to someone here, though, right?” Coyote’s voice sounded. “Not like she’s coming to all her Dad’s events for shits and giggles. My money’s on someone higher up, some other Admiral or something.”

Fanboy scoffs, “Who? Cyclone?” His voice is laced with sarcasm.

“No fucking way,” came Payback’s reply. “She’s way too good looking for someone like him. Way too young too, he’s ancient next to her.”

All Dagger eyes were locked on Y/N from across the pavilion, her smile wide as she spoke with another Admiral’s wife Bob couldn’t quite remember the name of.

“I’m gonna go with Javy’s theory. Nobody under Ice would be man enough to try to date his daughter. I’m a cocky son of a bitch, but one look from Iceman makes sweat roll down my back.” Hangman’s response was honest.

“He’s not so bad,” Bradley spoke. “But you’re not wrong, he’s one hell of an intimidating man. You’d have to have balls of steel to approach him about dating his daughter, especially if you’re under him.”

Bob smirked, remembering just how nervous he had been on Tom Kazansky’s front door at seventeen years old.

“What about you two? Where are you placing your bets?” Mickey looked over at Bob and Natasha.

Phoenix’s smile widens into a sly grin, the one she gets when she proves Rooster wrong, or gets one over on Hangman in the air.

“Girl like her-gorgeous, high-ranking father, everyone seems to love her. My guess is on someone you’d never expect, someone out of left field.”

Hangman nods, contemplating. “What about you Baby on Board?”

Bob’s eyes widen beneath his glasses as he scrambles for a thought. He looks over at his wingman, Phoenix giving him a look that undoubtably means to play along with it.

“Uh, I gotta go with Nat’s theory.”

“Course you do,” Coyote jokes. “So $100 on the bets, winning team take all?”

The Daggers agree unanimously, Phoenix’s grin almost slimy with satisfaction.

“Floyd,” a slap on Bob’s shoulder jolts him into sitting straight before turning to look at where the voice came from. “Good to see you, man. Haven’t seen you and the missus around much lately.”

“Admiral Jones, good to see you,” Bob shakes the older man’s hand with a firm grip. “They’ve been keeping me busy. I think we’re coming to the barbecue Sunday, you and Mrs. Jones enjoy Boston? How were the grandkids?”

The Daggers watch intently as the most reserved member of their group chats animatedly with an Admiral that they’d only seen in passing, Phoenix stifling a chuckle at the secret only she seems to know. The Admiral walks away after a moment, and Bob turns back to the group, who all look at him as if waiting for an explanation.

“Neighbor,” came Bob’s short reply.

“Missus?” Rooster’s voice speaks, his whiskey colored eyes shooting down to Bob’s hands, his wedding band glimmering in the sun. “I’ve never seen you with that.”

“Oh, no, probably not,” Bob starts. “Wear it on my dog tags when we’re in the air.”

“Bob’s married, and we’re all bachelors? Never saw that coming.” Hangman’s voice pipes up.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Payback’s retort is the last chuckle as the ceremony begins.

Admiral Kazansky opens the ceremony, introducing Maverick and the other members respectively, honoring them and finishing out the ceremony as quickly as professional. As the service ends, the Daggers distribute but keep close quarters, looking to see who the Kazansky girl ends up running to. Meanwhile, Phoenix watches as Bob interacts with nearly every member of high-ranking in attendance. He goes from bumbling, awkward Bob, to some other version of himself that makes dad jokes and has a firm handshake.

“Well Phoe,” Rooster speaks as he sits down in the chair next to her. “The only person I’ve seen her hug is Mav, and I know it’s not him. Should I just ask her myself?”

Phoenix face breaks out into a full blown smile as she watches Y/N make a quick sprint through the crowd of Navy uniforms to get to her husband, her arms thrown around his neck as her smile could blind.

“Won’t be necessary, Roo. I think the mystery has been solved, and I’m about to be $300 richer.”

Rooster’s eyes cut to his childhood friend embracing his teammate, Bob’s hands resting respectively on her waist, his blue eyes locked on his wife.

“Holy shit. Bob? And Ice Spice? Jesus-you-“ he turns to face Natasha. “You knew!”

“They’re high school sweethearts. Got married right after he finished the Academy, been together ever since. Live in one of those cute cottage houses by Penny’s, got a Corgi named Solo. Frequent guests at most Navy personnel barbecues, birthdays, weddings-it was Bob’s story, didn’t seem right for me to tell.”

Rooster sighs, standing to tell Coyote who stood talking with his sister. Javy’s eyes widen, looking over at the couple who is now talking to another Admiral and his wife, Y/N’s laugh fading into the crowd of voices. Javy nudges Jake talking beside him, Jake’s cocky grin fading as Mickey and Rueben have both already noticed. Their looks of shock fade momentarily as Bob pulls Y/N towards their direction, a smile plastered onto his face. Y/N’s smile is bright, her arm intertwined with her husbands, her pastel purple dress blowing in the sea breeze.

“Floyd! Got somethin’ you’d like to tell us?” Hangman’s shit-eating grin faced Bob.

Bob let’s out a chuckle. “Y/N, meet the one and only Hangman.”

Y/N smiles, nodding, “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Seresin.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hangman gives Bob a wink as Bob flips him off in response.

“Ignore him, baby.” Bob’s voice is full of good-natured humor, used to the teasing. “The tall one is Coyote, next to him is Payback, Fanboy, of course you know Phoe, and R-“

“Bradley Bradshaw,” his wife’s voice speaks. “How long has it been?”

She approaches Rooster with her arms wide open, Bradley reciprocating her hug.

“Too long, Ice Spice. How’d a nice girl like you end up with our Bob here?”

Y/N’s eyes furrow, her smile never faltering. “Um, when Dad and I moved, Bobby and I went to the same high school, been together ever since, high school sweethearts.” Her eyes sparkled as they met Bob’s sapphire ones, her arm going back around his arm. “What can I say? He’s a charmer.”

The Daggers hovered for nearly an hour, all taking turns swapping stories with Bob and his wife, getting to know one another. They mostly told stories to embarrass Bob, jabbing at him and his ‘balls of steel’ for not only dating, but marrying an Admiral’s daughter. Commending him on his royal stupidity for hiding his wife from them, all commenting that she was infinitely cooler than Bob himself. Bob took them all in stride, giving Y/N a kiss to her head before Phoenix began chatting with his wife. Standing in the center of the big group of people he considered family, his wife on his arm, charming them all, his heart swelled in his chest, warmness blooming, the same warmth he had felt when he spent time in the Kazansky house-true familial love, understanding someone without having to say a word.

As the Daggers split off one by one, leaving only Bob and Y/N, he pulled her close, hand on her waist, the setting sun and light breeze a picturesque backdrop for their night.

“Hey, Floyd?” His wife’s sweet voice reached his ears.

“Yeah, Floyd?” He chuckled back, pulling her in closer, leaving a kiss on her temple.

“We should have a celebration of your successful mission. A real one, not a formal one like this. We could invite everyone, all the Daggers, and their families. We haven't had Nat around at the house yet, and Dad would love it, would give him and Uncle Mav more time to conjure up how to terrorize the Navy even further.”

Bob nods, “I like that idea. Sounds good, I’ll text the group, see what weekend works best." His voice turns serious. "Thank you, baby, you’ve always been my biggest supporter, feel like I don’t tell you that enough.”

His wife is quiet for a moment, her focus on her shoes walking on the ground. She looks up at him, her expression serious.

“I’m proud to call you my husband. Always have been, but just thought I should remind you. And as much as I’ve missed you through this special training, it’s nice to see you have other people who take care of you, appreciate you like I do.” She’s quiet before she starts again. “All that to say, love you, missed you, mean it.”

Bob laughs loudly into the air, stopping to pull his wife into a proper kiss, one a tad more inappropriate than the chaste ones he’d given her after the ceremony. The two finally break after a need for air arises, their pupils blown wide as they stare at one another.

“How long do you think we have until your Dad notices we’re not at his place for dinner?” Bob’s voice is deeper, sultry.

“Long enough,” his wife replies. Bob smiles and picks her up into his arms bridal style, her laughter boisterous as he races her back to his trusty pick-up truck parked close by, his chest so full of love for her he simply can’t contain his wide grin filling his face.

As he starts the truck and peels out of the parking lot, he looks over at his wife, her curled hair blowing in the wind from the rolled down window, her pastel purple dress highlighting her best features. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia, a younger version of his wife in this same truck-her hair a bit longer, her eyes still wide with new love, a purple corsage on the same hand where a wedding band now sits.

“What?” She giggles, noticing his stare on her as they’re stopped at a red light.

“You’re beautiful.” She blushes pink, just like she had at the bottom of her childhood home’s staircase, the night Bobby had uttered those words through a shaking voice.

He thinks of seventeen-year-old Bobby, the version of himself who had said those words for the first time, more in love with Y/N now than he was then. If only seventeen-year-old Bobby could see him now, maybe he wouldn’t have been shaking with nerves, sweating through his rented tux. Bob smiles to himself as Y/N leans to turn the radio up, a folk song they both love.

He shakes his head, maybe it’s best his younger version didn’t know the outcome. The nerves were good, healthy. Even shaking, stammering teenage Bobby had more nerve than he thought. After all, he was there to pick up an Admiral’s daughter.

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