#whistle-like-a-missile

[holyblonded]

new beginnings | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole life is uprooted after one fall

warnings: deadbeat and neglectful parents, arguments

notes: new series!! i am actually very excited for this one so hope y’all like it. also this is a longer one!!

You pant as the stadium lights blaze down on you, illuminating the slick, rain-soaked pitch. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t.

The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and sweat, and the roar of the student section vibrates through your chest, deafening, chaotic. You hear the distant pounding of the drumline, the frantic voices of your coach and teammates shouting instructions, but it all blurs together. White noise.

The scoreboard looms above, flashing 1-1, with the clock winding down. Your heart hammers against your ribs. If the streak ends here, you will never forgive yourself.

A messy clearance sends the ball bouncing, fast, unpredictable, through the center of the pitch. It ricochets off a defender’s shin and lands in your path, a gift wrapped in chaos.

For a split second, everything slows. The world shrinks to you, the ball, and the goal. You barely think. You don’t have time to. Instinct takes over.

With one touch, you push it forward, just enough to create space. A defender lunges in, too late. You see the keeper off their line—hesitating, shifting their weight, waiting for a pass that isn’t coming.

You pull back your leg and strike. The ball rockets off your foot, slicing through the air like a missile. You know it’s good the moment you hit it. The sound— that perfect, crisp contact rings in your ears.

The crowd collectively gasps. It climbs, spinning, curving then dipping, impossibly fast. The keeper scrambles, their hands stretching, but it’s a second too late.

The net ripples and for a second, there’s nothing. Silence. A breath held by thousands.

The stadium erupts. Your name is swallowed by the cheers, by the stomping of feet, by the chaos of bodies surging toward you. Your teammates crash into you, arms around your shoulders, voices wild in your ears. Someone grabs your face, shaking you, yelling words you can’t even process.

The scoreboard flashes 2-1. The final whistle blows. You did it. The streak lives as does your pride.

After the game, the celebration carries into the locker room, shouting, laughter, the slamming of lockers, the sharp scent of sweat and victory. You let yourself bask in it, let yourself feel it. The thrill, the relief, the high of it all.

By the time you step outside, your friends are waiting for you, still buzzing with excitement.

“That was insane!”

“Goal of the season, easy.”

“You’re a legend.”

They throw their arms around you, ruffling your damp hair, laughing, their eyes alight with pride. You try to brush it off, but their energy is contagious.

For a moment, everything is good. Eventually, one by one, they leave, disappearing into the night. The celebration fades. The stadium empties. The high starts to wear off.

And like always, you do what you’ve done after every game.

You take a slow walk along the stands, scanning the seats. Searching. Hoping.

The lights above hum, buzzing faintly in the quiet. The student section is empty now, just rows of vacant bleachers, puddles reflecting the glow of the floodlights. Your gaze drifts over every seat, your breath shallow. Maybe this time.

But the stands are empty. No familiar faces. No one waiting for you. Just like always.

You exhale, pressing your lips together. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You won. That should be enough. But the ache in your chest says otherwise.

The sun is dipping lower in the sky, staining the clouds gold and pink as practice stretches into the evening. The scrimmage has turned playful, full of taunts and laughter, the kind of session where the intensity is still there but the pressure isn’t crushing. It’s just fun… until it isn’t.

You’re dribbling down the pitch, slipping past defenders with ease, the ball glued to your foot. Someone shouts your name in warning, but it’s too late. A tackle comes in hard, way too aggressive for practice. There’s no time to react, no time to brace yourself.

You go down, and the impact rattles through your body, but the second you hit the ground, you know something is wrong. Pain explodes up your arm, sharp and immediate, radiating from your wrist.

You don’t scream, but you let out a harsh, shaky breath, cradling your wrist to your chest as you try to push yourself up only to be met with a wave of nausea as pain tears through your arm again.

“Shit, Azulita—”

“Is she okay?”

“Someone get the trainer!”

Voices swarm around you, overlapping, frantic. The player who tackled you hovers nearby, looking guilty as hell.

Your coach is there in an instant, crouching beside you. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to shrug it off, but even moving your shoulder makes your wrist throb. “Wrist.” Your voice comes out strained.

Someone helps you up carefully, supporting your arm as they guide you toward the sideline. The trainer takes one look and mutters, “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“No,” you fiercely shake your head, “No hospital please.”

“Ríos do not give me that bull today.” Your coach says in rebuttal. “You are going to the hospital. That is that. Am I clear?”

Your eyes start to water but the tears never fall. “Yes, Coach.”

The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain, muted voices, and the occasional bump in the road that makes you wince. Your teammates on the phone try to keep the mood light, cracking jokes, promising to cover your cast in the ugliest drawings possible.

But underneath it all, a weight is pressing down on you.

Hospitals mean paperwork. Paperwork means parents.

You barely process the check-in, the way the nurses poke and prod at your wrist, asking questions, nodding at your answers until suddenly, everything halts.

“Alright,” one of the nurses says, flipping through the forms, “we just need to get a hold of your parents for consent.”

Your stomach drops. They dial the number you gave them. You already know what’s coming. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.

Frowning, the nurse glances up. “Do you have another guardian? A relative we can contact?”

You shake your head, quickly, instinctively, throat tight.

She tries again. Nothing.

“Sweetheart,” she says, softer now, “we can’t give you anything for the pain, and we can’t proceed until we get parental consent.”

The room closes in. Your teammates shift awkwardly, not sure what to say. The nurses murmur to each other. You stare at the floor, fingers tightening around the hem of your jersey, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

You could lie. Say they’re out of town. Say their phones died. Say something, anything. But the truth is pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. You don’t know where your parents are.

The minutes stretch long. Nurses come and go, but you refuse to meet their eyes, refuse to say anything. If they figure it out, if they realize you don’t have anyone, what happens next?

Then, a new nurse kneels beside you. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. She just speaks, voice steady, familiar in a way you can’t place at first.

“You remind me of my little sister,” she says casually, watching you carefully.

You glance at her. The way she talks, the tone, the firmness, the care, it reminds you of Olga. Your throat tightens.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t even realize the words are leaving your mouth until they’re already out, quiet and unsteady. “I haven’t seen or heard from my parents in months.”

The air shifts. The nurse straightens. Someone steps out of the room. The mood changes instantly. Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everything is about to spiral.

Olga groaned as the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to ignore it, but the vibration continued, insistent.

Alexia, half-asleep, only tightened her arms around Olga’s waist, murmuring something incoherent against her shoulder.

Olga exhaled, debating ignoring the call altogether, but something about it felt urgent. Carefully, she pried Alexia’s arm away just enough to reach for the phone on the nightstand, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

Her stomach twisted. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.

Reluctantly, she swiped to answer. “Hello?”

A brief pause. Then, a voice, calm, professional, but carrying a weight that immediately set Olga on edge.

“Is this Olga Ríos?”

“Yes.” She sat up slightly, rubbing at her face. “Who is this?”

“My name is Linda Perez, and I’m a social worker with Los Angeles County.”

Olga frowned, now fully awake. “Okay… what is this about?”

There was another pause, this one heavier.

“It’s about your sister.”

Olga went still.

“She suffered an injury earlier this evening during soccer practice at Willow Canyon Academy. She was taken to the hospital, but they were unable to reach either of her parents for consent to treat her injury. After further investigation, it became clear that your sister has been living without proper parental supervision for several months now.”

Olga’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait—what?”

The social worker continued, voice measured, but Olga could hear the underlying concern. “From what we’ve gathered, neither her father nor mother have been home for quite some time. Their numbers are disconnected or going straight to voicemail. She has no legal guardian available to authorize medical care or provide support.”

Olga felt like the room was tilting. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process. “You’re telling me she’s been on her own?”

“Yes,” Linda confirmed. “And given the circumstances, her parents are now considered unfit. Without an immediate guardian stepping in, she will be placed into the system as a ward of the state.”

Olga’s stomach dropped. “She’s just a kid,” she said, voice tight, gripping the phone harder. “You can’t—”

“That’s why we’re calling you.” Linda’s tone softened. “You are her closest living relative. If you are willing, you can assume temporary guardianship. However, this is a serious commitment. You would need to take responsibility for her well-being, provide a stable home, and ensure she receives proper care.”

Olga didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take her.”

Alexia, now sitting up beside her, stiffened at the urgency in her voice. Olga barely noticed, too focused on the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Linda asked. “This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

“She’s my sister.” Olga was already kicking the sheets off, reaching for the nearest hoodie. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Understood.” Linda hesitated. “Before you go— her injury. It’s her wrist. The doctors believe it’s sprained, possibly fractured. She needs surgery, but without parental consent, they can’t proceed.”

Olga clenched her jaw. “I give consent. Do whatever she needs.”

“I’ll let them know.”

The call ended, but Olga was already moving.

She threw open the closet, yanking out clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase with no real sense of order. Her hands were shaking. How did this happen? How did she not know?

Alexia grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic movements. “Olga.”

“I should’ve known.” Olga shook her head, running a hand down her face. “She never said anything. I talked to her. I checked in. She never once told me she was—” Her voice caught.

Alexia squeezed her wrist. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Olga snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She inhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid, Ale. She’s been alone for months. No parents, no one looking after her and I didn’t know. I should have known! Our dad has always been like this.”

Guilt burned in her chest. She thought back to every conversation, every time she’d asked, How are you? and got a casual, I’m fine in response.

Alexia’s grip on her tightened. “You are a good sister,” she said firmly. “You care. You’re doing the right thing now.”

Olga exhaled shakily, nodding. Alexia let go, only to start folding the clothes Olga had thrown into the suitcase.

“I’ll help you pack,” Alexia said.

Olga blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming.”

“You don’t—”

Alexia shot her a look. “Olga.”

Olga swallowed. The tension in her shoulders loosened slightly.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Alexia nodded, zipping up her own bag. “Then let’s go get your sister.”

The last time you saw Olga in person, you were twelve years old. She had come to visit for a month, and for the first time, you felt like you had a real family member, someone who truly cared, someone who loved you. You clung to every moment, every second of that summer, storing them away like treasures, hoping they would last.

Now, sitting in your social worker’s office, your leg bounces a mile a minute. Your fingers dig into the sleeves of your hoodie as you try to steady yourself, but your mind is racing. What if this doesn’t work out? What if she doesn’t want you? What if she sees you now and regrets coming?

The door swings open and Olga barely hesitates before crossing the room in quick strides. The moment she reaches you, her arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You tense for half a second then melt into the embrace.

She smells the same, like citrus and something faintly floral. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder, and for the first time in months, you feel something close to safe.

She pulls back, hands still gripping your shoulders, and really looks at you. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes you in.

“You’re so—” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “Dios, has crecido tanto.” (God, you have grown so much.)

And you have. You’re nearly the same height as her now— maybe even taller. Your hair is longer, the tips dyed blonde. There are more piercings in your ears, and a small gold hoop gleams from your nose. Olga swallows hard. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks quickly, shaking off the emotion.

Behind her, Alexia is speaking in low tones with your social worker, nodding as she listens. The woman slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, and Alexia flips through it, occasionally handing something to Olga to sign. It all feels so surreal.

Before you know it, you’re walking out of the office, bags in hand, stepping into the cool evening air. Alexia unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, while you and Olga settle in the back.

The drive is quiet.

You stare out the window, arms crossed, fingers tapping against your knee. The weight of everything sits heavy in your chest. Olga is here. You’re leaving your home, your LA. It’s happening so fast, and you don’t know how to process it.

Olga shifts beside you, then clears her throat.

“So…” she starts, trying to keep her tone light. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Any favorite classes?”

A shrug. “Spanish.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “Okay… uh, football? Are you still playing with Legends?”

You nod, still staring out the window. “Well, not anymore.”

Olga rubs her hands against her jeans, glancing at Alexia in the rearview mirror. Alexia gives her a small look that says, Give her time.

But patience has never been Olga’s strong suit. “Zulita,” she tries again. “I know this is a lot, but—“

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

It comes out sharp. Too sharp. You see Olga’s jaw tighten slightly.

“You needed someone to come,” she says, voice edged with frustration.

“I was doing fine.”

“Fine?” Olga scoffs. “Zulita, you were in the hospital alone. You had no one looking after you.”

“I was handling it.”

“No, you weren’t!” Her voice rises slightly, exasperation creeping in. “You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t have to handle it!”

The words hit something raw inside you. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being on your own, of convincing yourself you were fine—it all bubbles up too fast.

“Well, I did!” you snap. “Because I didn’t have a choice! Because no one else was there!”

The car goes silent. Olga stares at you, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something sad. And then, she remembers.

She remembers the way you used to be as a kid— how you would lash out when things got too overwhelming, how your emotions always felt too big for your body, how you would snap and yell because it was the only way you knew how to feel heard.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

You glare out the window, arms still crossed, but the anger is already fading into something closer to exhaustion.

You shift uncomfortably. “…Yeah. Me too.”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re still so hot-headed, Zulita.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching just slightly. “Takes one to know one.”

Olga snorts, nudging your knee with hers.

Alexia just smiles from the front seat, shaking her head as she drives.

Spain doesn’t feel like home. You only vaguely remember it— small flashes from the two times your dad brought you to visit Olga. The streets, the language, the way the air smelled different. But those were just trips. You were always going back to LA. Now, you’re here. Permanently. And you hate it.

The Spanish is different. The people are different. The food is different. Everything is different.

Your emotions are a tangled mess, a constant weight in your chest that you can’t shake. You don’t know how to deal with it, don’t know how to explain it, and the one thing that’s always helped, football, has been ripped away from you. You haven’t played since you landed a week ago.

Olga is smothering you. She means well, but it’s too much. She hovers, questions everything, watches your every move like you’re some fragile thing that might shatter at any second.

Alexia is different. She gives you space. She doesn’t treat you like a kid. She sees you not just some troubled teenager Olga suddenly has to take care of, but a person trying to survive in a world that doesn’t feel like theirs. She doesn’t push, just waits.

But none of that stops everything from boiling over.

You never meant to revert to your old ways. The one good thing about Spain was the fact that you had a chance at a fresh start.

But, as you’re sitting at lunch, music blasting in your headphones, trying to block everything out. Trying to breathe, you see it.

A younger kid, probably first-year, backed against a wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. A taller guy standing in front of him, sneering, shoving his shoulder. Words are exchanged, but you can’t hear them.

What you can see is the way the younger boy’s hands shake, the way he flinches when the older one steps closer.

And suddenly, your body moves before your brain does.

You’re up. Across the cafeteria. Pulling the guy away from the kid.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.

The older guy sneers at you. “Who the hell are you, weirdo?”

You don’t think. You react. Shoving. Yelling. Someone grabs your arm, but you shake them off. A fist swings, and suddenly, you’re in it.

Then there are teachers. Hands pulling you back. Your heart pounding.

Before you even register what happened, you’re sitting in the principal’s office, hands balled into fists, jaw locked.

The secretary dials a number. You hear them say Olga’s name.

You shut your eyes and brace yourself. The car ride home is brutal.

“What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how serious this is? You just got here, and you’re already getting into fights? You’re lucky they didn’t expel you! Dios mío, do you know how hard it was to convince them not to suspend you? This is a top school, Azulita!”

You don’t answer. You stare out the window, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your uniform. You take a deep breath and bite your tongue.

Alexia is quiet for the most part, watching you through the rearview mirror.

Then she asks, voice calm, “Did they provoke you?”

You glance at her, hesitating. “…Yeah.”

“Were they hurting someone?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod.

Alexia hums but doesn’t say anything else.

Olga, on the other hand, is still going. Your breaths get more labored, “Olga. Please drop it for now.”

When you pull into the driveway, you don’t wait. You’re out of the car before it fully stops, slamming the door behind you and stalking inside.

Olga moves to follow, but Alexia stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Let her breathe,” she says.

Olga exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “She can’t just go around hitting people, Alexia!”

“I know,” Alexia says evenly. “But from what the principal said, and what she just said, she wasn’t fighting for no reason. She was standing up for someone.”

Olga’s shoulders drop slightly.

Alexia gives her a look. “You know better than anyone how she is. She doesn’t just get angry— she reacts. She’s been through a lot. You have to meet her halfway.”

Olga presses her lips together, sighing. “…Yeah. You’re right.”

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and heads upstairs to your room.

She knocks. No response.

She knocks again. “Zulita, can we talk?” Silence. Something feels wrong.

She pushes the door open to be met with an empty bed. The window is open. Your phone is on the nightstand. Panic slams into her chest.

“Alexia!”

Alexia calms her down—barely.

“We’ll find her,” she promises, already dialing a number.

The call connects.

“Lucy,” Alexia says, straight to the point. “We need your help.”

It takes a few hours, but they find you. A park, thirty minutes away. A small, empty field. You’re there, by yourself, shooting goal after goal. You don’t even turn when they approach.

Alexia watches as you line up another shot, striking the ball perfectly into the top corner. It’s instinct. You don’t even think, don’t hesitate. Your body just knows what to do.

She and Lucy exchange a look.

Alexia steps forward. “You scared Olga half to death, you know.”

You exhale, resting your hands on your hips. “I needed to clear my head.”

“So you left your phone and ran off?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble.

Alexia frowns. “Of course we care.”

You sigh, rolling the ball under your foot. “I just—everything is too much. It’s too different. Spain is different.”

Alexia doesn’t push. She just listens. You stand there, staring at the ball as you line up your next shot, feeling the weight of everything that’s been building up inside you. The silence between you and Alexia stretches, and for the first time, you feel like you can let it out. Let her see the truth of how hard this has been for you. The truth of what you’ve been holding in for so long.

“I’m not used to this,” you say, your voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “It’s… it’s hard, you know? Everything back home just… made sense.”

Alexia’s eyes are focused on you, not speaking, just letting you continue.

You exhale deeply, trying to find the right words. “Back in LA, everything was… routine. It wasn’t easy, but it was my life. You know? I didn’t need to think about it. The corner store, Mr. García, that old man who ran it—he gave me free snacks if I swept the floors for him.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotion that threatens to spill. “He wasn’t rich, wasn’t some big store owner or anything. He was just an old man who liked to help out kids like me. And I did what I had to do. I didn’t complain about it because it meant I got to eat something I didn’t have to pay for. And I felt good doing it. Like, that was a part of me.”

Alexia’s eyes soften as she listens, and you shift uncomfortably, but keep going.

“There was also Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress who lived down the block. She used to fix my clothes when they tore or when I just couldn’t afford new ones. She’d take the time to patch them up, make them look good as new. And she’d always say, ‘I’ve got your back, mija.’ Even when I couldn’t pay her. She’d make me new stuff too, just out of kindness.”

You pause, feeling the lump in your throat grow.

“And the grocery store? They’d let me stock the juice shelves for an hour or two, and in exchange, they’d give me a bag of groceries. It was the only way I could get some food most times. I mean, I didn’t care, you know? I was just a kid, trying to make it through. But I was making it.”

You stop and look down at the ball, trying to steady your breathing. “Everything back home was like that. A hustle, yeah, but a hustle I understood. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. People helped each other out, and you helped them back. I knew how to survive.”

You look at Alexia now, feeling the weight of your confession. “I got a scholarship, you know? A football scholarship to the best program in LA. And it wasn’t handed to me. I worked my ass off to get there. I had to claw my way in, beat out all the other kids who had better coaches, better gear, better everything. But I fought for it. I did it alone. No one helped me get there. It was just me, and I… I made it.”

You can feel the emotion building, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, all of it hitting you at once. “And now, I’m here. And I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to fit in. Spain is nothing like LA. The Spanish is different. The people are different. And I feel like I’m… just lost. Like I don’t belong here.”

Alexia doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer advice or try to fix things. She just nods, listening, letting you spill everything.

“I didn’t know how to handle that. I didn’t know how to adjust. And yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but…” You clench your jaw, fighting the tears that are threatening to come. “It’s hard to start over. I didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”

Alexia stays silent for a long moment, letting you talk through everything. Then, when you’re done, she finally speaks.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Zulita. I’ve been in Barcelona my whole life, so this—what you’re going through—this isn’t something I understand. But I can understand that it’s hard.”

You nod, your chest heavy. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. I know this is an opportunity. But it just feels like I’m starting over in a place that isn’t mine. A place that isn’t home.”

Alexia smiles softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, to miss home. You’re allowed to take time to adjust.”

You look up at her, feeling a little lighter, a little more seen. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

Alexia’s gaze softens as she watches you, clearly understanding. “But there’s something you need to do. You need to talk to Olga about this. It’s the first step in the right direction, okay?”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering it. You know she’s right, but it still feels hard. Still feels like you’re betraying everything you built back in LA. But Alexia’s words make sense.

And when you finally nod, Alexia adds, “Talking to her is the first step, but we’ll get through this together. All of us. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

You take a breath and look back at the goal, focusing on the ball again. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it’s still there, simmering. But for the first time since you got to Spain, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can start figuring this out.

Maybe you can make this work, too. You sigh, staring down at the ball. “…She treats me like a kid.”

“She treats you like someone she loves,” Alexia corrects gently.

You chew on your lip, kicking the ball toward the goal again. It soars into the net.

Alexia and Lucy exchange another look.

Alexia smirks. “We’re gonna have to get you on a team soon.”

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Soap overhears it by accident.

He’s sitting at the edge of the armory, wiping down his rifle, half-listening to a conversation between Graves and some visiting brass—arrogant pricks with too much rank and not enough war in their eyes.

One of them leans in, smirking. “You ever tell ‘em how you got that scar, Graves? The one that runs from your cheek to your ear?”

Graves grins. That smug, Southern-charmed confidence that’s too polished to be real.

“Oh, that story?” he drawls. “Yeah. I got that one the day I tried to walk away from her.”

Soap’s chest tightens. He listens.

“She’d just finished an op, still in her gear, blood under her fingernails. I said something stupid—probably deserved it. She turned, looked at me, and next thing I know, there’s steel at my face and I’m tasting copper.”

Graves runs a finger down the curve of the scar. It’s old. Deep. Personal.

“She stopped just short of the jugular. Looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘You walk away now, you don’t get to come back. Ever.’” He chuckles low. “Closest I ever came to dyin’. And I’ve faced down missiles.”

Soap feels his grip on the cloth tighten.

Another officer laughs. “So why’d she let you walk?”

And that’s when Graves says it. Calm. Like it’s just a fact: “Because I’m the U.S. government’s golden boy. And she knew what I was worth.”

Soap’s blood goes cold.

Graves leans back in his chair. “I’m the only man who ever got to walk away from her and live. The rest?” He whistles. “She doesn’t leave loose ends.”

Soap’s halfway out of his seat before he realizes what he’s doing. Rage bubbling beneath the surface. Not jealousy—fear.

Because it means what they have? This thing between them? It’s a countdown. And he’s not the exception.

He’s a temporary indulgence. A disposable release.

And when she’s done? She won’t give him a scar. She’ll give him nothing.

[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

When you reached Estadi Johan Cruyff, the atmosphere was electric—every pulse in the stadium throbbed with raw energy. The crowd roared in anticipation, chanting, hoisting banners high, all set to witness another blazing Barcelona masterpiece.

But for you? It was all about one singular presence. You hadn’t come for just the spectacle of the game—you were there for her. Alexia Putellas. With Maya and Liv tagging along, their eyes wide with amusement and intrigue at the public sparking between you and Alexia, the stakes were impossibly high.

"So, how are we feeling?" Liv pressed, nudging you as you sank into your front-row seat—exactly where Alexia had directed you. Wearing a cap to blend in proved futile amidst the contrasting white Nike hoodie chess move blazoned across your chest and cap that screamed for attention. Smartphones thrust in your direction, recording every moment of your bold stance. Front row wasn’t just a seat; it was a declaration.

"Nervous? Excited? Sweating a little?" Liv prodded.

You smirked, a hint of challenge in your eyes. "She’s the one who should be nervous."

Maya scoffed. "You talk as if she isn’t about to go full Ballon d’Or just to impress you."

And you weren’t hidden at all. The crowd’s buzz, with Maya and Liv flanking you from either side, was relentless. Despite your low profile—hood up, hands buried in your jacket pockets—it wasn’t long before gazes locked on you.

Not solely from the crowd.

From her.

The instant Alexia stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups, the atmosphere charged further. Every stretch, every pass, every jog was precise, yet her eyes inevitably wandered toward your section. She knew you were there.

A smug grin curled your lips as you leaned back, relishing the anticipation building just before kickoff.

The game exploded into life, and Alexia was a blur of speed and purpose. From the very first whistle, she was consumed—each move calculated, each touch a masterstroke. Every motion was deliberate as she dominated the midfield with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

You leaned forward, elbows locked on your knees, poisoned with admiration and raw anticipation as she sliced through defenders as if they were mere phantoms.

"Jesus," Maya gasped, half in awe, half in disbelief. "She’s insane."

Liv burst out laughing. "She’s putting on a damn show."

You couldn’t tear your eyes away as Alexia collected a pass at midfield. A single, piercing glance upward, and then—like lightning—she burst into action. Effortlessly, she ghosted past one defender, spun with unreal grace, then twisted her hips to leave the next flailing in empty air.

By the time she stormed into the box, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. A thunderous strike—top corner, a missile that sent ripples through the net like an explosion. The stadium convulsed with energy. Without a second thought, you sprang to your feet; the shot was seismic. And then, as if electrified by the moment, Alexia turned. She didn’t celebrate immediately. 

Instead, she locked her gaze onto you—a small, impish smirk playing on her lips that screamed, I did that. It cut through you like a jolt. Your heart pounded uncontrollably as you clapped slowly, your applause a mixture of pride and challenge.

Liv whistled beside you. "Oh yeah, that was definitely for you."

Maya teased, nudging you. "Still think she should be the nervous one?"

You sank back into your seat, arms crossed as you feigned cool detachment. And if you thought Alexia’s performance had peaked, you couldn’t have been more mistaken.

For the remainder of the match, she unleashed a barrage of jaw-dropping moves—impossible one-touch passes, laser-accurate through balls, flicks and turns that mocked the bewildered struggles of defenders. It was an onslaught, as if she was playing in a realm where gravity didn’t exist, while everyone else fought a losing battle.

Each spectacular feat was punctuated by a glance thrown in your direction—as if daring you to react, as if stoking the flames of a private duel. And, yes, you were reacting fiercely. But you refused to let her see the depths of your admiration and desire. So you maintained your cool. You smirked when she executed a flawless pass. You nodded when she navigated through chaos. You tilted your head ever so slightly when she caught you staring—a silent conversation woven into the game itself.

And Alexia reveled in it.

As the final minutes neared, a decision formed in your mind. You weren’t going to stay until the final whistle.

Just before full-time, you surged upward, preparing your exit strategy.

Maya’s eyes lit up immediately. "Oh my god, you’re running away."

You grinned wickedly. "Strategic retreat."

Liv snorted. "This is diabolical."

You simply shrugged. "Let her wonder where I went." Let her chase the elusive mystery. Because this game? It was far from over—never even close.

Outside the stadium, you resisted the urge to check your phone. You knew that the moment you did, notifications would flood in—teasing texts from your teammates, maybe even a message from Alexia herself.

Instead, you let the silence build. Let her pace her thoughts. Even as you returned to your place, messages began appearing.

Maya: You’re actually evil.

Liv: Alexia was looking for you after the game lmaooo. She looked pissed.

A smirk tugged at your lips. Then another message popped up.

Alexia: So you left.

Short. Direct. The unimpressed tone practically sizzled through the screen. You paused before replying.

You: Front row or nothing, right? You saw me.

Alexia: I did.

Leaning back against your couch, you savored the rising smirk on your face. She wasn’t done yet.

Alexia: And yet, when I looked again, you weren’t there.

Her irritation was palpable, but so was the thrill—she was still texting you.

You: Had to leave you wanting more.

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing.

Your stomach churned with a delicious mix of adrenaline and anticipation. You were relishing every moment. After all, nothing was ever going to happen—at least not the way the game was played on and off the pitch.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared as Alexia composed her response. You held your breath without realizing it.

Alexia: Did you at least enjoy the show?

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Of course you'd enjoyed it—every mesmerising second. But admitting that would shift the power balance too far in her direction.

You: I've seen better.

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared, again. She was crafting her response carefully.

Alexia: Liar.

The single word sent a jolt through you. She saw right through your facade, and that both thrilled and terrified you.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: I scored a hat trick for you today. To prove my point.

You hadn't stayed to see the third goal. The realisation hit you like a physical force. She'd continued her rampage even after you'd left—perhaps driven by your absence.

You stared at the screen, the revelation of her hat trick leaving you momentarily speechless. Three goals. For you. The audacity of it made your heart race.

You: Trying to impress me, Putellas?

The response came almost instantly.

Alexia: Did it work?

You bit your lip, considering how to maintain the upper hand in this delicious standoff.

You: Maybe if I'd stayed to see all three.

Alexia: Your loss.

Alexia: Did you at least notice how I don’t just play. I dominate.

Heat rushed to your face. The double meaning wasn't lost on you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth had become.

Alexia: You should have stayed.

Something in her tone made your stomach flip. You imagined her face as she typed it—that determined set of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows.

You: Why? So I could watch you take your victory lap?

The response came faster than you anticipated.

Alexia: No. So I could find you afterward.

Your heart stuttered. The directness of her reply left no room for misinterpretation. She'd wanted to see you—to find you in person after the game. You swallowed hard, your fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.

You: And what would you have done if you found me?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. The anticipation was excruciating.

Alexia: I guess you'll never know.

The challenge in her words was unmistakable. You could almost see her smirking on the other end, confident in her ability to make you regret your early departure.

You: Maybe next time I'll stick around.

Alexia: Maybe next time I'll score four.

A laugh escaped your lips. Her competitive nature was relentless, even in text form.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: There's a team celebration tonight at La Mar. Private room.

It wasn't a question or even an invitation—just information dropped casually into your conversation. Your pulse quickened as you considered your options. Going would mean surrendering some ground in this delicate game you were playing. Not going would mean missing an opportunity to see her again.

You: Is that an invitation?

Alexia: Take it however you want.

You bit your lip, weighing your response carefully.

You: Congrats on the hat trick. Truly impressive.

There. A small concession that acknowledged her skill without fully surrendering.

Alexia: You haven't seen impressive yet.

The boldness of her reply sent a rush of heat through your body. This was beyond flirting now—this was a declaration of intent.

You: Careful, Putellas. Your confidence is showing.

Alexia: It's not confidence when it's fact.

A knock at your door startled you from the exchange. You glanced at the time—nearly eleven. Who would be visiting at this hour? With a sigh, you set your phone down and that was this evenings interactions over with when your teammates had arrived with pizza and wine for a self invited movie night at your place.

The next morning greeted you with a whirlwind of chaos. The internet had erupted over your absence during the match's climax. Everywhere you looked, clips of Alexia’s breathtaking goal flooded the digital world, accompanied by heated speculations about the way her eyes had lingered on you after she scored. Twitter threads, TikTok videos, and Instagram comments meticulously picked apart every second of the exchange. Yet, perhaps most compelling was the footage capturing her scanning the stands at the match's end, unmistakably searching for someone.

That someone was you.

And when she failed to spot you, the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed her face? It was a moment the fans relished and replayed.

"Alright, so when’s the wedding?" your coach quipped the moment you stepped onto the practice field.

You groaned, exasperation evident. "Not you too."

Laughter erupted from Liv, Maya, and half of your teammates. Your coach, arms confidently crossed, remained unfazed. "What? It’s all over social media. ‘Alexia Putellas left searching for Barcelona basketball player after stunning performance.’ That’s you, by the way."

You shook your head in denial, picking up a basketball and dribbling it lazily to divert the attention. "She wasn’t searching for me."

Maya, ever perceptive, arched an eyebrow. "Wasn’t she, though?"

You chose to ignore her. However, your coach wasn’t finished. “Invite her to our open training session, she can run some drills.”

You smirked at the thought. "She’d probably crush them."

"That’s what worries me," your coach muttered, a trace of concern in her voice as she shook her head.

Later that day, while scrolling through Instagram, you saw it. A new post. Alexia, mid-game, in full focus. The second photo? A replay of that smirk after her goal.  And the caption?

Always front row

Your eyes widened. You knew exactly what she was doing. The comment section was already going insane.  So, naturally, you had to comment.

@yourusername: Didn’t think you noticed.

@AlexiaPutellas: You should know by now. I notice everything.

Your teammates were going to have a field day with this one. But at this point? You didn’t care. Because this wasn’t just some casual online banter anymore.  This was a full-on game. And neither of you were backing down. The second you hit send on your comment, you knew it was over. Not the game. Not the tension. Over in the sense that you were never going to hear the end of this from your teammates.

Because within minutes, your reply to Alexia’s post had gone viral. Fan accounts were already reposting it, making edits, analysing every single word. People were invested. And Alexia? She was definitely enjoying this.You could tell by the way she waited.

She let your comment marinate for a little while. Let people freak out over the interaction. Let the suspense build. And then her notification popped up.

@alexiaputellas: Pinned your comment.

You stared at your screen.

She pinned it.

Maya was the first to send a message in the lively group chat you shared with the two Americans, with whom you were swiftly forming a close friendship. Her text arrived with the familiar ping that signalled the start of another engaging conversation, and you could almost picture her typing away, her fingers dancing over the screen with excitement.

Maya: Oh, she’s COOKING you now.

Liv: You gonna let her get away with that?

You exhaled slowly.

No, you were not.

You scrolled through Alexia’s tagged photos fans had already clipped your interactions into threads, debates, and ridiculous theories.

And then you saw it. A perfect opportunity. A fan had posted a slowed-down video of Alexia’s goal celebration, zooming in on the exact moment she smirked at you.

Their caption?

She knew EXACTLY what she was doing. This is pure flirting.

So you took your shot. You commented on it with three simple words:

Did she, though?

Not even five minutes later Alexia fired back. You had no idea how she had even see your comment until you checked your replies on your comment and every single one she had been tagged in.

She had found a different clip of the goal, this time, it was a wide-angle shot, clearly showing you standing and reacting in the background. She tagged you in her comment, 

I’d say so.

You almost choked on your drink.

Your teammates, once again, were all over it, but this time Maya stupidly found her way into the teams group chat, engaging the rest of the team into making comments and screenshots galore firing into the chat when some were clueless

Maya: NAH SHE’S ACTUALLY INSANE FOR THIS.

Liv: She just destroyed you in 0.2 seconds lmfaoooo.

Your coach: I don’t know what’s happening, but please don’t start missing layups.

You just stared at your screen, heart racing. Because Alexia wasn’t just matching your energy. She was escalating it.

And now? You had to respond. You took your time, scrolling through your camera roll. And then you found it. A photo from your first game with Barcelona.

You, mid-celebration, number 11 bold on your back.

And the caption you chose, 

11 looks good on me, don’t you think? @alexiaputellas

You hit post.

And you waited.

The world exploded. People lost their minds in the comments. You weren’t sure if Alexia was going to reply immediately or let it sit—let the internet spiral first. But then, a new notification popped up.

Alexiaputellas: Liked your post.

Alexiaputellas: Commented: I prefer it on me.

You actually gasped. Because holy shit.

Liv called you immediately, cackling. "Oh, you’re DONE for."

Maya was losing it in the team group chat. Your coach just sent a 😐 emoji.

But all you could do was stare at Alexia’s comment. Because this? This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal.And now, you had to figure out what came next.  

The rush of adrenaline hit you like a well-timed screen, leaving you dizzy with possibilities. Your fingers hovered over the screen, reply options racing through your mind like fast breaks.

Direct message? Too private.

Another comment? Too expected. You opted for something different. Opening your Instagram stories, you snapped a picture of your practice jersey draped over your locker, your name clearly visible.

With steady fingers, you typed: Some things look better in person. Open practice tomorrow, 3PM.

No tag.

No direct mention.

Just an invitation hanging in digital space. Within minutes, your story had been screenshot and circulated across fan accounts.

The basketball facility's social media coordinator messaged you almost immediately. Just a heads up, we've had an unprecedented number of inquiries about tomorrow's open practice. Should we... prepare for something?

You sent back a casual Probably just the usual, knowing full well it was anything but.

That night, sleep evaded you. Your phone continued to buzz with notifications, each one a reminder of the public spectacle unfolding. Maya and Liv had transitioned from teasing to strategy sessions, sending you potential outfit options and suggesting pre-practice hair appointments.

You: This isn't a date

You insisted in the group chat.

Maya: Not yet it isn't.

Liv: Wear the black compression shorts. Trust me.

Morning arrived with your coach calling an emergency team meeting before practice. "I've just received word that we'll have additional security tomorrow," she announced, eyeing you specifically. "Apparently, we're expecting quite a turnout for our humble little practice." The team erupted into knowing laughter and whispers. "I don't care who shows up," your coach continued, "we run drills as normal. We're professionals." She paused, then added with the hint of a smile, "Though perhaps we'll showcase some of our more... impressive plays."

Practice that day was intense, everyone performing as if scouts were watching. You pushed yourself harder than usual, aware that tomorrow carried stakes beyond basketball. Later, as you scrolled through social media, you noticed Alexia had been conspicuously quiet. No response to your story. No new posts. The silence was more nerve-wracking than any reply could have been. Just as you were about to put your phone down for the night, it vibrated with a notification.

Alexiaputellas: Viewed your story.

And then, moments later,

Alexiaputellas: Posted a new story.

You tapped on it immediately. It was a simple image: a clock showing 3:00, with the caption Some invitations are impossible to decline. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was happening.

The next morning dragged endlessly. You spent an embarrassing amount of time on your appearance before reminding yourself that you'd be sweaty and disheveled within minutes of practice anyway. When you arrived at the facility two hours early, the staff was already setting up additional seating.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all, extra seating for a practice that usually drew maybe a dozen die-hard fans and curious tourists. "We've never had this many RSVPs for an open practice," the facility manager explained, looking both stressed and excited. "Social media team is setting up additional cameras too."

"There's media outside," one of the assistant coaches informed you, eyebrows raised. "ESPN, local stations, even some international press."

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered, Maya sudden voice from behind making you jump.

"This is what happens when two elite athletes flirt publicly," Maya said, appearing beside you with a knowing grin. "The world wants a love story."

"We're not—" you began, but the protest died on your lips. What exactly were you doing? The line between playful banter and genuine interest had blurred somewhere between her goal and your invitation. You nodded, trying to appear casual while your stomach performed Olympic-level gymnastics.

The locker room was unusually quiet when you entered—your teammates all paused mid-conversation, watching you with barely concealed amusement. "So," Maya drawled, "just another Thursday practice, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, pulling your practice jersey over your head. "Can we please act normal today?"

"Define normal," Liv chimed in, "because I just saw three news vans in the parking lot."

Your coach entered, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. "Listen up, team. Whatever circus is happening outside those doors, in here we're basketball players. Focus on the game." She paused, then added, "That said, management has requested we run some of our more... crowd-pleasing drills."

By 2:30, the facility was humming with activity. The usual trickle of spectators had become a flood. The bleachers filled with fans, students, and—most intimidatingly—media. You kept your eyes averted during warm-ups, concentrating on the familiar rhythm of your dribble, the perfect swish of the net. Your teammates were unusually focused during warm-ups, occasionally stealing glances at the rapidly filling stands. Your coach maintained a facade of normalcy, but you caught her instructing the team to run their most visually impressive drills.

At 2:55, the doors opened for the final wave of spectators. You kept your eyes deliberately fixed on the ball in your hands, refusing to look up despite the increasing murmurs rippling through the crowd.

At precisely 2:58, a ripple of excited murmurs swept through the crowd. You didn't need to look to know what had caused it. Or rather, who.

"Don't look now," Liv whispered as she smirked, "but your girlfriend just walked in with half the FC Barcelona women's team."

"Don't you dare look," Maya whispered as she jogged past you. "Make her wait."

So you didn't.

Through passing drills and shooting exercises, you maintained your focus on the court, on your teammates, on anything but the section of bleachers where you knew she must be sitting. The weight of her gaze felt like a physical touch across your skin.

Coach called for a water break, and Maya nudged you none-too-subtly. "She's in the third row, centre section. Wearing your number." Your hands fumbled the ball, and it bounced away traitorously. When you straightened up after retrieving it, you allowed yourself one quick glance toward the entrance.

Alexia stood there, flanked by several teammates you recognised instantly. She wore casual clothes, jeans and a jacket, but somehow managed to look more put-together than anyone else in the building. Her eyes scanned the court methodically before your eyes connected.

Alexia Putellas, football royalty, casually dressed in a Barcelona basketball t-shirt with your number prominently displayed. When your eyes met, she offered that same smirk from the football match, and raised her water bottle in a small toast.

The gym seemed to hold its collective breath.

You raised your own water bottle in return, allowing yourself a small smile before turning back to your teammates.

"Oh, you're good," Maya approved. "Very cool, very collected."

Coach blew her whistle, signalling the start of a scrimmage. "First team versus second team. Full court, game conditions." As you took your position, your coach passed by with a final instruction: "Show her what you've got." Your coach clapped her hands loudly. "Alright, ladies, let's show our guests what Barcelona basketball is all about!"

The practice session began with standard drills, but there was nothing standard about the energy in the room. Every move you made felt magnified, every successful shot drawing louder cheers than usual. You were hyper-aware of Alexia's presence, feeling her eyes track your movements across the court. The scrimmage began, and something electric took over. You played with a ferocity and precision that surprised even yourself, no-look passes that threaded between defenders, drives to the basket that left the defence scrambling, and shots that seemed to defy gravity before swishing through the net.

During a particularly intense sequence, you stole the ball, dribbled behind your back to evade a defender, and launched into a perfect fast break. As the last defender approached, you executed a spin move that had the crowd gasping, finishing with a layup that even your coach applauded.

You couldn't help it then – you glanced toward Alexia.

She was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching with an intensity that matched your own. When she caught your eye, she didn't smirk this time. Instead, she offered a slow, appreciative nod that felt more intimate than any verbal compliment. The scrimmage continued, your team pulling ahead as you distributed the ball with precision, finding teammates in perfect position.

In the final minutes, Maya set a screen that freed you at the three-point line. Without hesitation, you received the pass and launched a perfect arc that sailed through the net just as the buzzer sounded. Without thinking, you glanced over. Alexia was on her feet, clapping with genuine appreciation, her teammates beside her looking equally impressed. She was watching you intently, that competitive spark in her eyes that you recognised from her matches.

She gave you a small nod, one athlete acknowledging another's skill, and something about that simple gesture felt more intimate than any flirtatious comment. Coach called for a final water break before the last segment of practice.

As you wiped sweat from your forehead, Liv sidled up beside you. "She hasn't taken her eyes off you once," she whispered. "And I'm pretty sure there are at least three photographers who haven't taken their lenses off either of you."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress your smile. "Let them look."

The final portion of practice was designated for individual skill showcases. When your turn came, you felt a surge of boldness. 

Instead of your usual routine, you incorporated moves you'd been perfecting privately, a crossover that had defenders stumbling, a step-back jumper from well beyond the arc. Each successful demonstration drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd, but you found yourself caring only about one spectator's reaction. As practice wound down, Coach gathered everyone for closing remarks. "Thank you all for coming today. We appreciate the support and hope you enjoyed seeing what these incredible athletes can do." 

Coach called an end to the practice with a satisfied smile. "Cool down and stretches, then you're free to go," she announced, adding under her breath to you, "Nice work today. Funny how motivation works, isn't it?"

As the team dispersed for cool-down exercises, you noticed a small commotion near the bleachers. Several fans had approached Alexia for photos and autographs, which she was graciously providing while her teammates formed a protective semicircle around her.

You deliberately took your time with your stretches, uncertain of the protocol for this unprecedented situation. Was she going to approach you? Should you go to her? The questions buzzed in your mind as you towelled off the sweat from your face.

Part 3

[fayelero]

hey hey hey 💆🏻‍♀️ i saw you wrote something about “them reacting to you at your first match as a their gf”(hope it’s understandable 😭😭) with fukurodani so can i request the same but with inarizaki ? particularly with the twins

thank you have a good day ! ♡

—THEM REACTING TO YOU AT YOUR FIRST MATCH AS HIS GIRLFRIEND ! inarizaki

pr : atsumu x fem!reader; osamu x fem!reader; suna x fem!reader; kita x fem!reader

syn : them reacting to you playing volleyball for the first time since you got together

wc : 3.8k

tw : none, just some jealousy and tease ykkk, pure fluff

a/n : sure! i wanted to do it for a long time! anyway i did the twins in particularity :) enjoy reading!

As they entered the bustling gymnasium, the air thick with excitement and the chatter of spectators, he felt a surge of pride. He might not be on the court today, but he was here for something equally important - to support the person who had become such a significant part of his life.

The Inarizaki team made their way to their seats, ... positioning himself for the best view of the court. As they settled in, the atmosphere electric with anticipation, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought about the countless hours of practice you'd put in, the late-night strategy discussions you'd shared, the unwavering determination he'd seen in your eyes. A warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he was still getting used to but cherished nonetheless.

The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, introducing the teams. Kita leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the court entrance. Any moment now, you would step out, ready to show the world what he already knew - that you were a force to be reckoned with, both on and off the court.

ATSUMU MIYA

The gymnasium buzzed with anticipation, its air thick with the scent of excitement and nervous energy. Amidst the sea of spectators, one figure stood out - Atsumu Miya, the talented setter from Inarizaki High. He couldn't contain his enthusiasm, his body practically vibrating with excitement as he perched on the edge of his seat. His honey-brown eyes, usually sharp and calculating on the court, were now wide with childlike wonder.

"There she is! That's her!" Atsumu exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. His arm shot out, finger pointing eagerly as you stepped onto the polished wooden court. "Did you see that serve warm-up? She's gonna crush 'em!" 

Atsumu's teammates, seated in a row beside him, exchanged knowing glances and suppressed smiles. They had endured weeks of Atsumu's endless chatter about you, his voice always taking on a dreamy quality when he spoke your name. Now, finally witnessing the object of their setter's affections in person, they couldn't help but be curious.

Osamu, Atsumu's twin brother, leaned back in his seat with a smirk playing on his lips. He ran a hand through his dyed gray hair, a stark contrast to Atsumu's blonde locks. "You've been yammering about her nonstop, 'Tsumu," he drawled. "Time to see if she's as good as ya say."

Atsumu whirled to face his twin, indignation flashing in his eyes. "She ain't just good, you scrub! She's freaking amazing!" he declared, puffing out his chest like a proud peacock. "Watch 'n learn, 'Samu!"

As the shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the match, all eyes turned to the court. You immediately took center stage, your presence commanding attention. Your serves were nothing short of spectacular - powerful and precise, they cut through the air like missiles, leaving your opponents scrambling. When you spiked, it was with a ferocity that belied your frame, the ball slamming onto the opposite court with resounding force. On defense, you were a wall, your receives steady and your blocks impenetrable.

Atsumu's voice rose above the cacophony of the crowd, his cheers the loudest and most enthusiastic. "That's my girl! Show ‘em what you're made of, [Y/N]!" he shouted, his face flushed with pride and exertion from his constant yelling.

As the match progressed, however, the Inarizaki team couldn't resist the opportunity for some playful banter. Suna Rintarou, known for his deadpan humor, leaned over with a mischievous glint in his usually sleepy eyes. "Damn, Atsumu," he commented, nudging the setter with his elbow, "She's a real catch!"

Atsumu's reaction was instantaneous. His cheeks flamed red, clashing adorably with his blonde hair. He tried to sound nonchalant but failed miserably, his voice coming out squeaky. "Course she is! She's perfect... Got the best setter in Japan teaching her, after all!"

Kita Shinsuke, the team's stoic captain, surprised everyone with a chuckle. His usually stern face softened with amusement as he added, "Careful, Atsumu, he might steal her away from you."

The effect on Atsumu was electric. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a pout forming on his lips as he clutched the armrests of his seat. "Hey! Don't even think about it!" he declared vehemently. "She's mine, you hear?"

Despite the constant teasing from his teammates, Atsumu's focus remained unwaveringly on you. His eyes tracked your every movement on the court, drinking in the sight of you in your element. You were a force of nature - fierce yet graceful, your movements fluid and purposeful. There was no doubt in anyone's mind about your skill and dedication.

"I taught her that move!" Atsumu often retorted when you executed a particularly impressive play, his chest swelling with pride and admiration. "Well, mostly. She's a natural, you know?"

As the match drew to its climactic close, tension mounted in the gymnasium. The scores were tight, but your team had the slight edge. In a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, you leapt high into the air, your arm drawn back like a loaded spring. Time seemed to slow as you connected with the ball, sending it hurtling across the net with a resounding crack. The ball slammed onto the opposite court, untouched by the opposing team's defenders.

The gymnasium erupted into a deafening roar as the final whistle blew, signaling your team's victory. But even amidst the chaos, Atsumu's voice rang out clear and jubilant. He jumped up from his seat, nearly toppling over in his excitement, his fist pumping the air triumphantly. "You did it! That's my girl! Told ya she was the best!"

As the crowd began to disperse, still buzzing with excitement from the match, you made your way over to where Atsumu and his teammates were seated. Your face was flushed from exertion, wisps of hair escaping from your ponytail, but your eyes shone with happiness and pride.

The moment Atsumu saw you approaching, he bounded down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to reach you. Without hesitation, he swept you up into a tight embrace, his strong arms lifting you clean off your feet. You felt the rumble of his laughter against your chest as he spun you around, uncaring of the amused looks from passersby.

"Ya were amazing, [Y/N]!" Atsumu exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion. "Knew you had it in ya! Bet those scrubs didn't know what hit them!"

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Thanks, Atsumu," you replied, your heart swelling with affection. "Means a lot that you were here."

As Atsumu set you back on your feet, his teammates approached, each offering their congratulations. Suna stepped forward first, a genuine smile replacing his usual deadpan expression as he offered you a high five. "Great game, [Y/N]," he said, impressed. "You're as impressive as Atsumu said. Maybe even more so."

You returned the high five with a warm smile. "Thanks, Suna. That means a lot coming from you guys."

Osamu grinned, throwing a muscular arm around his twin's shoulder. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he said, "Ya know, [Your Name], with skills like that, we might have to recruit ya."

Atsumu's reaction was immediate and predictable. "Back off, ‘samu!" he protested loudly, pulling you closer to his side possessively. His cheeks puffed out in annoyance, reminiscent of a child protecting his favorite toy. "She's mine, and she's staying right where she is! Go find your own amazing girlfriend if you can!"

Aran Ojiro, the team's powerful wing spiker, let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "Looks like Atsumu's getting protective," he observed, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. "Can't blame him, though. You're quite the player, [Y/N]."

You felt a blush creeping up your neck at all the attention and praise. Squeezing Atsumu's hand reassuringly, you chuckled. "Don't worry, 'Tsumu, I'm not going' anywhere," you assured him, before adding with a playful wink, "But maybe I'll join a practice or two. Could be fun to spike your sets for a change."

Atsumu's face lit up like a Christmas tree, his grin threatening to split his face in two. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, now shone with unbridled affection and pride. "You're the best, [Y/N]," he declared, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Let's go celebrate! I'm buying! Gonna treat my star player right!"

As you walked off the court hand in hand with Atsumu, surrounded by his boisterous teammates, you felt a profound sense of belonging. The victory was sweet, but the knowledge that you had such unwavering support - especially from Atsumu - was even sweeter. 

OSAMU MIYA

The Sendai City Gymnasium hummed with anticipation, its vast interior a cacophony of excited chatter. Amidst the sea of spectators, Miya Osamu sat with uncharacteristic restlessness, his usually calm demeanor betrayed by the slight tapping of his foot. His grey eyes, typically laid-back, now held an intensity that matched his twin's on the volleyball court.

"There she is," Osamu said quietly, a soft smile playing on his lips as you stepped onto the gleaming court, your team's colors vivid against your skin.

Beside him, his twin brother Atsumu leaned forward, honey-brown eyes wide with curiosity. "So that's her, huh? The girl who's got my brother all soft and mushy?"

Osamu's elbow found Atsumu's ribs with practiced ease. "Shut it, ya scrub," he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. His eyes remained fixed on you, drinking in your pre-game ritual.

Suna, seated on Osamu's other side, smirked. "Never thought I'd see the day Osamu got all worked up over something other than food."

"I'm not worked up," Osamu protested, his calm voice at odds with the slight blush creeping up his neck. "I'm just... supportive."

Atsumu snorted. "Yeah, real supportive. That's why you've been fussing with your hair for the past ten minutes, right?"

Osamu's hand, which had indeed been absently running through his grey locks, dropped to his lap. "I don't fuss," he grumbled.

As the teams gathered for their pre-game huddles, Atsumu's curiosity got the better of him. "So, what's she like on the court? Any good?"

For the first time since arriving, Osamu's eyes left you, turning to his brother with a hint of pride. "She's amazing," he said simply. "Just watch."

The shrill whistle cut through the air, signaling the start of the match. From the very first serve - yours, as it happened - it was clear that Osamu's assessment wasn't just lovestruck bias. Your serve rocketed across the net, leaving the opposing team scrambling.

"Woah," Atsumu breathed, genuinely impressed. "That was-"

"I know," Osamu interrupted, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

As the match progressed, Osamu's teammates couldn't help but notice the changes in him. The usually stoic middle blocker was on the edge of his seat, grey eyes tracking your every move. When you scored a particularly impressive point, a rare, unguarded grin split his face.

"Look at that," Suna drawled, nudging Atsumu. "I think we've found something Osamu loves more than fatty tuna."

Atsumu snickered. "Nah, that's impossible. But maybe it's a close second."

Osamu ignored them, too focused on the match to rise to their bait. But when you executed a perfect cut shot, threading the ball between two blockers, he couldn't contain himself. "That's my girl!" he shouted, startling those around him with his uncharacteristic volume.

Atsumu's eyebrows shot up. "Wow, 'Samu. I didn't know ya could yell like that."

"Learned from the best," Osamu retorted dryly, earning a laugh from his teammates.

As the match drew to its climactic close, even Atsumu and Suna found themselves caught up in the excitement. The scores were tight, but your team had the edge. In a heart-stopping moment, you leapt high, arm drawn back. The gymnasium seemed to hold its breath as you connected with the ball, sending it hurtling past the opponents' defenses.

The final whistle blew, signaling your team's victory. The crowd erupted, but no one cheered louder than Osamu. He was on his feet in an instant, pumping his fist in the air. "That's it! Ya did it!"

Atsumu stared at his twin in amused disbelief. "Who are you and what have ya done with my brother?"

As the crowd began to disperse, you made your way over to where Osamu and his teammates were seated. Osamu vaulted over the railing, ignoring Kita's reproachful look, and met you halfway. Without hesitation, he swept you up into a tight embrace, spinning you around.

"You were incredible," he murmured, setting you down but keeping his arms around you.

You laughed, flushed with victory and affection. "Thanks for coming, 'Samu. Means a lot."

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything'," he replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Oi, oi," Atsumu called, approaching with the rest of the team. "Don't I get to meet the girl who's turned my brother into a cheerin' softie?"

Osamu rolled his eyes but kept an arm around your waist as he turned to face his team. "Guys, this is [Y/N]. [Y/N], these are the scrubs I put up with."

As introductions were made, Atsumu couldn't resist teasing his twin. "Ya know, [Y/N], if you ever get tired of this guy's cooking, I make a mean-"

"Don't even think about it," Osamu cut in, pulling you closer. "My cooking skills are part of the package deal."

You laughed, leaning into Osamu's side. "Don't worry, 'Samu. You had me at onigiri."

Suna smirked. "Now that's true love."

As the group headed out to celebrate your victory, you found yourself in the middle of the twins' familiar bickering, Osamu's arm a comforting weight around your shoulders.

RINTARO SUNA

The Sendai City Gymnasium buzzed with anticipation, its vast interior filled with excited chatter. Amidst the sea of spectators, Suna Rintarou sat with his usual languid posture, but his typically half-lidded eyes were wide open and alert, fixed intently on the court entrance.

As you stepped onto the gleaming court, your team's colors bold against your skin, a small, genuine smile tugged at Suna's lips - a rare sight that didn't go unnoticed by his teammates.

"Woah, is Suna actually showing emotion?" Atsumu teased, nudging the middle blocker with his elbow.

Suna's expression immediately smoothed back into his characteristic deadpan. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he drawled, though his eyes never left you.

Osamu leaned forward, intrigued. "So that's her, huh? The one who's got our Suna staying awake during matches he's not playing in?"

"I always stay awake," Suna retorted, finally tearing his gaze away to give Osamu an unimpressed look.

"Yeah, but ya usually look like yer wishing you were asleep," Atsumu chimed in. "Now ya actually look... interested."

Suna shrugged, a hint of pride seeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "She's worth staying awake for."

As the teams gathered for their pre-game huddles, Atsumu's curiosity got the better of him. "So, what's she like on the court? Any good?"

For a moment, Suna's usual bored expression gave way to a smirk. "Just watch," he said simply, settling back in his seat.

The shrill whistle cut through the air, signaling the start of the match. From your very first move, it was clear that Suna's confidence in your abilities wasn't misplaced. Your plays were sharp, your reflexes quick, and your game sense impressive.

"Damn," Osamu muttered after you pulled off a particularly clever feint. "She's good."

"Of course she is," Suna replied, unable to keep a note of smugness from his voice. "We practice together sometimes."

Atsumu's eyes widened. "You mean ya actually voluntarily do extra practice? Who are you and what have ya done with the real Suna?"

Suna merely shrugged, but the soft look in his eyes as he watched you play spoke volumes.

As the match progressed, Suna's teammates couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in his demeanor. While he wasn't as openly expressive as Atsumu might be, the tension in his shoulders when you were up to serve, the way he leaned forward during crucial points, and the ghost of a smile when you scored - it all painted a picture of a Suna they rarely saw.

When you executed a perfect block that sent the ball spinning back to the opponent's court, Suna actually stood up, a rare grin spreading across his face. "Nice kill," he said, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

Kita raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I've ever heard Suna cheer before."

"It's not cheering," Suna protested weakly, sinking back into his seat. "It's... appreciating good volleyball."

"Sure, sure," Atsumu snickered. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with who's playing that good volleyball, right?"

As the match drew to its climactic close, even Suna couldn't maintain his usual nonchalance. The scores were tight, but your team had the edge. In a heart-stopping moment, you leapt high for a spike, your form perfect. The gymnasium seemed to hold its breath as you connected with the ball, sending it hurtling past the opponents' defenses.

The final whistle blew, signaling your team's victory. While the crowd erupted in cheers, Suna's reaction was more subdued but no less meaningful. He was on his feet, a genuine smile on his face, clapping with more enthusiasm than his teammates had ever seen from him.

"Way to go, [Y/N]," he said softly, though his eyes shone with pride.

As the crowd began to disperse, you made your way over to where Suna and his teammates were seated. Suna met you halfway, his usual languid movements quickened by excitement he couldn't quite hide.

"Nice game," he said, pulling you into a hug that surprised his watching teammates. "You were amazing out there."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. "Thanks for coming, Rin. Means a lot."

"Wouldn't have missed it," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before pulling back, aware of his teammates' eyes on you both.

"So this is the famous [Y/N]," Atsumu said, approaching with a grin. "The girl who's got our Suna actually showing interest in something besides blocking and napping."

Suna rolled his eyes, but kept an arm around your waist. "Guys, this is [Y/N]. [Y/N], these are the idiots I'm forced to play with."

As introductions were made, the twins couldn't resist teasing Suna.

"Ya know, [Y/N]," Osamu started, a mischievous glint in his eye, "if ya ever want to see what it's like to date someone with actual energy-"

"I have plenty of energy for what matters," Suna cut in smoothly, pulling you closer. 

You chuckled, leaning into Suna's side. "Don't worry, guys. I like my volleyball players tall, skilled, and delightfully snarky."

Atsumu clutched his chest in mock hurt. "Ouch, what about us?"

"I said skilled, didn't I?" you retorted with a grin, causing Suna to snort in amusement.

As the group headed out to celebrate your victory, you found yourself in the middle of the team's friendly banter, Suna's arm a comforting weight around your shoulders. 

SHINSUKE KITA

The Sendai City Gymnasium hummed with anticipation, its vast interior a sea of excited spectators. Among them sat the Inarizaki team, with Kita Shinsuke at the center, his posture perfect and his expression serene. Yet, those who knew him well could detect a subtle tension in his shoulders, a barely perceptible eagerness in his usually calm eyes.

As you stepped onto the gleaming court, your team's colors vibrant against your skin, the corners of Kita's mouth turned up in a small, but unmistakably warm smile.

Aran, seated beside Kita, noticed the change immediately. "I don't think I've ever seen you smile before a match you're not playing in, Kita," he remarked quietly.

Kita's expression remained soft as he replied, "There's a first time for everything, Aran."

Atsumu, never one for subtlety, leaned forward with a grin. "So that's her, Kita-san? The one who's got our captain all starry-eyed?"

"I wouldn't say starry-eyed," Kita responded evenly, though his gaze never left you. "But yes, that's [Y/N]."

Osamu, more perceptive than his twin, noted, "Ya look proud, Kita-san."

Kita nodded, a hint of warmth coloring his voice. "I am. [Y/N] works hard and plays with integrity. There's a lot to be proud of."

As the teams gathered for their pre-game huddles, Suna couldn't resist asking, "So, what's she like on the court, Kita-san? As disciplined as you?"

For a moment, a flash of affectionate amusement crossed Kita's face. "She has her own style," he said simply. "Watch, and you'll see."

The shrill whistle signaled the start of the match. From your very first move, it was clear that Kita's pride wasn't misplaced. Your plays were precise, your movements efficient, and your game sense impressive.

"Wow," Atsumu muttered after you executed a particularly well-timed set. "She's really good."

"Of course," Kita replied, his tone matter-of-fact but tinged with warmth. "She practices diligently every day."

Aran chuckled. "Sounds like someone else we know."

As the match progressed, Kita's teammates couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in their usually stoic captain. While he remained composed, there was an intensity in his gaze as he watched you play, a slight lean forward during crucial points, and a barely audible intake of breath when you were up to serve.

When you pulled off a perfect receive that turned the tide of a rally, Kita actually stood up, applauding softly but earnestly. "Excellent form," he said, loud enough for his teammates to hear.

Atsumu's eyes widened in surprise. "Woah, Kita-san actually cheered!"

"It's not cheering," Kita corrected calmly, settling back into his seat. "It's acknowledging good volleyball."

"Right," Osamu smirked. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with who's playing that good volleyball."

Kita's response was a serene smile that somehow managed to silence even the rambunctious twins.

As the match reached its climax, even Kita couldn't maintain his usual calm demeanor entirely. The scores were tight, but your team had the edge. In a critical moment, you positioned yourself perfectly for a block, your timing impeccable. The gymnasium held its breath as you jumped, your hands forming a solid wall that sent the ball spinning back to the opponent's court.

The final whistle blew, signaling your team's victory. While the crowd erupted in cheers, Kita's reaction was more subdued but no less meaningful. He stood, applauding with genuine enthusiasm, a proud smile gracing his features.

"Well done, [Y/N]," he said softly, his eyes shining with admiration.

As the crowd began to disperse, you made your way over to where Kita and his teammates were seated. Kita met you halfway, his usual measured stride quickened by an eagerness he couldn't quite conceal.

"Congratulations," he said warmly, reaching out to take your hand. "You played beautifully."

You beamed at him, squeezing his hand. "Thanks for coming, Shin. It means a lot."

"I wouldn't have missed it," he replied, his thumb brushing over your knuckles affectionately.

"So this is the famous [Y/N]," Aran said, approaching with a friendly smile. "The one who's managed to make our Kita break his composure."

Kita's expression remained serene, but a faint blush colored his cheeks. "Everyone, this is [Y/N]. [Y/N], these are my teammates."

As introductions were made, the twins couldn't resist some gentle teasing.

"Ya know, [Y/N]," Atsumu started with a mischievous grin, "if ya ever want tips on how to get Kita-san to loosen up a bit-"

"I assure you, she doesn't need any tips," Kita interjected smoothly, his calm tone belied by the protective way he stepped closer to you.

You chuckled, leaning slightly into Kita's side. "Don't worry, guys. I appreciate Shin just as he is - reliable, hardworking, and wonderfully supportive."

Osamu nodded approvingly. "You've got good taste, [Y/N]-san."

As the group headed out to celebrate your victory, you found yourself walking beside Kita, his steady presence a comforting constant amidst the team's lively chatter. 

Ⓡ kiesbrainjuice all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

tag : @haechansbbg

[the-ancient-dragons]

Ice, Rain, Night, and Sea Dragons!

(wow!)

From the How to Spot a Dragon Before it Spots You guide.

Details and explanation below, otherwise next week are the Overcomplicated SilkWings! See you then! :)

Ice Dragon: - very sparkly - hard to see in snow or fog - sharp whistle sound when flapping

Keeping with the spiky design the wings are also very sharp looking. They would have a very distinct sound, I imagine, both because of the shape of their wings and because of the tail/neck spikes (think pigeon or mourning dove, their feathers make a very iconic sound when cutting through the air). Speaking of the tail, I just love how it turned out!

Rainforest Dragon: - shortest wings for forest flight - change colours -> can camouflage - bouncy flight

What does 'bouncy flight' mean? Well, if you've ever seen any small songbird fly, some have a very iconic way of flying where they flap really quickly and then pause, wings tight to their sides and shoot forward like a missile. I think this would translate to a forest very well, where they could flap their wings for short bursts and slip through branches or vines on the upbeat. Their short wings are also inspired by harpy eagles. I thought it fit perfectly!

Night Dragon: - impossible to see in the dark - underside of wings look like stars - quiet - very rare

The NightWing wing shape and flying style is completely inspired by Levithan Creations. It just works so perfectly that I can't think of anything else for them. How would they do it? Perhaps a very light hyperspecialized scale similar to the scales on moth wings that would help dampen flight sounds. Or, since that seems a little far-fetched, maybe a special peach fuzz like that on owl's wings. I'll need to dig deeper into it, but I like the direction it's going!

Sea Dragon: - shortest dragon (height) - weakest flier -> more commonly skim - triangular wings - heavy tail drags so they often skim like flying fish

Wow I really had to mention the skimming twice. I mean wow that scavenger that wrote this is really lame, huh?

But in all seriousness, I was almost going to go with a more penguin-flipper like shape that would really not be suited to flying until I realised "holy crap we already have a really cool example of flying aquatic 'creature'". Flying fish are so cool. And really, if a SeaWing really chose to fly between islands, why go that far out of the water? Why fly as high as other dragons in the first place? Skimming on the water seems like a perfect use for their strong tails, which could propel them quite fast.

And that's all for the How to Spot a Dragon series. I had lots of fun making this. These designs aren't final but the general adaptations are going to be the starting point. I can't wait to do proper anatomy and action sketches!!!

But first, I want to finish the Overcomplicated series. Next up: SilkWings! See you then!

[brainddeadd]

Very loosely inspired by this ask

Line in the Ice

Y/N knew the game against Boston was going to be rough. The Devils had history with the Bruins, and Brad Marchand wasn’t exactly known for playing nice. From the first shift, he was on her—cheap shots, chirps, and the kind of subtle interference that went unnoticed by the refs but was impossible to ignore.

"Shouldn't you be in the AHL, sweetheart?" Marchand smirked after a puck battle along the boards.

Y/N didn't flinch. "Shouldn't you be retired?" she shot back, shoving past him.

Marchand chuckled, but his game only got dirtier. A slash to her hands went uncalled. A sneaky elbow as she skated past. Y/N grit her teeth, refusing to let him get under her skin. When he tried to pin her along the boards, she spun out of it, sending him stumbling forward as she broke into open ice.

"Atta girl," Jack chirped from the bench, grinning.

By the second period, Marchand upped the ante. A late hit sent Y/N sprawling near center ice, drawing gasps from the crowd. She pushed herself up, shaking off the impact, but before she could get fully upright—

**Boom.**

Nico.

The Devils' captain had flown in like a missile, dropping his gloves before Marchand even had time to react.

The refs swarmed in as Nico and Marchand tangled, fists flying. It wasn’t the longest fight, but it was enough. Nico got in a solid right hook before they were separated, Marchand grinning like he thrived on the chaos.

The whistle blew, penalties were called, and as Nico skated toward the box, he passed Y/N and muttered, "He had it coming."

Y/N smirked. "I could’ve handled it."

"I know," Nico said, glancing at her. "But that doesn’t mean I have to let it slide."

From the bench, Jack, Luke, and Dawson were all grinning. "Baby Devil’s got the whole team ready to throw hands for her," Dawson teased.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but feel the warmth of it. She’d held her own, but she wasn’t alone. Not on this team.

[folklorespring]

Anything sounds like explosion, missile whistle, drones or air raid if you're traumatized enough

[ninibeingdelulu]

He won his game ft. seishiro nagi

The second that final whistle blows and Seishiro's team wins, his laser-focus zeroes in on finding you amidst the roaring crowd without fail. Those piercing whites cut straight through the chaos until locking onto your familiar presence like a guided missile.

Despite the swarm of celebrating teammates, coaches, staff, etc. around him, Seishiro brushes them all off without a second thought. He's a man utterly possessed, stalking straight over with those long, purposeful strides while devouring you with an almost predatory stare.

Once he reaches you though, any sense of urgency or edge melts from Seishiro's frame. That's when the subtle shifts signal his walls coming down - just the barest softening around those striking features and carved lips tugging up ever-so-slightly.

Nagi wastes zero time bundling you flush into his solid, athletic build without warning. Those calloused palms smoothing up the dip of your spine before splaying wide across your nape and lower back, arching you into an intimate bow against him.

He'll nuzzle his sweat-dampened crown into the crook of your neck or jaw, letting out these low, satisfied rumbles - almost like a purring lion scenting his most cherished mate and territory. Reveling in surrounding himself fully with your essence while basking in the victory high.

Seishiro is seldom overtly romantic or showy with PDA. But these charged, sensual moments after victories are when his uninhibited, carnal side comes roaring out from dormancy. Leaving you both utterly consumed in that scorching friction bubbling between your tangled frames.

When he finally does draw back to face you properly, don't be shocked if Seishiro abruptly frames your features with those large palms to slant his mouth hungrily over yours. Drinking you down like the last, restorative oasis available while his thumbs brush your feverish cheekbones.

After slowly separating with a sated growl, Nagi tends to linger inches away - intense pewter stare unblinking as he maps every molecule of your disheveled bliss etched across your swollen lips and fluttering lids. A primal admiration of his prowess reducing you to such sublime putty in his commanding grip once more.

So while he may not vocalize much in those private, blazing reunions, rest assured Nagi's undivided adoration pours from every minor shift and simmering caress instead. Branding you wholly as his insatiable muse and most treasured prize to be relentlessly conquered.

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[mintyys-blog]

Since the Silver Surfer got revealed in the nee Fantastic Four trailer I was wondering if you could write for Silver Surfer reader

STOIC | kon el kent x sliver sufer! reader

DC MASTERLIST

WARNINGS:

The Earth buzzed—alive and loud.

You stood above it, suspended in orbit on your glistening board of cosmic alloy, eyes narrowed slightly at the blue sphere. Life pulsed below in chaotic rhythm. You felt it in waves, like faint echoes brushing your mind, but it didn’t stir you. It rarely did.

Emotion. Mortality. Attachment. These were things you surrendered long ago, traded for speed and solitude among stars.

Until he showed up again.

Kon-El Kent tore through the stratosphere like a missile, his red and blue jacket flapping around him in that messy, reckless way that matched his energy. You heard his whoop before you saw his smirk.

“There she is. Silver statue herself,” he said, hovering in front of you with zero personal space and all the bravado of a boy who’d never been burned.

You didn’t flinch.

“Superboy,” you replied, monotone. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah? Universe’s a big place. You gonna stop me?” he grinned.

You said nothing, but the glow of your cosmic aura flared slightly.

He leaned back with a whistle. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You’re like a walking lightshow—minus the show part. What’s it take to get a reaction outta you?”

You blinked slowly. “That is not necessary. I function without the need for emotional response.”

“Boring,” he muttered, but there was a sparkle of interest in his eyes. “You ever try feeling something? Like, I dunno, fun?”

You tilted your head. “What purpose would that serve?”

He grinned again, cocky as ever. “You might like it.”

There was a silence. Cold. Cosmic. Then— “I doubt that,” you said.

“You talk too much,” you said flatly, turning from him. With a soft hum, your board dipped and carried you forward, silver streak cutting through the air like a whisper. Light shimmered off your polished skin as you threaded through the tall trees below, weaving between branches like wind made solid.

But he was still there.

You felt the pressure before you heard his voice. A weightless presence, matching your pace with infuriating ease.

“Why are you following me?” Your eyes flicked to him, a sharp glare.

“Because you didn’t answer my question!” Kon-El called, grinning like he was invincible in more ways than one. He hovered just inches from your path, backward-flying with his hands behind his head. “Wanna go on a date? Could be really fun!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You humans and your fun…”

“Half Kryptonian, actually!” he shot back proudly, flashing a wink. “Super strong, super charming, and surprisingly persistent.”

You let out a quiet sigh. Not quite frustration. Not quite curiosity. Something in between.

“Your persistence is… inefficient,” you said.

“Nah,” he grinned wider. “I think it’s gonna pay off.”

You dropped suddenly, board carving a sharp descent toward the river below. He followed without hesitation, of course.

“Fine,” you murmured.

He blinked, surprised. “Wait—fine? Like… you’ll go?”

“I will observe this ‘fun.’ For data.”

He laughed, looping around you in midair. “Hell yeah. You won’t regret this.”

You glanced at him again. “We’ll see.”

And though your expression didn’t change… something in the way you hovered near him lingered. Like the first ripple in a very still cosmic sea.

Earth — An Arcade in Smallville

The lights were garish. Loud, pulsing neon that bled across your silver skin and made you look like a walking disco ball. Children shrieked in delight or frustration. Machines beeped. A thick scent of grease and sugar hung in the air like a fog.

You hovered just an inch off the ground, arms folded, glowing board floating beside you like a loyal ghost.

“This is… fun?” you asked flatly, eyeing a child furiously slamming buttons on a machine labeled “Alien Annihilator 3: Total Overkill.”

“Absolutely,” Kon-El grinned, adjusting his shades on top of his head like he belonged here. “This place is a classic. C’mon, you ever played skee-ball?”

You didn’t respond. Just followed as he swaggered over to a long row of clunky machines, grabbed a handful of tokens, and dropped them into your hand.

You stared at them.

“These are currency?” you asked.

“Nah, just arcade coins,” he said. “Try to get the ball in the rings. Higher the score, the better.”

You didn’t move.

Kon blinked, then leaned in, flashing that cocky half-smile. “You afraid to lose to me, chrome dome?”

You tilted your head. “I do not fear loss. I simply do not… understand the purpose of throwing objects into a hole for arbitrary point acquisition.”

He barked a laugh. “Yeah, and I don’t understand the Power Cosmic, but here we are. Let’s go.”

He rolled first—wild and slightly terrible, but managed to scrape a halfway decent score.

You stepped up next, slowly placing the ball in your palm like it was made of glass. Then threw it. With perfect aim. Dead center. The rarest ring. Jackpot.

Every alarm in the machine went off at once. Lights blinked. Tickets screamed out in a flood.

Kon stared, mouth open. “…Okay. Damn.”

You turned to him, expression unreadable. “Was that… fun?”

He shook his head, grinning. “No, that was cheating. But yeah—it kinda was.”

You stood silent for a beat. Then: “Again.”

He handed you another ball. “Yeah. You’re hooked now.”

And as the chaos of the arcade swirled around you—kids yelling, lights blaring, machines glitching—you stood just a little closer to him than before. Not enough for most to notice. But Kon did. He smiled quietly to himself.

The Earth had long since shrunk below them, just a glimmer of blue suspended in black. Above was the void—deep, endless, full of stars that shimmered like dying embers. It was silent here. Peaceful.

You liked that.

Kon-El hovered beside her, slower now, quieter. He watched as you sat cross-legged on your silver board, the soft cosmic light around you pulsing with something different—something he hadn’t seen before. You were still staring. Not at him.

But out—past the system, past the visible galaxies—into the parts of the universe no one ever really looked. You looked homesick. Even if you swore you weren’t capable of that.

He floated closer, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “So… you gonna tell me what’s out there?”

You blinked slowly. “Silence. Memory. Stars that died before your species ever developed sight.”

He gave a low whistle. “That’s poetic for someone who says she doesn’t feel.”

A pause. You didn’t answer. Just kept staring.

“I’ve traveled more than you think,” you finally murmured, voice barely above a thought. “I’ve seen worlds vanish. Civilizations bloom and die within the span of your seconds. I’ve drifted between black holes and watched nebulae breathe.”

You looked down at your hands, the chrome surface catching stray reflections of constellations.

“But sometimes,” you said, quieter, “I wonder… what I was like before.” He tilted his head. “Before what?”

“Before the stars. Before the silence. Before I became… this.” You looked at him now, silver eyes reflecting his face back at him like a mirror. “Do you ever wonder who you could’ve been… if you weren’t built to be something else?”

Kon didn’t answer right away. He just floated down next to you, sat cross-legged on nothing.

“I used to. All the time,” he admitted. “I’m half Kryptonian, yeah. But also half human. A clone. Built to be like Superman. People look at me and expect something. Strong. Good. Perfect.” He laughed, a little bitter.

“I’m none of that. I mess up. I talk too much. I hit things I probably shouldn’t. But lately…” He glanced sideways at you. “I’ve been wondering less about who I’m supposed to be—and more about who I want to be.” Silence again. But not a cold one. Just stillness. Stars moved slowly overhead, like they were listening.

You turned your gaze back outward, voice soft. “I don’t know what I want.”

Kon leaned back, hands behind his head. “That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And for the first time—just the barest trace—you smiled. Not with your mouth. Not in any way most people would’ve noticed. But Kon saw it. In the way your shoulders eased. In how you didn’t ask him to leave.

[holyblonded]

omg estrella after a game eating olga cuddles. olga’s like bebita you stink. but cuddles her anyway

— estrella doesn’t care that she’s dripping in sweat, grass stains on her knees, her hair a wild mess under her headband, she spots olga in the crowd the second the whistle blows and makes a beeline straight for her

— she launches into her arms like a missile, burying her face into olga’s neck and holding on like she hasn’t seen her in weeks

— “bebita,” olga laughs, arms wrapping around her instinctively, “you stink”

— estrella just grins against her shoulder, not letting go, mumbling “don’t care. need cuddles”

— olga pretends to struggle, making exaggerated gagging noises while still stroking estrella’s hair gently, her fingers getting tangled in the damp curls

— “you are disgusting,” she says, pressing a kiss to estrella’s temple anyway

— estrella leans in even closer, murmuring “you love it,” and olga just sighs like she’s being punished by the gods while holding her tighter

— alexia walks to them, smirking, “you’re gonna smell like locker room for the rest of the day”

— “worth it,” olga says, not even blinking, while estrella just hums like a purring cat in her arms

[lets-try-some-writing]

What’s the TFP kids as sparklings unique signature calls?

Dang its been a hot minutes since I did TFP kids as sparklings. For the sake of understanding, I will stick to using their humans names for now. To answer your question, here are their calls.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Rafael took the longest to create a unique signature call. Being a minicon, his ability to vocalize was not as strong right off the bat. As such, for a rather long time he stuck to the base call that all sparklings have. It concerned Optimus quite a bit when Rafael simply didn't seem to have any intention of developing a call at all. However, as cycles passed and Optimus and the team listened closer, they determined he did have a unique call, it was just very difficult to pick out on its own.

Rafael's call was a short and high pitched whistle that bordered on a chirp. It could even sound like a shriek if he went high enough in pitch. It scared the ever living daylights out of Smokescreen when on a long night, when he went to go wander around and hopefully ease himself back into recharge, a terrifying cry echoed in the base. He may or may not have screamed and tripped over the nearest object, but the team don't speak of it often. They've all been startled by Rafael's short and sweet banshee like shrieks on occassion.

Miko, being a flier, developed a call almost as soon as she settled into her Cybertronian frame permanently. Most sparklings tend to create a call that is entirely unique, but fliers have a particular method to their creation process. They pick pieces of their parents calls and then integrate those pieces into a new call. No flier call is every really unique, instead is carries history and lineage. Particularly skilled fliers who are familiar with various houses can pick up a family line just by hearing a bot's signature cry.

Generally Cybertronians stop using their calls after they get out on their own. They only begin using it again when they have a sparkling of their own since it allows the sparkling to track them. With this in mind, Miko took Optimus's gentle melody of a call and combined it with Starscream's shotgun like shriek in order to create a sound which Agent Fowler has described as: "Incoming missiles and Gatling guns". Many a time those who are not used to Miko have flung themselves behind cover when her slowly increasing call echoes around the area.

Compared to his siblings, Jack came up with the tamest call. Against what one might think, warframes tend to develop the calmest and most composed calls. Smaller frame types need to be loud and in charge with their calls in order to scare off predators and get the attention of others. But warframes? They don't need to bother with anything like that. Instead they need to try to show that they are not as wild as one might expect. It is the Cybertronian equivalent to the puppy dog eyes small creatures on Earth perform to get attention and sympathy.

Much like his Sire, Jack created a more sing-songy call. It was a simple two note tune going from high to low in frequencies that only a Cybertronian can pick up. To humans, he is totally silent. But to a Cybertronian, he is singing a soft high low tune intended to catch the attention of the person he is trying to interact with and nothing else. He doesn't need to scare them. He just needs momentary attention. If he really wanted something, screaming is a far more effective option.

[fic-heaven]

But you belong to me. (Graves x reader)

He was so annoying... And yet you craved his annoyance.

(graves never betrayed the 141 in here)

.

A whistle startles you when you were returning from the city to Alejandro's base, said man gives you a knowing look with a very noticeable hint of annoyance before he scapes with Rudy and you flip him the bird for leaving you behind to deal with-

"Lookin' good, gorgeous. I like tha' dress. It suits." Graves.

"Nice eye, American boy. Who are you? The fashion police? Here to admire my wardrobe?" You ask still a little confused as to how he spawned right next to you. Jesus, you'll have to burn this dress later... And apologize to Ale, he was the one who gifted it to you when he helped you pick something to impress a certain someone.

"Could be." Graves winks following your hurried steps with a small trot.

"Not with that haircut you ain'."

"You'll realize ma' hair won't matter much once I get to take off that pretty dress of yours and show ya what I've got in store."

You scoff and chuckle astonished. The Shadow commander never seemed to give up on his constant flirts, getting bolder and bolder with the passing time. Your banters with Graves have been quite frequent and very, very awkward. As much as you try to light them up with your wit, he screws it all with his broken humour and poor flirts which ends up in you feeling uncomfortable and your sass levels to increase but it never seemed to scare him off, it only tempted him further. You see, when you all were forced to collaborate with Shadow Company to track the missiles and Hassan in Las Almas you didn't think much of it, you'd stick to your thing and that was it. But the bad side of being and feeling attractive is that sometimes instead of gaining the attention of your crush, you'd end up having Phillip Graves licking your ass every opportunity he got seemingly enchanted with everything you pulled when you were trying to flirt with another different man.

That man being Soap frickin' Mactavish, the oblivious Scotchman. You could strip naked right in front of him tying your waist in a little bow like a wrapped gift and he'd pay more attention to the bow than your bare body. That sexy fool...

"I ain't got no time for this, dear. I'm tired. Mommy needs her beauty nap before we head to El Sin Nombre's mansion or wherever the hell he's hiding later tonight."

"I could accompany you. You know, warm the covers for ya before we-"

"I'll pass. But thanks! Ask Soap if he'd be interested in doing so instead, yes?" You smile to later grimace before going to the barracks leaving Graves behind laughing bitterly. How the hell could you make him take you seriously? That man had less brain than a sack of potatoes.

______

Perhaps you also had less brain than a sack of potatoes.

There was a very noticeable shift in the air when you went working solo with Soap at Diego's mansion. And it begun after you two bantered with one another and your team had finally managed to trap Valeria. Soap was characteristically oblivious of your flirting, and there was one certain pick-up line you said that was so clear of your intentions it made Valeria, who was handcuffed to the other side of the Heli scoff in disbelief, the other men chuckled lowly amused by your bold flirt.

For the first time in all the months you spent trying and failing at wooing Johnny, you felt pure embarrassment. Suddenly your team's laughs felt like they were mocking you, Soap seemed to be playing oblivious on purpose probably irritated by your futile attempts, and the weight of Graves' eyes made you shiver a bit, now you understood Phillip all those times he spent trying to court you only to end up being the butt of the joke.

Ghost was quick to notice your discomfort and with an authoritative bark he shut the other men up quickly before he gave you a knowing look you returned with a tight-lipped smile and a single nod. You all were quiet then, which took you by surprise because normally Graves wouldn't waste a minute trying to shift the attention you gave Soap to him, but this time he stayed quiet stealing a glance or two you way from Valeria's side, as if the blonde was giving you time to digest the discomfort and finally realize that perhaps Soap simply wasn't interested in you.

And fuck did it sting.

During the interrogation you remained professional trying to move on from the previous very awkward situation. Alejandro's temper tantrum and Phillip's sass helped you focus on the tied woman you were all supposed to squeeze information out of, the embarrassment was still burning your insides so you didn't comment much leaving the boys to their thing.

Soon enough, when the interrogation finished, you were approached by an smiling Phillip. He was content with how fast the interrogation had gone but you could feel his worry in the way he softly called out to you.

"You have a way with words." You said casually trying to halt him from making the question that almost fell from his lips. He obviously came to ask if you were okay and you weren't ready to answer that because frankly you didn't know for certain. Graves' fingers graced your forearm, you were wearing short sleeves at that moment so the gentle touch made your skin erupt in goosebumps, his face was sickenly soft as if he was approaching a wounded kitten until he broke it with a crocked smile and a little chuckle.

"Made her talk real quick. I'm an expert when it comes to interrogations, but that's only one of many skills as you'll come to know."

"Maybe she wanted to get it over with so she wouldn't catch more of your smelly breath." You picked on him with a playful smile of your own pinching his arm back before you crossed your arms on your chest.

"Were you jealous I was standing so close?" He bit stepping a little closer, both hands now tucked under his vest giving you this seductive look you were so familiar with.

"Should I? After all, I know you'll come right to me whenever you're done playing." Graves' brows quirked a bit in surprise. You were teasing him back, this was new.

But... Were you doing it because Soap had let you down yet again and you wanted to use him as a way of revenge trying to make your crush jealous?

Phillip moved his head to the side spotting Ghost roughly yanking Soap by the arm and walking away with him while bombarding his eardrum with whispered snarls, men stalking to the opposite hall you two were in. Phillip then looked back at you, your eyes were still on him, amusement written all over them. Now that Soap has left the scene would you drop the act if he pressed you a bit?

Graves launched forwards, his arms trapping you against the wall with a type of dominance that could only belong to a possessive commander. The huff you let out when your back hit the wall and the way your eyes widened in surprise as your palms shot to his chest so he wouldn't crush you made the blonde's smirk widen.

"You look adorable denying my advances, teasing me by staring at other men and fluttering those gorgeous lashes pretending you are not into me, (y/n). Lucky you, I'm not dumb." He whispers, his voice a growl of clear desire.

"What-..." Your voice failed you intoxicated by the delicious smell of Graves' minty breath. It seems you were in the wrong.

"I've got a darn good taste in women. Do you?"

He left you perplexed then. His back was to you when you were able to break out of your stupor. Graves just questioned your taste in men, what a joke.

But was he right, though?

______

The next time Graves tried to pull a move on you, Ghost, Soap, him and you were detonating a missile in the middle of the gulf of Mexico, the turbulent waters showed some mercy on Alejandro and the other shadows when they evacuated the zone of impact, the gigantic missile blew the oil rig and with it, one of Hassan's deathly weapons of mass destruction.

You couldn't remember how it went exactly, but in an instant Ghost was behaving strangely, taking the mercenary by the shoulder and guiding him somewhere else as Johnny approached your side near the big window that overlooked the chaos.

"I've seen plenty of explosions. But never like this one..." The Scott said softly under his breath like he was contemplating an spectacle of beautiful fireworks.

Somehow you weren't in the right mind and you simply hummed feeling distracted as hell. You'd excuse it as if you were simply worried about Alejandro and the other shadows but the truth was clear when your eyes went from Soap to Phillip. The last interaction you had with the commander had made your brain explode with a thousand new thoughts and none of them were about Soap.

The blonde was shaking Ghost's hand eagerly with a delighted face, he seemed satisfied with how the mission went. These Americans and their love for explosions...

"Y' alright, lass?" Soap called startling you.

"Sorry, what was the question-?"

Johnny brushed his mohawk back with a charming chuckle, you smiled at the sound of his sweet laugh but... You still felt very distracted. It was when Graves' blue eyes met yours from Ghost's shoulder that you felt something warm on your stomach before the tall Brit blocked both your line of view.

"Say, what if we all go find the others? I wanna see if Ale shat himself during the explosion, poor man must have lost a few more inches of hairline with the stress." The men laughed at this bumping fists and patting shoulders with one another, a short celebration for the successful mission. General Sheppard congratulated all of you individually in the comms and after thanking the general, Graves walked up to you while all of you were walking to the boats, Soap pressed to your side hugging your waist with one heavy arm as he looked at Graves as if whatever he was about to say was also directed to him. Normally you'd silently fangirl on the spot but right now the Sargeant's touch felt slightly suffocating. As usual, Graves never showed any care for Johnny's presence when it came to bantering and flirting with you.

"Nicely done, sarge. Next time we work together, remind me to send ya an application, you'd look great in black."

"You offering me a spot at your company, mister Graves?"

"More like a spot right by my side. I could use a very loyal shadow watchin' my back. Y'never know, right?"

"I think you have plenty of those under your command." You smirked waving a hand around you three, some Shadows who passed by chirped a "yep yep!" Instantly making Graves puff up his chest with pride, your sassy smirk melted into a sweet smile at his reaction. You knew Phillip was faker than Price's favorite Nike's, but the love he had for his Shadows was clearly real and honest.

Was his attraction to you just as honest? You asked yourself.

The American replied to you instantly making Soap stiffen. "You'd make a great Shadow, love. You'll never change ma' mind on that."

"And what makes you think I'd be so loyal to you, Ken doll?" You teased. Johnny was baffled on the spot but knew better than to say shit.

The way Phillip looks at you says it all. The bastard knows he lives rent free in your head, and sadly you just realized this now, just when Soap seemed to be reciprocating your advances you stuttered. Grey eyes under dark brows faded in your mind, orbes changing to a color blue under dark blonde brows. The weight of the American's eyes felt more intoxicating than Soap's.

"Yeah, we gotta go. Lt will lose his shit if we keep him waitin' any longer, right (y/n)?" Soap said in warning patting your shoulder.

But he was met by your silence, your eyes were firmly planted on Graves' as if leveling him, he didn't waver either. The bastard only broke eye contact to shoot Soap a smug look, he then turned back and joined a small group of shadows who awaited him on his boat but not before winking your way.

Fucking Graves...

_______

You all left after Hassan. Trying to corner the rat on the spot before he blew the whole country to the ground was hard, specially when Phillip aided you with a bunch of shadows seeking to trap general Shepard and luckily press charges of his traitorous intentions when he forced the commander to order his men to betray you.

You had missed Graves for the whole mission and it was taking a toll on your senses making you clumsy and risky. You suffered many close-calls until Hassan attacked Gaz, Soap, Price and you along with some of your men and neutralizing the little group of shadows you had left working by your side, the Iranian had wounded the captain and you while poor Garrick did his best to pull all of you out of harm's way. Soap went after him and not so long after you all received Ghost's call that Hassan was dead.

Hurrah.

"Hurrah." You huffed out drinking your tequila in one gulp. The whole gang was tired to their bones and weakly cheered drinking their own glasses. But then out of nowhere a voice you all knew too well broke your comfortable silence.

"He-hey!! Look at the gang enjoying a celebratory drink after a job well-done!"

None of you said a word, too exhausted to even look at the approaching commander who cheerfully perched himself near your stool.

"I'll let ya have this round under ma' count and forgive ya for not inviting me this once but only because I'm in a pretty good mood."

The captain sighed. "Shepard?"

"Laswell's dealing with the preparations. Soon enough that ol' bastard won't bug us no more."

That seemed to take a huge weight on all your shoulders, your team's faces changed in an instant, they seemed much more relaxed than before.

"Now there's only one thing to deal with." You heard Graves whisper behind your ear.

"The day you get more annoying I'll shove my knives so far up your ass you'll be shittin' blades for weeks." Maybe it sounded more rude than you intended but right now you couldn't indulge him on his charming shit.

"My good you are sweet. Mind if I call ya sugar pop? Or perhaps pumpkin is more fittin', what do ya think, love?"

"You can call me whatever you want but do not call me later for dinner."

"Even if that implies my infamous Texan-style ribs? I'll even serve em' with sweet potatoes. Have y' ever had sweet 'tatoes, pumpkin?"

Your brows could have very well reached your hairline, eyes wide in surprise, you pursed your lips and tilted your head slightly at the idea of trying such dish. After what happened with Hassan, the plan of eating a whole pig with the commander sounded too good to refuse.

"Are they just like normal potatoes but sweet?"

"I'll take that as a yes!" Graves laughs soundly pointing a finger to your very expressive face.

You groan rubbing one eye with your open palm. "Fine, fine. But only for dinner. Don't get too excited."

"Sure, love. One meal and I'll drive ya home like a gentleman."

"Youuuuu got it."

______

One fucking hour later at Graves' provisional apartment. He had pinned you under him on his comfy couch as the TV lowly played a mix of soothing music from YouTube that Graves had prepared for the occasion.

"Fuck you taste so sweet..."

"Maybe's cuz you didn't let me wash my mouth after the whole-ass dinosaur of a pig we has just eaten."

"The bbq sauce and the sweet potatoes are one thing, your tongue is just fucking addictive. Worse than nicotine I might add..." He sensually said before nipping your chin gently eager to attack your lips once again.

The way Graves kisses your mouth as if he was a man starved steals your breath away, his hot muscle swipes every corner of your mouth turning sloppy and if it wasn't because of how hot this man was and how amazing he has been treating you for this whole night, you'd say gross. And yet you look up at him, how his blue irises twinkle with desire, his reddened lips shine with all the saliva he was able to steal from you, and you feel so content. Like this was meant to be.

You broke the kiss panting, both hands pushing his chest back slightly to catch your breath from how sticky he has gotten ever since the first small peck.

"Fucking hell, Lip... You kiss like a middle schooler."

"Keep that up. You have no idea how hard you make me with your insults, woman..."

"Lil' bit of a masochist ain't ya?"

"Only for you, pumpkin..."

Yes, you do have good taste in men.

_______

"When your ma and I first met she was obsessed with me."

"Obsessed!? I was after another totally different guy!"

Your son laughed baffled at this new information shaking his head in disbelief making his dirty blonde hair sparkle under the rays of sunlight from the nearby window. With ten years of age, little Dominic was asking for more and more stories about how you and your husband met, eager to brag in class about the cool adventures you two shared with him. It was tradition. Every third of January Graves and you would sit Dom at the couch to grace him with a new cool story of the old days and reminisce on how you two met before your mother in law would pick him up so you two could celebrate your wedding anniversary.

"Ma', you have a funny taste in men."

This pearl from your son made Phillip spit out his lemonade staining your brand new carpet, you bursted out laughing from your spot of the couch, your legs spread to the side where your husband previously massaged your feet with one hand and supported his glass with the other. Said glass was carefully placed on the table as he cursed lowly at the freshly stained carpet.

"Oh you have no idea, little one..."

[klbmsw]

Bill King

donretoSps586mc479h00h6t79ig1thagg5ch36hh07141huc4iac1i2a8ui  ·

The Coward & The Hero: A Day of National Disgrace

My stomach churns. The bile rises. Never have I seen a more shameful, more disgraceful occupant of the White House. A man who has so thoroughly soiled the seat of power that even history recoils. A traitor. A thug. A liar. A cheat. And today, a pathetic, desperate, pantomime dictator, trying to stare down the leader of Ukraine—Volodymyr Zelensky, a man who has stood before death, before the smoking ruins of his homeland, and still refuses to bow.

Trump? Trump isn’t fit to lace Zelensky’s boots. The bloated relic of a reality show presidency, slathered in an extra layer of high-polished orange shoe polish, face glowing like a jack-o’-lantern stuffed with state secrets. He sat there playing the part of a South American strongman from the ‘50s, puffed up and empty, all bark and bluster, but no spine, no soul. He thought he could roll over a man who had lived in the trenches of war. But Zelensky has seen real men die. He has heard the whistle of missiles meant to tear him apart. Trump has never heard anything louder than the sound of his own mouth.

So what did the orange tyrant do? He rattled on about Hunter Biden’s laptop. In the presence of a war hero, he ranted like an unhinged lunatic about a hard drive. Idiot speak. Straightjacket talk. A man devoid of vision, reduced to the same old grievances, the same old conspiracy-laced dementia as if the fate of nations could be debated on the level of a Fox News fever dream.

And then, the jester arrived—J.D. Vance, a third-rate clown who came not to stand for anything, but to clean Trump’s boots with his lips. He sat there, all smug obedience, waiting for his cue, eager to please his master in moments of fitful rage. No dignity. No independence. Just another political parasite feeding off the rot. This was one of the most sickening displays of cowardice in American history.

And across the border, Canada’s Trudeau—so often a punching bag for American conservatives—stood tall, shoulder to shoulder with Zelensky, a leader among leaders. He didn’t grovel. He didn’t cower. He didn’t babble like a lunatic about emails or laptops. He stood on the right side of history.

That’s the difference. That’s the stark, gut-wrenching reality.

On one side, men of honor.

On the other, grub worms in suits.

[penny-anna]

hi guys i set up a substack the other week & figured since I had it I might as well put up some of my published original works.

here is a longer teaser:

The wind screamed in and out the remains of buildings. It tugged at his clothes, whistled through the holes punched in his helmet for the strap, rattled his ear drums. There'd be a lull in the fighting, if he’d timed this right, but he could hear cracks of missiles in the distance. And there were mines, and sizzling pools left by chemical weapons, and the iSoldiers.

you might enjoy this story if you like: cyborgs, warfare, human mistery & bleakness.

[writingoddess1125]

Gigs

This Fine Lady has been in my drafts for like- 8 Months??? Please excuse grammer issues, i didnt re-read it

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Masterlist

0200 Hours Barrancas Del Cobre

The rhythmic thumping of rotor blades echoed through the open sky as Gigs skillfully maneuvered the large military helicopter through the turbulent skies. TF 141, clad in their tactical gear, secured safely inside and ready for the upcoming mission.

"Ready for quick action Pilot Gigs? May have to make a smooth landin lass" Price called to you, walking to your chair as you glanced back at the man.

"Nah Cap, I' like it slow'~ Especially with Becks Sh's a romantic~" Gigs said with a laugh patting the helicoper stick at the made up nickname for the vehicle, earning a few giggles from the boys in the back.

"Ohh A romantic I see, well a romantic with this many men with big guns? Would mistake for a slag-" Price said earning a loud laugh from Gigs as they went through a mountain pass, the trip had been smooth sailing so far.

However it seemed smooth sailing wasnt a guarantee. Ghost glancing back as he saw two dots coming behind them- Fast.

"Gigs!- Company" He loudly announced, the crew looking back as Gigs clicked her tongue.

"Well Shit! Hold on tight, boy's it’s ’bout to get rough!" Gigs cackled, fixing her helmet as she kicked up the helicopter towards a tighter canon pass, seeing two attack copters getting closer.

"Price! Look in my bag 'eal quick, you need a good shot"

She hollered out, the men preparing for a air attack as Price went to the back of the copter to the pilots coop, reaching in as he couldn't help but raise a brow.

Pulling back a Pila Launcher, With a few rounds of ammo as well. Price walking to the door as he slid it open, the men taking a look at the launcher of choice.

Alejandro looking to Gigs with a terrified laugh- "You keep this on hand!?"

"Oh Bless You Darlin' you shou'd see wha' I keep in my panty dra'er" She said with a wink and smile as she flicked up some keys, Grunting as she saw the two on her tail and flicked up the gas.

Lets Fuckin Go-

As she zips through the canyon, dodging enemy fire, the team bracing themselves hard, holding the leather straps as they felt gravity slamming against them. The enemy helicopters are hot on their tail, as sound of gunfire from them heard- but Gigs is in her element. She dips the chopper into a tight barrel roll, narrowly avoiding a missile that streaks past, exploding against the canyon wall.

"How the bloody hell are we still in the air!?" Gaz shouts, gripping his seat for dear life. Ghost grabbing his vest to keep against the seat as he hissed himself at the harsh movements.

"Cause I’m just that damn good baby!" Gigs yells back, her voice full of adrenaline-fueled excitement. Price loading the Launcher as best as he could, his body slamming into the copter side, Alejandro grabbing him to steady as the doors swung open. Price holding steady as he aimed at the closest helicopter-

"One Down! Need to reload!" Price yelled out as contact was struck, Starting to reload as fast as possible. Gigs glanced around quickly however, knowing the second copter could take them down especially when she saw missles fire- till her eyes spotted the canyon wall.

"Fuck Fuck Fuck!"

Gigs pulls the chopper into a steep climb up the canyon, gaining altitude fast.

"Come on Beck's!, Clime for me sug!" She yelled out as the boys felt themselves go vertical.

"You're Fuckin' Mental!" Soap yelled out with a laugh as he felt his feet dandle from the seat.

"Time for some fireworks, boys!" She flips a switch, and flares shoot out from the helicopter, confusing the incoming missiles that explode harmlessly in the sky perfectly turning the guns on the remaining copter-

"Gotcha You Bitch!"

A whistle of excitement leaving Gigs as she howled and shot down on the copter watching it explode fust a few hundred yards from them.

"WOO!"

Gigs laughed out as she zipped through the canyon to a lower pass, close to the drop off point were she would need to hide out.

The men in the back a bit frazzled by the fast pace combat and worrying excitement from their female pilot.

0600 Landing Spot

After securing their landing the group disbanded from the helicopter, Gaz who was familiar with helicopter trauma seemed ready to simply walk back to London at this point..

"Ill be here waiting for y'all" Gigs told them, The men nodding in understanding as they gave a short brief at the task at hand. However Soap eyes began to wonder over the female pilot specifically her ass.. Seeing how he couldn't tell if he saw attracted to her, attracted to the crazy- or both- however his wondering eye was quickly caught as she looked Soap immediately and locked eyes with him.

Soap felt a bit intimidated by how she looked him up and down, like she was mentally doing math on him.

"What?" He questioned, which seemed to make her smile.

"Youre goin on a date with me pretty boy" She said suddently, Patting his vested chest with a smirk before walking off.

"Pretty boy?" He scoffed, glancing around at the rest of the team staring at him and Alejandro suppressing giggles.

"How it feel Soap getting a date with her?" Gaz said as he slapped the man's back who was just now realizing what happened.

"I got a date?-" He innocently asked, looking to Ghost who nodded softly in confirmation.

"I got a date!?"