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gallusrostromegalus · 2 months ago

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This morning I came downstairs to discover that the dogs have invented a New Crime.

My husband get up very early for his Real Adult Job, and feeds Charleston (Black-and-cream Sighthound mix, mostly leg) and Herschel (40lb cardigan welsh crime tube), then lets them out into the fenced yard before he leaves.

I get up at the same time but take longer to boot up, so the dogs frolick about and discourage the local tree rats from lingering about the property while I get dressed/brush my teeth/try to not be psychologically crushed by The Horrors (TM)

Now it's pretty normal for me to find Herschel doing a high-speed yet startlingly efficient MC Hammer Shuffle on his stubby little legs around the base of the large honey Locust tree we have in the middle of the yard so he could keep his face pointed directly up the trunk at something in the canopy, because this his how he tries to herd squirrels.

...but Charlie is usually nearby, cheerfully play-bowing and encouraging the squirrel to come down, nothing bad will happen-!

This time Charleston is nowhere in sight.

I go outside to investigate and Herschel pauses to tackle me about the kneecaps as a greeting before returning to the tree.

Charleston is not behind the garden bins, nor in the side yard.

I am growing concerned, when I hear a telltale guilty scrape of claws above me.

Charleston is on the roof.

I shuffle out to the middle of the yard, until I can make eye contact with him.

He looks down at me, cheerfully wagging his tail, clearly anticipating praise for being such a clever boy.

I at least know how he got up there.

My house has a deck built off the second floor with a set of stairs leading up to it, and a large honey locust tree grows next to it. Part of the roof is easily accessible with a small hop from the deck.

The deck has only a minimal amount of railing ad the roof has none, so I blocked off the stairs with a board that was too high for Herschel, an inveterate explorer and criminal, to jump, but not Charlie.

I didn't worry about this at the time because Charleston is, in fact, The Best Dog In The Universe, and understands that even though he *could* easily jump various barriers, it would be *impolite* of him to do so.

Charleston is Extremely Polite and thus almost never commits any crimes.

...Almost Never.

Charlie has exactly two vices, which aren't even vices because his ancestors were bred for millennia to do these two exact things.

The first is that he is HIGHLY leash aggressive when I'm present (We were both attacked by a St. Bernard the first day I had him and Charlie has decided Strange Dogs Are Not Allowed To Approach Me)

The Second is that he has the Prey Drive From Hell.

He has chased bears and bulls with full murderous intent.

He almost got me arrested because he cut his leash to chase a pronghorn antelope in front of a park ranger.

It is only for the sake of my saftey and pursuit of prey that he will break the rules.

Today, he has his nemesis cornered

Charleston isn't clever the way Herschel is. He's never really explored using his toys as tools, whereas Herschel speedran the early stages of hominid tool use as a puppy. Arwen was a logistical sort of genius who managed to terraform my parent's yard into Rabbit Thunderdome.

Charleston's genius is... psychological.

If the Squirrels see both dogs, they run for the fence, but if they only see Herschel, they run for the tree.

Charlie is much better at tracking and guessing the route his prey might go, so Charlie runs for their preferred escape route of the tree instead of chasing them.

The squirrels compensate by running for the fence, which is farther away in general, but they have a head start on the dogs.

At Some Point, charlie managed to work out that if he stays in the shadows under the deck, the squirrels won't see his mostly-black body, especially when Herschel charges into the sunlight and catches it on his white ruff.

Charleston realized, long before I did, that there is only the ONE branch that overhangs the roof, and therefore if a squirrel runs up the tree, it only has ONE way out of the yard.

The real genius was combining all of the above into the realization that he could let Herschel charge the squirrels, run through the under-deck shadows and up to the deck and roof while the squirrels are distracted, and plant himself on the roof where the squirrels HAVE to land without them seeing him until it was too late.

-And so we stand this morning.

Herschel at the foot of the tree, preventing the squirrel from running back down and heading for the fence

Charleston square in the landing zone on the roof, at the ready

The squirrel paralyzed on the branch between them

...and me, only sort of awake and realizing that I'm probably the dumbest mammal here.

I need to figure out how to disentangle these beasts without anyone getting maimed. Charleston has the blood of his ancestors baying for the flesh of his nemesis in his ears. Herschel is dangerously close to figuring out how to get on the roof himself. The squirrel is contemplating some truly dire Maneuvers, including dropping out of the tree and assaulting me to buy time.

I haven't even had my coffee yet.

"Charleston." I say with a very aggravated sigh. "That's not where dogs go."

Charleston whimpers.

He has Disappointed (TM) me.

A fate worse than death.

He starts to walk back to the deck, but as he takes a step to leave, so does the squirrel, and he is pulled back by millennia of instinct.

This will require. Delicacy.

or delicacies.

"Stay. I'll be right back." I tell the dogs.

I go back into the house, and retrieve The Best Treat.

The Cat's Wet Food.

Both dogs crave this Most Forbidden snack with an irrational passion, and it is usually both out of reach in the cat tree AND defended by Mochi, who rules the dogs with an Iron Paw.

I return to the yard, and open the can in full view of both dogs.

"Charlie?" I call. "Do you want Wet Food?"

He is halfway down the stairs before I can finish the question.

Herschel switches his orbit from the tree to my person, and I have to shuffle to avoid tripping over them as we go back inside and the squirrel flees.

None of this is the new crime.

I go out with them later to pull Yet More Thistles, and a few minutes in, I hear a little 'huff' from Charlie.

I look up, and he's standing on the stairs, paw up to indicate he's going to jump over the barrier board and go right back up there.

You know.

...Unless there is wet food to be had.

The children have figured out how to commit extortion. I text my husband.

They're so smart! Do you think we can set them on the jackasses across the street? My husband asks, ever the practical man.

I'm going back to bed.

---

I'm a disabled writier who makes my living tellng stories. if you liked this, please consider giving me a Ko-fi tip, or pre-ordering the Family Lore book of stories on my Patreon. Thank you!

#Family Lore #Charleston Chew #Herschel the Hanukka Goblin #dogs

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randombush3 · 15 days ago

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let me get what i want

leah williamson x reader

part 2 to this

summary: you meet leah in a VIP bar and can't decide what to do with her

words: 4106

content warnings: smut, mentions of drugs

notes: ok here is part 2. thank @p0orbaby for the smut because i couldn't do it 😵‍💫

Leah’s knee brushes yours as she leans over to grab a beer. You’re sitting on the woven rug outside her yurt – part of those pop-up hotels that are more wood and electricity than flimsy tent poles – and the conversation is still going. It’s about one in the morning. The diffusers dotted around the field have done little to mask the smell of mud and grass.

You don’t know when you were led here. Perhaps it was during the migration from the mainstage to the bars. Perhaps she had taken your hand and pulled you through the crowd, losing the rest of your company in the process.

Leah is bold in a different way to you. You get what you want. You take without giving back. But she… convinces. Ensnares. Waits like a leopard perched in thick branches, stalking its prey until the perfect opportunity arises.

It’s difficult not to bring it up. You should mock her the way she’s playing host in her little den, practicing xenia like a devout Ancient Greek, but the words die in your throat.

The pretence has been abandoned now.

“LSD?”

You’re currently listing the drugs you have done between you. Interestingly, the athlete has tried cocaine. Two years ago, sometime in the off-season. Says she gets why people are addicted to it.

She shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink which technically disrupts the nature of never-have-I-ever. You’d have thought she’d follow every rule. Leah’s a captain. A footballer. Breaking rules is supposed to be sacrilege. “You have?”

“I thought we’d established I was going to win.”

Her spirit is competitive and you see her jaw tense at the notion of losing. You’re not going to admit that in the grand scheme of things, she isn’t.

“Did your parents never… find out?” she asks, and her syllables are slurred but the nosiness is loud and clear. “Mine would have clocked. Immediately.”

You say, “they knew. They didn’t care.”

Leah laughs like that’s funny, like there’s something charming about that particular kind of glamorously-dressed neglect. Her laugh is too big for her mouth. It doesn’t match the rest of her: the sleekness, the discipline, the control.

She shifts closer.

Her hand grazes your thigh. Stays there as she leans to set down her drink. Casual, confident, asking you to notice but not pointing it out.

This is the point where people usually lie to themselves. They construct a fantasy where this is chemistry or a connection. Where it’s romantic and life-changing – as if sex ever is – and that the memory will be surrounded by an imaginary shrine. You don’t like lying, though. You like practicality, efficiency. You like getting what was needed, avoiding the superfluous.

All you’re thinking about is logistics: how close the bed is, whether the yurt’s walls will muffle sound, whether she’ll want you to stay after.

Her fingers splay out to hold your knee, as if she is determined to not let you disappear. She’s not being subtle.

You don’t move. But when she leans in, slow and trying to read you, your hand goes to her shoulder to parry her away. Not forceful. Not mean. But a rejection, of sorts.

“No,” you say and your voice does not waver. “You can’t kiss me.”

That does it. She’s unaware of your general rule, so you don’t blame her for recoiling like she has touched something sharp. You watch her recalibrate, eyes darting from your lips to the rest of the field, mouth parted in a half-formed apology. She wears that awkward expression – fuck, did I read this wrong? – and it makes something in you flicker. It’s not quite guilt.

Her mouth widens, words bubbling at the back of her throat.

You get there first.

“Don’t worry. You can still fuck me.”

A beat. Her blush deepens, pooling high on her cheeks. She looks like she has forgotten how to smile. She swallows and her gaze steadies again.

Leah is trying to recover.

Her jaw sets. Shoulders straighten.

You’ve already decided this is the last time you’ll see her. She doesn’t know it yet. She probably won’t until you’re gone. Not that it’s your problem; you never made her a promise.

This is just a transaction. Clean. Contained. Predictable.

A rare occurrence at 1AM at a festival, but one that you deal in with expertise and precision.

By morning, you will be out of here, high in the sky above this tiny island. Your tour of Europe starts in four days. There’ll be plenty of other women to fill plenty more nights like these.

And Leah is already moving again, this time with certainty.

You don’t stop her.

You stand only when she does. No ritual, no ceremony. She takes your hand. Functional – she’s learning.

It’s dark inside and the threshold lip is steep. Her grip is warm, though. Dry. It occurs to you that, between various escalations of alcohol percentages, she hasn’t stopped drinking water all night. Her discipline is far from enviable.

The inside of the yurt is less curated than you expected. Her suitcase contains folded clothes, but beside it crumpled fabric piles up. Her wellies are crusted with dried mud, set by the door. There’s a book next to the bed (what kind of PR-manager-pet brings a book about leadership to a festival?) that looks partially read, front cover weighed down by a half-eaten protein bar. A pair of compression socks hangs over the footboard of the double bed that takes up most of her £3000 real estate.

She hesitates near the bed. Shirks under your blatant judgement of her space. Straightens as though to remind herself she shouldn’t care.

You walk past her. Sit. Your fingers deftly untie your boots; deliberately, calmly. You don’t look up as you say, “I didn’t think you’d be nervous, Leah.” You’re sure many women have thrown themselves at her. The allure of fame and stadia and superficial relationships with money… it must be like wasps to a toddler’s melting ice-lolly.

“I’m not nervous,” she says, and she almost pulls it off. Almost.

It’s a tiny wobble in her tone that betrays her. You don’t mention it, but you keep score.

You lean back on your hands, head tilting to look at her fully now. She hasn’t moved yet, still standing beside the bed like she is trying to decide whether she should unlock Pandora’s box. The look is familiar. She’s trying to convince herself that this doesn’t mean anything. That if she keeps her hands steady and her mouth shut, it won’t.

You want to help her. Not out of kindness, but rather impatience. A clean break.

“I’m not going to stay,” you say. “If that’s what you were wondering.”

She exhales. It could be relief.

“Didn’t ask you to,” she replies.

You nod. That’s that.

There are footsteps outside the yurt – someone is staggering past with the elegance of a drunk zombie, probably heading back to a stranger’s bed. Neither of you look. Her eyes are trained on yours, as though she is willing you to forget that the world is still turning. You want to forget.

Leah steps forwards, pulling her tank top over her head in a single, efficient movement. No fanfare.

You stand again. For a moment, you think you see her frown.

By the time you touch her, everything else has left the room. You’re both dead and alive, here and not. As soon as this starts – and it already has – you will be free. Just for a moment, for a sweet, sweet moment.

You breathe out like it’s your last.

Her skin is warm. Tense in places. You can feel the edge of control she is refusing to let go of and the hard sinew of muscles which should intimidate but don’t. You wonder if she fucks like a footballer – how do they do it? If it’s good, you might develop a taste for it.

She watches you as you undress, gaze unashamed but quiet. She’s curious, not worshipful. Your body is not her new altar. You are not her new religion. And that’s good, because you’d hate that.

You don’t speak again. There’s nothing left to clarify.

Her hands wrap around your forearms as steps into the gap between you. She’s confident again, earlier hesitation long erased. Her fingers settle at your waist – firm, controlled. This competence was not unexpected. You remain unimpressed.

Your back hits the bed. You let it. The covers are still warm from where you sat down, and the air is cool against your skin. You’re left lying there for a moment, no body surrounding yours, not yet.

Then her mouth is on you. The bed sinks lower where her weight falls as she straddles your waist. She kisses your stomach, your ribs, the flesh of your chest left exposed by your skimpy bra.

Her mouth is hot. Too slow. Too careful. Each movement calculated, precision replacing hunger.

Irritated and impatient, you arch your back. It’s a clear hint, yet her tongue continues to glide over your sternum as though she wants to change the pH of your skin. She’s being too careful, and you don’t believe in half-measures. You’re not some precious thing she can’t afford to crack. You hate that it feels that way. You’re not a thing. Neither are you precious. Neither is this anything worth handling with care.

You will Leah to get it: you’re here because you’re horny and bored. She’s beautiful and she will do.

Your hand grabs her hair, grip tight. You twist until she lets out a sound – low, strained, the first real thing she’s offered. Better, comes your brief satisfaction.

“Think less,” you say, voice flat, not a command but not far off. She takes it like one anyway. Her mouth opens wider. Her teeth graze your rib, harder this time. Not gentle, not sweet. You loosen your grip and drop your arm. The bed shifts beneath you as she lowers herself, lips dragging down over the curve of your chest. She mouths at your bra, wet tongue pressing through the lace. She lingers at the edge of your nipple, sucks it through the fabric, tongue flattening hard over it.

Your fingers stretch the elastic of your knickers as you shove them past your knee, letting them fall off the edge of the bed. She unclasps your bra, and suddenly you’re naked. You breathe heavily at the thought – anticipating something, despite it seeming rather ambitious with her pace. You can already feel the way she’s looking at you, seconds elongating so that she can stare more. She looks like she wants to memorise everything. Tragic, really. It’s just a fuck.

She hooks her fingers under the waistband of her own shorts, yanking them down unceremoniously. You scoff as you see the pair of Calvins she’s wearing underneath. She’s half-dressed now, straddling you, the air still damp with the smell of rain and sweat and smoke from two-thousand cigarettes.

When her fingers touch you, finally, you don’t gasp.

You make a noise low in your throat. Disappointed at first, then distracted, then something else. Her fingers drag through slickness and quickly find a rhythm. She adjust and fine-tunes and repeats like a battle strategist with a tactics board – slow, precise, greedy for information. You hate how good she is at this.

Your head tips back. Her fingers curl just right. Her thumb is on your clit now, soft pressure, then firmer. She watches your face. Shameless. Focused. It’s a deliberate assault. She’s trying to win.

Her fingers move again, exploiting the angle until you are forced to grace her with a whine of appreciation. Your body is responding without thought and you can hear it: wet and sticky, every push inside louder than the last.

Her eyes meet yours. You hold her gaze.

“Show-off,” you mutter.

“Say that again when I’ve made you come all over my fucking face.”

She pulls out with a slick pop.

Before you protest, her mouth replaces her fingers.

Your hips jerk. Your legs spread wider. You swear.

She doesn’t stop. She groans against you. The sound sends a pulse through your being.

You grab her hair again, forcing her closer, holding her where she is. Her tongue circles once, twice, and then pressed flat, dragging. She sucks. She buries her face between your thighs. Her tongue is relentless, like she needs this, like she’ll take it all.

You moan loudly. No attempts are made to muffle it.

Like a reward, she fucks you with two fingers again, tongue working your clit while she curls inside you. She pushes hard. You’re soaked – her chin’s wet.

You bury one hand in the sheets and the other in her hair. The sheets are wet too. Her tongue moves against you. It’s obscenely good.

This is making you hate her. You’re half-inclined to let her know.

You don’t.

You let your body speak instead. It twitches and rises, pressing into her mouth with newfound desperation.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth. You don’t mean to, but the gasp that follows is of her name.

You feel her smirk. As you cry out again, you glance downwards to see her hand thrusting in and out and her mouth flush between your thighs. You want to burn the image into your skull.

You are not sentimental, but she looks so fucking good down there. Like it’s where she belongs.

You fuck yourself onto her hand and let yourself make noise. There’s no point holding back – she’s earning it. And the coil inside you pulls tighter because of it. Sharp. Hot.

Your thighs begin to shake.

She’s wrecking you.

Her tongue flicks, flattens. Her fingers thrust faster. She angles her wrist, hitting the spot hard. She doesn’t stop.

You cry out. You can’t hold it; it’s ripping through you.

You come with a broken, sharp breath.

Jerk. Clench. Release.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

And still, she does not stop.

You’re overstimulated; nerves screaming, thighs twitching, but she does not fucking stop. Her mouth is wet, tongue merciless. It’s unbearable and too much and perfect all at once.

She groans, licks again, and pushes deeper.

You shove at her shoulder. “Okay – fuck, okay.” The only sound you can hear now is the thrum of your pulse in your ears.

Leah stops, pulling her fingers out. Your wetness is smeared all over her face and she shines like she has just been polished with it. She licks her lips.

For a moment, she is looking at you and you are looking at her. Your chests rise and fall. Your breathing mingles into one satisfied chant of exertion.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you address the wild eyes and messy hair. “You done?”

She shakes her head. “Not even slightly.”

You raise your eyebrows. She crawls over you again. Kisses your neck – just about avoiding your lips as you turn your head slightly.

“Take them off,” you say between her biting down on your collarbone and her grinding her hard, lean body against yours. She makes no move to follow the order. Your jaw clenches. “Take the fucking pants off now, Leah. Or I’ll do it for you.”

…

This time, the glitter is not going to come out.

“I said no to the glitter cannons, didn’t I?” Your question is pointed as you and your manager march back to the greenroom, her assistant tentatively handing you a water bottle, recognising this warpath. “In fact, I’m sure I even reviewed it–”

“We thought it might be boring without them.”

“Boring?”

Your voice reaches a pitch that indicates your offence, fingers ruthless as you scratch through the layers of hairspray to loosen some of the bastard little glitter particles from your scalp. It’s not very nonchalant but you’re annoyed and tired and you’re already growing sick of the tour. Zürich, Switzerland. One quarter down. August is only seconds away.

You slam the bottle of water onto the greenroom table and glare at the assistant, who startles like you’ve hurled it at him. “Could I have a towel?” He jumps into frenzied action but doesn’t quite know what to do. “Warm. Not one of those threadbare things from catering.”

Another crony follows him as he bolts out the door.

Your manager, seasoned in your moods by now, just sighs and takes a seat. Her phone is already out. She’s probably texting someone to apologise on your behalf, or crafting a well-timed tweet. You don’t care. You’re too busy yanking off your boots, making the beige carpet sparkle fucking blue.

Zürich was loud. Glossy. The crowd was ravenous, excited to add you to their events calendar. You’d fed them what they wanted: your voice, your body, your image. Except their screams did not fill the hollowness of the stage. And that glitter had pushed it over the edge.

You grab a makeup wipe and press it against your eyes, dragging your mascara sideways across your temple. “I feel like a fucking firework.”

Your manager doesn’t look up. “You’re a pop star. It’s part of the job.”

“I hadn’t realised my title was synonymous with ‘disco ball’.”

You throw the spent wipe into the bin and reach for another. You’re supposed to have people to do this for you but you suspect one of those devious texts your manager has been sending was to alert your team to leave you alone. At least for the moment.

“You said yes to the new visuals.”

“I said yes to minimal pyrotechnics and some fog.” Even then, that had felt unnecessary. “Glitter is not fog.”

She shrugs, one shoulder rising. “They loved it.”

You make a sound of disgust. “Of course they did.”

You lean back in the chair, muscles tight from the performance and tension and barely-slept nights. Your mind, however, is clear. Or, more accurately, emptying.

Time moves too quickly.

There had been no note. No lingering kiss to the temple. Just silence and the early rustlings of a hungover festival field. An easy severance.

And then Zürich.

And this.

The assistant returns, mercifully, with a towel. It’s warm and fluffy and folded like a hotel robe, and you accept it with a nod. Your face welcomes the material and your neck itches for the same treatment. The towel pulls away just as a sparkly as the carpet.

There’s a knock on the door. Your tour photographer peeks his head in, camera still dangling from his neck. “Hey,” he starts, knowing he walking into the lion’s den, “quick question: you okay with us using the shot from the second chorus as the official still? The one with the glitter–”

“No,” you cut in sharply.

He blinks. “Oh.” He clasps his hands together in supplication but he doesn’t push. You glare. “Uh. Got it. Cool.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You press the towel to your eyes and let yourself breathe, hard and slow.

You are not sentimental. You keep reminding yourself of that.

Another knock sounds.

“I already told you!” you shout so the stupid photographer can get it into his stupid head. “I don’t–”

A phone is thrust in your face. You don’t know to whom the hand belongs. A voice comes with it. “I’m sorry. She said it was urgent.”

You glance at the caller ID, quickly recognising the device as your own as well, before pressing the phone to your ear.

“I literally just finished,” you grumble, anger still bubbling but ebbing just in case Jess isn’t lying. She could need you and you’re not a terrible friend.

“Alex is cross with you.”

“What?” Your manager’s head turns, ears perking up at your loud confusion. She raises an eyebrow but you shake your head, signalling she continue her damage control of the tempest you are going cause.

Jess repeats what she said.

“No, I fucking got it. But why? What have I done?”

“Well,” Jess says, and it makes you fairly certain that she is projecting. “She’s cross with me.” Point proven. “BECAUSE of you.”

“I haven’t done–”

“Leah’s in Zürich.”

You dismiss it. You need to get to the root of the problem without superfluous facts about a woman you slept with drunk and high at Glasto.

“Why is Alex cross with me?”

Jess, from the other end of the phone, sighs with the theatrical flair only she can get away with. Sometimes you really do consider blocking her. “Because you slept with her best friend a month ago and then vanished like a ghost.”

You force a blink, wincing as another fucking glitter particle scratches your red eyes. The towel drops to your lap as you sit up straighter in the chair.

“I didn’t vanish,” you say. You don’t have superpowers. “I left.”

“That’s vanishing, babe.”

“She knew what it was.”

She did. She must have. She was still asleep when you woke up and if she heard you escape, she didn’t plead with you to stay.

But still, Jess snorts. “Did she? Because from what I’ve heard, it sounds like you left a very hot, very flustered England captain high and dry in a yurt.”

You’re too tired to correct her second adjective. Instead, you close your eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I told her not to kiss me.”

“Yeah. And then you let her eat you out like it was a Champions League final.”

You don’t dignify her crudeness with a response. Fucking footballers and their brainwashed girlfriends.

Even though she has reduced herself to sports-related similes, Jess manages to take the silence as a victory.

“She’s not upset,” she continues, and you’re glad she doesn’t say her name. “Just… prickly about it. You fucked with her pride, I think. Thought I’d let you know because Alex is threatening to somehow find a string to pull and cancel your Wembley show if you don’t at least text her.” You exhale softly. “Alex only found out that she was going to your concert through the woman she’s here with.”

Probably another footballer. Surely Leah doesn’t need your shabby company and forced text messages if she is able to enjoy a nice night-out in Zürich with a friend.

“Alex doesn’t scare me,” you reply indignantly, because the rest is too much to address. Not all of your one-night-stands have been left content with you just moving on, but you had assumed that with Leah it would have been different.

It was a good night. Why would she want to stain its memory?

“Okay, well, she fucking scares me, so…”

You glance at yourself in the mirror. Glitter in your hair. Sweat at your temples. Lips chapped.

Leah has watched you tonight.

This is why you draw the fucking lines.

“I’m going to Munich in two days,” you mutter.

“That gives you forty-eight hours to grow a conscience. Or at least the decency to say, ‘thanks for the mind-blowing orgasms’.”

Your jaw clenches. “It was just a fuck.”

Jess wants to say something – you can hear her mouth open. The words catch in her throat. She retracts them for rephrasing.

There’s a beat while she does this. Your manager points at her watch and motions for you to hurry up, sensing the privacy of the conversation but interested in herding you to the dressing room so that you can be de-glamoured and everyone can go back to the hotel.

“Leah doesn’t know the rules yet.”

You hate how she uses the word ‘yet’. You don’t want her to know the rules. You don’t want her to think there are rules.

Because rules imply a pattern.

And patterns imply that you and Leah will have sex again.

“Do you want me to say something?” Jess asks gently. “To smooth it over?”

You stare at your reflection, slightly horrified by it.

“No,” you say.

“Then text her.”

“I don’t have her number.”

Jess’ sigh is profound and visceral, felt in her bones. Your manager hears it and laughs.

“I’ve just sent it to you,” comes Jess’ verbalised exasperation. When you fail to respond, she continues, stifling a yawn. “Anyway. Congrats on another killer night. I love you, I’m proud of you. Try to sleep.”

She hangs up and you’re not sure who won that battle.

Your manager clears her throat and you follow her to the dressing room.

You sit in silence as they professionally melt everything off you until you feel human again.

Type.

Delete.

Type again.

Eventually, you settle on: you were good.

Then, after a pause, because something in you – not guilt – twinges…

Thanks.

You hit send and hope Jess gave you the wrong number.

#woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #randombush3 #leah williamson smut #woso smut

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jsooly · 5 months ago

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taken in by the sullys (5) / sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader

synopsis, your birth mother didn’t care to be cautious while pregnant, but at least something good came out of it. ++ spider, and then lo’ak throwing hands for you

+ note! writing these chapters during my commute makes the bus rides sm more relaxing, i’m happy you guys are enjoying the series just as much <33

(1) / (2) / (3) / (4*) / (5 - ur here! ☆)

+ chapters with an * beside it means that it’s following atwow plot line as opposed to disconnected scenarios

2155 (you were four years old)

the first time you ran out into pandoran air without a gas mask on, jake thought you were going to die

pandoran air was filled with compounds that the human lungs couldn't process efficiently—a danger that threatened jake's life once before

after the war ended and the sky people were banished from pandora, there was a lot of things to take care of logistically

inducting jake as olo'eyktan was one of them, along with an agreement with the remaining humans living on the planet

plus in the aftermath of the war, many other forest clans lost their homes or leaders. jake was determined to accommodate all of them as best he could

his preoccupation left you with little supervision and a lot of free time

jake was visiting norm's lab to check up on the status of their relationship with the clans

he carried you along with him for once, hoping it'd be a fun take your daughter to work day

this is how he held you when you were little btw

as soon as he set you loose, you bolted out the lab

you jumped up and slapped a button, dashing outside when the door opened just wide enough to allow you through.

it slowly creaked as alarms began to blare loudly, an automated voice warning them of the sinking pressure overtaking the room's atmosphere.

"holy shit—" jake shot up, wincing as he slammed his head into the ceiling. "norm?! why didn't you grab her?" he rushed through the corridor, and being incompatible with the space started knocking things over left and right.

"i'm sorry, she has so much experience slipping past me!" norm protested, equally panicked as he held his breath. he scrambled out his seat towards the exit door, dodging jake's thrashing tail.

"no, no, no." jake's body rammed into the door just as it slammed shut. he peered out the frosted window and vaguely caught your shape. his fist collided with the access button. "why isn't this door opening?!"

jake rapidly slammed the button before norm stopped him from breaking the circuits completely.

"the cabin is returning to normal atmospheric conditions," norm gasped for air, finally. "it won't open for another—"

jake backed up, crouching into a lunging position. he bounced on the balls of his feet. "i'm kicking the door."

"what?! jake—"

"i'm breaking the damn door, norm. put a mask on. i'm not waiting." jake snapped, grabbing two masks off the wall and tossing one to the scientist. he surged forward and thrust his leg out, his foot flattening against the door and knocking it clean off its hinges.

norm dove for cover, securing a mask over his face just as all sorts of alarms clamored for attention.

jake ducked through the opening, immediately running to you. he dropped to his knees, taking no notice to the blisters and cuts that broke skin as he slid across the dirt towards you. he snatched you up in his arms, turning you to face him and trying to put the gas mask over your head.

you kept swerving him and blocking him with your hands.

"y/n—baby, please stay still." he tried to contain his worry as he grabbed your wrists in his hand and dropped them away from your face.

"stay still, you need..." he slowed his attempts as he realized... you were breathing just fine. "to breathe..?"

you glared at him in annoyance, confused as to why he was trying to smush glass on your face.

"you don't need the mask?" he asked, unsure himself. he paused for a moment, studying you closely. his hand still firmly gripping the gas mask in case he was mistaken. but you weren't coughing or gasping.

he lifted you up, hands nestled underneath your armpits. he put his ear to your back, listening to the sound of your breathing. no whistles. no wheezing. no rattling. just perfectly normal inhale... and exhale.

"huh." jake's eyebrows furrowed, turning you around and holding you against his chest. he looked down at norm, who had just caught up, pointing a finger at you.

"wanna explain what's going on here?"

the nature of your development and birth allowed for certain mutations surface

your birth mother got pregnant with you on pandora, going out in the atmosphere, consuming the fruits, and maybe getting stung once or twice by strange flowers

with how reckless she was while carrying you, it's no surprise your genome was a bit messed up

after norm thoroughly tested you for other variations, he came up with a comprehensive list

jake was never one for reading—he didn't even read the reports and logs that would've helped him be prepared when first going out with grace and norm

but he consumed every bit of information norm offered him, even asking him to print a copy of the document for future reference

"the subject exhibits accelerated peripheral growth wherein measurements taken supersede the average on earth... what the..." jake rattled off, before tossing the document back to norm with a roll of his eyes. "yeah, you're gonna have to do one in english and then get back to me."

"that just means she's growing faster compared to a normal human child." norm deadpanned. "she had a four year old's height when she just turned two. you were there, didn't you notice?"

jake shrugged, rotating you in his arms. "dunno. still looks pretty small to me." he cooed, nuzzling his nose to yours.

"you're almost 10ft. tall. everything looks small to you." norm turned back to his computer, exasperated. “whatever her mother did messed her up pretty badly.”

jake frowned. your birth mother died two years before he arrived on pandora, but he was sure he wouldn’t have liked her. the stories he’s heard was more than enough to form an opinion. he only tolerated her memory because she gave life to one of his most precious treasures.

“i wouldn’t say messed up. more like…” he pondered, watching the fluorescent ceiling light sparkle in your eyes. “upgraded.”

long story short, your lungs had adapted to draw more oxygen from pandora's atmosphere; you were growing faster; your athletic capacity was just below superhuman; and your senses were abnormally receptive.

whatever your birth mother exposed herself to while you were in there made you a little less human.

jake and neytiri had their suspicions. there was something up with you—how else could you have kept up with neytiri's rigorous training at a young age, human and all, otherwise?

it was almost fitting. you were one of the only two human pandoran natives. children actually born on pandora.

as you grew, you continued to hone your abilities to compete with the na'vi children, but at some point you hit a ceiling.

a little less human was still human at the end of the day.

spider

the other only human born on pandora was miles 'spider' socorro

given how similar your situations were, you were surprised at the drastic difference between your lives

you were two years older than him—he was born just before the first pandoran war

he had adoptive parents, the mccoskers, just like you had the sullys

the mccoskers were residents of hell's gate as per jake's surrender list until the RDA returned under ardmore's command

they left with their own family, spider left behind

spider was then his own boss, doing as he pleased and going where he pleased

above all, he was inseparable from the sully kids—an unspoken, invisible brother

sometimes, you felt awkward when interacting with him because you got lucky with the sullys while he was considered a 'stray'

unlike lo'ak or kiri, you weren't particularly close to him as a friend, but you looked out for him just as you did for the others

"hey," you caught up to him as he was leaving.

spider spending the entire day with the kids was routine. from dawn to dusk, sometimes into the night, he was by their side. you and the kids loved him, and he loved you guys too.

"oh. hey." he turned, awkwardly standing in place. "what's up?"

"wanted to catch you before you left." you loosely gestured to the sky. "it's pretty dark out. i'll walk you home."

he blinked, surprised by the consideration. you felt pity pool in your stomach.

"oh. yeah, thanks." he nodded. you could see a thought cross his mind. he quickly backtracked. "but—but if i'm keeping you, i'm okay to—"

"spider," you smiled, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and beginning to walk alongside him. "you're not keeping me. we’re two of a kind so we gotta stick together, right?" you bumped into his side playfully.

he felt at ease, relaxing. "yeah." spider chuckled. he glanced at your face before dropping his eyes. "it's so crazy how you can just... breathe the air. i'm jealous." gesturing to his exo-pack, he continued. "gotta lug this thing around all day."

“the reason why is way less cool, promise.” you muttered, reflecting on your birth mother.

friendly chatter and a few minutes later, you arrived at the human base. you dropped spider inside to his bunk.

he collapsed against the mattress with a lengthy sigh.

you laughed at his antics. “it’s tough keeping up with them, huh?”

“oh, please, i could outrun ‘em any day.” he huffed, grinning lopsidedly.

you pat his shoulder. “make sure to eat something before bed.” walking out, you waved goodbye. “see you tomorrow.”

he felt warm—seen. he waved back. “bye.”

despite the two year age gap, spider saw you as a maternal figure

i mean, you were the only one that willingly made yourself available to him consistently

he would NEVER admit this, though, to himself or anyone else

kiri was a very close confidant, neteyam and lo’ak were brothers, and tuk was the baby

you were the only young adult that made him a priority for care and support

he would be eternally grateful for that, because no matter what he would experience, he knew you were in his corner just like any of the other kids

it made him feel part of something when he had nothing

omaticayan dissent

it was no secret that there were some that disagreed with their clan leaders’ choice to adopt you into their family

and while their hatred and caution was valid—they’ve had many sky people deceive them before—it was poor to direct that anger onto a child

you were essentially a trash bin for their bitterness, a figure to focus their resentment when there were no other ‘bad humans’ around

and despite proving your usefulness time and time again, it was becoming increasingly clear that they were never going to accept you as their own

for jake and neytiri, it was a delicate balance of hearing their people and curbing their behaviour

for your siblings, though? it was gloves off. immediately

“what’d you just say?” lo’ak hissed, grabbing the shoulder of the omaticayan boy and spinning him around.

if there’s one thing about lo’ak, it’s that he rocks for his family.

“lo’ak.” neteyam warned, spawning behind the youngest sully son as if he was summoned the minute lo’ak threatened trouble. “mawey, brother.

lo’ak shoved neteyam’s arm off his shoulders, pointing an accusatory finger at the boy. “he just said—“

“how can you call tawtute a sister?” the boy contorted his face in disgust. “she does not belong here. all the other children know it.”

“olo’eyktan decides who belongs and who doesn’t. that is none of your business.” neteyam said coolly. “she does her part and keeps to herself.”

the boy made a yeuch sound, shuddering. ignoring neteyam’s subtle offer for truce, he continued. “they made a demon who can breathe among us. what’s next, one who can connect with our great mother? you ask yourself what else must they have in store.”

neteyam wanted to set the guy straight, but ever the oldest son, he kept his composure. “our mother and father raised her more na’vi than human. if she had different loyalties, she would have left long ago.”

“well—“

“let it rest.” neteyam cut him off firmly, his expression blank.

the boy could not continue to argue against the chief’s son when he put down a hard boundary. he snarled, baring his teeth at both sons.

“lo’ak, ‘yam—“ you approached them, oblivious to the tension. “mom’s calling for dinner.”

lo’ak seethed silently but after catching neteyam’s firm look, he swallowed his pride.

they walked past the boy, giving him a lasting glare while following behind you.

“freak.” the boy mumbled under his breath when you were out of earshot.

without hesitation, lo’ak shifted his weight and launched his fist across the boy’s jaw.

he got an earful, naturally

the scuffle continued until neteyam was able to break it up

after apologies were forced, lo’ak was subject to your father’s favourite punishment—grounding

you shooed kiri and her unhelpful teasing away, taking over lo’ak’s treatment

you dabbed the cloth to his forehead. “what’d he do?”

lo’ak winced, leaning away from the burning sting of the ointment. remaining silent, he glared at the floor.

“hm?” you egged him on. “you know you can tell me.”

“i…” he began with a sigh before changing his mind. “never mind. doesn’t matter.”

jake sully was a girl dad through and through. in his eyes his girls could do no wrong. he saw a youthful recklessness in his sons, something they undoubtedly got from him, and feared they would go down a path he couldn’t save them from. he was very hard on them, sometimes unfairly so.

you forcefully turned his head to look at you. “course it matters, dummy. you’re telling me the way the boy described it was how it went down?”

his chest rose and fell rapidly as he got worked up again. “he was talking shit about you.” he glanced at you, wondering if he’d get told off for cursing. when you didn’t speak, he continued angrily. “again. i was gonna let it go, i swear! but he ran his mouth right in front of you! how did you not hear?”

“you did this on my behalf?”

“yes! all of them have said something at some point. they don’t have any shame. it’s not fair.” he grumbled, his posture sinking.

you dropped in the spot next to him. “you know i’m proud of you, lo’ak, and i’m grateful you thought to defend me. but you don’t need to get into fights.” you pleaded, trying to catch his annoyed gaze. “cuz then both of us lose.”

he groaned and crossed his arms. “i just— if i feel like this… i just think you would feel ten times worse.”

like this. like an outcast. it was the first time you really considered that it was the truth. growing up, you simply accepted it as a fact of your life.

you softened when you observed his tormented expression. you leaned against him to let him know you understood—that the two of you were more alike than it would seem. you remained there in each other’s company until you were called for dinner.

. . .

thanks for reading <3

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @dae-dreamer @delirious-dolce @strawbaerriesvt

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lightsoutmatthews · 4 days ago

Note

Hii! I was wondering if I could please request Joseph Woll x younger reader like by 5 years? or maybe Willy/ or auston with younger reader with not too big of a gap but like 6 years difference? Something about them connecting and she’s like someone with a background who isn’t really connected to the hockey world (moreso legal/psych) like the NHL players association member and how she’s not as open to wanting to explore the connection with Joseph because she’s different compared to other WAGS (not like the standard; like non-white)?? Thank you if your down to do this ask!!

I will preference this by saying I am NOT a person of color, any and all experiences described in this are inspired by what friends told me or from media!!

If anyone is in any way shape or form uncomfortable with me writing about people of Color please don’t hesitate to let me know!!

From different worlds – Joseph Woll

You weren’t even supposed to be at the game. It was one of those last-minute “you work too much, come out for once” nights.

One of your co-workers had gotten tickets from her brother who worked in media and dragged you along.

You weren’t dressed in blue or white, you didn’t know any of the chants, you didn’t follow hockey aside from the occasional headline that was popping up on your feed.

You worked in legal and that world didn’t exactly intersect with the sports one.

Your days were full of NDAs, document review, contract language and arguments about the intent versus the execution. Sitting in the lower bowl, with overpriced beer in hand, watching grown men slam into each other wasn’t your usual Thursday.

Still, something about the way the goalie moved coughed your attention. Calm. Efficient. Focused.

You didn’t know much about the position, but even a newcomer could see he was solid back there.

His name flashed across the jumbotron: Joseph Woll.

You made a mental note to look him up online later, more out of curiosity than anything.

Later, in the private media lounge (which you had no real business being in, but your co-workers brother waved you through), he walked in. He was taller than you expected, hair damp, suit neat but not flashy.

He didn’t carry himself like someone who wanted attention.

You didn’t notice him approaching until he stopped in front of your group, offering a polite smile and a greeting for your co-workers brother.

Then his eyes landed on you. “Hi,” he greeted.

You didn’t say anything at first, just nodded. It wasn’t nerves, it was some sort of distance. Like you weren’t sure what he wanted or if you wanted to be seen by someone like him.

Your co-worker elbowed you. “This is my friend. She´s the brilliant one who talks circles around judges.”

You gave a polite, short smile. “I work in legal. Mostly compliance,” you explained.

“Sounds complicated,” he offered.

“It is.”

He chuckled softly, clearly not thrown off. “I´m Joseph.”

“I know,” slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

There was a beat of silence, but not an awkward one. More like he was studying you, in a quiet, respectful way.

Then someone else pulled him aside and you figured out that was it.

You didn’t belong here anyway.

---------------

You didn’t expect to see him again.

The charity fundraiser was just another work assignment. Your form had sent you to oversee legal logistics for a client´s nonprofit initiative. Contracts, permits, donation tracking.

It was hosted in a boutique downtown venue, full of glass walls and strategic lightning.

You wore a structured black suit dress with minimal jewelry; your work badge clipped at your waist. Efficient and professional, invisible to everyone who wasn’t actively looking for you.

Then you spotted him.

Same calm posture, same composed energy.

His suit was different this time, lighter and a little sharper, but he still didn’t walk like someone trying to be noticed.

He was surrounded by people. Event photographers, fans that managed to get an invite and someone who looked like a PR person.

You didn’t think you were near him long enough to notice you, but he did, and when he did, he smiled.

No big wave, no dramatic move to get your attention. Justa simple, small smile. Like he remembered you.

You nodded politely, then turned back to your laptop.

------------

A few days later your phone buzzed with a new Instagram dm.

@josephwoll: Hey. I hope I´m not being weird here but it was wondering if you ever wanted to catch coffee or something.

You stared at it until your phone went dark, opened it again and starred some more.

You didn’t reply, at least not right away because if you were being honest with yourself, the whole thing made you feel a little uneasy.

Not in a really bad way, just in a way that forced you to think too much.

You weren’t one of the women he probably saw all the time. You weren’t blonde. You weren’t bubbly. You didn’t post curated outfits or spotted team merch in the arena.

You were a little sharp. A little too direct. Quiet, but guarded. You grew up in a house where respect mattered more than looks, where ambition wasn’t optional, where you had to fight your way into law school scholarships and navigate cultural codes every that just to be taken seriously in rooms that weren’t made for you.

And hockey? That wasn’t your world.

You didn’t grow up skating even though you lived in Canada and you didn’t watch the Leafs with your dad.

You didn’t know what a power play was until two months ago. You only knew his name because it had flashed across the screen, and even then, you had forgotten it until you saw him at the even.

Why would someone like him, who could easily date someone who fit the image, someone who already knew the system, be interested in you?

You weren’t naïve. You heard what people said about you. They said it like it was a compliment, but it always meant different.

And you weren’t in the mood to be a novelty.

So, you didn’t answer. For two days you left the message unread.

You kept working. Reviewed contracts, drafted redlines, responded to firm emails like nothing was sitting in your inbox that made your stomach flutter and twist at the same time.

On the third day, after a long day and a later dinner alone in your apartment, you opened the message.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, typed a few words but deleted them, then, tried again.

In the end you sent: I´m not really part of your world.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

@josephwoll: That´s kind of the point.

You didn’t reply again. instead, you stared at the wall above your couch for ten minutes, trying to decide what kind of person you wanted to be in this moment.

Cautious? Or curious?

You weren’t sure yet. So, you waited.

-----------

Two weeks passed before you agreed to meet.

Not for dinner. Not for anything that felt too much like a thing. Just coffee at neutral ground.

He picked a small café off Queen Street. Something quiet and local with no cameras.

You showed up five minutes late, not because you meant to, but because you debated going right up until the moment you locked your apartment door.

A part of you were still tense when you entered, like you were about to walk into a room that required a code you didn’t know.

When you saw him, seated at a small table in the corner, hoodie and cap, sipping on something that looked like tea, you almost turned around.

But he looked up and smiled like he was genuinely glad you showed up.

“Hey,” he said, standing, not making a move to hug or assume.

“Hey,” you replied, sliding into the chair across from him.

The first few minutes were awkward. Not in a bad way, both of you were just guarded.

He didn’t push. You appreciated that.

He asked about your job and actually listened when you talked about compliance, how it was less about catching people doing bad things and more about preventing the bad things in the first place.

You expected his eyes to glaze over. They didn’t

“Do you like it?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

You paused. “I like what it means. I like that I´m the person they call when someone is trying to slip something shady through. It´s like quiet justice.”

He smiled at that. “That´s a great phrase.”

You shrugged. “It´s not catchy enough for a TED Talk.”

He laughed and for the first time, your shoulders relaxed a little.

Eventually, you asked about hockey. Not because you suddenly cared about stats, but because it felt fair.

He kept it light. Told a funny story about a miscommunication on the bench. Mentioned a teammate´s obsession with weird superstitions. Nothing arrogant or an over explanation.

You liked that.

When the conversation slowed, something pushed at you though. “I´m not…I don’t really fit the WAG thing,” you mumbled.

He looked up from his drink, seriousness overtaking his features. “I didn’t ask you out to fit a thing.”

“It´s not just that,” you added, “I don’t look like the rest of them. I didn’t grow up in this world. It feels too far away.”

You figured you should be clear with him from the start to prevent something from happening that would end up in chaos and catastrophe.

“Far from what?” he asked.

You hesitated for a second. “From me.”

He didn’t try to talk you into it. He didn’t say “That´s not true” or “Don’t think like that”. Instead, he said, “Yeah, I get that.”

You looked at him, skeptical. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I went to a school where most of the guys were trust fund kids who played golf and wore blazers for fun. I didn’t fit either.”

You snorted. “Not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “Absolutely not, but I get what it´s like to feel like you´re visiting someone else´s life.”

That stuck with you.

Neither of you filled the silence for a while.

Eventually, you said, “I´m still not sure what this is.”

He tilted his head slightly. “It´s just coffee.”

That made you smile.

---------------

Dating Joseph wasn’t a performance. Not for the media, not for the team, and definitely not for Instagram.

There were no hard launches. No coordinated photos, no tagging locations or sitting front row in Leafs gear. You didn’t post anything, and he didn’t ask you to. If anything, he seemed relieved by how private you were.

It started with a few more coffees. Texts that didn’t feel obligatory. A night walk in Trinity Bellwood’s when the city was quieter and you didn’t have to share him with a hundred eyes.

You told no one at work. Not because you were embarrassed, but because explaining it felt like inviting opinions you didn’t need. You weren’t interested in becoming office gossip, or in fielding questions like “Wait, the hockey player?” followed by the subtle once-over, followed by the even subtler but you don’t seem like the type.

Besides, you liked keeping it yours.

At first, everything between you stayed in this safe, in-between space. Not casual, but not quite defined. You’d meet after his practices, usually later in the evening when your work was winding down.

You’d talk about nothing, or everything. Sometimes he’d come over, still in sweatpants, and you’d sit on your couch eating takeout and laughing over some weird legal story you’d picked up during the week.

He always asked questions. About your cases, your background, your parents, who he learned were immigrants with strong opinions and even stronger expectations.

“So, they don’t know about me?” he asked one night.

You gave him a half-smile. “Not yet. They think I’m working too much again.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, and said, “I get it.”

And he did.

You could tell by the way he never assumed things. He didn’t act like his world was more important. If anything, he seemed to tiptoe around it, like he was wary of how much space it could take up.

But the space came anyway.

The first time you really realized was at a team dinner.

You weren’t supposed to go. He had RSVP’d solo; told you there was no pressure. But a few days before, he mentioned offhandedly, “I’d like to bring you. If you want.”

You said yes.

Then spent the next three days debating it.

You changed your outfit six times. Settled on a long-sleeved cream blouse and tailored pants. Clean, simple, nothing flashy.

When you walked in, holding his hand, you saw the way people glanced your way. Curious, maybe a little confused. Not rude. Just...surprised.

The other partners were friendly, mostly. Smiling, sweet, and immaculately styled.

A few made genuine conversation but others asked vague, surface-level questions that circled around the same invisible curiosity:

What are you doing here?

You laughed politely. Answered things like, “I work in legal compliance,” and tried not to wince when someone said, “Oh wow, you must be smart.”

But what stuck the most was the comment made halfway through the night.

One of the girlfriends leaned over during dessert, smiling at you like she meant well. “You’re really pretty. So… unique looking. Kind of exotic, you know?”

You blinked.

Joseph heard it too. His hand stiffened just slightly under the table.

You smiled thinly. “Not really a word I like.”

“Oh?” she blinked. “Sorry, I meant it as a compliment.”

You nodded once. “That’s what everyone says.”

Later, in the car, neither of you said anything at first. The silence sat there between you. Heavy, but not hostile.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t say it.”

“I still hate that it happened.”

You shrugged, looking out the window. “It’s not the first time.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t mean it should keep happening.”

You exhaled. “It’s not about her. It’s… the feeling. Like I’m a tourist in your life.”

He looked over. “You’re not.”

“You say that. And maybe you believe it. But people look at me and wonder why I’m there. They see you, and then they see me, and it doesn’t line up.”

“It does to me,” he said firmly. “You’re the only thing that feels real sometimes.”

That surprised you.

He didn’t say it like a line. It wasn’t rehearsed or dramatic. He said it like it had been sitting in his throat for a while and just came out.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And in that moment, you realized how alone he probably felt too.

Everyone assumed athletes lived in the center of the world. But Joseph didn’t act like someone in the center. He moved around it quietly and cautiously. Like he didn’t want to get swallowed.

You weren’t so different, after all.

Maybe just in opposite corners of the same room.

------------

You didn’t call it a relationship.

Not because it wasn’t one but because calling it that felt like something you weren’t ready to explain. Not to your friends, not to your family, and maybe not even to yourself.

It was easier to keep it unnamed.

You weren’t hiding him, but you weren’t ready to invite him into the part of your life that came with history, culture, expectations, and a family that had never been subtle about what they thought made sense for you.

Still, the more time passed, the more you realized this thing between you wasn’t staying casual.

Joseph was consistent. He wasn’t intense. He didn’t overwhelm you with messages or big gestures. But he showed up in quiet ways, small ways that chipped away at your usual distance.

He noticed when you were tired before you said anything. He remembered the case you were working on and sent you good luck texts the morning of court filings. He made sure you ate, even if it meant dropping off dinner outside your office when you worked late.

It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It was steady.

That steadiness made it harder to keep the lines blurry.

So, one night, sitting on your couch with your legs tucked under you and his hoodie slouched over your frame, you asked the question that had been hovering for weeks.

“Is this something?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

He looked at you, calm and open. “Feels like something to me.”

You nodded. “It feels like that to me too.”

But the words caught in your throat again, so you looked away and said, “It’s just… hard to bring people into my world.”

Joseph shifted closer, careful. “What part?”

“My family. My culture. The assumptions.” You exhaled. “It’s not that they wouldn’t like you. You’re impossible not to like. It’s just that you wouldn’t be what they expected.”

He nodded slowly. “They want someone like them.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not threatened by that,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You should be.”

He smiled a little. “I’m not.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t used to people not being intimidated by your background or, worse, trying to flatten it to make it more palatable.

Joseph didn’t do either. He never tried to decode you. He just listened.

Later that week, he asked, “Would it be easier if I met them as a friend first?”

You blinked. “You want to meet my parents?”

He shrugged. “Eventually. Not if it’s too soon but I’d rather show up than have you carry it alone.”

That did something to you.

Because no one had ever said that before. Not in that way.

You didn’t say yes that day. But you didn’t say no either.

----------

A few more weeks passed before you finally told your parents.

You mentioned him on a Saturday call. Your mom asked if you were seeing anyone, casually, like she always did. You hesitated, then said, “Kind of. His name is Joseph.”

There was a pause. Then: “What does he do?”

“He’s a goalie. Hockey.”

Longer pause.

“Like… for a team?”

“Yeah. Professionally.”

Another beat. “So… he plays for fun?”

“No, Mom,” you said gently. “It’s his actual job. He plays for the Leafs.”

Silence.

Then your father’s voice, in the background: “You’re dating an athlete?”

You sighed. “He’s not just an athlete.”

That’s as far as it went that day. They didn’t ask to meet him. They didn’t say much else, but you could tell they were turning it over in their heads. Running it against the mental checklist they had built since you were old enough to spell lawyer.

Still, you were proud of yourself for saying it out loud.

It didn’t fix everything. But it was a start.

-------------

A few nights later, Joseph came over with groceries.

You had been too tired to cook, and he showed up with enough ingredients for a real meal, chicken, rice, some kind of salad you wouldn’t normally bother with, but that he somehow made look easy.

You sat on the counter, watching him chop and season like it was second nature.

“Do you always do this?” you asked.

“What? Cook?”

“No. Show up like it’s nothing.”

He glanced over. “It’s not nothing.”

You looked at him, serious now. “Why me, Joseph?”

He looked up, took a second to answer. “Because you don’t treat me like I’m something I’m not.”

You tilted your head. “And what’s that?”

He dried his hands. “Famous. Special. A job.”

You blinked.

“I like that you talk to me like a person,” he added. “You push back. You challenge me. You don’t perform.”

You swallowed, because something about that made your throat tight.

He stepped closer, leaned against the counter next to you. “And if I’m being honest… I think I need someone who sees me that way.”

You didn’t say anything for a long minute.

Then quietly, you said, “I think I need that too.”

He smiled. Just a little.

And that night, for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe – maybe – this wasn’t something you had to keep at arm’s length.

Maybe you weren’t a tourist in his world.

Maybe you were just new to it.

And maybe that was okay.

#joseph woll #toronto maple leafs #joseph woll imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #joseph woll x reader #nhl imagine

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johnlocsin-johnyakuza · 6 months ago

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Ever stopped to think about how terrifying Super Earth and The Helldivers must be from the enemies perspective?

Even though the game is satire, Super Earth and, most specifically, The Helldivers, are genuinely kind of terrifying when you see them from the enemy's POV. Not only do you have this massive galactic empire who took out a hyper-advanced race a century ago in the First Galactic War using considerably less advanced technology, but the same hyper-advanced race is finally back trying to square up against us again and getting their ass beat, all while our technology hasn't changed much since the first war. All of this because we are simply just too goddamn patriotic to our home planet to lose it. Our strongest weapon is literally our determination and devotion to Super Earth.

Think about it. You are an Automaton facing down a Helldiver. You ambush them from behind and blast a laser into their back. Without missing a beat, they jump forward, turn 180 degrees and pop you in the chest with their Senator. As you fall to the ground with your vision getting static-y and your systems shutting down, you see them stand up, stick a needle into their neck and shout "MY LIFE FOR SUPER EARTH!" as they sprint off unfazed to a random direction.

The Helldivers, despite how much Arrowhead seems to have wanted to make us look like glorified red shirts, are genuinely an elite force compared to standard SEAF troops.

Let's summarize this:

* We can handle multiple different types of weapons extremely proficiently, including being accurate while running AND diving to the ground, two things that are extremely difficult to do in real life.

* We can sprint for fourty minutes almost non-stop for multiple miles and back to complete our missions, not to mention do a variety of different moves that show off our agility such as the aforementioned diving but also sliding on the floor and climbing large surfaces.

* We can be set on fire, blown up, shot, fall from great heights and suffer multiple different types of terrifying injuries but not only manage to keep our cool but also recover from said injuries using simply some sort of highly-advanced "medicinal" drug that lets us keep fighting like nothing happened.

* A team of four is all that's required to be sent behind enemy lines to perform highly dangerous suicide missions that involve destroying enemy logistics, recovering intel and other types of sabotage in the style of WW2 Paratroopers. Keep in mind these missions are usually not done stealthfully at all and we're often fighting off entire BATTALLIONS of enemies that could easily crush any other 4-man squad. But not the Helldivers. The mental fortitude required to not cave in this sort of situation has to be extremely strong (and patriotic).

* Despite suffering major losses on multiple planets, we are still by all means winning the war and causing major damage to 3 different enemy factions. In one year, we have already killed BILLIONS of enemies on three fronts which is vastly more than our own number of KIA divers (though for full transparency, it is likely many more humans have died whether them being civilians our unseen SEAF personnel, but their numbers are unknown).

* Overzealously brain-dead fanatics, who not only lack fear of death but actively embrace it. (From a militaristic perspective, this is incredibly strong to the point of being absurd. Think of unbreakable units in Total War. All for Super Earth!)

* Exceptionally efficient killing machines. (Their flawless handling of both weapons and equipment suggests they've been trained from a very young age.)

* Access to top-tier technology designed to be both highly reliable and cost-effective. (You can literally drop a bomb on their gear, and it will still function perfectly. They just leave it behind and request a replacement like it's nothing.)

* Complete dehumanization of the enemy due to relentless propaganda. (With constant broadcasts and a star destroyer-sized screen blasting their ideals, even during downtime, they're never free from it.)

* An auto-regulating regime that enforces and encourages constant surveillance among individuals, making the populace their own "prisoners and wardens." (Ties back to the previous point.)

* Absolute obedience and fanaticism from both military and civilian sectors, ensuring a continuous flow of soldiers-whether motivated by "faith" or fear. (Again, see previous points.)

* A completely unstoppable war machine that will keep throwing bodies at you. No matter how many you kill, they'll keep diving. Again... and again... and again... and again...

In short…

BUGS, BOTS, SQUIDS, WE MUST KILL THEM ALL!

LEAVE NO ONE ALIVE!

BURN THEM TO THE GROUND AND SALT THE EARTH!

MY LIFE FOR SUPER EARTH!

Don't let the dissidents fool you into believing The Helldivers are just expendable fools who don't last long in the battlefield. If that were true, we would not be causing as much damage as we are now. Even with our heavy losses, each death is the torch of freedom passed from one soul to the next, be their survival time a mere 10 seconds or an outstanding 40 minutes. Democracy is smiling to us from the skies above and we are doing it proud!

#helldivers #helldivers 2 #helldivers ii

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til-all-are-loved · 7 months ago

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{This Charming Man Part Three}

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

SFW

Part one Here

Part two Here

Dropping the bullet format from now on. I regained my writing confidence.

Two weeks had passed, and you were beginning to think Megatron’s late-night visit had been a one-off oddity. He hadn’t sought you out since, and apart from a faint nod in the hallways—a gesture that left you wondering if you’d imagined it—everything seemed to return to normal.

That is, until the next leadership debriefing.

You arrived early, as usual, settling into your customary corner with your datapad. Rodimus was already there, sprawled in his chair like he owned the room (which, in fairness, he sort of did). Magnus was reviewing the agenda, his expression as rigid as his frame. Megatron entered last, his presence hawkish, though this time he glanced at you briefly as he sat down.

The meeting began uneventfully, dominated by the usual back-and-forth between Rodimus and Ultra Magnus. You dutifully took notes, tuning out the more repetitive points—until Megatron’s voice cut through the noise.

"Ambassador," he said, the word sharp and deliberate.

Your head snapped up. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at you.

"Y-Yes?" you managed, cursing the wobble in your voice.

"What is your input on this?" He gestured toward the holographic display, which was currently projecting several spreadsheets of shift schedules and statistics “Would you consider this approach... practical?”

You blinked, quickly scanning the notes you’d been half-ignoring. It was a logistics issue—something about the allocation of resources to working crewmembers. Hardly your area of expertise—this was a mind game meant to catch you off guard.

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to—”

“You should know this.” Megatron interrupted sharply, his tone making it clear that this wasn’t a suggestion. He came off like a teacher who had just caught a student distracted.

You swallowed, your hands clammy and face hot, feeling everyone’s eyes on you. “Well... if I’m honest, it seems like you’re prioritizing efficiency over flexibility. Which makes sense if operations on the ship continue perfectly, but since unexpected situations are bound to happen around here- these shift schedules should be a bit more lenient. It would help morale aswell...”

The silence stretched. Rodimus raised an eye ridge, clearly entertained, while Magnus’s expression didn’t shift an inch. Megatron, however, nodded slowly, his optics narrowing in what you hoped was approval.

“An insightful observation,” he said finally. “One worth considering.”

Rodimus snorted. “Since when do you listen to organics?”

Megatron shot him a look that could have melted steel. “Since they’ve proven themselves more capable of rational thought than certain co-captains.”

Rodimus opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, muttering something about “walking tanks with superiority complexes.”

The rest of the meeting proceeded without incident, though you couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in the room’s dynamic. Megatron addressed you twice more, each time with the same deliberate tone, and by the end of the debriefing, you felt less like a fly on the wall and more like an active participant.

When the meeting adjourned, the crew began to filter out, but Megatron lingered, standing near the holographic display as though lost in thought. You hesitated, unsure whether to leave or stay.

“Ambassador,” he said without turning around.

You froze. “Yes, Captain?”

He turned, his optics locking onto yours with that same piercing intensity. “Your input today was... appreciated.”

You blinked, startled. “Oh. Um, thank you.”

A flicker of something—satisfaction?—crossed his face before his expression returned to its usual stoicism. “That will be all.”

You nodded quickly, making your way to the door. As you stepped into the corridor, you couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted again, another piece falling into place in this strange, tentative connection between you and the former warlord.

And this time, it wasn’t just in your head.

Your quarters aboard the Lost Light were a modest affair: a desk cluttered with datapads, a chair that wobbled slightly no matter how you adjusted it, and a small viewport that overlooked the endless expanse of stars. You were lucky to even have been placed in a proper suite to yourself. You had originally been assigned to live in a storage locker, but Magnus made an ethics plea to get you in a hab-suite. It wasn’t much, but it was yours, a tiny refuge in the chaos of the ship

Tonight, however, it felt like anything but.

You sat at the desk, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. The report you were supposed to write—your monthly update to Earth—remained stubbornly unwritten, a yawning blankness where there should have been paragraphs detailing Megatron’s behavior, the state of the crew, and any noteworthy developments.

Your fingers hovered over the keys.

"Captain Megatron continues to demonstrate a notable shift from his Decepticon past..."

You frowned, deleting the sentence almost as soon as you typed it.

The truth was, describing Megatron in clinical, detached terms was difficult this night. In the beginning, it had been easy. He’d been distant, cold, and indifferent to your presence. A warlord trying to wear the mask of an Autobot. You could observe him like a scientist studying a volatile specimen.

But now...

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples.

Now, he wasn’t just a subject of observation. He was a puzzle—a maddeningly complex one—and you couldn’t seem to stop turning the pieces over in your mind. His grudging respect for you during meetings, the way he seemed to seek your input without ever outright admitting it...

And then there was the visit to your quarters.

The memory made your stomach flip, and you pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the screen in front of you.

"While tensions remain between Captain Megatron and certain members of the crew, his leadership continues to stabilize..."

You stopped again, staring at the words. That wasn’t the whole truth, was it? Yes, there were tensions, but they weren’t the focus anymore—not for you. What you really wanted to write about, though you’d never admit it aloud, was how those rare glimpses of humanity (or whatever the Cybertronian equivalent was) had started to intrigue you.

No, intrigue wasn’t the right word. It was a blossoming fixation.

You sighed, resting your chin on your hand. If you were honest with yourself—which you were trying not to be—you didn’t just want to observe Megatron anymore. You wanted to know him. To understand the contradictions in him, the weight he carried, and why he seemed to value your opinion despite the vast gulf between your worlds.

You wanted to spend more time with him.

The realization hit you with the subtlety of a collapsing bulkhead. You stared at the screen, your cheeks growing warm.

This was bad. Really bad.

How were you supposed to write an objective report when your feelings—because that’s what they were, weren’t they?—were starting to get in the way?

You tapped out another sentence.

"Megatron continues to exhibit behavior that suggests a growing interest in cultural exchange, particularly with regard to human literature..."

It was true, technically. And it was safe enough to include without giving too much away.

You leaned back again, staring at the cursor blinking on the half-finished report.

What would Earth make of this, you wondered? If they knew how much your perspective had shifted—how much you’d come to see Megatron not as an assignment, not even as a captain, but as...

You closed your eyes tightly.

A crush?

A groan escaped your lips as you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning. Of course it would come to this. The awkward glances, the fleeting scraps of attention he spared for you, the strange pull of his authority—it all felt like something plucked from an ill-advised daydream. A ridiculous fantasy.

And yet it didn’t feel ridiculous, not when you were alone with your thoughts.

Your hands fell to the desk as your gaze wandered. What did you really know about him, after all? His crimes were well-documented, spread across countless files and testimony. The betrayals, the thirst for power, lives destroyed in his pursuit of revolution—they painted a picture of someone you should despise. Someone you shouldn’t even entertain these feelings about.

But people could change, couldn’t they? He had made the choice to change, after millions of years of warfare and unthinkable consequences. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

You sighed and closed your laptop with a firm snap, pushing it away as if that might also shove aside the thoughts clawing at your mind.

"This is tomorrow’s problem," you muttered to yourself.

But even as you crawled into bed, filthy shame twisted tightly around your chest, refusing to let go. You tossed and turned, willing the gnawing thoughts to stop, willing sleep to take you.

It didn’t come easily. It didn’t come at all.

#transformers x reader #mtmte x reader #transformers #idw transformers #self insert #maccadam #mtmte #megatron x reader #mtmte megatron #transformers idw

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wirewitchviolet · 2 months ago

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The problem with Gleba

There's a game I'm a big ol' fan of and don't write about enough called Factorio. It's an interesting beast of a game. There's a lot of RTS DNA in it, and a lot of grand logistics puzzle/progammer-brain game. The main appeal is that as a the player, you are running around setting up a giant tangled mess of machines, conveyor belts, and little robot arms to produce large amounts of stuff to feed into research machines, teching up to more on more complex stuff, requiring you to scale up more and more until eventually hitting a win condition, but the more you expand and produce, the more the resulting polution causes your basically-Zerg neighbors to become larger and more aggressive. There's a really great inherent push and pull to this where if you're new to the game and just kinda struggling along, you generally have a lot more leeway on enemy aggression, and if you're really confidently rushing through (or just seriously overbuilding all your production), big deadly attacks roll in super early and you'll have to be way more aggressive about defenses.

Back in October, Factorio got an expansion, which I described while streaming it as the sort of expansion that's for "real Factorio sickos only." It makes the game significantly longer and more difficult, mainly in that normally, you advance through 5 flavors of science packs, each more of a challenge to produce at the rate you'd like, then head off into space. In the expansion, you can get into space with just the first 3 science flavors, but to hit the new victory condition, you need to be producing the original 5, plus an additional 5, one produced on orbital space platforms and the rest each coming from setting up bases on 4 new planets, each of which basically require you not only to start your big setup from scratch, but have their own resoruces, tech trees, and obstacles, meaning you end up playing 5 variations of the base game, simultaneously, and an extra logistical challenge in tying their science outputs together.

As a real Factorio sicko myself, I love this, for the most part. I have long since mastered the base game to the point where it's fairly trivial for me to get a thriving base going on what's now just the starting planet, and set up defenses that won't hold up INDEFINITELY without any further input from me (places to mine up the most basic resources do eventually run dry and one must push out into the map to set up new outposts now and then). So hitting a point where I have to just step away from my primary base and spend several hours setting things up on new planets is a cool change of pace.

And of the new planets, three of them are just fine. There's a volcanic planet where there's no water with which to set up the usual early game steam power nor the late game nuclear plants, nor can you mine for the iron and copper you need to produce basically everything in the game. The big challenge is figuring out the new tech tree and how to get the basics set up, then in realizing just how incredibly generous this new tech tree is with everything, and how much more efficiently you can set everything up, and the normal enemies that would be harassing you have no real equivalent. There ARE stupifyingly large and tough new enemies, but they won't come to you. They camp out around the map, guarding their personal territory, and requiring you to essentially handle a boss fight every time you need more territory to set up your stuff or harvest finite resources (but honestly, in practice, you'll need to expand in this just once, most likely).

Another planet's main hook is that literally the only resources to work with come from setting up your mining drills on the ruins of a long-dead civilization, pulling up an odd slurry of what in the base game are end-game resources. Complicated electronics, fuel, and superstructure materials just come out of the ground, and need to be broken down in recyclers for the actual base resources, which is just sort of hilarious. And the real puzzle is you have this mixed slurry of all these resources you need to sort out, then also deal with the incredibly unbalanced ratio, and find some way to keep the resource pipeline flowing and not getting gummed up with all that concrete and super advanced electronics you don't actually need that many of. And the final planet, only unlockable after mastering the rest, needs a good interplanetary logistics network as you need to important damn near everything from elsewhere.

All of this is great. Head to a new planet, spend a couple hours puzzling out it's quirks and how to set up a new rocket platform, its required inputs for perpetual rocket launches, and how to produce each planet's science flavor to send home. Then since it's been a few hours since you've checked on your main base, you head back, do some maintenance, maybe move some mines, maybe take a moment to make upgrades everywhere as each planet also has some infrastructural stuff that can't be made anywhere else, giving you better production structures and faster conveyor belts and so forth you might want to use everywhere. But then there's Gleba.

The gimmick of Gleba is it's the biological planet. There's no metal to work with (technically). No oil. Solar power doesn't even work particularly well. So like the volcano planet, you have to reinvent the wheel with everything using a new tech tree where you harvest two types of fruit, throw them into a series of goop-filled tanks powered by "nutrients" rather than electricity, and various combinations of byproducts your tanks spit out let you make literally everything you're ever going to need. In fact, a properly set up Gleba base becomes a perfect closed system, circulating seeds back to the two fruit farms for an infinite suppy, producing all the nutrients required to keep everything running, and enough surplus production of some form or another to feed into incinerators to provide electricity for the few things that still need it (basically just the inserters moving things from one tank to another).

And then there's the downsides. First, and this is a real serious problem for anyone dealing with this for the first time, Gleba has a real serious problem of "what the hell am I even looking at?" Everywhere else, there's pretty clear divisons between flat open ground, cliffs, some sort of liquid, and whatever useful resources you can harvest, without anything else really factoring in. And then here's Gleba.

I love the visual variety, but for comparison's sake, the base game looks like this:

It is very clear where the water is, it is very clear that there is a big patch of copper you can mine up. Meanwhile in these Gleba screenshots, you can't make out where the important resources are (a bit of a cheat because I didn't actually include the biomes where either of the plants that matter grow), and it's honestly quite hard to tell where the water is (I'm PRETTY SURE there's some in every screenshot, and probably a lot more than you'd think as it looks real different when very shallow)... oh and almost all water on Gleba is shallow to various degrees so you can't even go by what's walkable, you'll only really notice an area is flooded when you try to place stuff on it. It will probably take you quite some time before you can even successfully identify what's important, where it comes from, and where you have enough dry land to set your base up. And during that time you'll probably start dealing with the second complication.

Everything rots on Gleba. Well, almost everything. Stuff you build is fine, but the two important fruits, their intermediary peeled forms, the main intermediary material you make from mashing them together, the nutrients that power everything, the bacteria that you need to breed for your basic metal supplies, the one ingredient I haven't mentioned, and even the science packs you're eventually going to be exporting decay over time. Fresh picked fruit spoils in an hour. Peeled fruit and nutrients only last a few seconds. And once stuff rots, generally, you have this completely different item called spoilage, which is going to gum up all your automation by blocking conveyor belts or the input slots of machines and it can be pretty difficult to clear out.

Also as some things decay VERY quickly, any number of problems can cause something vital to spoil in transit, like say the nutrient supply to getting fruit initially processed, or the nutrients powering your production of nutrients, and everything's going to grind to a halt. Including the little inserters that move stuff to the burners providing power to those very inserters. So it's not at all uncommon when setting stuff up on Gleba that one tiny thing will be wrong, maybe as you cut off a belt to reroute it for a change in your overall design, everything rots, the whole base dies, and you have to go around clearing out rotted gunk from literally everything by hand, hand-produce a few nutrients from said rotted gunk, and slowly manually restart everything. Meanwhile we have the last issue to worry about.

youtube

Gleba is the one planet other than the one you start on with aggressive enemies to worry about. And there's a lot more to worry about from them. As the above sizzle real shows, they're significantly tougher on an individual level, but also, having these cool stretchy legs, they ignore all terrain. So you can't funnel them to choke points with walls, and they're likely to skim over water you can't build on in their approach. So you just sort of have to have a huge amount of standing firepower where they're likely to attack, which will only be your tree farms (and the path they need to take to them) which will be two very remote locations that are more or less completely flooded out... and your defenses most likely will require a lot of electricity, which is hard to get.

Also that last ingredient you have to worry about rotting? These things' eggs. Yeah both the buildings you use to produce everything on Gleba, and the science packs you eventually export, require the eggs of the local monsters to produce. Good news is, you really just need to risk your life attacking their nests to run off with a couple to start with, since you can make more eggs from eggs without too much trouble, but if one sits around for a few minutes without being processed, it hatches, and now there's a bunch of baby monsters freaking out in the middle of your base. And more importantly, after you clean that resulting mess up, you have to go on another super dangerous safari to get fresh eggs.

Now, individually, I actually love all this. There's some delightful cruelty and the puzzle of working out how to keep everything from rotting and clogging everything up in a fail-safe way is pretty neat. But putting it all together, there's two big things here that just feel real real bad.

First there's the pollution system that makes me love the base game so much. If I'm barely mining and producing stuff, I'm not causing a lot of pollution, so enemies aren't getting big and scary. If I make some huge mistake like, oh, running my whole base on coal power, scaling up a ton, and forgetting that I'm just plain not bringing enough coal in to sustain that, and my entire base de-powers and grinds to a halt, that's pretty bad, but I am producing zero pollution until I get it back online. If some small part of my factory stops working, because I'm massively overproducing something or I'm under-producing something, some machines are just going to stop doing anything until they get what they need, or have a place to dump their stuff, and even mines will stop mining if their output backs up.

Gleba... doesn't work that way. When anything goes wrong in any way, you go from having a ton of stuff you've produced to having a ton of spoilage. Or if you have some safety valves, you are suddenly tossing a massive overproduction of eggs or science or something straight into the furnace. But you're always going to be planting and harvesting the important plants (unless all your fruit rots on the line and there's no seeds to plant) whether you're really doing useful things with that fruit or not, and that's the one and only thing that generates "pollution" (officially it's spores that smell really delicious as a byproduct of harvesting). So catastrophes that end up being more of a full reset than a pause still leave you with jacked up pollution and much deadlier attacks, and that self-balancing difficulty just doesn't happen.

The other big problem, and this may be a bigger one, is you're really discouraged from tweaks and experimentation. You really are just sort of forced to fully design and deploy your entire Gleba base, with every emergency pressure valve and contingency, and the full production line to producing the final products you're shipping offworld before you even "plug it in" and start the actual plant harvesting. You can't really slowly build it up as you go (largely because you kinda get all your power by burning overproduction at the end), making a tiny change is going to make something start starving or backing up which can cause a disaster within seconds, and you either need to really really carefully manage ratios, or commit to massive overproduction and burning everything (spiking the difficulty).

So the first time you ever set up a base on Gleba, you're probably going to spiral into a failure state and need to reload from when you first landed there, maybe several times. But once you know what a functioning base looks like, either from your own trial and error or copying from someone else, you're going to have a nice little blueprint saved of this very nice compact efficient closed-loop base you can just stamp down on future play-throughs, hook up, and basically never have to look at again, ever. I was prompted to write this because I'm doing my second run of the expansion, got set up real quick here, and it's going to be a couple hours still before my defenses even get tested. Meanwhile I have basically all the Gleba research done already. There's no middle ground here between overwhelming and frustrating and a totally dull turn-key setup. Which is a huge shame!

Of course I'm also saying that before testing my defenses. The other inherent problem with Gleba is that from the moment you set foot on it, you do inherently have two planets with a steadily increasing difficulty modifier. Plus the science rots. So you are always going to have to divert SOME mental processing cycles to babysitting it at least a little bit even after you've solved the planet, even if it's just remembering to clean rotting science out of the labs on your starting planet here and there. And that really makes it into something you're still going to want to put off visiting for as long as possible even after playtest response to it being such a nightmare lead to the developers locking all sorts of cool researchable goodies behind it.

And then thing that really bothers me about all this is I can't really think of an easy fix for it. The closed loop where overproduction gets burnt is too conceptually foundational to really mess with. The cascading difficulty spike you could maybe fix by tying it to space launches and not basic production (rockets ignite methane in the air and freak the locals out)? Make solar work OK or take inserters out of the equation maybe by just letting belts feed directly into and out of the important machines here? If nothing else it'd certainly help if coastlines were more obviously marked in some way.

Also like... I'm not an outlier griping about this. Everyone hates Gleba. I just want to be the weird contrarian who thinks no, rotten planet is super rad, you should head there first even, get all that cool stuff to use elsewhere but... no there really are problems with it that are always gonna suck.

#factorio #factorio space age #Youtube

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cmdrfupa · 6 months ago

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Hidden Place

Law school Higuruma x Reader

a/n: Was this inspired by the Bjork song? Well, yes! Our quiet love boy is genuinely like a muse for me. I unpack and pack then unpack him every other business day and if i'm being real, the entire Vespertine album is simply Hiromi Higuruma.

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

Early winter created a very specific type of buzz on campus. Students seem to have come alive with a rush from the activities post finals and winter break slowly approaching. The student-run Legal Aid Society was hosting a weekend event to offer free legal consultations for under-served communities in the area.

Hiromi, a third-year law student and one of the top performers in his class, had been recruited to help. He didn’t mind especially considering it was a good way to attempt some type of social activity before going home for the holiday.

Rows of tables set up for consultations, a check-in station, and a section dedicated to helping attendees fill out necessary paperwork sat in the bustling campuses center. Despite the organized chaos, there’s an air of determination amongst Hiromi and the other volunteers.

He arrived slightly early, as he always does, wearing a neatly pressed button-down, a dark brown sweater over and his usual calm, serious expression as the director of the event made his way to him.

The event coordinator hands him his designated clipboard of tasks, directing him to the registration area as he gave him the rundown of how the day would churn out to be. “It’s going to be a little hectic but I think we will be able to help at least 300 people before we call it this evening. Got any questions, Higuruma?”

Before he could ask his few questions, he sees you.. Quickly observing you juggle a chaotic scene—fielding questions from attendees, directing volunteers, and scanning a spreadsheet on your phone. Your cardigan is slightly pushed off your shoulder from the rush, and your hair’s a little disheveled, but your voice is steady as you manage the growing line of attendees. “Uh no, no questions. I’ll just hop in.”

The director clasped his hands and smiled before making his way to the group of tables nearby.

Your volunteer booth with your department’s Global Advocacy Club, which focused on humanitarian issues and international policies, had been up since 6am. The event provides a perfect collaboration, with law students handling casework and global studies students assisting with outreach, logistics, and communication.

Hiromi watched you for a moment, noting the way you command attention without raising your voice. Finally, he steps forward with his usual quiet confidence.

“Do you need a hand?” he asks, his voice steady but with a slight edge of curiosity.

You glance up, momentarily startled, before recovering with a polite smile. “I could use a clone, but I guess you’ll do.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward at your quick wit. Without another word, he sets his clipboard down and begins sorting through the paperwork pile beside you. Within minutes, the two of you fall into an efficient rhythm, his calm presence balancing out your high-energy focus.

For the next hour, you and Hiromi end up running the front registration desk by yourselves as things picked up. It didn’t take much to fall into a routine that highlighted both of your strong suits. Your efficient and diplomatic presence ensured the process ran smoothly. It balanced out the steady, grounding presence Hiromi held while he worked closely with the incoming groups that were grateful for the patience he showed as he walked through the processes for each of their legal questions. Working in tandem was proving to be far easier than he anticipated.

For awhile, the afternoon showed no signs of slowing up. Word seemed to have spread a bit more in the morning and that bought in a flood of those seeking aide. Then, when a translator doesn’t show up and chaos threatens to erupt, Hiromi watched you handle the situation.

“Yes! That’s exactly it. Just be sure that when you get over to the support services booth, you tell them that you qualify for the reduced travel pass and show them that paperwork. You’re all set.”

A combination of diplomacy and charm, seamlessly switching between languages to guide a nervous attendee to the right station. You made it look too easy.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his tone low but genuinely admiring.

You glance at him, a little surprised by the compliment. “You should see me in a real crisis,” you reply, the light teasing in your tone making him chuckle softly—a sound you realize you like more than you expected.

The two of you exchange occasional bits of banter as you work, gradually easing into a camaraderie that feels surprisingly natural. At one point, while stacking forms, you quip, “You’re way too calm for someone in law school. What’s your secret?”

“Practice,” he replies smoothly. Then, after a pause, he adds, “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Noted. I’ll have to get the name of the coffee you drink because mine does the exact opposite.”

-------------------

Later in the day, during a brief lull, you both sat on the edge of the check-in desk, sharing a rare moment of calm. Hiromi stretches his neck, loosening the tension in his shoulders. You hand him a water bottle without thinking, and he accepts it with a soft “thank you.”

“So,” you ask, breaking the silence, “what made you join the Legal Aid Society?”

He considers the question for a moment, his gaze distant but thoughtful. “It’s practical experience, sure. But... I think it’s important to do work that reminds you why you started. Law can get... theoretical.”

“Which route are you thinking of going?”

Hiromi took a small sip of his water and looked ahead. “Nonprofit or criminal.”

You nod, catching the weight of his words. “So you’re keeping yourself grounded?”

“Something like that,” he replies. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asks, “What about you? Why diplomacy and policy?”

You laugh lightly. “Because I like puzzles. And people. And trying to untangle seemingly impossible knots in a system that already works over those who hold it up the most. It’s messy, but it matters.”

Hiromi listens intently, his gaze unwavering. “That’s... a lot more idealistic than most people I’ve met.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He pauses, and for the first time, there’s a glimmer of a smile—not just polite or amused, but genuine. “I think it is.”

"It's good to be passionate this type of work. It isn't always this breezy. But when good people are doing work that others overlook, It makes the long days worth it once you see the relief on ones face."

Hiromi looked down at his hands, attempting to hide just how wide his smile was growing. "I'm glad it's us doing the work then."

As the event winds down and the last few attendees are seen to, you and Hiromi find yourselves walking back to the campus building where volunteers are cleaning up. The warm glow from the sun fades the courtyard, and the air is cool but not cold.

You’re discussing the day—its challenges and successes—when he suddenly stops walking.

“You’re good at this,” he says, his tone as calm as ever but with a sincerity that makes you pause.

“Good at what?”

“At... handling people. Keeping everything moving. It’s not easy.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, as if unused to giving compliments. “It’s rare.”

You smile, a little surprised by his earnestness but touched nonetheless. “Thanks. And you’re good at not losing your cool. Even when things got hectic.”

For a moment, there’s silence—comfortable, not awkward. But complimentary.You continued your walk to the student center to turn in all the paperwork and grab your belongings. Hiromi seemed to tag along for no reason other than to try and muster up a little extra courage to ask to see you.

As you prepped to part ways for the night, Hiromi lingers for a moment before speaking again.

“This was... good,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. “I don’t usually enjoy these things, but... it was different today.”

You tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Because I was here?”

His lips twitch upward again in that subtle almost-smile. “Maybe.”

It’s a simple, understated moment, but something about it lingers. “Well, perhaps you can join me in more of my volunteer efforts in the area. Or even show me where you get your coffee from.”

A slow heat crept up the nape of his neck and Hiromi could only smile. “Coffee while we plan our next volunteer efforts?”

You thumbed through your bag for a moment before pulling out a purple sharpie. Gently grabbed his hand, you jotted your number in his palm. “Don’t wash that hand until you’ve called me.”

As you walk away, you can feel his steady gaze following you for a moment before he turns and heads to his flat.

From that point on, you start to see him more often— starting with a coffee date then at events, around campus, and eventually, in moments outside of school. The connection grew slowly, but it’s unmistakably strong, rooted in mutual admiration and the shared sense of purpose that first brought you together. And it only grew.

(3 years later)

You and Hiromi’s cozy shared apartment was awash in a warm glow from the various desk lamps you had on in the late evening. Papers and books lay sprawled across your workspace, their edges curling slightly from overuse. A faint trace of jasmine lingered in the air, courtesy of your favorite candle burning in the corner, mixing with the scent of coffee gone cold.

It was late, and the rest of the world seemed to have fallen silent, leaving only the hum of the central heating and the faint rustle of pages turning.

You were hunched over your laptop, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. Three more weeks of feeling like your brain was going to somehow evaporate and you’d be done with grad school. Your half-empty mug of coffee sat neglected beside you, its contents forgotten as your mind worked to untangle research you’d already logged but simply needed to sort.

Hiromi was in the adjacent room, quietly reviewing case briefs. Even as he immersed himself in his work, he noticed that you hadn’t come out of the living room in more than 3 hours. Familiar with your late-night study habits at this point, he set aside his papers, the faint sound of his chair scraping the floor barely breaking the silence as he rose to check on you.

He stepped into the living room, his movements soft and deliberate. Dressed in a plain t-shirt and sweats, he paused at the doorway, leaning against the frame. His gaze rested on you for a moment, taking in the way your brow furrowed in concentration and the strands of hair that had fallen loose around your face. A small smile tugged at his lips—a moment of quiet admiration for the person he’d spent the best times of his life with so far.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice warm and teasing. “If you keep frowning at the screen like that, it might start frowning back.”

Startled, you glanced up, blinking at him before the tension in your shoulders eased. “It’s not that bad,” you replied with a faint smile. “Just a lot to get through.”

Hiromi stepped closer, his presence grounding. He reached out to brush a thumb lightly over your shoulder, the gesture gentle and familiar. “How’s it going?” he asked, his tone low and steady, inviting without pressure.

You leaned back slightly, stretching your shoulders as you spoke. “It’s... getting there. This section is tricky. I want to make sure I’m framing the argument clearly.”

Hiromi nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. He might not have been an expert in your field, but his ability to listen—to truly listen—was one of the things you cherished most about him.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he said softly. “Take a break. Even geniuses need a break and a sweet treat.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Just let me finish this paragraph. I’m almost done.”

He arched an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Famous last words. You said that 2 hours ago.”

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. Hiromi’s chuckle joined yours, the shared moment of levity a small reminder of how well he understood you.

“Alright, alright, take this laptop away from me. 30 minutes, Mr. Higuruma.” You smiled and moved the papers from the couch cushion and moved them to the coffee table as he sat you computer off to the side.

He sat next to you and like clockwork, you grabbed his hands to lightly massage them.

Then, almost as if thinking aloud, he said, “I’ve been thinking about what’s next.”

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering across your face. “For after I graduate?”

He nodded. “You’ll be accepting a position with a great agency. We’ll be finalizing pretty much everything for the wedding soon after. And that job at Freusters firm that I accepted. So many paths I could’ve chosen and I’m still feeling unsure on that one. It’s a lot to consider.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But you’ll figure it out. You’ve always had a strong sense of what matters to you.”

Hiromi’s gaze softened, his usual stoicism giving way to vulnerability. “Sometimes it feels like there’s so much riding on every decision. Like I can’t afford to get it wrong.”

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “You’re not going to get it wrong. Whatever path you choose, you’ll make it meaningful. You’ll learn from it, grow from it and come out better because of it. That’s just who you are.”

“So if I said I wanted to go into corporate law?”

“I’d ask what the hell happened to my fiance and find the real you.”

Hiromi chuckled and brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your engagement ring.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his expression lightening. “Thank you, my heart.” he said, his voice soft. “You’re the most driven person I know. And the best part of my support system.”

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, neither of you needing to fill the space with words. Hiromi shifted to lean against you, the papers and laptop momentarily forgotten while he rested his head lightly against yours, the warmth of his presence steady and reassuring.

“We’ve got this,” you thought, the words unspoken but understood. The challenges ahead felt less daunting with him by your side, just as you knew he felt the same with you.

“Soon to be Mrs. Higuruma.”

“Yes. Mr. Higuruma?”

Hiromi caressed your ring finger. “We’ve got this.”

As the candles burned lower, you closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the quiet intimacy of the night. It wasn’t grand gestures or elaborate declarations that defined your relationship.

It was always moments like this—small, tender exchanges and quaint love that would move mountains from how strong it was. It’s what spoke volumes about the life you were building together from the very beginning.

#jujutsu kaisen #hiromi x reader #hiromi higuruma x reader #higuruma hiromi #higuruma x reader #jjk higuruma #jjk headcanons #jjk fluff #hiromi jjk #Lu.logs

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lunarflux · 7 months ago

Text

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

a/n: holy shit it's over

part 26: reset

word count: 3,407 tag: @bruhidkjustwannaread | @rubyxx16 | @bellabarnes1378 | @johnmurphys-sass | @strangeobsessed

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

It was just past noon when you entered the betting house, the familiar hum of the Blinders' daily grind in full swing. The chaos of the morning’s business dealings settling into a lull. Tommy sat behind his desk, speaking quietly with John and Arthur, his sharp eyes scanning the room as usual. Your arrival was met with nothing more than a subtle glance, a knowing acknowledgment. You were already a part of the furniture, as integral to the operation as the ledgers carefully tucked away.

Today, though, the tension was palpable. A new shipment had arrived, and the logistics of it all were weighing on everyone. You spent the morning coordinating with the men, ensuring the distribution routes were set, and making sure their contacts were loyal—loyalty being a currency the Blinders didn’t often take lightly. The risks had grown larger, and there was no room for failure.

Tommy had given you full control of the day-to-day, trusting you to act on his behalf, a responsibility you’d earned over the past months. The work had initially come in bursts—small tasks here and there, conversations with men on the docks, reports on deals—but over time, it had grown into something more. Tommy had seen in you what he needed all along: someone who didn’t just follow orders but made the right calls on your own.

Most important of the aspects that you unknowingly displayed: you showed no resistance to the world that welcomed you. There was no part of you that sought change—only progress.

You walked across the room, your heels clicking against the worn floorboards. Your presence didn’t command the room the way Tommy did—there was no need for grand entrances. The Blinders didn’t need to be reminded of your role; they had already learned it.

“Everything set for today?” Tommy asked without looking up, his voice the kind of deep, calm authority that left no room for doubt.

You nodded, stepping into the back room to check on the paperwork. It was all in order—accounts balanced, the deals set to move smoothly, the men in place to ensure it all went without a hitch. You came to understand the business quickly, and as you sorted through the ledgers, you felt a sense of pride in it. It was a strange thing, working for Tommy Shelby, and yet, it had begun to feel like a place you belonged. More than that, it was a place where you had a voice—a voice that was respected. No longer did you cling to the shadows. The light found you, and from there, it was only a matter of keeping the flame burning.

Outside the back room, the brothers were starting to gather around the table. John had a glint of mischief in his eyes, already looking to stir things up. Arthur, for once, seemed quieter than usual, lost in his own thoughts. And Finn—Finn, the youngest, watched you more closely than he would have dared before. There was something different in the way he looked at you now—respect, maybe, or perhaps even something more.

He wasn't the same since the incident outside the bookshop. A change that didn't go unnoticed, but it was overlooked by Tommy who attributed it to the numbing years of a growing boy in the business.

You walked back into the main room, placing the papers down with a calm efficiency.

Arthur caught your eye as you moved to join them, giving you a nod of acknowledgment. It was rare for him to show his approval so openly, but it was clear to everyone in the room that you were more than just Tommy’s confidante. You were someone who stood alongside him, someone whose decisions were just as binding as his. That, alone, was an anomaly.

“Everything set, love?” Arthur asked with a grin, always the one to break the tension. Tommy, too, had come to see that Arthur wasn’t just the wild card—he was the heart, even if he sometimes acted out of impulse.

You glanced at Tommy, catching the slight nod he gave you. His approval was silent, but it was there.

“It’s all in place,” you said, your voice steady and subtly confident. “The new shipment will be at the docks by tonight. We’ll need to make sure everyone’s on time for the distribution. The last thing we need is another delay.”

The brothers shifted, murmuring among themselves, clearly pleased with how you were taking charge. The weight of Tommy’s expectations was always there, but you learned to bear it. You were used to the tension now, the constant weight of your role, the subtle pressure from Tommy, and the way the brothers looked to you for answers when he wasn’t around.

“We’ll handle it,” John said with a chuckle, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Ain’t no one better for the job than us, right?”

You nodded with a smirk. You didn’t need to say much.

As the brothers continued to discuss the logistics of the day, you stood back, your eyes drifting across the room. Finn's stare caught your eye again, and you motioned for him to join you in an empty office. You sat down quietly while he stood rather stiffly.

"How are you?" you asked plainly.

"Business as usual." His responses were always short.

"Finn," you sighed with the soft shake of your head. "I told you why it happened that way."

"I know."

"And yet, you're upset with me."

The briefest look of anger flashed over his eyes before it disappeared back into his face of apathy. He shrugged. "I know."

You stood, placing your hands on his shoulders with a gentle squeeze. You didn't want to continuously placate him. It was understandable—his frustration. His mistrust. He thought he'd let you and Tommy down by letting you leave with Bingham that day.

Finn's eyes searched yours for the explanation he was looking for. "Tommy doesn't think I can handle it."

"And can you?"

"I know I can."

You grinned, a touch of playfulness and amusement. "Then I trust you to prove it."

After a few seconds, he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief that you could say something so simple.

"Come with me to the new shop. You can run the books if that's what you want. Show Tommy you can handle running my business." You raised an eyebrow, hinting at all he could accomplish.

It wasn’t just the business side of things that had changed. Tommy showed an immense amount of proactivity. He took all of Bingham's properties, turned them into new places for the Blinders to conduct their business. As for you, once Bingham's old bookshop was handed over, it was put in your care. He knew what it meant to you—having another place to run to if you ever needed it.

Finn nodded with a curt grin. "I'll take care of it."

You learned to be tough, to be assertive, but you also learned when to step back and let the brothers handle things. There were times when Tommy needed your voice, and there were times when he needed you to be his eyes and ears. In the silence of the Garrison or the betting house, amidst the noise of the world outside, you knew that this was where you belonged—for now. It was a strange thing, being with the Blinders, but it was something you’d come to embrace.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

The Garrison was alive with noise. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, glasses clinked, and the familiar scent of whiskey hung in the air. The Shelby family had gathered as they always did, a moment of respite from their usual chaos. Tonight, however, the atmosphere was warmer, more relaxed. Even Finn had allowed himself a smile as he sipped his drink.

You sat beside Tommy, as you always did now. Over the past months, the unspoken distance between you had dissolved. You became more than just Tommy’s right hand—you were part of the family. The Shelbys treated you like one of their own, with the same loyalty, the same grudging affection. And Tommy, for all his coldness, let you in—let you see the man he was beneath the armor he wore.

The conversation had shifted to the usual tales, wild stories of old schemes and new faces in the streets of Birmingham. But as the laughter continued and the family reveled in each other’s company, Tommy’s gaze fell on you, steady and intense. He watched you for a long moment, almost as if lost in thought. There was something different in his eyes tonight—a flicker of something that you couldn’t quite place. Neither of you ventured past the comfortable silence. Even though the others knew there was more to this relationship than the business, you both kept the briefest amount of distance as if it was better to keep the intimate details a secret—something sacred to be saved for your eyes alone.

Arthur raised his glass , his voice louder than usual. “To Tommy and y/n—may the world fuckin' burn at your feet.” He paused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And to Shelby Company, Limited.”

Everyone murmured their agreement, clinking their glasses together in a unified toast. Even John, whose usual cynicism had softened in recent months, smiled as he raised his own drink.

Quietly, you slipped into the back room, hoping to find a moment of solitude. The noise from the pub had softened into murmurs, and the lamplight flickered as shadows stretched across the floor. You always needed a break from all the noise, just a moment to breathe. But you hadn’t expected to find Polly waiting in the corner, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching you with those knowing eyes.

You paused in the doorway, feeling a momentary hesitation. Polly wasn’t just a sharp observer—she was someone who understood the weight of the world, someone who had seen it all. And you weren't sure if you wanted to be seen right now.

"Come in, love. No need to stand there like you’re hiding," Polly said, her voice soft but firm.

You entered quietly, closing the door behind you. You glanced toward the table, uncertain whether to sit. Polly, as always, didn’t rush you. She didn’t need to.

With a resigned sigh, you took a seat across from Polly. Her gaze never left you, not in a way that was judgmental, but more like she was watching for something you weren't yet ready to admit.

After a long pause, Polly took a sip of her whiskey, then placed the glass down with deliberate slowness, her eyes never straying from you.

“I’ve been watching you and Tommy,” Polly said, her tone light but filled with the weight of experience. “It’s not lost on me, you know.”

You didn’t look up. You didn’t want to. You could feel the words swirling in your mind, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say them. You fidgeted with your sleeve, the rough fabric doing little to ease the anxiety creeping up in your stomach.

Polly continued, as if she’d already known the thoughts racing through your head. “You two are different from how Tommy was with Grace.”

You stiffened. Tommy never brought up Grace, and you did all you could to avoid thinking about her. You paid Tommy the same courtesy, leaving Ezra in the past ever since that day at the cemetery. You knew, though, that there were times he wanted to ask. Those moments when you were too quiet or lost in thought. Polly always seemed to find a way to pull the past back into the present.

“I know he loved her,” Polly said softly, almost to herself. “But business always got in the way. It always does with him. Even at their wedding, he was conducting business.”

You stayed silent, your chest tight as the memory of Grace resurfaced. Standing in the shadow of that history, you knew there was no easy way to compare yourself to Grace, not even now.

“But with you,” Polly’s voice cut through your thoughts, “it’s different. You’re part of the business, yes. But you’re also part of him. And that’s something he doesn’t give to just anyone. I have a feeling that if business were to intrude on your time with him, you'd be at his side if only to make sure things were done the right way.”

You finally looked up, meeting Polly’s steady gaze.

“I have another feeling,” Polly continued, her tone quiet, “He wants more from you. More with you. He just doesn't know how to say it.”

“Is this one of your visions, Pol?” you asked with a smirk. “Or has Tommy been whispering about me?”

Polly smiled, but it was a smile that held both understanding and something more, something deeper. “Not a vision. Maybe it's women's intuition, or maybe I'm just not as blind as you choose to be. I think he’s more serious than you know. And he’s not going to push you. But I also think he’s waiting for you to decide.”

You leaned back in your chair, tilting your head playfully as you always did.

"All he has to do is ask, Pol."

“Exactly the answer I'd expect from you,” Polly said with an accepting nod. “I only hope he has the balls to do it.”

Polly gave you a reassuring look before walking toward the door.

“The boys and I are betting on when it will happen. Be sure to let me know if it happens before midnight.”

As the door closed behind Polly, you laughed to yourself. You sipped your whiskey slowly, and as it trickled down your throat, you breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

When you stepped back into the main room, Tommy's eyes fell on you immediately. You took your seat beside him, cigarette already between your lips as he held the match for you.

You could sense the eyes continuously glancing over at you. The boys were never subtle. They were watching. They were waiting.

Without a word, Tommy reached under the table, sliding a small gold ring from his pocket. He placed it on your thigh, his fingers brushing against the smallest part of your skin that revealed itself from beneath your skirt. The gesture was almost imperceptible to anyone else, buried beneath the noise of the celebration, but to you, it felt like the room had fallen silent.

The ring was simple—no grand flourish, no extravagance. It was exactly the kind of sentiment you would have expected from him. He needed no grandiose display of affection, just a ring and the comfortable silence.

You looked down at the ring and slipped it over your index finger, turning it slowly with a soft smile. You turned to Tommy who looked straight ahead towards the end of the table. After a moment, he turned to face you, his expression still. As he stared, you heard his voice in the back of your mind, the question that needed to be asked.

Marry me.

You slowly stood, your chair scraping across the floor. The eyes of the family turned toward you, the sudden movement drawing their attention. There was a short silence as they all waited.

“Excuse me,” you said with a brief nod of your head.

Tommy watched you walk towards the door, his jaw tight, his gaze unwavering. No one spoke, not until Tommy stood up from the table and walked after you.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Outside, the cool evening air hit you like a rush of clarity.

The door opened behind you, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was Tommy. His presence was a constant now, one that you had learned to rely on, even when everything else felt uncertain.

He stepped beside you, not speaking at first, just letting the silence stretch between you. His hands were in his pockets, but you could feel the tension in his posture, the same quiet patience he always had.

"I didn't want to ask in front of everyone."

You turned, taking a long drag of your cigarette before blowing a plume of smoke into the air, but you didn't respond.

Tommy’s lips quirked slightly at the corners. He had expected resistance, but your silence told him something else. Without a word, he reached for you, pulling you into him. He threw your cigarette to the floor, and the moment his lips met yours, your chest seemed to collapse into him, your heart pounding with something deeper than desire.

When he finally pulled away, your breath was shaky. Tommy knew just how to unsettle you—be unpredictable. It was the only way to shake someone like you who knew how to anticipate everything.

“You want me to ask you out loud, don't you?” Tommy asked softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your smile was small, but there was a raw honesty in it, something Tommy had never seen from you before. “Well, I'm not going to ask you,” you whispered with a giggle. "If we weren't standing in the middle of the filth of Birmingham, I would've given you shit for not getting down on your knee."

Tommy nodded with a smirk, a rare look of contentment crossing his face. There was no need for grand gestures or declarations. Not here, not now. This was enough.

"Very well then." He took your hang and removed the small ring, still loosely hanging from the tip of your finger. He held it up between your faces, his eyes suddenly turning serious.

It finally settled in your mind that he was being sincere. While neither of you would ever be the type to be sentimental in front of the others, here—in the privacy of the moonlight, he was more than willing for you only.

"Marry me, y/n. I'm afraid I won't be able to do this without you, and that's something I wouldn't admit lightly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Even now, Tommy Shelby, with the menacing tone."

You reached for the ring, but he pulled his hand back. "Not yet."

Both your gazes turned serious and still as he dangled the ring in front of you.

"I said it." Tommy moved in closer until his lips hovered just above yours. "This ring isn't going on your finger until you answer."

Your eyes searched his, and in his stare you found all you needed to give the answer you both wanted. But, even now, you couldn't resist bringing back the silence that started this story. Thomas Shelby finally learned to tell you what he wanted without the unspoken strings attached, and now, here he was, standing before you—not as a broken man seeking a dream. He was asking for you because you were the one he wanted.

And damn anyone who would expect him to accept anything less.

You took his face in your hands. He eased forward, anticipating a kiss of acceptance, but you pushed further until your lips grazed the edge of his ear.

"Yes, Tommy, I will marry you."

Tommy's lips brushed against yours in the briefest of moments. A cloud of contentment enveloped you in the midst of the Birmingham chill, at last hinting towards the oncoming spring. He slipped the ring over your finger and admired it.

The doors to the Garrison burst open, and Arthur lurched forward before abruptly halting in his tracks. He looked at the two of you and his face twisted between bewilderment and joy. One by one the family peered out the door, each with a growing smirk before they all collectively groaned. Polly won the bet, and they knew it wouldn't be long before they had to pay up.

Arthur cleared his throat, walking up with his hand held out. "Is this the part where I say 'congratulations'?"

Tommy smirked and shook his hand.

Arthur's face slowly dropped. "Tom, we got a call. It's from Ada. Said she got a letter."

"From who?" you asked, almost forgetting all together what just happened. Instead, you focused on the serious tone in Arthur's voice.

Tommy's face slowly grew cold, but still, he held your hand firmly with the subtlest squeeze.

Arthur spoke slowly, "She got a black hand, Tom."

Tommy turned to you, and for a moment, he allowed you to see that he didn't forget. This was the beginning of your future with him, but not only that—this was the beginning of a new game.

#thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x you #thomas shelby x y/n #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #lunarflux #a game of ghosts lunarflux

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imustbenuts · 15 days ago

Text

sirei and post game completion thoughts. hes... kind of an interesting character.

sirei's pirority is to ensure that shion launches the kamikaze missile attack no matter what. but the thought processes which support this are based on short sighted pragmatism backed by only the tiniest shred of morality.

sirei can be broken down into an order of pirority like this: the mission's success, shion, SDU's performance, SDU's well-being. the well-being part is like maybe 2% of the pie and success probably like 65%. idk.

he will use brainwashing and coercion and starving the kids just to get them to fight. the funniest connundrum to me is that the TRC and Sirei really shouldve just fed these clones the most military aligned of memories to get them to fight and not this 'love your nation enough to kys over it' memories

this is just. horribly inefficient. but seeing as how THL is drawing parallels to how capitalistic/nationalistic countries/japan feeds their young generation into the meat grinder, this whole approach of having a legacy of old families/power clinging onto their legitimacy tracks uncomfortably well.

its also canon that he legitimately does love shion to a degree that he will bend the rules so long as the core mission goes off ultimately on day 100. but its not enough to override him enough to want shion to survive, though im sure if the logistics allowed for it sirei would take this path no questions asked. shion even weaponizes this at points in the 2nd scenario, but its still not obvious that sirei even has a shred of morality there. every time he squeaks its only after he gets cornered, and even then he still manipulates and tells half truths to the sdu.

even in the rebellion route he only gives up after the SDU corners him into having no cards left to play.

the scraps can be found elsewhere though

in the casual route sirei begs for takumi to snap out of it after realizing his brainwashing has gone too horribly right to the point that his judgement alone isn't enough to tide them over day 100. so he seems to attempt to undo takumi's brainwashing but fails as ultimately takumi at best snaps out of it just in time to die. this timeline mostly is sirei fucking it up for himself.

a less obvious one is the way he just reluctantly accepts takumi's insistance to keep eito alive despite, from a pragmatic pov, its far more efficient to off traitors in a operation like this. or even brainwashing them so theres extra hands for the operation. but sirei doesnt do that, and at best he does it only in the CoA route after takumi brings it up.

sf route has the biggest tell of all. the motherest of tells. he along side nigou absolutely refuses to implement the rigor mortis code plan. he doesnt want the final student left to kamikaze themselves for the mission, which miiight imply he'd rather the final surviving student run and abandon the mission. and here despite coming back online to react to the students being on the pod and aborting the missiles, he only goes 'ira ira ira' (annoyed annoyed annoyed) in jp while admitting the scene of them all alive makes him happy emotional.

worth noting in that he doesnt rage at them for it. they survived and he doesnt threaten any sort of harm there. heck he doesnt even rage at takumi in sf despite takumi behaving exactly like a rebellious teenager at every point. hes mostly 'well, ugh, alright! fine! see if i care!', as if takumi also went through some self actualization here (which is likely the intention of the writing in sf).

im not saying sirei is a morally good character, far from it. that little shred of morality he's got at viewing these kids as actual kids under his care makes him infinitely more interesting than if he was just an android following protocols with 100% pragmatism

sirei is surprisingly human in some ways. often monstrous for sure which is why eito murders him half the time, but once the mission is removed from his pirorities i think he makes for something like a father figure under the right circumstances. maybe.

sirei is such a piece of shit lmao

#the hundred line #last defense academy #sirei #takumi sumino

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ranchwamen · 2 months ago

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I WAS GONNA MESSAGE YOU ON YOUR MAIN BUT IT WOULD MAKE MORE SENSE HERE

I know Luca did this but I love the idea of fish being treated domestic cattle? Like idk something about having a group of fish just. Grazing. Idk

Our grunts were doing this earlier and I thought it was silly like that’s a herd not a school

ANYWAYS in your mermaid verses does like. Aquaculture/agriculture combination exist?

Yes yes yes it does!!! Tending to domestic schools of fish is one of the biggest food sources of merfolk, though I've only really brought it up once in a singular comic panel:

Aand admittedly I haven't figured out all the logistics of it ^^' There are domestic fish subspecies for sure, pikes and several species of sharks for example, but the livestock of the sea are a different matter. I like the idea of fully domestic fish subspecies that live with humans all the time but I also like the domestic reindeer approach where — despite the prefix "domestic" — the reindeer spend a large portion of the year in the wild and only come to humans' care for the winter. I guess it'd be tricky to keep fish in a single place without having any escape (3-dimensional space and all), but also, I feel like domestic fish would be accustomed to merfolk and would wish to school near them anyway due to the protection they offer.

Actually, the domestication of fish seems like a very natural course to take place. Merfolk are big to most fish, medium shark-sized, and do not pose an immediate threat, so they're good to school near. Merfolk change their environment in all sorts of ways, they expose prey to eating when obtaining materials, they build things, and then those things grow tasty algae and polyps and mussels to eat. Merfolk eat a lot themselves and leave cooked food scraps to enjoy. Merfolk don't like predators near them and therefore chase them away, giving the fish safety, and once they start building little barns for the fish, well, then they'll be extra safe!! Perhaps then, merfolk settlements (located near coasts) would keep these fully domestic schools, and more nomadic groups of merfolk (who travel in the uppermost levels of the pelagic zone) would have semi-domestic schools of fish to keep instead.

Huh, yeah, fish livestock must come in very handy in taking care of biofouling matters, snails and slugs and other grazers can't do it all by themselves. Oooh not to mention the possibilities for aquaponics!!!! Domestic fish graze on algae and tasty delicious things to them, their waste fertilises the big plants (and worms) delicious to humans, humans eat both as they grow, profit! Although just how nutrient-heavy the water must be in these aquaculture farms due to the large amount of fish livestock, ehhh.... balancing how close to settlements you can keep the livestock in the name of food delivering efficiency vs how far you need to have them be to keep the water clean, what a tricky matter. Excellent for worldbuilding though :D I bet it's a really pressing issue regarding the eutrophication and species loss of the environment, merfolk settlements being located so far away from their agricultural areas for comfort and cleanliness reasons, inadvertedly causing their spheres of influence to be much bigger, forcing natural ecosystems to grow smaller, more fragmented and more nutrient-heavy, and causing disruption in the ecosystems' natural processes. Nevermind how much food exporting must've caused aquaculture farms to grow massive, especially in the modern age where the demands of billions of people must be met!! See, just because they're in the water doesn't mean they're more rudimentary or more in-tune with nature, lol.

To make a long story short, yeah !!!! Merfolk keep fish, but also other groups of animals like reptiles, crustaceans, mollusks and annelids to eat... and also to have as buddies and do jobs! Not all fish are livestock, very few fish species are "fitting" enough to be domesticated, and even then wild and domestic populations of the same species exist, but some species are livestock and serve as a major cornerstone of the merfolk diet!

#im a little bit tired of the idea that mermaids should be absolutely frightened and disgusted at the idea of eating fish.#i mean... what DO they eat then? algae? whales? small crustaceans? do they absorb the sunlight? lol #they CAN do all those things but like tell me how and why! why do they have the reactions that they do? whats their mermaid culture like?#if theres no reason then to me it just seems like they dont eat fish because some folks consider all fish to be a monolith where no nuance #or difference exists between species besides very clear categories of “fish” and “shark”. and mermaids are of course a part of this monolit #like when people accuse donald duck of cannibalism for eating turkey when donald is an anthropomorphic duck and the turkey he eats is a -#feral bird of a wholly different species #not here! merfolk live with fish and clearly distinguish between different species just like we see the obvious differences between -#squirrels and shrews and moles and rats and lemmings and several other mammals despite all of them being “mammals”#ahti II loves fish but also “fish” is a broad category and includes animals he wouldnt ever eat and animals that he regularly eats and -#finds absolutely delicious #i dont say this to be edgy! i say this because this is what happens in real life #anyway. i love the idea of fish livestock. schools of herring floating above the shallow seafloor grazing away while a shepherd makes sure #they dont wander off from the underwater pasture. the shepherds pikes circle the school and keep it in shape #asks #oh-sturg #sirpaverse #merfolk #mermaid #taur hour

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pointycorgiears · 2 months ago

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Cross Guild Flower Shop AU

I've always wanted to sit down and make a Flower Shop AU of something because I spent over a decade working as a florist and have firsthand knowledge of the processes and logistics of a flower shop.

But then I get the War Flashbacks and I shrivel silently back into my hidey hole. (I got super burnt out from that career) I don't know if I could ever flesh it out, but IF I were to do a Cross Guild Flower Shop AU, this is how it would go:

~🌷~Cross Guild Floral Creations Inc.~🌷~

Buggy: The owner/boss of the shop. Has surrounded himself with very talented people in the industry, but these same people might all be secretly insane. Including himself. He's just trying to keep things afloat and make sure things run smoothly!

Crocodile: The ACTUAL Owner of the shop. He owns the land, the space, the name, everything. He stays out the shop's daily operations for the most part. Will only show up if Buggy is in desperate need of assistance or is in trouble.

Mihawk: A manager who just no longer gives a shit. He's there for a paycheck and will take no crap from anybody, even Crocodile. Will never be fired, because Croc knows if Mihawk goes, everything goes up in flames the second he walks out the door. He is quite talented though and can make some seriously BEAUTIFUL wedding bouquets.

Alvida: She's a floral designer also just working for a paycheck. She has a love/hate relationship with her job, but she is loyal to Buggy, and she doesn't want to leave him hanging. She's also good with customers. The regulars love her! She's not afraid of telling the rude one-time customers to fuck off though.

Galdino: The flower processor that works (lives) in the back of the shop. Never sees the light of day. He receives the flower shipments from the wholesaler and cuts the stems of the new packages when they arrive to be put into water. He makes sure special orders are delivered to the shop and sorted and labeled into their own buckets. He keeps the back coolers well stocked and organized, but constantly complains about being cold all the time. (Everyone knows this is a lie. When you work in the coolers all day, you stop feeling the cold.)

Cabaji: The fastest, most efficient deliver driver in town, maybe the world. No ones asks how he got that funeral piece delivered 10 miles away in under 30 minutes, and no one (especially Buggy and Croc) WANTS to know. As long as there's good insurance on the delivery van and he doesn't get pulled over, nobody cares.

Mohji and Richie: They are Buggy's friends that constantly hang out around the shop and don't really do anything. Croc is annoyed because they can be a distraction from the business. No one else really minds them though since they do help out when it's really busy. Richie is the shop therapy pet that prevents everyone from murdering each other on the spot during Valentine's Day crunch time. (I'm not joking)

#There's soooo much that goes on in a flower shop #I haven't even scratched the surface #Do I have STORIES #I'm going to make Cross Guild my stress outlet #buggy the clown #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #cross guild #alvida #cabaji #mr 3 galdino #buggy pirates #flower shop au #cross guild floral creations inc #cross guild flower shop au #one piece

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randombush3 · 17 days ago

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sneak peek

part 2 is in the works hehe

[...]

“Did your parents never… find out?” she asks, and her syllables are slurred but the nosiness is loud and clear. “Mine would have clocked. Immediately.”

You say, “they knew. They didn’t care.”

She shifts closer.

Her hand grazes your thigh. Stays there as she leans to set down her drink. Casual, confident, asking you to notice but not pointing it out.

All you’re thinking about is logistics: how close the bed is, whether the yurt’s walls will muffle sound, whether she’ll want you to stay after.

Her fingers splay out to hold your knee, as if she is determined to not let you disappear. She’s not being subtle.

You don’t move. But when she leans in, slow and trying to read you, your hand goes to her shoulder to parry her away. Not forceful. Not mean. But a rejection, of sorts.

“No,” you say and your voice does not waver. “You can’t kiss me.”

Her mouth widens, words bubbling at the back of her throat.

You get there first.

“Don’t worry. You can still fuck me.”

#if i were leah i'd be gagged #woso x reader #woso #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson

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valiantverses · 1 year ago

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The Azrael Series: Chapter One

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader/ Slowburn/Sort of Enemies to Friends to Lovers)

°°°°°

Summary/Notes: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.

°°°°°

Chapter One

Introduction 1

@beansproutmafia @chinuneko @agustdpeach

Click.

Ghost watched you methodically assemble your rifle, noting how deliberate each movement was. You worked smoothly - barrel into receiver, scope in place, alignment done perfectly. He met your eyes as you surveyed the area, sliding in casings into the magazine with focused intensity.

Not sparing him another glance, you turned to look into your scope, securing the perimeter. Out on the craggy cliff face of the unforgivingly frigid Ural mountains, escape would not be easy. The only thing keeping you from being spotted was the taiga camouflage you wore and the relative cover of the copse of rocks you had climbed on to next to the lieutenant, chest pressed flat on to the rough ground as you settled yourself into a prone position.

"Alpha Two, in position and operational."

Your voice was clear through the coms, unhampered by the face coverings you wore even as your warm breath created soft puffs of vapour, swirling lazily into the air.

Next to you, Riley shifted, your sides touching as he took a final look over the perimeter and inconspicuously - attempting to, anyway - looked over your rifle to see your handiwork.

"Alpha Actual, in position and operational."

His voice reverberated through the rock you had both deemed fit to survey the target location - A laboratory nestled in a valley in the Ural mountains that served as a logistics facility for Makarov, protected by the mercenaries he hired.

"Copy, Alpha Squad. Bravo Squad getting into position, T-Minus 10. Maintain positions. Over."

"Copy." "Copy."

Twin voices rang out, and then there was a silence, a chasm between you and the lieutenant.

You did nothing to break it, comfortable in the stillness of the break of dawn, even as the lieutenant continued to sneak assessing looks at you.

Though your file spoke for itself, experience and skills clearly laid out for the entire team to peruse in black - admittedly mostly redacted - ink, it was another thing entirely to trust a new teammate to watch your back.

Station Chief Laswell had attempted to soothe the situation, utilizing lots of what you recognized to be CIA mediation training to make the mission seem like less of what it was.

But the message was clear to you immediately upon receiving team assignments.

Ghost was babysitting you.

It didn't matter, you decided. You were the unknown variable in a well-oiled machine that had been training together for months. A factor that could put the team at risk so long as they didn't know - or trust - you.

Acceptance would come. Or it wouldn't - you rarely found the kind of stability needed to forge lasting relationships in this lifestyle.

Hunching your shoulders as the wind picked up, you meticulously cleared each area of your assigned quadrant, catching sight of Sergeant McTavish as he came into the view of your scope on the southernmost side of the compound.

Sergeant McTavish - Soap, as he had insisted you called him - had given you the warmest reception by far. He had taken one look at you during introductions and had been not just welcoming but outright friendly, giving you a wide smile and offering to take you on a tour of the team's home base.

You watched as Soap glanced behind him, jerking his head in the direction of the building closest to him as another hooded figure sidled up by his side - Sergeant Garrick.

Sergeant Garrick did not have quite the same warmness as Soap, but his wary smile had seemed genuine, facial muscles pulling up in such a way that your deeply ingrained intelligence training had told you was free of deception. He had offered to spar, and said that he'd give you a lay of the land outside the base upon return from this mission.

That's about where any sense of welcome started and ended with the team, Laswell and Captain Price had kept you at arms length, a clipped sort of professionalism. Lieutenant Riley was an apathetic sort of distance, and you had the sense that he was on the look out for any of your weaknesses and would no doubt be more than glad to pull out the Personnel Transfer Forms in his desk that had barely ever seen the light of day if you failed to live up to expectations.

You kept your breathing low and steady, the high elevations making the air feel thin. Next to you, you felt the lieutenant shift.

"Our directive mandates recon and reaction only, no active engagement."

His eyes on you felt like an itching in the back of your throat, easy enough to ignore but always at the back of your mind.

"Yes, sir." You affirmed, laser focused on clearing the western perimeter of the compound. "I was there when the instructions were given."

There was a pregnant pause where you continued constant surveillance, not even looking up as in your peripheral vision the blazing nothingness of freshly fallen snow was obscured by the bone white of your lieutenant's skull mask.

"I could do without your attitude, sergean-"

He had leaned in close enough to you that you were able to reach behind him to his nape and pull him in your direction, sandwiching yourself between his bulky body and the rough stone below. Before he could pull away, you tightened your grip on his coat, indicating with your free hand to remain low on the ground.

It had been subtle, well hidden, but the glint of a sniper scope aimed in your general direction had you reacting immediately.

Slightly winded from the lieutenant's weight on you, you reached up and clicked on your coms link.

"Captain, Alpha Two reporting. Hostile sniper positively ID'ed in area of operations. Westernmost building, clear line of sight of Bravo Team. Requesting green light for engagement."

You began to relax your arm but were quickly pinned to place by a hefty elbow as Ghost grabbed you by the collar of your coat, growling into your ear.

"Alpha Two heard. Confirm, Alpha Actual?"

Price's voice rang out of the coms, to no response.

Ghost snarled at you, placing his other hand next to your head, effectively locking you into place.

"Fuckin' hell sergeant, never heard of an anti reflect? Nine times out of ten a sniper has a sunshade o-"

"East facing window on furthest building, two windows down from the top floor. Sunshades work by blocking out light reflections but only with direct sunlight. The snow is freshly fallen and we're south- they hadn't accounted for the reflection of the sun onto the snowbank behind us. Nobody would expect hostiles on a blank cliff face-"

He grunted, keeping his eyes trained on you even as he reached over to look into your scope, bodies still pressed tightly together.

"Alpha Actual, positive ID'ed hostile? Over"

The captain's message once again went unanswered.

You shifted your legs a little, freezing when his thighs squeezed your sides in warning as he surveyed the westernmost building, the brutalist architecture starker in the snow.

You spoke in low tones, trying to get him to see your point. The low oxygen environment forced you to conserve your time spent talking.

"They're deeper into the building and have partial cover because of the drainage. They'd have direct line of fire on Sergeant Garrick and Sergeant McTavish. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."

"Alpha Actual, do you copy? Ghos-"

He huffed, the movement reverberating through you as he eased away from his position on top of you, falling into a low crouch behind the rock.

"Captain, hostile sniper ID'ed. West building, two windows from top. Clear line of sight on Bravo. Over."

There was another tense pause as the coms line grew silent, you taking the opportunity to roll over on to your stomach and keep watch on Soap and Garrick's position.

"Copy, Alpha Actual. Alpha Two, request to engage approved- Alpha Actual and Bravo Squad, maintain position."

"Copy, Alpha Two moving to position."

You wasted no time, disassembling your rifle in seconds, taking care not to let the snow into any openings as you turned to face your lieutenant and gave him a perfunctory nod, not waiting for his response as you left the relative safety of the rock formation.

The trek to the Southeast of the valley was arduous, the oxygen thin and the paths non-existent in the freshly fallen snow. Your lungs took in searingly cold air and your vision started to blur as the whiteness of the snow began to bleed into each other, the visor you wore being the only thing that kept you from snow blindness. Sometimes it became necessary to crawl on your hands and knees in the areas that were particularly visible to the valley down below. You did your best to keep your deep breaths from drowning out the coms, hearing Garrick and Mctavish's confirmation of identifying the sniper and entering an obscured alcove.

As you reached a copse of rocks that had the Western building in sight, you took off the gloves which the jagged rocks you had crawled on had embedded into and immediately began assembling your rifle, the familiarity of the metal body a comfort even in the frigid air.

You breathed in, then exhaled, before focusing on identifying the hostile sniper in front of you.

As your eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the empty room, a figure began to form, carved out of the inky blackness, partially hidden behind a mounted rifle.

The outside world stuttered to a stop. There was your breathing, low and calm. There was the enemy, looking up from their scope. There was your finger on the trigger, and then there was the the enemy's body jerking back, a bullet between his eyes as he slumped against the wall.

You waited.

You kept the corpse in sight of the crosshair, making sure the enemy's radio was within sight of you at all times.

Because if there was a sniper, then there would be a spotter, and it would just be a matter of who was more patient.

There was a flurry of movement as another person emerged out of the darkness and ran to their previous partners radio, stopping abruptly and collapsing as the insides of their skull became acquainted with the wall behind them.

"Captain, hostiles eliminated."

"Copy, Alpha Two. Bravo Squad, commence operation."

You kept your eyes trained on Soap and Garrick. You ensured they avoided engaging with the enemy, removing obstacles from their path before it could become a problem. Through the coms, you led them to the intelligence building and then back out, until they had successfully left the compound with Makarov's data in hand.

It was a perfect mission, and you could see by the pleased set of Garrick's shoulders, the twitch of Price' lips and the glint of Soap's eyes that the team really, really needed this win.

Evidently, not everyone was pleased with your performance.

Being the last one out of the chopper before debrief, you felt a hand on your shoulder, tugging you back until that familiar skull mask was in your vision once more.

"Liuetenant." You inclined your head, unsure of what he wanted.

"I don't like your attitude, sergeant."

"I don't need you to like me, sir. "

He remained silent, eyes boring into your own.

You regarded him, standing under the bright lights of the air hangar, mask and snow clothing so bright it almost made it hard to look at him. So you continued on.

"All I need is for you to know that on the field, I have your back."

Your lips quirked up as you managed a relaxed salute, muttering a 'sir' as you went to enter the debriefing room and began giving your report when everyone had gathered.

There was not a shred of doubt in your mind that the skull mask was trained on you the entire time.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod fic #cod x reader #valiantverses

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