#Armed soldiers of mexico

[syrma-sensei]

→ Bad Mouth.

gif credit.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!reader.

Rating: Explicit, pure filth.

Warnings: domestic ben, non-canon compliant, drug use, cockwarming, daddy kink, brat!reader, choking on huge dick, piv, pet names, minimum plot...

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Ben wants to netflix and chill with you but on his way.

Taglist: @zepskies

You and Ben just finished having dinner together. Ben's cleaning the table while you take care of the dishes. You glance over your shoulder at him with pride. Ben is adapting to modern life. Even though it's an excruciatingly slow process, it's still a progress, and you couldn't be prouder. In spite of that, Ben doesn't seem to be so pleased with the drastic changes that happened to the world during his sleep, and it causes him great frustration most of the time. But you're here to help him find his place in the new world. He insists he can handle everything by his own, but the man can't do a thing without screwing everything up, especially that loose tongue of his.

You proceed with your work in the kitchen; putting dry dishes in the cupboard, mopping the floor, and sorting the leftovers from dinner. Ben is now sitting in the living room watching something on TV. You need not to worry about that because you already taught him how to shuffle through networks and pick something up to watch. You've come to notice that unlimited access to media is something he appreciates and even enjoys. He'd sit and absorb the contents for learning purposes, making comments on how cinema quality is fucked up nowadays compared to the glorious days back in his time. You'd giggle at his words, reminding you of your grumpy grandpa. He still watches what now-shitty-Hollywood produces, nevertheless.

You emerge from the kitchen, drying up your wet hands with a towel. Your gaze catches his before he says, “C'mere, sweetheart, want you to sit on my lap.”

You smile, strolling down to the sofa where he's sitting. He cranes his head to look up at you before he adjusts his position for you. You slide up deftly to straddle his strong thighs, coming face to face with his handsome visage. Beautiful green eyes ravishing you with hunger. He flashes you a mischievous grin. “Not what I meant, baby.”

“Oh,” You raise a brow, flashing him a wicked smile of your own, “If that's what you want, Daddy.” You wink.

“Atta girl.”

He helps you to stand up again, shoving his blue sweatpants and underwear down to his mid thighs as you take your panties off; you weren't wearing anything but a hoodie and a thin pair of panties, which is laying on the floor now. He's not hard but not soft either. You moan slightly as you sink on his length, his chest pressing to your back, a strong arm holding you by your waist close to his warm body. He's so well-endowed and thick, you can feel him fill every inch of you; you shiver.

From the side of the couch, Ben fetches his blunt from the small table and lights it up.

You try to distract yourself from the overwhelming sensations that course through your body from the feeling of utter fullness. Eyes glued on the screen, you notice that Ben is watching Narcos: Mexico on Netflix. The events take place in the late seventies and the early eighties, close to his time of claimed death.

Smoke begins to fog up around you, hazing your head and making it lighter. That shit is strong. Minutes elapse, and the whiffs of high is making you naughty. You glimpse at him from the corners of your eyes to find him too focused on the show. You grin giddily and slowly roll your hips on his dick. You earn a low grumble from behind but nothing more. Your faint high is making you braver so you take another shot, snapping your hips again, but more aggressive this time

“Whoa,” He says, “Easy, baby doll—”

You buck your hips again with a giggle, feeling his cock nourishing inside of you. “Hold still, woman,” He growls in a low voice, “Last warning.” Your hips carry on until he snaps impatiently, lifting you up his cock effortlessly and turning you to face him. “Not gonna let Daddy finish the goddamn season with your pretty cunt warming up his cock?”

You giggle playfully, raising a challenging brow, “No,” You emphasise with another snap of your hips. He twitches inside of you, “Come on, don't you wanna fuck me, Daddy? Or you want me to do all the work for your old-ass?”

He furrows his brows at you, but before you receive an answer, you climb down his thighs swiftly and rush towards your bedroom, you grin proudly when you hear his hasty footsteps behind you. You yelp when you find yourself being flung to the bed, your grin widens and you giggle again when you find him above you. You feel his weight on your body, and his cock nudging your opening. With a vigorous thrust he's inside you and between your legs.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” You cry, “Please, give me your cock, Daddy!”

You kick your legs playfully as he teases you with his massive cock; slow and deep drags in and out of your dripping cunt.

“Oh, now it's 'Please Daddy', hmm?” He chuckles cruelly, “What happened to the bratty bitch who wouldn't stop rocking her fucking hips on my dick? You fucking cock tease.”

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Daddy!” A thrilled cry tears out of your throat as you look at him with teary eyes. He stops and slides his cock out of you, and you whimper. You try to buck your hips to his cock but he has a steel grip on your wrists above my head. You couldn't move much. You curse his supe strength.

“You're sorry?” Ben sneers, raising a brow, “Sorry won't get you anywhere, sweetheart.” His face slants down so his mouth is nearly brushing yours, “If you want my cock buried in that slutty pussy of yours, you must show me how sorry you are.”

“Please,” You say breathlessly, gulping down while nodding, “Let me show you I can be a good girl, your good girl.”

“Now you wanna be my good girl?” He snickers, “Should've warmed my cock while I smoked that reefer like I told you to instead of pissing me off with your hips.”

You giggle, tilting your head to the side coquettishly, “But Daddy! I love your cock so much; can't help myself when you're inside of me.”

Ben's hands loosen from your wrists and you can move again. He quirks a playful eyebrow at you, a grin slipping into his lips. “You love how my cock fills you up, Princess?”

“Yes!” You gush, sitting up on your thighs and Ben leans back, his face still in yours. “I love it so much, Daddy. I love the feeling of you.” You slip onto the ground between his thighs. His cock is long and thick, hardened and curved up towards his lower torso. Pre-cum is glimmering on the slit of its tip. The sight makes your mouth water. Your tongue takes a long drag on the shaft and Ben growls, his hand is harsh in your hair, yanking your head backwards. You hiss in pain, but tingles of delight sweep over your spine. You like how he manhandles you. He leans down to your face and chuckles, “You want it so bad, don't you?” He drawls, mance swirling in his eyes, “Then take it.”

Ben's grip tightens on your hair, his dick is shoved all the way down your throat. You gag at the sudden fullness in your mouth. You try to lift yourself up to adjust your position, but he doesn't let you. The fucking bastard. He wants you to choke on him.

“Let's put that bad mouth of yours into some good use.”

Drool seeps through the corners of your mouth down to your chin, and tears start to prick your eyes. You hold into his thighs and try to ease your breath through your nose. You taste his pre-cum and salt of his skin. In another circumstance, you'd suck him empty.

“Ah, just like that,” His voice is thick and content, you can hear the smirk in his voice, “Move an inch and you're not allowed to cum for the rest of the week.”

Your eyes fly wide when you comprehend what's going to happen. He's going to fucking smoke again while you warm his cock with your mouth. The asshole. What a fucking dick. But his dominating, deep voice shoots directly to your pussy, making it squeeze around nothing.

You hear him flicking the lighter on and a few moments later you hear him exhale a small cloud of smoke. You whimper in discomfort and your legs shift a bit. His hand pats your hair gently and you look up at him through your bangs.

“You can be such a fucking brat sometimes,” He says after taking a long drag, his hand continues to fondle your hair tenderly. You grumble around his length and he lets out an amused chortle, “What is it, baby doll?” He strokes your scalp again. God, his smirk is so annoying but utterly beautiful, “Too busy to come up with a nasty sass?”

He wants to play dirty? You can play dirty. You flick your tongue on the underside on his shaft and it twitches in response. “Behave,” Ben warns in a grumble, hand tugging your hair. Again, your cunt clenches around nothing. You stop; you don't want him to execute his threat. Because he'd fucking do it. Last time you pushed your limits he denied you your orgasm for a night as a punishment. True, he compensated you the following morning, but it drove you crazy the entire night. Long story short, you don't want to experience that obnoxious feeling of reaching the rim of your high but never get it. Your throat clenches around his cock when you attempt to swallow your saliva.

Minutes elapsed then he muffled his reefer in the ashtray on the bedside table. His grip slides your head gently off his dick and you take a deep breath before gazing up at him. His cock is slickened wet by your spit and his pre-cum.

“Good girl,” He remarks, whipping your face dry with a tissue. When he's finished, he pats the spot next to him, “On bed, all fours.”

Thrill sweeps over your body again as you climb up on the bed again, settling on your hands and knees as he ordered after you took off your hoodie. You hear shuffling behind you; he's taking his clothes off too. You yelp in surprise when his hand smacks your right butt cheek playfully then you giggle. His hand trails down your ass crack, his fingertips teasing the rim of your butt hole and you shiver. “Can't wait to fuck this hole someday.” He comments and you chew your lower lip, “But let us focus on that honeyed pussy now, shall we?”

His blunt nails press to your clit and you moan, “Fucking Christ, you're practically drenched down here, Princess.” He circles the bundle of nerves and your hands grip the sheets beneath you. You mewl when two of his fingers are deep-knuckle inside of you.

“Please Daddy, please,” You groan, rubbing yourself against his hand when doesn't move.

“Wanna cum, baby girl? Fuck yourself on my fingers just like that.” You whimper in frustration but you do it nevertheless.

His other hand reaches out to your breasts, his fingers finding your erect nipples. Ben plays with them as his thumb presses in circles to your clit. He's driving you crazy. He's all over you. His hands toying with you, his firm chest is against your back, his mouth next to your temple whispering the filthiest words into your ears. Overwhelm sweeps over your body, and you squeeze around his fingers. You groan and rub yourself faster. Your knees are growing weak. “Daddy, Daddy! I'm gonna cum. Can I cum, please?”

He growls, “Cum to me, princess, cum to me.”

To ruin you even more, Ben pumps his fingers expertly against your g-spot and as if on cue you crash on his relentless digits. Tears run down your cheeks as the orgasm hits you like a hurricane. Ben doesn't wait, he flips you on your back and plunges himself through your pulsing cunt. He grunts at the wringing and curses under his breath. “Fuck,”

You claw at his back when his cock fills you up and you sigh in pleasure, “I love you, Daddy. I love your cock so much.”

He grins down at you then kisses you briefly, murmuring, “You have no idea how much my cock loves your pussy, doll.”

Ben snaps his hips against yours and you see the stars. He's so huge, so fucking huge. And with every drag of his dick you feel each inch of its skin and every vein friction against your sensitive walls. He fills you up completely. His mouth leaves love bites on your neck, and his tongue leaves a wet stripe on your chin before he kisses you again.

His vigour brings you to my high again and it snaps around him harshly. You scream his name and cry, digging your nails into his skin. He cums hard inside of you, you feel his hot seed painting your walls white.

His dick starts to soften inside, and he shifts to pull out, but you cling to him, looking up at his green eyes. “Stay,” you whisper.

And he does.

🦅 The Boys Masterlist

🦅 AO3

[mistydeyes]

hiiiiiii can you please do a reader who is captain of a all woman force like top 3 military ranks and shes young to and she dates gaz ex

When 141 raid las v they get over powered by shadows and laswell knew this would happen so she calls in reader and her team to help 141 are there thinking fight until you drop until they see soldiers in all black military outfits with masks take down shadows no sweat. And then soap comes up like “thanks man who are you” and she’s like “we’re the widows” and uncovers her mask to reveal she’s a woman…….

I always imagined in the cod world an black widow inspired branch

THANK YOU SO MUCH AND YOU ARE LOVED,GORGEOUS,SMART,WORTHY 💕💕💕

thank you so much for requesting and the kind words! highkey wish they would introduce a group of badass fighter women into the modern warfare universe

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summary: Working behind the scenes is a group of highly trained and focused women. They're only whispers until the 141 is put into a perilous position and require rescuing.

pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, depictions of violence

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"How's that lover boy of yours doing, Angel?" your second-in-command joked. You rolled your eyes as you closed your final page of post-op paperwork. "Probably trying to beat his mates in a push-up contest," you replied, laughing at the thought of Kyle doing anything else. Despite what you thought, Gaz was pinned down in an empty cargo container in the middle of Mexico. While Ghost and Soap provided cover, he was trying to contact Laswell through a majority-busted radio. "Watcher-1, it's Bravo team," he shouted before he heard the broken-up replies from Laswell. Price pulled the radio out of his hands before he took the tiny window of opportunity to respond. "Watcher-1, we need emergency evac," he rapidly said with a hoarse tone, "we need help, Watcher-1." 

Your restful slumber was awoken by a hurried set of knocks on your quarter's door. You hastily jumped out of bed and opened it to reveal a private, standing sheepishly in front of you. "Sorry to wake you ma'am but Chief Station Laswell is online in the conference room and she wants to speak to you," they said hastily and you quickly followed after them, disregarding the current state you were in. An hour later, you, your lieutenant, and sergeants were on a helo to Las Alamas, Mexico. "They say what kind of shit they're in?" Iris, your most junior sergeant, asked over the howling night air and the sound of rotating helicopter blades. "Only that it's Captain Price's men and their last comm came from a storage container," you replied. Your team could tell you were worried and your lieutenant threw an arm around your shoulders. "We'll get them and make sure Sergeant Kyle is safe, Major," she reassured but this did nothing to help the growing pit in your stomach and the pooling sweat in your palms. Why the fuck did you let this happen, Price?

"Evac in 2 hours," the pilot called over the comms and your team dispersed into the rubble of what resembled a base. You used the back of your hand to shield your masked face from the kicked-up sand and dirt. The midnight black balaclavas felt hot against your face but you disregarded the minor discomfort. Countless bodies of the private militia group, the Shadows, littered the ground and you kicked over each body in a fruitless attempt to identify them. "Cargo holds should be 2 clicks to our north," Viper, your lieutenant, directed and you signaled them to follow your lead. You approached cautiously, hiding behind other containers and building rubble as you swept for enemy reinforcements. You looked down to see a cluster of heat signatures heading your way. "Hold on," you directed with a fist in the air, "we got company." The group stopped on your command and you quickly devised a plan, "Iris and Artemis, you take overwatch," you commanded as they began to move in careful sprints, "Cosmo, you and I will move towards the cargo," with that, you dispersed and moved quickly under the guise of dust.

As soon as you neared the rusted metal structure, you could hear a cacophony of shouts followed by the piercing sound of bullets. "Get down, Angel," you could hear your sergeant yell and you thudded to the ground. Amongst the dust, you could see the soldiers fall one by one with your team's sniper rounds filing through them like they were paper. Despite feeling absolute pride in their skill set, you were interrupted by a tight grip on your ankles. You turned to see a Shadow Company member crawling towards you, knife ready to attack. The adrenaline kicked in as you slammed your boot into their face and prepared to go on the offensive. As they were momentarily stunned, you took the opportunity to savagely jump on their back and crudely drag their knife along their neck. "Good night," you whispered before letting them fall to the ground with a thud. You continued to move to your target, gingerly wiping the reddened blood on your pants. Cosmo didn't question your appearance as you entered her vision and resumed the mission. When you reached the outer doors of the container, your other two remaining members had joined.

You knocked in succession, a code Laswell had told you before you departed. After a few moments of anticipation, the door slowly opened to reveal the tired and grimy faces of Price's team. You looked around and lost count of the amount of injuries you noticed and how some of their limbs were turned in unnatural ways. You could feel your chest tighten as you looked to find Kyle amongst the empty shell cartridges. You were comforted when you saw his face peer over the group. You walked over to him and hugged him tightly, savoring the feeling of knowing he was safe in your arms. "Thank you for the rescue," you could hear him whisper before he pulled you back into an embrace. "You know these lads, Garrick?" you could hear someone say. You turned to see the bruised and cut face of Soap as he tried to feign a smile. Before Kyle could respond, you were sure to make yourself and your team known. "We're not men, Sergeant," you said confidently, peeling off your dusty and blood-soaked mask, "we're the widows."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[skylarsblue]

✦Meeting & Flirting W/ The C.o.D Men✦

~✦Part Two✦~

✧Alejandro, Rodolfo, König, Alex✧ ✦GN!Reader, mostly fluff, mild descriptions of wounds/combat/war, random call signs and some use of y/n, minor sexual tension, inconsistencies with canon timelines because I'm better than the games(/j), I started this before König was called a colonel, poorly translated Spanish & German that I apologize for (correct me please-)✦

✧Alejandro Vargas✧

Civilians let out screams and ducked into houses to hide. Tan colored vans and trucks lined the streets of Mexico as shots were fired. The moments of quiet were as worrisome as the sounds of gunfire in a situation like this. Alejandro cursed as yet another man declared their ammo low. They were running out, at the rate they were going, they’d need to pull back. Alejandro was a stubborn man, however, and bowing down to a cartel would’ve done damage to the credibility of his men, along with his own ego. “Colonel, there’s a car coming in. Unmarked.” His radio crackled with the information. “Aye, watch it. Keep looking. Does it look like the enemy?” Alejandro replied, getting a negative in response.  As if there wasn’t a risk of fire being brought out, the car stopped in the middle of a paused stand off. Out of the vehicle stepped one person, dressed in a way that stood out completely. “What in the hell is this?” Alejandro hissed as he watched the civilian look around. They were wearing a mask of porcelain, decorated elegantly with gold paint, almost like a statue of crying Virgin Mary. He locked eyes with them, and they…motioned for him to pause. “What do we do?” The soldier beside Alejandro asked. “Sir, I think I know who this is.” His radio called. He watched as the stranger turned to confused members of the enemy, raising their hand to the sky. Three fingers, two, and then one. The cartel’s side of the street blew up and the stranger ran for cover. “Mierda! What the fuck is happening?!” A soldier exclaimed. Alejandro’s radio triggered again with enthusiastic laughter. “Resistance sir, the one I’ve been telling you about!” The colonel took a breath. “The one run by civilians? How’d they set this up?” He asked roughly, aiming his gun to take a shot. “They’re smart, sir. That one you saw? That’s their leader. A talk with them would be a good idea, they’re a powerful ally, a stronger bond could prove useful.” Alejandro looked across the field in awe as the stranger took out a few more cartel soldiers. They then looked at him, giving him a nod and a salute. For the first time that day, Alejandro smiled. “A strong ally indeed.”

(I make them speak mostly English so I avoid making mistakes in Spanish, I'm sorry-) It had been a month since that day, and three weeks since Alejandro & Rudy had properly met the mysterious masked individual. They'd proven themselves rather charming, even if a bit suspicious. Alejandro had been rather excited to meet the individual who'd managed to secretly gather well-trained civilians to aid them against the cartel, pulling stunts like they did before. Though their real name was a heavily guarded secret, much like their face, they did have a name of sorts to associate with them. Los Lares, in reference to Roman mythological deities that provided protection. Their leader, the masked individual, known only as Padres, though occasional nicknames popped up from individuals they were close with. Alejandro had done his best to assess whether they were trust worthy or not, they did the same to him. And after two successful mini missions, Padres agreed to show Alejandro, Rudy, and some of his men what they'd been hiding. "Well would you look at this..." Alejandro said quietly as they drove through a small village. Guarded heavily with armed civilians was a tiny town commandeered by Los Lares, rather than the cartel. Kept safe from the carnage in the rest of Las Almas. The car rolled through slowly, allowing them to gaze at buildings without bullet holes, covered in colorful decorations. Children ran around playfully, adults standing around and talking, some small market carts on the edge of the street that gave out fresh food and household items. Music playing over speakers. Not a single skull balaclava in sight. Rudy pulled over and parked by a building at the end of the long street. The shell of a church it seemed. Outside of it was Padres, running around with children on their tail. When they noticed the men that had pulled up, they declared for the children to play on their own for a bit. Alejandro couldn't stop his smile as he continued looking around, eyes falling back on them. "This is what you meant by Sanctuary." He said. "Si, I made it myself. No violence occurs here, no fear. How it should be." They explained. "Rodolfo. My second in command, Emil, wanted to discuss things with you, if you wouldn't mind." Padres said, motioning to the man behind them. Rudy looked at Alejandro, who nodded. Rudy walked off after that and left them alone. "I see why you were so secretive now." Alejandro stated, watching them nod. "It usually takes a lot longer to be allowed access here. But I knew you'd be trust worthy." They explained as they leaned against the jeep he'd arrived in. He crossed his arms and leaned on the car as well. "And when did you decide this?" He asked. Padres chuckled and blinked at him past the holes of their mask. He wondered how eye contact alone could make him feel so warm, tingly. "I met your gaze during that gun fight and I could tell. You have the light of angels, querido." They purred. Alejandro chuckled quietly and shook his head fondly. "¿Coqueteando? ¿De verdad?" He asked in a hushed voice, leaned in slightly. They raised both hands in mock surrender. "I see a lot in your eyes, Colonel. Many, many things. Tu disfrute es uno." They teased. Alejandro ran his tongue over his teeth. "Si? I see things in your eyes too." He replied. Padres tilted their head and silently urged him to elaborate. Alejandro let out a breath and smiled. "Peligro. Mucho." He exhaled, senses lit aflame when he saw the distinct signs of a smile hidden behind the mask.

Alejandro enjoyed when he had time to visit the sanctuary Padres had created. There was so much joy around and peace filled the air, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like his shoulders could relax. That he could be at ease. In his visits, he often saw families, children running around with big grins, hearing the innocent laughter always brought Alejandro joy and a sense of longing. He'd always been the familial type with a large soft spot for kids. It showed in his actions, like currently, as he let two boys hang off of his arms like some playground equipment. They giggled and squealed in jovial fun as he hoisted them higher, though he set them down gently when their mother's face grew a bit apprehensive. It was when a little girl, leading a group of children, asked to play hide & seek that things really got to be fun. Alejandro found himself hiding under a table in one of the homes, another child at his side. He held his finger to his lips as they giggled away behind their hands. Both of them seized up when evenly spaced footsteps made themselves present, too heavy for a child. Alejandro had a quick flash of memories that made his body tense up, watching the table cloth be lifted. But it wasn't an enemy, nor a child, but instead a porcelain mask with a smiling individual underneath. "Room for one more?" They asked in a whisper. Alejandro blinked before he snickered and nodded. Both he and the child carefully scooted back to allow Padres more room. "Isn't our hiding spot good, Padres?" The child asked excitedly. "Si, Rosa, it is. I almost couldn't find you both." They replied in a tone akin to a praising mother, something that made Alejandro's chest ache. "What gave us away?" He asked them, smiling wider when they glanced his way. "Your boots, colonel. Your laces were untied, they poked out from underneath." They answered, prompting Alejandro to look. Sure enough, his left boot lace was untied. He sighed and shook his head at the rookie mistake, still grinning however. A beat of silence passed before a rush of tiny footsteps came in, prompting the three to be extra quiet. "Got'cha!!" The little girl declared as she lifted the table cloth. Rosa screamed and laughed, quickly getting up to run away. Both Alejandro and Padres stayed, watching Rosa make a swift get away from her friend running after her. Leaving them both alone under the table. "You are good with kids." The self-appointed commander said fondly. Alejandro melted at the sentiment alone, it always felt like one of the highest level compliments when someone said it. Even more so coming from them. "Gracias, Padres." He said, only for them to shake their head. "Y/N. My name is Y/N, when we are alone, you may call me that." They said softly, leaving Alejandro surprised. The shock wore off quickly and a pleasant tenderness filled the air, showing in their shared gaze. "Losing the mystery, aye?" He asked. "No, merely trusting you with my secrets. I trust I made a good decision?" They replied. Alejandro nodded. "Now I just have to get that mask off of you." He teased. They gave a quiet laugh. "I can't wait..."

It was always nice to celebrate after a successful mission, especially one as high stakes as this. With a large threat neutralized, it seemed like a big party was the right answer. There was a large hand of help from Los Lares, and the citizens who called the refuge home saw it only right to allow Alejandro's men into their sanctuary, to indulge in their victory with loud music and home cooked meals. Alcohol as well, of course. Alejandro stood on a roof and watched the streets below, lit up with colorful lights and bustling with music. He felt his shoulders relax as he watched his soldiers mingle, laughing loudly, raising toasts to their lost brothers & sisters. He took a swig of beer as his gaze shifted to the sky, full of twinkling stars. He went to take another drink, only to find the bottle empty. He debated going back down to grab another one, only to feel a hand rest on his lower back. He flinched and looked over, met with a familiar mask and a kind gaze. "Need another, colonel?" Y/N asked softly, holding up an open beer. Alejandro chuckled and took it, setting the empty one on the roof's edge. "Gracias. How'd you know?" He asked. He turned his body to watch them, even spaced steps taking them to a couple of supply crates. They took a seat and shrugged, he could feel their calm smile in their aura. "Lucky guess. You weren't down there, spotted you up here and I figured you'd like some company. Was I right?" They asked with a head tilt. He walked closer with an exhale. "Yes and no." He answered. They silently encouraged him to elaborate, tilting their head to look up at him as he came to stand in front of them. "Oh?" Alejandro chuckled and set the beer down beside them. "I was looking forward to your company." He admitted. Even in the low light of the moon, he could see their pupils expand. "Such a charmer, Mr.Vargas." They teased in a hushed tone. He rose his hands with a quiet laugh. "Interesting choice in company, however. An individual with no face for you to name." They said. Alejandro's face softened. There was a short beat of silence that seemed to last forever, finally a peaceful moment without the worry of being killed, allowing him to admire them properly, despite the mask. He then remembered their promise, the words spoken to him to keep his morale high when things were looking bleak. So, though he was careful, he rose his hands to their face, cautiously grazing the edge of the mask with his fingers. "Is that right?" He whispered. They didn't move back or scold him, merely kept his eyes locked with theirs in a look that sent shivers down his spine, even as he edge the mask up. It was pulled away and in an instant, they were exposed fully. Alejandro let out a breath and forgot to inhale afterward. Their smile caused his lungs to constrict in tight thorns. "Well? ¿Algo que decir, coronel?" They asked, and though their tone was cool, he could see the flinch of fear. The anxiety of rejection. He took his free hand to brush over their cheekbone, feeling warm skin instead of cold glass. "Peligrosa… peligrosamente hermosa." He whispered back. They snorted. "How cheesy..." They teased again, tilting their head up to meet him halfway.

✧Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra✧

Rodolfo’s eyes cracked open, he let out a short wheeze. He wasn’t all there, but he was keenly aware of a large commotion outside. He could faintly recall his mission and how he ended up with the throbbing in the back of his head. An RPG hit the building he was in just right and it knocked him out cold. Astigmatism disrupted his vision and his limbs felt heavy. He winced when a light came from the side, the sun, beaming through as the broken door was shoved off. He blinked, and there was someone he’d never seen before. They weren’t really dressed for battle, wearing a decorated porcelain mask with a rifle strapped to their back. Rudy’s hand twitched for his gun before they hushed him, placing their hand on his arm. “Tranquilo ahí, cariño. I’m on your side.” They said gently before turning their head to shout some orders at an unseen person. They turned back to him and cautiously turned his head, clicking their tongue sympathetically as he whined. “Took quite a hit, huh? Don’t worry, we have help on the way and your friends and mine have almost cleared out the enemy.” They took out a flashlight, shining it in his eyes When his pupils responded normally, they put the flashlight away and called out some more orders. Rodolfo decided to try and sit up but he barely moved before nearly falling back on the floor. They caught him by the back of his neck. “Easy, pretty boy. Don’t make yourself worse.” They said, gently guiding him to sit up with their support. Rudy blinked and groaned. He got a better look at them now, pushing past his dry mouth to try and speak. “You…you are the ally Alejandro mentioned…” he grunted. Their eyes scrunched, indicating a smile. “That’s right, dear. And I’ll get you out of here. You can trust me on that.” They promised.

Rodolfo carefully scratched around the edge of a bandage on his head, huffing when Alejandro lightly flicked his hand, scolding him for fidgeting with it. "I'm healing fine." He said quietly, glancing at the map on the table in front of them. "Still, shouldn't mess with it." Alejandro replied with a caring pat to his shoulder. They were waiting in a planning/common room in the main base of their new adversaries, a civilian led resistance against the cartel. Rudy recalled the way they carefully held him steady when they'd found him, after he'd been knocked unconscious. Alejandro swore they were trustworthy, and so far, they'd definitely been helpful. Alejandro stood more straight when the door swung open and Padres entered the room, a few of their men behind them. The two of them overheard the leader scolding a civie-soldier for not eating breakfast before they turned to the two friends. They were dressed more casually than the other times they'd met. Looking liked they'd just been dragged out of bed, actually. And although they seemed sleepy, still in slippers even, they still bore their mysterious porcelain mask. "Apologies, my alarm didn't go off." Padres apologized in a gentle tone. Alejandro chuckled and shook his head. "You all there yet, Padres?" He asked, smiling when they waved their hand, approaching the table. "I can still explain my plan to you, si." They replied before yawning, Rudy smiled as they went to cover their mouth for the sake of manners, despite the face covering. Their eyes landed on him and he could see the signs of a smile in their gaze. "Ah, chico lindo, how's your head?" They asked. Rodolfo felt his cheeks warm at the nickname, they hadn't been subtle when he first met them either. "Fine, just sore." He replied. At that moment, the quiet mutterings of a man who'd come in for some coffee hit the room. A soldier named Ramirez. Whispering about Rodolfo's skills, trying to imply he wasn't a true soldier for being wounded "so easily", which made another snicker. Rudy didn't show a reaction to it, Alejandro scowled, but both men jumped when Padres gasped. With skilled precision, they flicked their slipper from their foot and caught it from the air, launching it in the direction of Ramirez. A perfect headshot as the slipper smacked the back of the soldier's skull. Alejandro and Rudy shared a look, recalling their own experiences with the all feared chancla. "Debería darte vergüenza! These men give their life everyday for the sake of our country, they were fighting before you were given your status in my army, show some respect! You will not disrespect this man again, do you understand me?!" They shouted, finger pointed. The man shrank, rubbing the back of his head. "Si, commander." Padres put their hands on their hips. Ramirez approached with their slipper, which Padres snatched from his grip, dropping it on the floor so they could it back on. "Now apologize for your insolence." They demanded, pointing at Rudy. Both Rodolfo and Alejandro watched with wide eyes as a grown man, tall and buff, turned with his head down like an embarrassed child, muttering an apology. Rudy swallowed and let it go, unable to look away from the mysterious individual who'd defended him so valiantly. They'd been so gentle and sweet. Rudy felt his mouth grow dry and his stomach twist as they sent Ramirez away with a wave of their hand. With a breath and a headshake, they turned to face him again, smiling once more. "Now, let's get this done, alright?" They asked. Rudy nodded, not missing the teasing glance Alejandro gave him.

It was sweltering, as expected for a Mexican Summer. The speedy movement and adrenaline of avoiding gunfire only added to the discomfort. There were still cartel members outside, but at a distance. There was quiet for a moment, excluding Rodolfo's breathing being hissed through his teeth. A bullet had skidded past the back of his hand, tearing through his glove and leaving blood running down his arm. He was sat on the floor of an abandoned house, jacket discarded and shirt sleeve rolled past his elbow. "I know it stings, but you'll be alright." His ally, Padres, spoke softly to him past their mask. He nodded and leaned his head back against the wall, watching them dig through a bag for medical supplies. He held his hand up to lessen blood flow, letting it run across the dips in his muscled forearm. "How is it that every time you find me, I'm bleeding?" The man asked with a playful tone, smiling slightly when they snickered. "Well, mi tonto y querido soldado. It's because you're a reckless fool." Their thumb pressed into the area around the wound, making him wince, looking them in the eye. Their gaze was sharper than before, although not malicious. "You are so smart but so, so very stupid sometimes." They shook their head, taking away the pressure from his hand, holding it cautiously now. "You're swift, you're experienced, you're intelligent. But you're hot headed, and sometimes you get too focused on a goal to realize you're stepping on a land mine. It amazes me you're not more battered than you are." Their concern was warranted and their praise was met with warmth in his face. He swallowed and looked back at them again as they examined his wound, slowly rising their gaze to him again. He could see the signs of a gentle smile in their eyes. They hushed him soothingly when his hissed at the sting of disinfectant. His hand twitched involuntarily from the odd feeling on his nerves. "You have a point." He sighed, looking at their surroundings for a moment. He let out a short laugh after a few seconds of silence. "At least you're always near by to fix me up, no? I seem to heal faster when you're caring for my wounds." He muttered, feeling his stomach twist with an exciting bout of nerves. He wasn't much of a flirting type, and he tried to keep it subtle enough in case he'd been misreading. Padres chuckled fondly as they pressed down a bandage around his arm, kindly wiping away the blood. "Not the first to have told me that." They said fondly. With one last look at his hand, the clicked their tongue as they took in the damage. "Your hand will likely be difficult to use for until it's healed. We'll need to speed up that process." Rudy rose an eyebrow, confused. His eyes widened when they lifted their mask slightly, just enough to expose their mouth. It was hard to remember to breathe as a care kiss was placed over the bandage, he swore he could feel the burn of their lips past the layers, seeping into his wound and sending shocks in his blood. "Stay vigilant, chico lindo, I need you in peak condition."

(tw; war and brief mentions of wounds) Rodolfo panted heavily as he vaulted through a broken window, feeling perspiration on his skin from the heat of fire and exercise as he continued to sprint through a broken down building. There was bloodshed, naturally, it came with the job. But there was something in his stomach that twisted as he worried he'd find their body amongst those empty of souls. He'd promised to be more careful, but he'd dropped that worry as soon as their mic cut out. The fight had died down and an evac was only two miles away, but he demanded proof of their demise before he'd step anywhere near it. The man's steps crackled over broken glass and after the constant rain of bullets, the silence felt all the more deafening. His ears rang with a high pitched whine that he tried to ignore, listening for anything amongst the worrying stillness. He felt hope dwindle as seconds tic down, until he heard the sound of moving rubble in a room he'd yet to check. It could've been an enemy, perhaps it wasn't them, but despite the risk he rushed over and pushed the broken door out of his way. His breath left his lungs with weight as he saw their back, struggling to push themselves up. "Oh, gracias a Dios, estás vivo." Rudy said as he rushed over. A cruel sense of deja vu hit him as he gently guided them into sitting up, their hands covering their face. They groaned quietly, leaning against him for support. Rudy took a quick glance around, seeing pieces of their iconic mask broken. "Where are you wounded? Evac isn't far, what do you need?" He asked, only to hear them let out a strained chuckle. Slowly, blood covered hands stopped covering their visage. Air punched out of his chest as he finally got their face, and while blood dripped from a fairly painful seeming gash on their forehead, they smiled. "Tranquilo, cariño. Estoy bien." They said, gaze tired and a bit dazed. Rudy sighed and shook his head. "You've already used that line..." He said back, unable to stop the tiny smile as they snorted. "So I have." They hummed, resting against his armored shoulder. Rodolfo swallowed and chewed on some words stuck in his throat for a moment, up until they tapped him. "Just ask me already, Rodolfo. I'm losing blood and I think you should know how much I like you by now." They said with a hint of smugness. Rudy clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, chuckling when the poked him again. "Don't roll your eyes at me, young man." They scolded playfully, groaning in pain as he carefully helped them up, pulling them close to keep them supported. "A drink after this sounds nice, si?" He asked quietly. They nodded lazily. "With you? Absolutely." Rudy smiled and began slowly guiding them out of the broken building. "It's a date then."

✧König Badubrecht✧

Konig anxiously fiddled with the bracelet he snuck under his sleeves while he waited. He recalled a breathing technique and tried his best to keep his breaths quiet, but full enough to keep him calm. On any other day, he would've been mostly fine, but this was not every other day. No. His commander had told him that he, and two other soldiers, would be meeting up with a rather impressive taskforce run by Captain John Price. As if it wasn't enough that Ghost was on the team, as well as the ties they had to impressive forces in Mexico, all of that on its own was enough to get him antsy to make a good impression. But there was something in particular that caused his nerves to light up with unease. Meeting their sniper. Only known by their callsign 'Hotshot'. When Price had chosen them, word spread fast to allies about the impressive track record they carried. Twice, they had missed a shot twice. That was two compared to, give or take, three-thousand-four shots they had taken. A number that steadily grew with each mission, one kept track of just to prove the otherwise outrageous number. König loved the idea of being a sniper and practiced frequently, even if he was never given the position due to his size. Part of him wanted to ask for an autograph, but he also knew that would likely get him weird looks. "Oi, Großer Kerl. Das Team ist hier." His commander's voice startled him just as much as the words. König swallowed and nodded. He stood up and quickly fussed over his appearance before following. He let the other soldiers he'd be working with walk in front of him. He envied them, their confidence. Slightly baffled they could walk toward such impressive people without feeling the need to overthink how they'd present. It was one thing when König didn't care about their opinion, or when he was walking toward enemies. He'd strut forward with his shoulders rolled back and his chin high, gaze stern and sharp as the blade on his belt. But wanting people to like you, new people no less? He'd had easier times handling battles than that. It didn't get easier when they were in view. He towered over all of them, hiding wasn't much of an option, although his veil helped. König noted all of them individually as his commander spoke with Captain Price. Ghost certainly was intimidating, Gaz & Soap seemed more approachable, not to take away from their capable abilities however. Then his eyes fell on the last member, feeling his chest clench, making his hands do the same at his sides. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he'd heard of Hotshot's illustrious reputation. Still, he wasn't expecting them to be so...beautiful. They stood confidently with a laid back smile, some left over war paint smudged under their eyes, black gloves over their hands. König had so much to say and it all piled up in the back of his throat. He'd gotten so lost in staring at them that he'd completely missed everyone introducing themselves to each other, hence why he flinched violently when he was addressed directly. Suddenly, someone he viewed so highly was stood in front of him, craning their neck to make eye contact. "You alright there, big man?" They asked with a smile. König let out a string of stammered noises. They rose an eyebrow with a head tilt as the man mentally scolded himself, trying hard to actually say a word, anything! "You're pretty." He said suddenly with a voice crack. Instantly, shame and regret waved over his body. Hotshot blinked a few times in surprise. "I-I-I'm so sorry, I didn't-" "I like you." They pointed with a grin again, much wider than before. König deadpanned, eyes wide and stunned quiet. He watched them extend a hand. "Look forward to workin' with you, Romeo." They teased lightly. König hesitated, but very carefully shook their hand with a nod.

König held his breath before pulling the trigger on his USR rifle. The bullet soared through the air and through the paper of the target, leaving a fresh hole in the figure's skull. He exhaled and smiled to himself under his sniper veil, taking notes on what he had done right, what he could do better. As he went to grab his pen and jot it all done, he flung it in surprise when clapping sounded behind him. He nearly broke his neck whipping his head around, pulse stuttering when he viewed Hotshot leaned on the wall. Or, Y/N, as they'd said to call them. Though König had yet to break the habit of calling them Lieutenant. He blushed heavily as they smiled at him, pushing off the wall. "Nice shot, big guy. Right between the eyes." They complimented, letting out a whistle as they gazed at the target. He swallowed a lump in his throat, hands growing clammy in his gloves. He hadn't known them very long, admittedly, although their reputation preceded them. It had been a little less than a month since he'd first been introduced, in that time, he'd grown to find them charming. Too charming for him to handle. "Remind me again why they won't give you a proper sniper position again?" They asked as he leaned back on his knees. Konig cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't crack. "My size." He mumbled, a bit bitterly. Hotshot clicked their tongue both sympathetically and in annoyance. "Yeah, I'd imagine being that tall has it's drawbacks. Seems to have advantages too though. Still, I think you're a great shot. Little awkward on your form though." They explained. Konig glanced up at them with a small head tilt, silently hoping they'd elaborate. They smiled and crouched beside him, suddenly reminding him just how much bigger he was. "Get back in position, I'll show ya." They smiled. Konig nodded and did as told. He wasn't necessarily an obedient soldier, but he always listened to what they said. He'd been so worried about how they perceived him, stepping out of line brought too much anxiety. He wanted them to like him. He adjusted his hold on the gun, resuming the position he was in before they came in. "See, you're firing well, but is this a position you could hold for an hour?" They asked. "Nien, my back starts to hurt." He admitted. Hotshot nodded and snapped their fingers. "Exactly. Here, I can already tell your problem." He glanced at them before his breath caught in his throat, feeling their hand gently placed on his leg. Positioning it a bit more outwards, bending at the knee. Through thick cargo pants and a set of gloves, their palm felt like fire through fabric, singeing his skin. His hands twitched nervously when they moved up by his shoulders. "Now, instead of holding your head like that, try this instead." Their voice was soft, quiet. König felt his pulse in his extremities when their hand found his jaw underneath his make-shift sniper hood, tilting his head as they wished. "There ya go, big guy. Now, try firing like that." The nickname suddenly felt like fire to his senses, and he had to clench his jaw to bite back an unmanly sound. He did his best to hold the gun steady, aiming once more, ignoring the proximity of his superior. He fired, unable to focus on where the bullet landed. He could still somehow feel the ghost of their hands on his person. He flinched when they clapped twice. "Another headshot! Good job, mate. Keep at it and you'll be better than me soon." They smiled brightly. Konig blinked up at them, nodding carefully. The lieutenant hadn't missed the widening of his pupils. "I'll let you get back to it. Come get me if you want more tips." They patted his shoulder, taking careful note of his near-silent shudder. Perfect.

(TW; War typical violence, blood lusty König) The man heaved, feeling ice in his veins, bright red blood darkening the fabric of his gear. He counted the bodies around him, ten in total, none of them moving. He scanned the area around him as he continue moving, looking for more targets, knowing if he didn't have one in his sights, someone had him in theirs. His fist clenched around the handle of his blade when his radio crackled. Static mixed with a voice, one frantic, one familiar. Past his adrenaline rushed brain he heard the panicked call of his friendly sniper, one who'd recently called him a friend. Long legs broke into a sprint, operating off his most basic instincts, the most animalistic portions of his mind. He made it to their position with, to him, felt like seconds. He didn't process the information around him before his body was moving, quick as light and as brutal as iron spikes. Suddenly, his body count that day went from thirty to thirty four. A loud crack and a heavy thump of a limp body hitting the floor was the last thing her heard before the blood rushing in his ears started to settle. He turned to look over his shoulder, seeing Y/N coughing, grasping at their neck. He went over to them in three large strides, kneeling down in front of them. "Mein Freund, geht es Ihnen gut?" He asked, voice heavy with breath and a bit shaky. They coughed again with a nod. "I'm alright, I'm good. Thank you." He listened to the rasp out their answer. As things grew quiet again, König realized just how intense he'd been. One glance at the bodies behind him showed the true nature many often were unaware of. He was a violent, terrifying force when in war. Typically, he didn't care. He'd grown to stop caring after so much of his life was met with judgment or rejection. But he liked this person, therefore, their approval mattered to him, and now his anxiety began to rise. They'd fear him, avoid him now, surely. "König." Their voice snapped him forward again. "Can you get this mic off? It's hard to breathe with it..." They muttered, motioning to the throat mic tightly secured around their neck. It caught him by surprise. He'd just snapped a neck without hesitation not even five minutes prior, and yet they were asking for his help still. He swallowed and nodded. The winced and tilted their head back, allowing access to their bruised esophagus. König tried not to tremble as his fingers clumsily when to loosen and undo the mic. His hand was dangerous, blood still stained his gloves as he grazed their skin with the fabric. His chest felt ready to burst as he heard them sigh in relief when the pressure let go, easing some of the sting of the irritation. It was red, soon to be a deep purple when the bruises truly formed. It looked painful. König's fingers shook as he absentmindedly trailed the line dented in their skin. "I'm okay." Their voice made him jump again, bringing his eyes back to theirs. They smiled at him, already exhausted from the day of battle. König blinked and nodded slowly. He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, like he'd been burned, feeling his skin lit aflame. "Let us finish so you can get to evac." He muttered, standing up, allowing them to use his deadly hand to hoist themselves up with him.

"God it is so pretty here!" Y/N declared as they looked around at König's hometown. Graz, Austria. König smiled behind his black medical mask as he watched them look around in awe, feeling pride bubble in his chest as they walked to his home. Since he'd joined the military, he'd gone home alone. It was lonely, yes, though he always made sure to visit his grandmother when he'd come back from missions. His apartment always felt too quiet, too empty. He liked his alone time but often times he found the solitude suffocating. Everyone he knew on his team didn't really have this problem, either being fine on their own, with friends to visit, or family to return to. That was until the hotshot sniper admitted a very similar situation to himself. He saw how their face fell when they mentioned it, and despite his fear of rejection, he took a leap and offered a plane ticket. It surprised and delighted him when they jumped at the opportunity. He was proud that they enjoyed his country so far, even if he was nervous about their opinion of his home. Not that he could avoid it, however, given they were already at his door. König unlocked the door and stepped in, immediately removing his shoes. They mimicked his movements and carefully set their boots off to the side. He took a second to note how small theirs were in comparison to his. They took a gander around his home. It wasn't much, a simply decorated place with some mild dust built up from how long he was gone. When they giggled quietly, his stomach twisted, wondering what it could mean. "Uhm, welcome to mein home. Do...do you like it?" He asked nervously. "You decorate like a grandma." They answered, turning with a big grin on their face. An old quilt was folded on the couch and on the wall their were crocheted works of art in wooden frames. "It's so cozy, it's really cute." Their compliment made him relax. He motioned for them to sit, which they did gladly. He was quick to make them tea, some for himself to calm his nerves. There was a silence that settled over them when he finally came to sit beside them, comfortable for them, anxious for him. They spared a glance at him staring at his tea cup, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder. "Aren't you gonna take off your mask? So you can drink it?" Y/N asked. König blinked, his breath catching in his throat. "...Nein." He muttered, setting the cup on the table in front of them. Y/N frowned. "Why? It's just me..." They said in a hushed tone. "You," He swallowed. "You will not like my face." He said softly, squeezing his hands together. They sighed and put their own cup down, standing up. König's eyes followed them and his face went red as they bent, placing their hands on his knees, looking him intently in the eye. "That is bullshit, big guy. I like you way more than you think I do. And I promise your face is not gonna change that." They said intensely. König blinked at them before he looked at his lap again. He inhaled deeply through his nose before he bit down on his tongue. Like ripping off a bandaid, he wanted to get the pain of their rejection off as fast as possible, so he tore off the mask, keeping his eyes scrunched shut. Some beats of silence left his heart palpitating. Then he felt warm palms carefully cradle his cheeks, forcing a gasp out of him. König blinked and looked at them, up, for once. Y/N's gaze trailed over his features, fingers lightly trailing over faint freckles to a scar across the bold bridge of his nose, down to the his oldest scar that ran from his right sinus to his chapped lips. A smile grew over their face as they took in his visage. "I knew it. You're one pretty man, Romeo." They purred quietly. The man's eyes widened before his breathing stopped, eyes fluttering as they pressed a gentle kiss to his nose. "Du bringst mich noch ins Grab…" He shivered. They chuckled and pecked his forehead. "Don't even think about it mister, you're staying alive for as long as I need for you to love yourself as much as I love you."

✧Alex Keller✧

Alex was a seasoned soldier. He'd constantly perceived through the unthinkable, cut it close with death more times than he could count. Shot, stabbed, kidnapped twice, inhaled complex chemicals, and managed to escape with his life after he detonated a bomb. Missing a leg, but alive. Maybe he was lucky, maybe it was the opposite. Either way, anyone who had the nerve to imply Alex as anything but impressive and strong was a fool, completely. The blond was someone any general would take pride in. So what on earth could take out a man with such an amazing track record? The flu. The answer was the flu. Alex practically never got sick, but when his fellow soldiers began to notice his less than fantastic state, it was hard to deny. Pale, clammy, a headache from hell. He couldn't do drills as well because his joints were sore and the coughing wasn't ideal. He managed to brush off concerns up until he threw up in the communal trashcan in mess hall. Finally, Alex's commander dragged him to the medbay. "Just sit down, Keller. Fucks sake." Julia grumbled as she set him on a bed. "I'm tellin' ya, I just need some NyQuil and I'll be fine-" Alex was cut off by harsh coughing fit that made the woman cringe. "With all due respect, Keller, you sound like you deep throated a cactus. Just let the medic look at'cha. We just got a new one, they're lovely, you'll be in good hands." She promised, making him sighed and rub his face, putting some pressure on his eyes, hoping it'd help the pain behind them. Alex hummed as he heard Julia greet a new voice. He dropped his hands in his lap and blinked, looking over at the new medic, not wanting to be rude. He couldn't tell if the warmth in his face was just the fever anymore though, not when he got a good look at them. They approached and set a clipboard down, standing in front of him, putting on some gloves as they smiled. Julia motioned to him. "This is Alex Keller, Keller, our medic, Plaster." She said. Alex rose an eyebrow and looked at them, watching them laugh. "It's my callsign. Brits call band aids, plasters." They explained. "And they'll fix all your cracks." Julia snorted, making the medic roll their eyes. Plaster grabbed a thermometer and put a cover on it. "Alrighty, Alex, just put this under your tongue. Don't want a soldier with such an impressive resume to be out of commission for too long." Alex blinked slowly as the plastic rested under his tongue. His brain was essentially mush, and the pretty face in front of him wasn't helping. "Heard o' meh?" He slurred tiredly, making them snort. "I have! Not everyday a man willingly blows up a building full of gas, much less live through it. Man of steel, eh?" They asked. Alex motioned to his leg. "Knee down." He replied, smiling when they laughed, taking out the thermometer. "Oh boy, 100.8. You, sir, should've been here much sooner. I'll get you some antibiotics and some NyQuil." Plaster said as they shined a light in his eyes. Alex lazily opened his mouth so they could check the back of his throat, heart thumping harshly as they carefully held his jaw, clicking their tongue sympathetically. "Poor thing, your throat looks pretty bad." He hummed. He gazed up at them as they carefully put a stethoscope to his chest. "Pulse sounds a bit quick." They mumbled. "'s your fault." Alex replied. Julia's jaw dropped open as Plaster tilted their head with a little chuckle. "Oh is it now? Well I'm sorry, sir." They replied. "Mm-mm, not complainin'." Alex shrugged. Plaster shook their head and wrote his prescription down, handing it to him before turning to Julia. "Make sure he stays in bed. And get some rest, casanova." They patted his leg. Alex gave a weak salute as Julia dragged him away, not paying attention to how she poked fun at him. "You're gonna feel so embarrassed when you can think straight." Alex shrugged as he stumbled beside his commander. "I dunno, I think they liked me." He said proudly. Julia rolled her eyes.

Getting a leg blown off was an extremely painful endeavor, obviously. Alex had a whole half of a limb blasted off at the knee, then he had to have it heal, then there were months of getting used to having his limb missing. And even after growing used to having his leg amputated, the pain was far from done. Excluding ghost pains, there was always some painful soreness left after using his leg all day. After some time, there was a level of pain that he considered normal, and therefore powered through. But there were other times where it was agony. It reminded him of the darker fairy tales he’d been told by his great grandmother. Like the Little Mermaid, how every step was agony, rather than the sparkly version Disney gave. He still tried to tough it out, but it really felt like hell. Leading him to limp to the medic’s area, hoping to hide from his bosses for a bit and perhaps ask for something for the pain. He winced as the pain became sharp, sitting on a cot in the quiet medbay. He sighed as he heard footsteps coming his way. He glanced up and saw their medic, the one that cared for him when he had the flu. “Mr.Keller, what brings you her- oh you look bad, what’s going on?” Their joyful tone quickly turned to worry as they approached him. He sighed and motioned to his leg. Quickly, the nodded and wrote something down. “Give me a moment. If it’s alright with you, I’d like you to remove your leg and compression sock.” They said. He did as told. There was both pain and relief when the heavy metal was pulled away. He set it beside him and tried to place pressure on his thigh. Plaster came back with some ICYHOT and a cold wrap. “Can I put my hands on you?” They asked softly. Alex rose an eyebrow, smiling when they rolled their eyes playfully. “Not like that.” They scolded, though they weren't truly upset. Alex chuckled and nodded, rub his his face. They put some gloves on and some of the Icyhot. Their hands were delicate as they carefully applied pressure to the muscle of his amputated limb. He winced and sighed in repeat as it both soothed and ached. All the while, they gentle cooed and comforted him through the pain. By the time the frigid compress was wrapped around his leg, he was exhausted. Alex went to stand, hobble his way back to his room, only for a hand on his chest to stop him. He looked up at them, being met with a gentle smile and a light push. He listened and laid back, though confused. “I think you should rest for a bit.” They explained softly, patting his chest. “And…you’d rather me do it here than my room?” He asked with a teasing grin, watching them laugh under their breath. “Come on, casanova. Give a lonely medic some company, would you?” They asked. Their tone made his chest tighten and his cheeks hurt from smiling. “Sure thing, doc.”

Alex sighed after taking a large gulp of beer from a pint glass, looking around the bar he'd popped into. Usually, bar outings were for celebration after a mission, this time though, he came alone. He wasn't there to mope or feel bad about himself, he just didn't want the loud commotion of his entire team. He was an extrovert, yes, but sometimes the company he wanted was more quiet, less straining. He looked at the foam residue in his glass, zoning out to whatever music was playing over the speakers. Some new-age country song if he had to guess. "Well, hello stranger." A voice near him made him flinch and raise his head, feeling butterflies erupt at the sight of his favorite medic. He grinned and turned to them a bit. "Plaster, hey, what're you doing here?" He asked. They waved their hand and came to sit beside him in the booth, not really minding the close proximity. "None of that callsign nonsense, Keller. You know my name, you can use it off base." They replied, setting a tequila sunrise on the table. The man hummed, the warmness in his cheeks now not only the alcohol. "Well, Y/N, what brings you here?" He asked. "A drink and the curiosity of American bars. The stories were right, it is filthy here." They commented, making him laugh and nod. "Well, so is all of America really." He hummed. They rose an eyebrow at that, though the held their question as he took another swig of beer, only taking a quick second to glance at the way his Adam's apple moved. "Coming from a man with an American flag on his arm, I hear you give your country quite a lot of shit." The medic rested their chin in their hand, eyeing him curiously as he glanced at his tattoo. "It's burning for a reason. I love my country but...I also don't. I...I love the idea of America, what it was supposed to be. What it is? Not so much." He admitted slowly. Y/N frowned as they watched his face fall. They could take a million guesses on what made him feel that way, he'd probably answer with an 'all of the above'. Instead, they reached over and patted his leg with a kind smile. "Well, there are plenty of places I can think of that would take an American, if you're able to handle the jokes on your accent." They said softly. Alex's throat tightened at the kind hand resting over his jean-clad thigh. It wasn't sexual by any means, but it still made his skin grow goosebumps. "Yeah? Would you be willing to take in this one legged stray?" He asked with a teasing tone. Y/N chuckled, but they nodded as well. "I'm sure I could take care of you real well." They whispered softly, barely audible over the commotion of bar life. Alex swallowed and suddenly the pressure on his leg became a little more dangerous. But the last thing he wanted as to pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy laugh, one a bit shaky. "Don't make a promise you can't keep, doc. I'm always getting into trouble." He replied. They tilted their head, an innocent motion with a layer of mischief. "I'll get you out of it." They replied. He knew they'd both go back to the base that night, that nothing would happen, given the sensibility of not making rash decisions with alcohol present. But, despite not even being buzzed, he already had his plan to play up a hang over, just so he'd have an excuse in the morning. Knowing full well they'd see right through him.

Alex was a hardened soldier. He'd been shot, stabbed, nearly blown up, inhaled toxic chemicals, and he'd had his leg blown off. Withstanding it all and still alive, still breathing and, at least somewhat, functioning. But there were days when the air filling his lungs felt monotonous and the lack of sound felt like death. Usually on nights where he was on leave. The first night was always the same, with him so exhausted he'd pass out and wouldn't have the ability to overthink. The longer he was alone, the worse it got, until his mind started to shot off thoughts he didn't really want to indulge. Counting the times he'd cheated death, the amount of lives he might've saved with better hindsight, whether or not there was another side, would it be as quiet as his home? He had friends, people he knew cared for him, but none of those dynamics felt right for voicing this part of himself. The deeper, more frightening bits. Or, well, he didn't have that before. In a moment of weakness, as he felt the weight of his life and its debatable worth rest too potently on his ribs, he grabbed his phone and hit a contact, a colleague. His work always spilled into his life, he didn't see why it had to stop with them. Guilt ate at him when they answered, hearing their tired tone reminding him of how late it was. But they didn't complain, they didn't scold or scoff. Their voice remained sweet, so worried for him, so caring. It aided all the more in having him cave, having him ask for a lifeline. It was raining cats & dogs and yet they only took twenty minutes to be at his door. He was still in his sleepwear, a pair of basketball shorts and a grey tank-top he'd had for a near decade. His leg was off, using his crutch, albeit begrudgingly. No words were shared as he watched them remove their shoes, water dripping off their coat as they hung it on the rack. This would've been the first time they'd actually be in his home, but he wasn't particularly concerned with their opinion of his awful décor choices. Y/N turned and looked at him with worry in their gaze. Again, silently, they took the hand that wasn't supported on the crutch and carefully pulled him to the couch. "Bad night?" They finally spoke, sitting down beside him. Alex nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I dunno why I called-" They cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. He turned to them with exhaustion in his face. Y/N sighed sadly, raising their hand to hold his face gently in their palm. He melted into it immediately. There was something supernaturally soothing of human warmth, something real, something alive. "You trust me, starboy?" They asked quietly, thunder rumbling in the sky as he nodded. He mourned the loss of their hand as they situated a throw pillow on the end of the couch, moving to lay down with their back slightly elevated by the arm of the furniture. He watched them look back at him, then, with open arms, they beckoned him. It was a step too intimate for coworkers, bordering past friends, and he didn't care. He practically tossed his mobility aid away and slid over. Their chest became his pillow as he slotted between them and the back of the couch, feeling them grab the folded blanket he always left out, draping it over him. He let out a shaky sigh when their nails met his scalp. "Easy, casanova. Let me take care of you." They whispered. Alex let out a huff-like laugh. "You got it, doc..."

[veronicaphoenix]

Series: Into the Abyss of Bad Habits | masterpost. Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Reader x Oliver Sykes

Heart Like Ours. Additional multipart. Chapter 1: The Snakes | Words: 3k Summary: Reader suffers a breakdown due to her mother’s disapproval of her relationship with the boys, but neither Oliver nor Noah are there to comfort her.

Tags and TW: established polyamorous relationship, angst, anxiety, reader’s mother does not approve of her daughter’s relationship with oli and noah, psychological abuse, mentions of alcohol, implied sexual scenarios that are not described, only mentioned. Author's note: I've changed the narrator to 3rd person. Chapter not beta read.

She burst into tears as soon as she closed the door, shutting out the world behind her. 

 The weight of her mother’s words had choked her during the drive home, but she had refused to let the tears fall until she reached the safety of her home. 

         A home that these days felt empty and devoid of the male voices that brought her so much happiness. 

         Noah and Oliver had been away from home for nearly a month and the three hadn’t seen each other except through cell phone and computer screens since they both left on their respective tours. 

         Bad Omens’ European tour kept Noah continents away, with four agonizing days left until his return. 

         Oliver was on the other side of the country, bound for a whirlwind of gigs before flying off to festival in Mexico. 

         Had circumstances been different, she would have accompanied them. She would have gotten on the plane with Noah to be with him for a week in Europe, they would have taken the opportunity to do some sightseeing in the few hours Noah had free between concerts, they would have made love in a hotel room overlooking one of those rivers that cross several European cities or even the sea, and they would have gorged themselves on all kinds of typical foods from the countries they were in. Then, from there, she would have flown immediately to the city where Oliver was and repeated the same thing with him. She would have followed him from one concert to the next, sending him flying kisses from the side of the stage as he performed and showering him with her love and affection when they were back at the hotel.  

         But today, precisely today, she was alone. They boys were miles away from her, and despite longing for their presence more intensely than ever, she made a conscious decision not to call them, refusing to burden them with her tears and pleas to return. She recognized her own maturity, knowing that calling them and crying about needing their kisses and arms around her, would only undermine her strength and autonomy.  

         So, she cried, her back pressed against the door of their home. 

         Noah’s running sneakers, neatly aligned on the shoe rack, seemed to stare back at her, reminding her that the last time he’d worn them had been nearly a month ago, when he had kissed her goodbye with the passion of a soldier going out to war when he was actually just going for an hour run. Nearby, one of Oliver’s sweatshirts hung on a hook on the wall beside her own jacket, their proximity only serving to amplify the ache of his absence. Though their clothing brushed against each other, the physical touch she craved with him remained out of reach.

         “You’re a whore, what else do you want me to think when you come in here and tell me you’re thinking of marrying two men?” Her mother’s words echoed relentlessly in her mind. “It’s not even legal, because that’s a barbarity! You’re letting yourself be groped like a bitch in heat and now you come up with this? That you want to get married?”

         She gulped, a lump forming in her throat. She had sensed that the conversation with her mother wouldn’t go well, but she hadn’t thought it would go so badly, that she would say those things to her. 

         She fought the urge to retaliate with equal fervor.

         “I love them,” she explained. “And despite what you think, they love me. I know polygamous marriage isn’t legal. We don’t care. We just want to have a celebration with our closest family and friends.”

         “For God’s sake, daughter. Everyone’s going to see what a whore you’ve become, don’t you think? I’ve tried to stay out of this very... sinful relationship you’ve been having with those two, believing that at some point you would realize what you were doing. But instead, you come to my house and tell me you want to get married. You’re not well, honey. And I don’t think your brother is quite in his right mind either if he’s okay with this.”

         Fifteen minutes after arriving home, she kicked off her shoes, shrugged off her jacket, and let her purse fall to the floor by the door. She walked with weak steps to the downstairs guest bathroom. She didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. She wore hardly any makeup, but her mascara had run, her eyes were red and sunken, her cheeks swollen, and every inch of her face betrayed the sadness engulfing her.

         Every time she recalled her mother’s expressions while saying all those horrible things, she was overcome by sobs she couldn’t contain. She leaned on the edge of the sink for a while until she managed to compose herself a little. She could keep crying as much as she wanted, but that wouldn’t change anything. Her mother wouldn’t come to her senses, and Oliver and Noah wouldn’t walk through the door to hold her in their arms.

         Just then, as she eyed the double-band silver ring on her fourth finger and as if they could feel her pain, her iPhone chimed with the sound of an incoming notification. She ignored it. A few minutes later, it chimed again. Almost cursing under her breath, she went to fetch her phone and pulled it out of her purse. A trembling breath caught her when she saw that the notifications were respective to a message from Oliver and another from Noah in the iMessage group they shared, the same one they had created about three years ago when they decided to sleep together for the first time, in the midst of a tour in the UK.

         She hesitated for a moment before mustering the courage to open the conversation, her thumb hovering over the message notification. She would have preferred not to reply, knowing that both of them had some uncanny ability to sense her mood through her words, even if she had written a lie.  

         With a resigned sigh, she tapped open the conversation.

         Oliver: Just tried the best vegan tacos! Wish you were here to try them. Haven’t heard from you guys in the last four hours and I can’t stop thinking about you. Has the princess eaten dinner yet? Pretty boy, did you sleep well? Are you awake?

         Noah: Awake and hungry. Send a couple of those tacos to Stockholm. I’ll pay you back with a good blowjob when I get back.

         As their messages danced across the screen, she found herself smiling, the weight on her shoulders momentarily lifted. 

         But as quickly as the laughter came, so too did the tears, a relentless tide that threatened to engulf her once more. 

         She typed with shaky fingers.

         Her: I’m going to fix myself something to eat and watch a movie. Wish you were here. Miss you both. x

         She pressed the send button and after waiting a few seconds to see if either of them was still online, she decided to lock the screen. 

         She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and walked back to the bathroom.

         After washing away the remnants of tears clinging to her skin and tying her hair up in a messy bun, she ignored any reason she had to go upstairs to the master bedroom. She didn’t want to go in there because, in her state, she knew what would happen. So instead, she looked for something to occupy herself with in the kitchen. 

         The prospect of idling away in the kitchen wasn’t very exciting, but it offered a temporary respite. She pushed aside the temptation to grab a cold beer from the fridge because it wouldn’t take her any time to open it and drink it. At least, making coffee would keep her occupied for a few more minutes.

         She was about to pour the coffee into a mug when the doorbell rang.

         She wasn’t expecting anyone, much less at this hour. It was Friday, and it was almost dark outside.

         She didn’t expect to find her brother standing in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold breeze that had just picked up.

         “Jack?”

         It only took him a few seconds to look at her to know that she was a mess. He clicked his tongue and hugged her right there, in the entryway of the house. She held her breath, letting her brother envelop her in his arms for a while until he finally let go and encouraged her to go inside and close the door, which she appreciated because she was about to burst into tears.

         “Mom called me,” he announced. 

         That’s why he’s here, she thought. 

         “She told me you went to see her and tell her about the wedding... She didn’t hold back, and she called me some ugly names, too,” he shrugged his shoulders, as if unaffected. “But I was worried about you.”

         He extended an arm to touch her cheek affectionately.

         “Yeah,” she replied with a hint of detachment. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate him coming to her house to make sure she was okay or to keep her company; she simply didn’t want to think about her mother any longer, not today. Perhaps not for the rest of the week and the foreseeable future.

         “Have you talked to them?” Jack inquired, looking around the kitchen as his sister made her way back to the counter where an empty black mug waited for her.

         At the question, she sighed, filling the coffee mug to the brim. She knew sleep would elude her that night anyway, so no problem in having coffee at those late hours.

         “I sent them a message a while ago.”        

         “A message?” Jack quirked his head inquisitively and raised an eyebrow. Sensing her reluctance to elaborate, Jack rested his hands on the kitchen island and leaned closer to his sister, standing on the other side.

         “Baby sis, you have to tell them what happened. I get that they’re miles away and you won’t be able to see them for a few days, but they deserve to know what’s up and how you’re holding up. If you don’t, they’ll figure it out anyway. Those two have a radar or sixth sense for this stuff when it comes to you,” he said, almost earning a smile from her at the comment. Sometimes their wavelengths aligned perfectly. and to think that Noah and Oliver were such attentive partners made her stomach flutter, even after all these years. “And if you keep ignoring their calls, you know they’ll end up calling me, and I will tell them.”

         “Jack...” she began, tired.

         “I’m serious. I don’t want you stuck here alone in this massive house feeling like crap.”

         “Fine,” she conceded, still clutching her coffee mug but not yet taking a sip. “I’ll call them.”

         It wasnt true, but she needed to lie to get Jack off her back. Oliver would be back home in a few days. She would tell him then. But until that day, she had to prove to herself that she could handle whatever came her way without relying on anyone else, without needing not only one, but two shoulders to lean on. 

         “Good.”

         “Want some coffee?” she asked, lifting her mug to shift the conversation.

         “No, thanks,” Jack declined. “Actually, speaking of coffee, there’s another reason I”m here.”

         She furrowed her brows, taking a sip. 

         “Oh? What’s up?”

         “Sylvie has stopped drinking coffee,” he announced, prompting his sister to raise an eyebrow. “Well, the caffeinated kind, anyway.” A grin spread across Jack’s face, and his sister’s eyes began to widen. “She’s pregnant.”

         “Oh, Jack! That’s great!” She nearly dropped her coffee in excitement. She swiftly moved around the island to hug her brother. 

         “I know. I’m going to be a father. Crazy, huh?”

         “How’s Sylvie? How far along are you, guys? I’m going to be an aunt!”

         “She’s good, been a bit nauseous for a few days, but nothing unexpected. Both her and the baby are fine. We had our second routine check-up yesterday, and well, Sylvie wanted to tell you three when you were all together, but after talking to mom today, I thought maybe I could lift your spirits a bit with the news. I don’t mean to overshadow your strife with this, I hope you know that.”

         “Jack, for fuck’s sake. Don’t be silly. This is the best news I’ve had all month. I can come over to your place tomorrow to see Sylvie.”

         “Sure. She’ll be thrilled. She was really looking forward to telling you. But please, do me a favor and call the guys, okay?”

         He wasn’t going to let that slip onto the back burner. She had tried, at least, but her brother was as attentive and supportive as theyb come, and she couldn’t fault him for it. If anything, she should be grateful. 

         “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “Can I tell them about the baby? Oli’s going to be ecstatic. He loves babies. Noah, though, he’s still a bit weird around them.”

         Jack laughed, nodding. “Absolutely, go ahead and let them know after you talk to them about today,” he said while he kept his gaze firm and expectant on her. “We’ll get together once they’re back to celebrate.” 

         Jack stayed with her for about half an hour, talking about Sylvie’s pregnancy, discussing their future, and sharing tidbits he knew would keep his sister’s mind occupied. 

         But of course, as soon as Jack left, she found herself once again enveloped in the silence of a house that felt too big for herself whenever she was alone.

         With an empty stomach, she finally found herself compelled to go upstairs and enter the master bedroom, where she was welcomed by that unusual order and tranquility that she had begun to detest as the days Noah and Oliver spent away from home grew longer. She appreciated order and cleanliness, but on days like this, she hated crossing the threshold and not finding Noah’s dirty socks scattered here and there or Oliver’s jeans piling up on the armchair in a corner by the windows, the water bottles they always left on the nightstands, Noah’s vitamin gummies, or the books they would sometimes start reading while she finished showering after late work shifts. 

         After changing into comfortable clothes and deliberating for a while, she eventually crawled under the sheets, turning off the lights, and turning on that TV that Oliver had insisted on installing in the room against her and Noah’s wishes. The device had been there for over a year, and yet, she could count on one hand the times the three of them had bothered to watch a movie while in bed. 

         She resumed the series she had started watching alone after the guys left, but found herself struggling to concentrate on the storyline. Her feet felt cold beneath the duvet, and she couldn’t shake the sensation of feeling small in the vast expanse of the bed, with no one beside her. a little girl in the middle of a bed so big with no one beside her.

         She ceased her nail-biting to retrieve her phone from the bedside table, cluttered with Oliver’s stuff, and checked her messages. There was a missing call from Oliver that she missed to attend while in the bathroom, along with a string of messages from both him and Noah. After her previous message, Oliver had sent a couple of selfies, earning a compliment from Noah, which was rare. Despite being together for three years, Noah still seemed somewhat reserved when it came to complimenting his boyfriend—now fiancé. On the other hand, had shared a series of photos of the city where he was with the band.

         She replied with comments about the architectural beauty of the buildings and remarks about the nice weather. She made an effort to write something funny about Oliver’s selfies. Then, she informed them she was in bed, mentioning how cold it felt without them, before bidding them goodnight.  

         Just as she felt herself drifting off to sleep, memories of her mother’s harsh words flooded her mind, shattering any hope of rest and bringing forth fresh tears. Struggling to suppress both the tears and the haunting memories, she shifted in bed, confronted once again by the empty spot Noah should have occupied. 

         Her thoughts transported her back to the last night they had spent together, to the tender way she had traced the lines of the snake tattoo adorning his neck, followed by her affectionate kisses and nibbles before she straddled him, his erection seeking the familiar warmth between her legs that he called home.

         The memory only served to exacerbate her unease and sadness, intensifying the ache of his absence. 

         Sitting up in bed, she cast aside the sheets as a sudden surge of heat enveloped her. She despised how her sobs reverberated off the bedroom walls, amplifying everything she felt. 

         She stared ahead into the darkness for a few seconds until her vision adjusted to the dim visibility of the house shrouded in the night, and when she began to make out the silhouette of the furniture, the corner of the huge rug at the foot of the bed, she saw herself there on her knees, with Oliver standing in front of her but with his back turned to her. He was shirtless, and she was pulling down his jeans and underwear to reveal the snake etched across his lower back and buttocks.

         As she exposed it, a smile played on her lips before she began to trace it with her tongue, slowly. Oliver practically growled into Noah’s mouth, who was in front of him, also shirtless, and holding him close with a hand behind his head, pulling on his hair. 

         With a sob louder and more despairing than before, she rose from the bed, almost angry with the two men for not being there even though it wasn’t their fault. 

         She felt pathetic. 

         Making her way barefoot to the closet, she retrieved one of Oliver’s shirts, then one of Noah’s, and hurried downstairs, nearly tripping over her own feet.  

         Around three in the morning, exhaustion eventually overtook her. She fell asleep on the couch, curled into a corner, the shirts pressed tightly against her chest, each preserving the distinct masculine scent of its owner. She had cried until there were no tears left to shed. 

CHAPTER 2: THE ANGEL OF DEATH - COMING SOON

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[blingblong55]

Sweet Nothing- Rodolfo Parra (includes Philip Graves)

Based on a request:

Look, as much as I love Philip Graves, he gives off jackass bitch energy. So, he leads on the reader (who's just fuckin adorable, wife energy, protect this one for the rest of your life vibes) before leaving them after a one night stand and then they meet again years later and reader changed into a badass boss bitch dommy mommy you'd wanna tap but she's fucking hostile af. Also dating Rudy, cuz Rudy's the only man who deserves to score a pre-Graves reader. Idk, im in my "fuck me up and you're next" era

A/N: Someone said I should use the lyrics of Sweet nothing, so...here it goes

F!Reader, fluff, angst, soldier! reader

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings Outside, they're push and shoving You're in the kitchen humming

7 years ago, a few of your comrades and you had a huge victory. You all went to celebrate out by a local pub. It was fun, the drinks, the stories, laughs, the stupid songs you'd all sing, and then the stupid mistake of letting Graves take you home. You had a crush on him before, how when he smiles he would do so to the side. The way his hair was always well groomed and how his cologne never changed. You noticed his American southern accent, getting rougher when he was drunk like this. The way his hands wandering your thighs or back. So for you it was a dream to even have him offer himself to you.

If you can describe yourself from 7 years ago, you'd call her "sweet, innocent, caring, bubbly, and loving", and all that is true, well was true. The night with Philip was great, the way he assured you all night in bed that he'd take care of you. How his lips met yours, how he kissed you with so much delicateness it felt beautiful. "al'right, sweet thing, just close your eyes and rest now." Your head rested on his chest, his hand drawing small circles on your back. You felt content in his arms.

By morning, instead of waking up to him by your side, it was just you. A note and nothing else.

"That was fun, but just a one time thing:) -take care, Philip Graves"

You never knew it'd be just a one night stand with him, you'd expect more. Back then, you were only a 22 year old, still learning and understanding much of the military. You trusted him with your body that night, a innocent girl, not knowing she'd be robbed from something she held dear to her, her own young heart on a platter, eaten by the man Philip was.

By some miracle, a commander in Mexico had seen your work for Shadow company. Alejandro Vargas, a major at the time of him recruiting you and his friend, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, a captain at the time. Graves let you go, knowing that you'd ask for more and he was not wiling to give. In all honesty, after you left, he talked about his time with you, made fun of you the weeks after it had happened.

After that night with Philip and how he belittled you, even if he didn't know, you promised you'd never let that happen to you. All the men that approached you were quickly turned down. You only gave time to your job, training and to yourself. You treated men like the scum of the earth.

Belittled them if they ever spoke about you. "I'd shut it, because you are nothing more than a worthless, good for nothing piece of ass." All men at some point feared you, not making advances on you, except for one.

Rudy, although rejected by you more than 19 times, always came back. He never cared if you degraded him with your lemon filled words. He loved you for it, loved how you never spoke bad of yourself, standing tall and proud. Alejandro tried to tell him to stop pursuing you, but he is stubborn as he is cute.

With him, you were always more soft. Although at times you'd say mean things to him, you were never too mean. Because in him, you found your old self coming back. Begging to be let out, because all you wanted to do was cuddle with him, listen to his problems, kiss him, adore his very soul.

And to be honest, he worshipped the ground you walk on. He didn't care that he was a higher rank than you, no, he always said. "Yes ma'am", "No, ma'am", "Sorry ma'am", "You look beautiful/perfect, ma'am". In his eyes, you deserved all the shiniest of things this world could offer.

He loved how you would yell at rookies, but the second you saw a puppy, you'd turn all soft and would pet it for a long time. How one time he saw you baking and dancing to a melody in your head. Your puppy eyes when you would see a something adorable.

One night, there you were, ready to hop on your motorcycle when he approached. "R/N, uhm...do you mind if maybe this Sunday me and you can maybe....I dunno, go on a date?"

You see, the reason why he asked you on a Sunday and not on a Friday or Saturday was because he heard you sing a song to yourself.

"I want a Sunday kind of love, A love to last past Saturday night, And I'd like to know it's more than love at first sight, And I want a Sunday kind of love" Your voice soft like a whisper.

"Sunday...time?"

His face lit up, in a way for him, this was you agreeing, "6 am, ma'am." he happily responded. You were confused, why would he want a date on a Sunday at 6 in the goddamn morning?

"I was thinking breakfast by the lakes...maybe you'd like that," he answered as if he was listening to your thoughts, he paused and looked at you, "Or whatever time, all I want is to spend time with you."

A light red hue on your cheeks, there it was. The old you, feeling excited because for the first time in years, you were validated as more than just a 'one time thing', seen by him for you. You nod, "very well-"

"I'll pick you up?"

"I don't see why not."

You put her helmet on, going for the typical night ride. Funny enough, he was the guy who would race you any chance he got. You of course never knew, but he did. Wanted to spend time with you in whatever way he could, so, he learned from Alejandro how to ride one.

During the date, he was so nervous, he completely forgot his Spanish and English. Giggled as he tried to compose himself for you, you took his hand, "Just one work at a time, I promise to listen." the way you said it and carried it, was a different side of you, the old you.

"Eres hermosa, la mas bella." he cups your face, looks you in the eyes and smiles. You'd learn Spanish for him after months of dating, but in this moment, when you barely spoke the language, you understood the meaning. Skin melted on his hands, turning into mush, he leaned in, kissed your forehead and then looked you in the eyes.

"Thank you, for giving me this chance."

Soon after that, you went on more dates, Sunday dates. Always by the lake, eating, laughing and at times, he'd chase you into the water. Both laughing, being the sweetest of creatures.

6 years after that first date, you and him celebrated your engagement, Alejandro being asked to be the best man. While everyone had seen your cold hearted side, he saw you, the woman he'd be waiting for at the end of the isle. His favourite melody, the girl who made him soup, stayed up all night understanding the video game he was enraged by, taking classes to speak to your in-laws in their language. Wearing that sundress and although you weren't religious, attended church with his mum, grandma and him.

4 months after he had proposed to you, thats when you met 141 and Shadow Company. Graves introduced himself, once he spotted you in the room, he stopped, "-any...ways, it's a pleasure to meet y'all." He nodded to himself and walked to where you were. Alejandro ran through the plan.

"You look beautiful, sweet thing-"

You raised a finger to him, "I don't let dogs speak to me." Rudy heard it, chuckled to himself. He was happy, a part of him was always protective of you, wanted to be selfish and have you to him. So knowing you were still like this with other men made him glad. Now that he was on the good side of your actions, he didn't know if you still spoke like that to other men.

Graves was....mad...? He noticed how you changed, how you looked healthier, happier and that stupid fucking diamond ring. He did love how much your body had changed, how your curves become more prominent, your hair longer, the same body he was once all over was...sexier, appealed to his needs for sure.

And then after the meeting, he saw you hand in hand with Rudy. Your cold gaze now soft, you blushing and admiring your boyfriend. Rudy kisses your cheek which caused you to look away blushing. Although you were dating him, it was as if you were a school girl, crushing on a celebrity, gushing over him.

Rudy was always the one, that was clearly known. Graves will now forever hold his peace, as the girl that treated him with love and respect was now with another. You'd be the bride and he would never be the groom who gets to call you his.

His lost was and is clear to be Rudy's gain.

Industry disruptors and soul deconstructors And smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more" To you, I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it

Tags: @anonymuslydumb

A/N: checking my inbox and I just realised I have request from back in may....sorry...I'll get to those, I promise

[cynicalrosebud]

By Trust Alone

Soap x Mexican!reader

Part 2 Here

Stranded in the dangerous streets of Las Almas during the mission "Alone," Soap teams up with Y/n, a brave local woman who has faced the Shadow Company herself. Despite the language barrier, she guides him to safety, helping him evade capture

My Spanish is so fuckin rusty, I spent a summer in Mexico for a college program but that was years ago (I am open to corrections by Spanish speakers!)

Spanish in italics

The streets of Las Almas were eerily quiet, the air thick with tension as Soap moved through the narrow alleyways. His breaths were controlled, though his mind raced, calculating every possible route to evade the Shadow Company operatives hunting him down. The mission had gone sideways, and now he was on his own.

As he pressed against the cold stone wall of an old building, Soap heard a faint rustling from the shadows. His hand instinctively tightened around his pistol, ready to face whatever threat emerged. But what stepped out from the darkness was not an enemy soldier but a young woman—eyes wide, cautious, and holding a small, rusty knife.

She looked like she’d been through a lot. Her clothes were torn in places, and there was a faint bruise forming on her cheek. A small cut on her forehead was still fresh, trickling a thin line of blood down the side of her face. It was clear she had run into some Shadows herself, but despite the obvious signs of a struggle, there was a fierce determination in her eyes.

"No eres de aquí," she said, her voice low and guarded.

Soap quickly recognized the tone. The woman was local, and clearly terrified. He relaxed slightly, lowering his weapon just enough to show he wasn’t a threat. "You speak English?" he asked, his accent heavy, but the question simple.

She shook her head, "No inglés." Her gaze flicked over his uniform, recognizing him as an outsider, but not the same as the heavily armed men terrorizing her home.

"Of course," Soap muttered under his breath. "Need to get to the church. La iglesia," he repeated in broken Spanish, hoping she understood.

The woman—Y/n, as she would later introduce herself—looked around nervously before nodding. "Es peligroso," she warned, motioning for him to follow. She led him deeper into the maze-like streets, away from the main roads where the enemy soldiers patrolled.

As they moved deeper into the church, Soap could feel the tension slowly easing, though the adrenaline still coursed through his veins. He glanced at Y/n, who was busy scanning the room for supplies, her focus unwavering despite everything that had happened.

Realizing they hadn’t properly introduced themselves, Soap took a moment to break the silence. "I’m Soap, by the way," he said, his voice soft as he watched her.

Y/n paused, turning to face him. Her eyes flickered with curiosity before a light giggle escaped her lips. "¿Jabón?" she repeated, the amusement clear in her voice.

Soap couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him at the sound of her laughter. It was the first genuine moment of levity they’d shared, and it made his heart pound in a way he hadn’t expected.

"Aye, Soap," he confirmed with a grin, finding himself captivated by the way her smile lit up the dim room. For a brief moment, the dangers outside seemed far away, replaced by the simple connection between two people brought together by fate.

As they moved together, Y/n communicated with simple gestures and words, indicating when to stop, when to move, and when to hide. The night was filled with tension, the silence between them only broken by the occasional crackle of a distant radio or the heavy footsteps of a patrol.

Soap was impressed by her knowledge of the town. Y/n knew every hidden corner, every back alley that could be used as cover. Her bravery was evident in the way she moved, determined to help this stranger despite the danger that loomed.

At one point, they were forced to duck into a small, abandoned shop as a group of Shadow Company operatives passed by. Soap held his breath, and Y/n pressed close to him, her heart pounding loud enough for him to hear.

When the danger passed, she pulled back, meeting his eyes with a determined look. "Estamos cerca," she whispered, pointing ahead.

They continued, and soon, the towering silhouette of the church appeared against the night sky. Relief washed over Soap, but it was short-lived. A group of soldiers stood guard outside the church, blocking their way.

"Fuck," Soap hissed, realizing they had little time to come up with a plan. He looked at Y/n, who seemed to understand the situation. She glanced around, her mind working quickly.

"Confía en mí," she said softly, patting her chest, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of resolve and fear.

Soap nodded, not entirely sure what she had in mind, but he didn’t have many options. Y/n motioned for him to stay low and hidden as she approached the guards with her hands up, her demeanor calm and collected. She spoke to them in rapid Spanish, her voice carrying an air of authority as she distracted them, pointing in the direction opposite of where Soap was hiding.

The moment they turned their backs, Soap moved, slipping past them and into the shadows of the churchyard. Y/n continued to talk, giving him the time he needed to make his way to the entrance. Once she was sure he was safe, she turned to leave, but one of the guards caught her arm.

Before she could react, Soap was behind the guard, taking him down silently. The other guard barely had time to draw his weapon before Soap disarmed him with swift precision.

"Gracias," Y/n whispered, clearly shaken but grateful.

Soap gave her a nod, understanding the weight of what she’d done for him. "You’re braver than most soldiers I know," he said, knowing she wouldn’t fully understand but hoping the tone conveyed his gratitude.

They moved into the church together, the heavy doors creaking as they shut out the chaos outside. Ghost’s voice crackled over the radio, asking for Soap’s status.

"Got a local helping me," Soap responded, glancing at Y/n, who was already scanning the room for supplies. "Couldn’t have made it without her."

As they prepared for the next part of the mission, Soap knew he wasn’t alone anymore. He had an unlikely ally in this battle, one who had proven that courage didn’t come from training, but from the heart.

I hope to make a part 2 of this

[octopiys]

Cw: blood, body horror, mentions of torture/death

Nature conservation officer!Johnny who the second the thing leaves his sight, he's back inside, dialing his work place and calling his friend Gary, who's had the misfortune of picking up night shifts recently.

NCO!Johnny who's voice shakes when he tries to recount the beast, slipping a little too far into a panicked gaelic before he hears a knock at the door. He sets the phone down.

Mind you, it's still very early hours of the morning, and he never expects any guests.

NCO!Johnny, who's never forgotten a lesson from his grandma, seared into his brain like the wards on the walls of his old cottage.

He grabs a pair of old iron shears.

The back of his neck prickles.

He looks through the peephole.

Soldier!Simon who hates Mexico. It's nothing like the highlands that he had grown to call home. His team was odd, but they were nice enough, for the most part. They worked well together.

Soldier!Simon, who approaches the cartel house, a huge mansion hidden in the words. The hair on his arms raises, like his body was trying to tell him something his mind didn't know. But he brushes it off as mission jitters.

Soldier!Simon who notices the rings of mushrooms around the mansion.

When they were young, Johnny used to tell him stories of mythological creatures, warnings his grandmother passed down of what to avoid and what not to avoid.

She called these things fae circles.

But they're all just stories, trying to scare little kids and teenagers into behaving.

He's a soldier now, he knows better.

They make their way to the side of the house, breaching the perimeter and filing in. He turns to make sure his Major gets in fine, and sees something just beyond the trees. Something massive, and lurking, and he blinks and it's gone.

Soldier!Simon who doesn't realize until the gun is turned on him that he's been betrayed, it isn't until he's bleeding out that he thinks of Johnny.

The stupid smile that cut through the clouded haze when he was a teen, after his father had been caught and arrested, his whole life uprooted and moved north to Scotland. Piercing blue eyes that lit up when he realized he was actually listening to him. When he fell out of the tree, and Johnny was the first person to run up and check if he was okay.

Captive!Simon who was pulled up by his hair, looking into the face of a beast that his mind couldn't quite comprehend, making his skin go cold and eyes go wide. A beast that feasted on blood or must've, something of the sort. It smelled like wet earth and rich iron, and something dark mouths around his skin. It sets off pins and needles beneath his flesh, worse than any torture he's endured yet. Something molds, and shifts, and he can't tell if he's screaming or not.

[REDACTED]!Simon who can't draw the line between feeling real and not existing at all. Something has shifted, like his bones don't sit right, his hands too heavy, his breath too slow.

He opens his eyes and finds his own, staring back at him.

Except they weren't. They weren't his. Those eyes blinked too hard at him, it's face splitting into a terrifying grin, too wide, with too many teeth, and it turns away. He's filled with dread, as the seeping darkness pulls him to his knees. The ground shifts around him, and he swears he sees mushrooms pop up around him.

The earth swallows him up, and he is no more.

No one's at his door.

NCO!Johnny who picks up the phone, still shaking, and apologizes to Gary, who thinks he's been eaten by a bear or something. He calms the poor kid's heart as he hangs the iron shears in his window, like his grandma is whispering in his ear.

Superstitious!Johnny, who doesn't sleep that night. He's never seen anything like that thing. It's massive, and it must thrive around his ecosystem, which would explain why the deer population was dwindling. It would need to support himself off of larger creatures.... would it....

Does it eat humans?

The hair on the back of his neck raises again, and he looks out the window.

Superstitious!Johnny, who finds himself looking for Simon's eyes. His real ones. Kind and soft and honey colored, ones that harden in an instant at the sight of something unjust, ones that sparkle when he talks too long. Not the ones that replaced him next door, muddy and cold and dark, not an ounce of kindness in them.

Whatever moved in next door was most certainly not the Simon that he knew.

Fae!Simon who exists in the woods. Something is familiar here. The smell, maybe. The taste of it on his tongue. Too much light hurt his eyes, but the green shade was calming. It soothed the too many voices in his head.

There's a warm light outside of the woods. It doesn't hurt his eyes. Its.... comforting. The deer skull on his face fits him like a mask. Antlers sprouted out, and he didn't know if it was him, or the skull. He didn't have much sense of self, so it didn't bother him too much.

Fae!Simon who's ears hurt when something beneath him bends and contorts, metal scraping and shrieking on itself. He crumples it in his grip, satisfied when it no longer makes noise. He drops it.

There's more light, and he looks up, pupils dilating as a figure appears.

It's bigger than the ones he's found in the woods, ones that smell like rot, ones there long before he found them. This one was upright. This one moved, and breathed, and smelled great.

Home, the beast in his chest purred at the sight of this little creature in the doorway, and the voices in his head quieted.

It was too bright, as a beacon shines in his eyes, shooting pain through his head, and he turns away, seeking the safety of the woods again.

Changeling!Ghost, who sees John on the phone. Witch, the voice inside of him growls. Witch.

Changeling!Ghost who's knuckles burn from the iron embedded into the door, who shouldn't have knocked in the first place.

Changeling/Replacement!Ghost, who vows that he needs to get rid of the fae in the forest. It's starting to intervene too much with his work.

Find part 1 here, and part 3 here

Taglist: @impossibletopronounce

Inspired by Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron

Questions? My ask box is open!!! <3

[eowynstwin]

CARTEL PROTECTION

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader, John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader, Alejandro Vargas x f!Reader (unrequited but also kind of requited, it's complicated) Rating: All Ages Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: None Author's Notes: The first chapter in a series that I will likely not get to, but it's fun and I thought y'all might enjoy it. Who knows, if there's enough interest I might write a connected fic or two rather than a whole thing. I hope y'all can excuse how very rough this is, because it is literally the very first draft.

The tarmac of Los Vaqueros Cuartel General is hard and hot beneath the soles of your boots, bouncing the heat of the Mexican sun back upwards toward its origin, and as you approach the truckside powwow you can feel a fine sheen of perspiration beginning to form on your bare arms. It’s hot, far too hot for late October, and you don’t imagine yourself not sweating for however long this operation is going to take.

“I need you in Las Almas,” Laswell had said over the phone, intruding on an appointment with your manicurist. “Something is going on, and I don’t have enough information.”

“Sure,” you’d replied, regarding the woman opposite you trying to hide the fact that she was listening in. The nail tech wasn’t a plant, you were reasonably certain, but only an amateur talked freely about your kind of work. “I’d love to see Alejo and his kids again.”

You put two fingers (nails painted with tiny sugar skulls) to your tongue and cab-whistle at the group of three men to catch their attention. None of them flinch, and as they all turn to look at you, you realize immediately that this job is going to be more bothersome than you’d assumed, because the skull-plated mask that turns your way is not, as it were, a new face.

You remember the iron smell of staunched blood and the full brunt of his weight driving the both of you to the ground as you’d tried to hold him up. You remember the drench of warm Kastovian rain and hydroplaning in a stolen truck across the border into Georgia. You remember watching three hours of surgery. You had not stayed to see the fourth.

It shows immediately in his eyes as you meet them. The man you only know as Ghost remembers too.

You are not in the business of dragging baggage around. “Colonel Vargas!” you call, waving.

“Alma!” Alejandro exclaims, a wide smile breaking the severe lines of his angular face. “Laswell said you were coming, but I didn’t expect you so soon!”

As you join the men, you let him hug you, unable to keep from grinning at his easy affection. Alejandro—Alejo to you—is another familiar face.

You remember reheated mole verde on rice in the General kitchen, tiny sips of mezcal as he waxed poetic about what he could do with the full stock he kept in the larders of his fabled ranch. He’d looked at you warmly then, as warmly as he looks at you now when you release your embrace.

You hold his warmth precious, but do not respond to it.

“Someone has to be the brains of this operation,” you say, and wave to Rudy in the truck.

“It’s Alma, then?” asks the soldier standing next to Ghost, in a brogue that stands out as much as Ghost does.

John “Soap” MacTavish is the only personage you do not know. Laswell had given you a very sparse brief before you’d headed toward Mexico, so you already know that he’s both effective in the field and resolutely Scottish, but it only takes you one glance to get a notion of his character. The mohawk says more about him than he probably could ever say about himself, and the stunning blue eyes tell you the rest.

You glance at Ghost. Laswell had told you about Soap, and said you knew everyone else. Damn her. She isn’t getting a Christmas card this year.

“Sometimes,” you answer the Scot, looking back at him. Alma, of course, is not your real name.

Ghost snorts. He doesn’t say anything, but you know what he’s thinking.

So you say it out loud, smiling at the sergeant congenially. “Sometimes it’s Katya. Sometimes it’s something else. Maybe I’d be Mary, if we were in Glasgow.”

He smiles back immediately. Oh yes, Soap MacTavish is a dangerously open book. “Queen of Scots, aye? I see how it is.”

“CIA shit,” grumbles Ghost. Then, to business, “Where’s Hassan?”

-

Las Almas is as beautiful as you remember it, colorful and lively as the Fuerzas Especiales convoy passes from the countryside into the city’s sprawling outskirts.

“So how do you know Alejandro?” Soap asks, looking at you over his shoulder. He’d volunteered to take the furthermost seat in the back, which was really more of a padded bench facing out the window, in order to give you the more comfortable chair.

You meet his gaze. The SAS needed to hang a warning sign on him—DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT—because close up, the jewel-bright azure is even more arresting than it had been at a distance.

“I met him on vacation,” you reply, lifting one brow and hopefully hiding the little jolt in your breath that the proximity inspired.

Rudy and Alejandro both laugh at that. You chance a peek at Ghost, who’s sitting beside you in the back row of the SUV, and find him looking resolutely forward. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

“Anyone who comes to Las Almas for vacation is either too stupid to live past the first day,” says Rudy, eyes crinkling as they meet yours in the rear view mirror, “or just crazy enough to have a good time.”

You smile back—it wasn’t the first time he’d said that about you.

“In truth, we’ve ended up helping each other a few times, haven’t we?” says Alejo. “The US is always worried about narcos crossing the border, and Fuerzas Especiales is always in need of good intelligence.”

It had been your impeccable Spanish that had convinced Kate to stick you across the border. Her superiors had been doing their augury, reading the bird formations in the sky and sifting through the proverbial entrails, and had decided via these machinations that rather than let you monitor Verdansk post-Armistice as you’d originally been tasked (your Russian is also impeccable), you should instead worry about cartels on the Texas border.

You sneak a glance at Ghost again. He’s looking at you this time, eyes narrowed.

The reassignment had come to you at the third hour.

“Hopefully ‘Alma’ can help again, then,” he says, and it is very strange to hear that name on his tongue, to hear the syllables bend around the brassy, rumbling Manc that had comfortably used another name for you entirely.

Verdansk. A hollow shell of a building, its veins somehow still pumping water and electricity. His mask, pulled up over his nose, revealing a hard line of a mouth as he sipped bitter black coffee, the corners twisting as he was unable to hide how much he hated it.

“You should be burned for this by itself, Katya,” he’d grumbled.

“You do groceries next time,” you’d replied pleasantly. “See if the shelves magically fill with boxes of Tetley when you’re there.”

“Fuck Tetley. Even this swill is better than that.”

He still drank the whole cup.

“Think I prefer Mary,” says Soap, settling against your seat back.

The brogue brings you out of the memory and back into the present. Verdansk is half a world away. So is the Ghost you’d playacted domesticity with. You needed to make room in your head for missiles, rogue Quds Force majors, and enterprising narcos. The job had no care for anything else.

“And that’s why I’d choose it,” you say, mimicking his posture and sitting back. The Scot has no place in any of your memories, not in Kastovia and not in Las Almas—and you’re thankful, in that moment, that he’s there. “People are willing to do things for someone that sounds like one of their own.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he responds, “Can’t think of a man who wouldn’t do anything for you, bonnie—”

“Alright, sergeant!” Ghost snaps.

The reprimand surprises you both, and you lapse into awkward, contrite silence. Alejo meets your eyes in the rear view, concerned, and you give them an exaggerated roll.

The need to ground yourself notwithstanding, it was a bad idea—and, you think, massively trashy—to flirt right in front of him.

You slouch in your chair. Laswell is getting coal for Christmas. The grossest, sootiest stuff you can find.

[heychucklenuts]

RED vs BLU Merc Name Headcanons + Differences

Within TF2 it's a bit ambiguous as to whether the BLU Mercenaries are clones of the RED Mercs, if they're Doppelgangers, or some other third thing. I like to think they're Doppelgangers, and as a result, this post is gonna be both my headcanons for the names of the RED and BLU mercs (obviously canon names such as Demo or Engie's will be left in tact). Also slight comic spoilers may apply so be wary for that.

I'll not only showcase the Mercs names, but also differences between them.

If a Mercs name is the same color as their team (so, the name is red or blue), that means that is their canon name. If only one part of the name is highlighted, that is the only canon part of the name.

Without further ado, the names for the Mercs:

Scout

RED: Jeremy Herring Surname taken from one of the surnames Jerma985 has been known with: Harrington. Unsure whether this is his real surname or another cruel joke. Also a slight pun with Red Herring. His first name should be a bit obvious here, as he's named after Jerma. BLU: Jesse Alibert Honestly I've probably thought of the name because of Jesse Pinkman, unfortunately. Surname is another variation of one of Jerma985's perceived surnames, this time being the world famous Elbertson surname.

Differences:

Jeremy is well known for being the rough and tough Bostonian he is, having grown up as the runt within a family of seven (7) older brothers. He's fought his way to get what's his, and he makes sure nobody stands in the way of him and what he wants. Jesse on the other hand is someone who you shouldn't fuck with. He grew up as the older brother to a little sister, so obviously, he grew protective of her, and has beaten plenty of guys up as a result. You cross him once, you're already on a watch list. Cross him twice? Obituary.

Soldier

RED: Jane Doe This is Soldier's already perceived name, a name given to either unidentified women, or women who's names are being withheld for other reasons. And what's to say this isn't his real name? BLU: Annie Roe As much as I wanted to go down the road of just calling him "John Doe, I felt that to be a little too easy. So, I looked up a list of placeholder names used aside John and Jane Doe, and ended up combining two placeholder names, one used primarily in the UK (Anne Other/A N Other), and another US variant of the placeholder, this time Jane Roe. I chose to change his name to Annie for two reasons: Annie Oakley, and there was an American clinical psychologist and researcher by the name of Anne Roe, so I wanted differentiation.

Differences:

Jane is who we know best, our jingoistic, lead-poisoned patriot himself. He's reckless, he's loudmouthed, but nevertheless he is passionate about his livelihood, about his country, and about his team. To him, he's served his time in the armed forces, being a part of the great Gravel Wars. God bless Teufort. He tries his damnedest to be the authority of his team. Annie is on a similar page as Jane, not much difference between the two, outside of the fact he has been in the army before, though not for long. The biggest difference would be how he seems to be a bit more closed off than Jane, a bit more to himself. He doesn't seem to fully understand at times that there is a time and place to brawl.

Pyro

RED: Pyro or Lumbre The Pyro's name is one of mystery, though I'm going off a particular headcanon I have seen before, or a speculation Pyro may be from Mexico do to a lot of their cosmetics being Mexico-themed. Therefore, I'm not necessarily giving them a name, more a placeholder word, one that can mean fire or light depending on it's context. Why I say Pyro or Lumbre is that we never know, perhaps Pyro is their name. Name not highlighted do to it being Pyro's name as a Merc rather than their real name. Allegedly. BLU: Cryo or Tsumetai (冷たい) A bit of a different take on the Pyro, which I'll get into later in the differences between the Merc counterparts. Cryo would be short for Cryomaniac, an opposite to Pyro's full Pyromaniac title. The other name, Tsumetai, comes from Japanese. It describes more something feeling cold. than yourself being cold. And the reason for the Japanese name is because of another speculation, of people believing Pyro is Japanese do to their "Hadouken" taunt from holding the Shotgun or Flare Gun. Obviously this is a Street Fighter reference, and thus some believe Pyro to be Japanese as a result.

Differences:

Pyro is notorious for being ruthless on the battlefield, burning everything and everyone that they can. But, to them, it's not destruction. If anything it's creation. They're creating a lovely world of candy and unicorns, with all of their friends there to celebrate, and those from the other team there to play. Surely they're just having fun, right? ...Right? Cryo. The opposite to Pyro. They see the beauty in fire, yes. But they adore the opposite too. Ice so cold it burns your flesh, causing severe frostbite, and necrosis. But again... al they're doing too is just playing. They're bringing everyone into their winter wonderland, to make snowtanks their friends and having snowball fights with the other team. Ice can't hurt that bad... it's what makes some of the best desserts. It's what makes people happy on a hot day.

Heavy

RED: Mikhail/Misha Medved Heavy's name Mikhail, or Misha for short, is already known to be canon. As for his last name, I decided to go with one that revolved around his bear theme in the game, having 5 bear-related cosmetics, as well as his fighting and killing a bear in the comics. The surname itself means "bear" in several Slavic languages., as a side note. Funny enough in researching this, I saw a retired Ukrainian decathlete by a similar name. (Translated to Russian his name is Mikhail Medved, but in Ukrainian it's Mykhailo Medvid.) BLU: Yuriy Kaban I wanted to give BLU Heavy a similar name type assigned to RED Heavy; I.E. having a more common first name, and a surname based off of an animal to represent them. While part of me wanted to assign BLU Heavy a surname meaning wolf, I decided instead to give him a name meaning boar. And, supposedly I'll say, the word "kaban" translates to boar, or wild boar.

Differences:

Stoic yet lovable, Heavy cottles his beloved Sasha as he takes down enemies. Of course, don't take him as someone who's cold and ruthless, he can be warm and vibrant, especially given he's a big brother to Yana, Zhanna, and Bronislava. His love for Sandviches helping to feed all of the other mercs, and his love of (and doctorate in) Russian literature making him so well read. But again, don't doubt him. He's the same man who can turn around and slam a bear on it's back and kill it if he chooses to do so. Yuriy is a man shrouded in mystery... somehow a bit more so than Spy is. For whatever reason he'd rather keep his past hidden from everyone else. What is known is he has a younger sister, similarly to Misha. It's theorized he came from similar origins as Misha, but something happened to the majority of his family before being sent to the gulag. While as deadly as Misha, he practices gentler hobbies to relax, such as sewing, or reading. He likes to take book recommendations from the other Mercs, and maybe even from Misha himself.

Demoman

RED: Tavish Finnegan DeGroot A man of many names, three to be exact. And All of these names boast some sort of a significance, being there as references to different cultural terms. Those being Black Scots, Black Irish, and Black Dutch, in that order. The last two being in reference to black people who have some ties to either Ireland or the Netherlands, but those ties not being ethnic. Meanwhile with Black Scots, that's more in reference to those descendant of freed African house servants who stayed in Scotland. All that is in blue is referenced from Demoman's official TF2 Wikipedia pageb and I felt it nexessary to elaborate more on that as I've done with some of the other Merc's names, and their origins. BLU: Aulay/Owl Tuinstra His first name is an interesting one, with one of its name variants (or one of the Anglicized versions of his name) being Humphrey. Aulay has a certain feel to it though that, to me fits a Demoman, and his nickname Owl may showcase his personality versus the RED Demoman. The surname of Tuinstra is a mixed one, being of West Frisian and Dutch origins, and his surname could roughly translate to "inhabitant of a garden", Tuin meaning garden, and the West Frisian suffix -stra meaning inhabitant of.

Differences:

The loveable drunk himself, Tavish is someone who defies all logic by being able to drink heavily, and not feel a thing. Though being in love with his own liver has something to do with it. He's a dastardly foe shooting bombs for people to step on and blow themselves up. Tav himself is damn well a multi-millionaire too, holding down three jobs, even if his mom says he's lazy. He's hardworking, and he's someone you don't wanna fuck with. Coming from more humble beginnings than Tavish, Owl grew up on a farm his family owned, still receiving the same scoldings of not working hard enough, despite being a bit wealthier as an adult. Like Tav, he's a man who can pack scrumpy and other types of alcohol. His nickname Owl does give a hint as to who he is though, being logical, independent, and a bit curious about different things... including cracking the cosmde between the RED and BLU team's relationship.

Engineer

RED: August Conagher Not too much to say about the Engineer in RED, or his name. These two get to be our mystery Mercenaries for the time being. BLU: Dell Conagher The real Dell Conagher, as shown in both the story comics, and Loose Canon. There's not much that I can say about him, or his name, other than that the BLU Engineer is Dell Conagher.

Differences:

The Engineer in RED, the one who may be a little too interested in how to become robotic, but he isn't the Engineer we've come to know. August's past is for his eyes only, being someone of an unknown past, but of possible relation to Dell. He seems to deny that though... possibly angry at the man for keeping Radigan's plans and blueprints all to himself. Dell is who we have come to know as the Engineer. He's the lovable Texan with a bit of a sadistic streak at times, and someone who also holds plenty of secrets, namely from his team. He's loyal to The Administrator and to Mann Co. as a whole, God knows what would happened if he went against the company.

Medic

RED: Dr. Ludwig, Ludwig Humboldt, Joseph Ludwig The only thing that is confirmed regarding Medic's name is some aspect of it being Ludwig. It was thought for a while this may be his last name, due to page 208 of The Naked and The Dead. The only reason this ever got questioned was because of the Rottenburg map, and the pharmacy named Humboldt's Pharmacy. Due to some of Medic's past lore, this likely caused people to wonder if Ludwig was his first name, and the pharmacy being of his actual surname. Though there was also the name given by Gaming Heads when they were promoting the Medic figuring: that being Joseph Heliburger. Though this is said to be non-canon. So, while his name is left as Dr. Ludwig, or Mr. Ludwig, I could see his name being either or of the names I listed above as headcanons. BLU: Andrea Weis An example of me kind of just picking and choosing what felt right, for some reason this name stuck as a possibility for BLU Medic. The name Andrea can mean manly, and is of Greek origin, while Weis can mean clever, wise, or experienced, which I think fits with the Medic class as a whole. Not to mention the possibility of BLU Scout getting pissy with him and calling his Dr. Whizz, and getting a kidney removed as a result.

Differences:

Cruel, sadistic, a strong love for bones and gore. Dr. Ludwig is a strange figure of mysterious origins, and while he is someone who wants to experiment for his own pleasure, don't get the wrong idea about him. He's not entirely careless though, caring about his team, and their well-being. He shifts all medical logic in their favor, as well as all standard logic to ensure he owns all of their souls. That way, in life and in death, the team may always be united. Dr. Weis on the other hand is a much more careful figure, even if he does take a same sadistic pleasure in what he does. And unlike Dr. Ludwig, he's actually gone to medical school. Weis does his job, being the teams healer, but other than that, he's a bit more to himself, usually found in his lab studying, or working on an unnamed cadaver. He prefers the quiet, as the constant calls to him can get a bit grating on the ears. So much so to the point he's considered quitting, but the unlimited money is too worth it to leave.

Sniper

RED: Mick Mundy At least a half of his name has been confirmed, with Mundy being his surname, and what he seems to go by the most. As for his first name being Mick, I'm genuinely unsure if that's been officially stated as being his first name, seeing as it was just on the back of the box of the Sniper action figure. One thing to say though, if it turns out his name is Mick, part of me wonders if he's using a shortened version of the name Michael, and doesn't like people calling him by his first name. Not to mention his supposed first name seems to be a Crocodile Dundee reference (not surprising since he has the Crocodile Mun-Dee cosmetic.) Other than that, the surname Mundy is a bit rare to come by, and either comes from Norman or Irish origin, and could possibly mean "Son of Monday". And his birth name Mun-dee is offbranded Superman lore, if Superman were a sniper instead of a superhuman. BLU: Lawrence/Laz Walker Pivoting from RED Sniper to what I assume could potentially be a more common name. I'll be honest this was one of the names where is was a series of shrugs instead of thought, mostly due to Sniper cosmetics, and the fact some people may have believed his name to be Lawrence because of the Lawrence of Australia item set. (A reference to the 1962 film Lawrence of Arabia.) As for the nickname of Laz, I can only explain it as it sounds more like a name for a Sniper than Larry. Do not question me. As for his last name Walker, I just decided "fuck it", giving him the 14th most common last name in Australia, versus RED Sniper's more unique last name.

Differences:

Adopted to Mr. and Mrs. Mundy, hailing from New Zealand to then be shot to the surface, raised to be Australian. Mundy isn't cruel like Dr. Ludwig, quite the opposite. He takes his job seriously, every shot being calculated to a T. Not exactly the friendliest of people, seeing as his job has had him isolated for long periods of time, but he's not completely cold to his team. He hangs out with them, he has fun with them. Serious and stoic he may be, he's found a love for his job, and for his teammates. Contrary to popular belief, he does not smell like piss. He takes care of himself and makes sure he's fresh for the day. Laz was born and raised in Australia, living in one of the underground homes of Coober Pedy up until he became an assassin. A cozy life for him he wishes to return to, but the town of Teufort offers an odd familiarity to him. It isn't the same, no, but it suffices. Laz isn't so much cold as he is introverted, preferring to keep his peace rather than interact with the other Mercs too much. The more he's worked with Team Fortress though, the more he's opened up, telling the Mercs stories of when he was growing up, and what it was like to have to dust yourself off after using the bathroom, or getting knocked on the head by loose minerals. Cryo seems to try and help Laz fill in the void of that by dropping sand and pebbles on him at random.

Spy

RED: René Èviter With RED Spy, I wanted to give him a very common French name, as that's what I feel like suits him the best. Thus, I named him René. (Bonus points because in the back of my head I can hear his full name being Simon René Èviter, with him usually omitting his first name. That's a give or take though. As for his surname, Èviter... it roughly translates from French to "to avoid", which is both a pun off his spywork, and his role as Scout's father. BLU: Florent Mercier More of a unique name, to a degree, and there's a reason why I named him Florent which I'll elaborate on shortly. I'll say I believe him to be RED Spy's more sensitive counterpart, so giving him a name that may be seen as more delicate in nature (translating to "flowering" from French), was a good choice. His surname, I just chose at random. Though I had to pivot from calling him Mercer as that's more an English and Scottish (and I believe Catalonian) variant, whilst Mercier is the French version, translating to "merchant".

Differences:

René is a sneaky man, conniving and quick footed. Nothing is known about him, where he lived, or even really who he is. All that's known is you should watch your back for him... and that he's quite the ladies man, seeming to sweep the Scout's mother off her feet, as well as countless other women. Make no mistake, he can steal your lady like he steals control points. More on the side of planning before acting, and less of a braggart, Florent lives up to a delicate nature. He's not someone who shies away from confrontation, no. He'll take a person head-on for whatever it is they've tried to do to him. But he isn't as flashy as his RED counterpart, preferring to stay humble about his spending habits. In his case too, he seems to be a little more than just a ladies man, rumors circling around the base that he may have a fondness for men too...

This took way too long to work on by the way, couple that with my newfound headache.

Was gonna do age headcanons too but I wanna sleep.

[minniethemoocherda]

You Are The Weapon I Choose: Chapter 1

A/N: Thought I'd celebrate the release of Deadpool & Wolverine with my take on introducing Laura to X-Men 97! I haven't seen the movie or even the last few trailers so no spoilers in the comments please! And thank you so much @pkmndaisuki for being my beta for this fic, they were so helpful!! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

"I don't like this," Logan grumbled. "Too quiet for what Cooper was sayin' this was."

Morph was inclined to agree.

Dr Cooper had uncovered intel that indicated that a supposedly abandoned laboratory in Mexico was experimenting on mutant children. Since she didn't have the clearance to send in any US personnel without causing an international incident, she called on the help of the X-Men.

And, well, rescuing mutant children was an X-Men speciality.

At least it should have been, but so far there had been a definite lack of mad scientists and kidnapped kids.

"Can't hear any guards either," Logan added, scanning the halls. "Oughta be way more security."

"I agree. This whole thing reeks," Cyclops noted. "Keep your com lines open. Storm, you and I will check the east wing. Wolverine, you and Morph make a sweep of the west. Rouge and Jean, stand by."

Morph nodded, and the team split their search.

They transformerd one of their arm's into that of Glob's, the pink glow of his transparent skin lighting the way down the dark corridors. Not that there was much to see. The walls and doors were completely blank. No name plaques. No door numbers. Not even an out of date fire alarm poster.

Suddenly Logan stopped in his tracks beside them.

"What is it?" They asked.

"Gunfire." He pointed at one of the unassuming walls. "Over there."

Morph nodded, switching their Glob arm to that of the Hulk and smashed through.

Whatever Morph had been expecting to find the opposite side of that wall, it definitely hadn't been this. It felt like an entirely different building. Instead of a gloomy dark, the room they'd broken into was a harsh white. The tiled walls were almost too clean, like they had been scrubbed of any past proof that anyone had ever even breathed in there. There wasn't even a visible door. The only thing of note was the chains bolted into the corner.

This was a cell, Morph relised with a sinking sensation of dread in their stomach. The place reminding them of the tube that Sinister had kept them locked up in.

"Come on," Logan growled, the room no doubt reminding him of his own past imprisonment. "This way."

They smashed through a couple more walls. Each of the rooms had same eerie emptiness to them. Even the labs that had some colour variation to them, with their various vials, felt completely stark.

Morph was not smart enough to know what any of those labs were for but whatever it was, they knew it definitely wasn't for anything good.

They turned the corner and froze, the sight stopping them in their tracks.

"Logan." Morph gasped. 

A woman with dark hair and eyes, dragged herself across the floor, her light brown skin splattered with bullet holes. Near the beginning of her trail of blood, Morph spotted two more bodies. Both wore the matching uniforms of soldiers. And they both had matching syringes sticking out of their necks.

But that wasn't what made Morph freeze. That was the sight of the girl in the tank beside her.

The girl was suspended in what Morph first thought was water but on closer inspection appeared to be something murkier. Morph wasn't great at guaging children's ages but this girl couldn't have been over the age of ten. She twitched in her slumber, perhaps trying to fight back against whatever those tubes were punping into her body to keep it forced in unconsciousness. But the most shocking thing of all was that pertruding from the knuckles of her balled fists were twins sets of metal claws.

However Morph didn't have time to think about that right now. Instead they rushed to the woman's side, shifting as many arms as they could as they did their best to stop the bleeding. Which was made all the harder by the woman trying to push herself up.

"You need to stay still." Morph told her but she just shook her head.

"P-poison." The woman gasped pointing at the girl, leaving a bloodied stain as she tried to grab a console attached to the tank.

Morph elongated their neck, desperately searching the console screen, hoping to find a 'stop poison' button. But Logan went straight for the jar, his claws slashing through the glass.

The tank shattered. Morph borrowed Colossus' metalic skin to sheild the woman from the rainstorm of glass whilst Logan caught the girl before she could crash onto the concrete floor. Morph watched as Logan cradled her in his arms, careful not to hold her too tight as if she too was made of glass. Through the whites of his mask, Morph could see a rare glint of fear in The Wolverine's eyes.

"Who the hell is she?" Logan demanded, even though they all knew the answer.

"Laura." The woman breathed through a blood stained smile.

It was the last breath she took.

[nvirskies]

v. garza - last one open

warnings: angst: hurt/no comfort, mentions of alcohol, being drunk, predatory behaviors while drunk (nothing graphic or explicit), hidden relationships, vague allusions to past sex (never gets into it), assumed death of a loved one, fem reader (no use of y/n) summary: former especiales!r opens a food stall, the only one left with business hours into the early morning. a group of drunk men stumble in one night, and an unlikely woman with them.

word count: 1.4k

taglist: @lesvii

a/n: oh no my finger slipped and i wrote another angst piece, whatever shall i do? i wrote this instead of my overdue english essay

men, nsfw, non-sapphic, 16- / 21+ dni

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was a long night, especially being the last food stall open this early in the morning. Even the military couldn’t prepare you for the absolute mental and physical drain of owning and working your own food stall, since everything was already prepped and provided for you. There was no need for pitched-up, bubbly “customer service” voices that exhausted you beyond belief to keep up. No need to plaster a smile onto your face as inebriated men all tried (and failed) to shoot their shot with you, their words slurring together and eyes crossing. You almost missed the routine and the rigid structure of it all.

Almost.

There was one big factor that was the main driving force in why you had left the armed forces.

Valeria.

You two held a bond that was certainly more than friends, but never had the time to define it. Stolen kisses behind closed doors, nights spent sneaking into each others’ rooms in the barracks, always having your and her uniform patches swapped, always finishing training first before everyone and heading to the showers together, only for you to emerge flushing redder than the arroz rojo served in the mess hall. 

You swore up and down to your bunkmates that you showered only in cold water, mumbling some excuse about it being better for your skin and scalp. But you never offered up any explanation as to why you didn’t smell like body wash or shampoo, and instead of a very distinct cologne.

On the outside, you and Valeria seemed like the closest of friends. It was only natural, especially being the only two women in the Especiales, that you would become fast friends. That was all that anyone ever saw. Two women, in the prime of their lives, forming an inseparable bond reinforced by the camaraderie and patriotism of being part of Mexico’s most elite fighting force. 

But it all came to a grinding halt one fateful day. She had been called out as a member of the RED Team for a mission. She never disclosed where, when, or why she was leaving, only that it would be soon, and quickly changed the subject with a chaste forehead kiss.

One morning, you had woken up to an empty bed. Her things were all as she had left them the night before, scattered around the floor, seemingly as if she had never left. Her uniform was still on the floor in a crumpled heap, her boots unlaced, and her stack of hair ties still looped around one end of the metal bedpost. The unopened bottle of her cologne was still in your bag, having been placed there the night before. But she was missing, nowhere to be found. 

Later that week, after being denied time and time again by your superiors in your near-frantic requests to communicate with her via the radio you knew never left her belt, there was a small, white envelope pushed under your door with your name on the outside of it, written in her signature scratchy handwriting. That, alone, was enough to send you into a fit of tears and uncontrollable sobs as you just stared at the envelope in your trembling hand. You knew letters like this were only ever given to soldiers who had just lost a loved one, whether they were on or off-duty. 

The sound of the bell attached to the shop’s door jingled, snapping you out of the melancholic haze of memories that you had nearly lost yourself in moments earlier. Your head snapped up and at attention, watching with keen eyes as a group of very intoxicated men stumbled in and seated themselves at the high stool seats at the counter. 

Even as they were presumably parts of the same group, there was one thing that stood out about all of them: they all were armed to the teeth, even donning bulletproof vests with rounds of bullets clinking together in a compartment on their utility belts. The sounds of loud, raucous laughter floated through the small area, mixing with slurred words and vague gestures from the men. 

You stood there, behind the counter with your hands firmly in your pockets as you surveyed them all carefully, analyzing their mannerisms and how they seemed to be just a tad too confident at this time of night, drunkenly traipsing around. Plastering your signature customer service smile on your face before approaching the men with a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other, twirled around between your fingers in an intricate pattern. That pattern had been taught to you by Valeria while the two of you were still in boot camp and bored during the class lectures, but the habit stuck. “Are you gentlemen ready to order, or do you need more time?” you question, all of their heads turning to look at you with gazes that weren’t unfamiliar. These same gazes you had endured for years, all too aware of the way their eyes raked up and down your body in the shirt and sweatpants you had decided to wear. 

What they failed to see, in their collective drunken stupor, was the strength of a fine-tuned human weapon underneath the facade of a smiling woman. It might have been years since you had left the military, but your skills were just as sharp as ever. You might have had a bit more muscle definition in the past, but the quiet strength was still there, lurking just under the surface.

Suddenly, another jingle from the door catches your attention as a head of familiar black hair and a husky laugh you had sworn you wouldn’t ever hear again, rang out. “Boys, mamí’s here!” 

In an instant, your hand stills, the pen that was spinning atop it falling to the tiled floor with a sharp clatter. Thoughts raced through your mind at the all-too-familiar sound of the woman’s laugh, rich, full, and husky in all the right ways. The laugh you hadn’t heard in years. The laugh that both haunted and soothed your dreams. 

It was her. Valeria Garza. The woman you had assumed to be dead for the past six years, alive, well, and seemingly happy, stood behind you. She was oblivious to your identity, only registering a vague familiarity upon seeing your back and hair. You didn’t even have to turn around to know it was her. 

There’s a soft grunt from behind you as she squats down to pick up the pen that you had dropped onto the floor, and a tap on your back accompanied by a soft request. “Ma’am? I think you dropped this pen-” she begins, but she’s quickly shut up as you turn around to face her.

Her face, etched into your memory, was just the same as you remembered, but now with a few new smile lines around her eyes and some eye bags underneath those midnight eyes of hers. Eyes that you had gotten lost in, once upon a time, now stared back at you in silent shock. 

“Val-?” you all but choke out, incredulously. She greets your own shock with a similar expression of your own, every last bit of her previously confident and jovial manner gone within an instant. “Gatita-?” she questions, the old nickname that she used to call you slipping out just as easily as it had in the past. 

Any and all resolve in your body crumbles, and you take the pen from her hand, blinking back tears. Tears of unresolved grief, anger, joy, and betrayal. They threaten to spill, but you clear your throat and turn your attention back to the notepad in your hand, watching as she sits herself down on one of the stools alongside who you can only assume are her friends or colleagues. The cold military disposition takes over, thinly veiled by a mask of polite professionalism, the smile on your face wavering slightly.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m suddenly feeling unwell. I’ll have another server out here to help you in just a moment,” you mumble, rushed and apologetic, but not quite knowing who you were apologizing to before setting the pen and notepad down on the counter and sprinting to the back door of the establishment, all but slamming it open. You didn’t dare look back, knowing full well that Valeria would be staring at you, surprise and guilt etched into her features. 

[mxboxlocks]

PRIVATE DOMINATION/DOMINATED LINES!

i think i've posted them before, but this is my tf2 self-insert, the Private! they work under Soldier as an apprentice and mostly sticks by him through a lot of missions. i took a bit of time brainstorming their dom lines to get a feel for their personality and i think i did a pretty good job! so here you are!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

dominating scout "You run circles, I run miles, twerp!" "St-eee-rike! You're out!" "And that's what we do to spineless boys around my turf, slick. This is MEN'S territory!" "You're gonna need bandages for a lot more than your hands after that one." "DOMINATED, ya whiney little brat!" "I just knocked your ass out the ballpark!"

dominated by scout "Are you- Are you always this stupid? Cuz that was embarrassin'." "Dominated, bootlicker!" "You oughta get discharged, cuz there's no comin' back from that." "Y'know you take after your boss a lot; you're both easy to shoot, and you're both dumb as dirt!" "(laughter) Oh man! Wait'll I tell Soldier he's raisin' a HIPPIE!"

dominating soldier "Looks like THIS Private just moved up in rank!" "I'm taking your title, old man! Trial by combat!" "Land of the free, home of this boot I just shoved up your ass, Sarge!" "They should give me a medal for how hard I'm kicking your ass." "Saludos desde México, GRINGO! (Greetings from Mexico, FOREIGNER!)"

dominated by soldier "I don't wanna see your nose out of that dirt until your arms are about to fall off! IS! THAT! CLEAR?!" "Have you learned NOTHING, son?!" "DOMINATED! You are a disappointment! You are a coward!" "DOMINATED, you spineless hippie!" "Ohh, get up, it's only a scratch. UP, I SAID!" "DOMINATED! DISCHARGED! DEEEECEASED!"

dominating pyro "I got a waterhose back home with your name on it, Gas." "You're in hot water, ain'tchu?" "Holy mole, that's gotta burn!" (mole is a kind of Mexican spicy sauce) "Flail that 'thrower all you want, you can't burn a phoenix! CAWWW!" "DOMINATED, Pinkie Pie!" "You just got SMOKED!"

dominating heavy "Need an ice pack for that? Don't worry, we can bury you in the snow." "Your big gun doesn't scare me, Stallingrad!" "I never quit, I wanted your head! And so I shotcha til you were dead!" (reference to the song Rasputin by Boney M.) "Take that domination where the sun don't shine, lover-of-the-Russian-queen!" (another Rasputin reference) "Tell Dr. Boytoy he's gonna need to do a lot of work to get those bullets out of ya!"

dominated by heavy "DOMINATED. Now be quiet." "Dominated! You do not live up to your title." "Mm. You need more training." "Private is not disciplined! (singsong) Oh, Soldier!" "Stay down, little man. I do not enjoy killing babies."

dominating demo "Gotcha that time, Cap'n Loch Ness!" "Those bombs of yours ain't really all that useful when you can't keep your eye on 'em, are they?" "Didn't see me comin' did ya?" "Oof, you're gonna need more than a drink for that." "You just LOVE my bullets, don'tcha Cyclops? CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

dominated by demo "TELL YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A LEADER THAT I'M COMIN' FOR HIM NEXT!" "A fine sendoff for a boot-lickin' bib-wearin' git!" "For your sake, laddie, I'll tell your ma you died doin' what you loved; gettin' your BLOODY ARSE handed to you!"

dominating engineer "You ever thought about buildin' a bulletproof vest?" "Not very intuitive design when your own sentry can shoot at you too, y'know." (rare) "Dominated! Tell Beecave I said best wishes!" "Twelve pHDs and for what?! Try a tour in the army, Quickdraw!" "They don't teach fightin' like that in IT, do they?" "Tend to your farm and mind your own damn business!" "DOMINATED, Marty Robins!"

dominated by engineer "You're not much smarter than yer mentor, are ya? Hell, y'all might be related." "Dominated. Tell Houston I said they can go to hell!" "Take your humid ass air back down to the coast, damn it!" "Not in my damn base, ya don't."

dominating sniper "You piss in jars and you keep 'em. I don't need to embarrass you any more." "Dominated, Heeler!" (vague reference to Bluey) "Aren't Australians supposed to be the best fighters in the world?! C'MON!" "I got you in my sights. Wanker."

dominated by sniper "(sotto voice) Gotcha, trench rat." "Gotcha, trench rat!" "(sotto voice) Another bloody moron crossed off my list." "Another bloody moron crossed off my list!" "You think wearin' a uniform makes you special, punk?!" "(sotto voice) They got cages in hell for people like you, grunt." "They got cages in hell for people like you, grunt!"

dominating medic "Someone call the waah-mbulence!" "And for your death certificate, that'll be 200,000 dollars! Name of insurance?" "What's this? A DNR? Baaad news, other team, the doctor is OUT!" "Dominated, pillskirt!" "Dominated, psych ward!" "DOMINATED, Frankenstein!"

dominated by medic "I would use your body for science, but it's so full of sugar and plastic I think I'd be better off robbing a grave!" "Ooh! That limb looks infected. I'll have to take it off." "You never SAW me coming, did you, fraulien?!" "Ha-ha-hah! Your blood, it gives me youth!" "Shut up and let me do my job!"

dominating spy "You sorry sacks of scum are USELESS to your teammates!" "Ooo, a ghost?! So spooooky!" "Need a cig, baguette?" "That's what you get you little weasel!" "Buy me a drink later and we'll call it even." "Eat that, white flag!"

dominated by spy "If your spatial awareness were as large as your ego, you'd have caught that!" "Now to torture the information out of you - or is that too much to handle?" "A knife in the back, like a kiss, au revoir." "I've met politicians with more conviction than you!" "Dominated! Now go back to your play-pen!" "Dominated, you scraggly ill-kempt mutt!"

[infiiniteazure]

Author's Note: Before we begin I'd like to make a couple of pre-reading clarifications, this fanfic is based on the canonical events and characters from the Modern Warfare 2 comics.

enjoy♡⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖ Warning: Mention of post-traumatic stress disorder, violent situations, content that may be disruptive or disturbing.

—I am the death of everything you know and love.”—

His cold hands sweated at the impending horrible memories of what his life once was, as if all those months were reflected in the lines of his palms and every scar on his arms.

The sensation of those images flowing before her eyes as if every second in that place was replicated by the fears in her mind, her breathing began to hitch as her body trembled gently.

As if every second in that white four-walled room could contain all the flashes of the episodes of torture committed in Mexico.

Agitated breathing, tight chest, trembling hands, flashes of horrible memories of Mexico, of his family, of his father, of all those comrades who died by his side.

The door to the room would open softly, bringing Simon out of his thoughts in a hostile manner, his senses would be alert, as if attacking an enemy.

His breathing would continue to be agitated, the intensity of the symptoms was getting worse and worse, and the deterioration of his mind progressively worse.

A true living dead, as if his mind had been detached from his body at that moment in which he had been betrayed by his own companions.

The soft voice of the woman who would cross the door would slowly make him understand that she was not a danger.

—Mr. Riley?—

Simon would look up and realize that this was not the old woman who normally brought him his medications or took him to his sessions with the doctor.

Instead it was a much younger nurse, subtle and friendly looking. Her movements were soft and subtle, as if deep down she knew how terrified he was of the presence and interaction with other people.

Her gaze was empty and her soul hollow, as if her body was merely a vessel with no purpose. —Mr. Riley—

That voice would again ding his ears, capturing his attention.

—Miss Robinson is a little busy today, so I'll be your nurse today.— Her voice was soft, like the petals of a tulip in spring.

Simon simply would not respond, his gaze remained static on the woman's face.

The woman looked quite young at first glance, a significant and noticeable gap between the nurses who normally took care of him in that hospital, old women, with wrinkled and grumpy faces.

Although in a way Simon did not blame them, having to live with someone like him on a daily basis was really difficult.

Many times the psychotic outbreaks caused by the malfunctioning of his thoughts, that constant sense of danger made him hostile and dangerous to those around him, Simon knew that he was as much a danger to himself as to those around him.

The woman held a clipboard with information in her hands, the documents specified each piece of information about the soldier, along with a huge mark in the upper corner where the status of “Dangerous Patient” was indicated.

—Mr. Riley? Mr. Riley, you need to take your Midazolam.—

[ponyosmom35]

friendly face

Simon ghost Riley x reader

Liability chapter seventeen!

summary: after a heartbreaking talk with Ghost, reader looks for a friendly face.

warnings: ghost is a c*nt, cursing, fake flirting, Johnny is the loml

Liability masterlist:

https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

After a devastating realziation that the man she loved seemed to not give a shit about her, she was looking for the one person she knew did. She scanned the base for that familiar mohawk desperately. Johnny had truly been a godsend, he checked in on her regularly. Eventaully they started speaking on the phone twice a week. Johnny enjoyed hearing about her life, it took him out of the horrible shit he saw on a daily basis. She became an escape for him. She adored he conversations with him, he was always so positive and never failed to make her laugh. When she told him that she was coming back he nearly burst her eardrum over the phone as he shouted in happiness. She loved him, since Emma died he’d become her closest friend.

She is snapped out of her thoughts when a shoulder hits her. She looks up to see a friendly face looking at her emotionlessly “apologies miss, wasn’t paying attention to where I was goin”

“shut the fuck up suds” she says wrapping her arms around his neck, he laughs and picks her up, spinning her around.

“Sight for sore eyes, it's fucking good to see you!”

“well at least someones happy I'm here!”

“glad to have you back, how you liking Mexico so far?” he asks as he sets her down

“everyone has been nice, very welcoming. how long has it fucking been since you've felt my presence? you must be so happy to see me” she jokes, 

Johnny sighs and pulls her into another hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders  “too long, much to long…”

“we talked like twice a week” she reminds him

“Aye, but it's not the same as seeing your face”

“that's true, nothing compares” she jokes, causing him to laugh “what's the deal here, how long do you think we'll be in Las Almas? Price wants me to come back with you both when you finish the mission”

“Probably a few days, depends how things go”

“how's it coming? Ghost seems... different”

“*ghosts always been a bit... different. But we're lucky he's on our side, without him all these missions might not go as well as we hoped... wait since when do you call him Ghost?”

“since he yelled at me as soon as I arrived today, seriously Johnny I don't know what I did wrong” she confesses, feeling herself get emotional once more.

“don't let him get to ya. He's just a tad bit of a wanker”

“I can't help it, I don't understand how things could change so quickly. I really thought for a second that he liked me... I guess I was dumb”

“Like you?”  he chuckles “that's the understatement of the century”

“don't joke like that Johnny”

“Ghost is head over heels for you”

“he's not, he yelled at me like he hates me. reminds me of the beginning of my time on base”

“I don't know lass, he's a mystery” he shrugs, she watches as he gulps and rubs his neck

“are you lying to me Johnathon?”

“I would never lie, it's un-becoming of a soldier”

“what do you know?” she questions, narrowing her eyes, sending him a death glare

“I can't say, he'd kill me”

“I will kill you”

“Oh really…” he says stepping closer, she pushes him back with a laugh. Neither of them aware of Ghost’s prying eyes watching their every move. Took every fiber in his being not to throw his sergeant to the ground.

“I'll get it out of you sergeant don't underestimate me”

“I think I just got a view of how you and Ghost get along, it all makes sense now…”

“What are you talking about?”

“you like to tease and joke with him don't you?” he asks as he wraps his arms around her from behind

“he wouldn't care anyways” she sighs, as she elbows him in the ribs tyring to get him off. 

“you think not?”

“He knows we’re friends”

“You say that... but does he actually believe it?” he chuckles as he spots the death glare Ghost was sending his way.

“I told you that he doesn't care about me, lets drop it okay?”

“I don't know lass, I think he does care…” he whispers in her ear, she scrunches her nose 

“I will cut your dick off if you don't let me go” she warns 

 “ok, ok, easy on there lass” he laughs as he lets go of her, she turns around and punches him in the arm, surprising him with her strength “that was a good shot”

“You desreve a lot more than that, now moving on I have a favor to ask you”

“Oh? What would that be then?”

“I'm rooming with Ghost, I was hoping you could switch with me”

“you know that's against protocol, I can't do that” he refuses

“Please” 

“I’m rooming with a stranger, safer for you to be with Ghost, he won’t let nothin happen to ya” 

“you should've heard the things he said, he hates me! I can't sleep in there with him! I’d rather take my chances with a stranger”

“what could he possibly have said to you that's so bad?”

“he told me not to call him simon”

“oh gods lass you know he doesn't like that! His name is Simon, yes, but he much prefers being called Ghost” Johnny scoffs 

“when he gave me his name it was the first time I realized that he didn't' actually hate me. after all of the fighting he finally trusted me! you don't understand, we connected. he told me things.. he told me everything. now it feels like all of that's gone” she says looking down at her feet, tears sting at her eyes. 

“I know how you feel lass, trust me I do... but you need to understand, he does like you, trust me. He's just not the best at showing it...I think there's a lot more going on in his head than either of us wanna know”

“what am I supposed to do? I can't just ignore him... not after everything” 

“just be there for him, that's the best thing you can do”

“what if that's not what he wants anymore?” she asks 

“It doesn't matter, it's what he needs” he reassures her

“so you're saying you won't switch rooms with me?” she jokes

“No”

“goddman you” she curses 

“I can't believe you even thought I'd say yes” he laughs 

“god forbid you be helpful!”

“I am being helpful, lass” he winks before grabbing her arm, pulling her toward Ghost  “no, no, no. We're not done yet”

“stop don't you fucking dare” she says as she tries to pull away from him, he smiles mischievously

“or else what, are you gonna tell my superior officer?” 

“I swear to god-” she stops as they arrive in front of Ghost

“oh come on, Ghost, don't give us that look” Johnny laughs, as he hits his LT in the shoulder playfully. 

“Stop fucking around and go do something useful” Ghost snaps as he works on cleaning out his gun. 

“oh cheer up, we're only having fun” Johnny says smugly 

“We’re not here to have fun, we’re here to catch a fucking terrorist!”

“I believe we can do both, Ghost.” she responds, defending her friend. Ghost looks up at her and shakes his head. 

“Johnny take her to the med bay, get out of my sight the both of you” he snaps 

“you heard the man, follow me” Johnny says as he walks off, dragging her along. 

“see what I was talking about?”

“I'll give it to you, he's quite the character”

“Nobody like him in the world” she grumbles

“chin up ankle biter, we'll be out of here in no time. I'm sure once we get back to base he'll be fine”

“I hope you're right” she sighs 

“oh you know me, I'm always right lass”

“I don't think you've ever been right once to be honest” she jokes as she tries to trip him, he dodges her and pushes her back slightly, both of them laughing.

“whatever you say”

“you've learned not to argue, I've taught you well!”

“Oh yeah, you taught me everything I know, boss” he responds sarcastically  

“bye johnny, save me a seat at dinner”

“Will do”

a/n:

I love soap so much omfg, the best wingman alive fr

Tag list: @vivi123abc

[perpetualfox]

I wanna chomp into his arm and tell him to flex !! Fill my whole mouth with him and make him have to pinch my nose to get me off. Take a bite off the extra meat packed onto his inner thigh before eating that mf out. Chomp chomp chomp

Bite Me - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Biting, blood play, pain play, rough handling.

Wordcount:

All I can say for myself is this:

→You kneel before him, taking your place at his feet like it’s the easiest thing in the world—an act of submission devoid of shame; one he beholds in silent wonder from his perch at the edge of the bed. He looms above you, still mostly clothed, his back ramrod straight—a soldier even in moments of respite. The thick treads of his boots sink into the plush carpet, his laces still pulled tight through dented metal eyelets; thick cord knotted so tight it creaks against the dark leather. His belt lays across his lap—flayed open in seconds by eager fingers—the heavy buckle lost beneath the sharp curve of his hipbone. When you had asked, he’d pealed back his cargos, but they’d made it no closer to the floor than his knees, the thick material bunched up beneath them—a show of vulnerability, but on his own terms.

→You’d taken it for the gift it was.

→Stretching forward, you crane your neck to nuzzle against the pale expanse of his inner thigh. His gloves creak as his fists ball into the sheets, and a little thrill goes through you—to be given so much for so little…from Ghost it was as near a dazzling smile or an earnest admission of love as you had ever come. It was intoxicating. You turn your head, lips grazing a hot stripe along his flesh. He twitches beneath you as you mouth along the knotted ridge of an old scar. You know them well, the stories Simon wears on his skin—the kiss of a knife from Mexico, the crater carved out by a bulled he’d caught in Verdansk, the evenly spaced tears of Russian razor-wire—each more terrible than the last, each beheld with a reverence with which he is woefully unfamiliar. Something in his guts squirms with a feeling he cannot name each time you turn it on him—not quite shame, though it takes a similar shape. It’s a battle not to squirm with it.

→Your lips ghost across a smooth patch of flesh, and you pause. The unmarred skin is cool under the heat of your mouth. Your teeth scrape against the flat, untextured skin. Ghost does not move. Your eyes flick up to meet his, eyebrows raised, questioning. In the darkness, you can’t make out the soft brown of his irises; there is nothing but the fathomless black of his pupils, swallowing everything. He stares down at you from behind that expressionless mask. There is no trace of Simon in that stare, only Ghost, his eyes flat and dead. But he understands you all the same, and he nods, the barest tilt of his head; a movement you would have missed if you hadn’t been looking for it. A smile splits your lips as you stamp a final, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh before you crack open your jaw, and sink your teeth in.

→You go slow, allowing him to feel the press of each individual tooth; the slow transition from a bearable pressure to a deep ache as each curve and point burrows deeper into his pale flesh. The hard muscle tenses and jumps beneath you as you bear down on him. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp hiss clamped tight between his teeth. You feel the skin pucker as you bite down, the pressure moulding his flesh around your teeth. It welcomes the strange new shapes as best it can, until, at last, it can take no more, and it tears. Fat droplets of blood well up and pool in the indentations you’ve made—the copper tang of it salty and warm on your tongue.

→You try to pull back, to offer reprieve from the pain that has him gritting his teeth and shuddering beneath you, but a heavy gloved hand thumps down against the back of your neck. He guides you—almost pushing you back down, urging your teeth deeper into the meat of his thigh. There is nowhere else to go, so you let yourself go limp, allowing your head to loll to the side, tucking neatly into the ‘v’ of his hip.

→The swell of his cock bumps up against your cheekbone, warm, and thick—even through a layer of black cotton—and harder than it had any right to be. Shifting your weight, you lean into him, pressing the soft meat of your cheek into the heat of him. A cooing sound chirps to life at the back of your throat, and you smile around his thigh, revelling in the knowledge that this was your doing—revelling in the smell of him, thick and heavy; in the weight of him against your cheek; in the little grunts that catch between his teeth.

→You lock your jaw, and his hold only tightens, the grip pads of his gloves scraping rough against your flesh as his fingers dig into the side of your throat. His thumb brushes against your cheek, coming to rest just beneath the corner of your jaw, pressing up hard enough you’re sure to have a bruise in the morning. He’s trembling beneath you now, almost rocking up into your mouth, even as your bicuspids threaten to do their job and widen the holes you’ve already made in him.

→“Fuck, Lovie,” His voice, little more than a gruff whisper, barely pricks at your ears, “…could cum like this.”

→A shudder rattles through you, your jaw flexing against his thigh, your teeth scraping against wounded and oversensitive flesh, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. Fluid drips warm and wet down over your chin and throat—saliva or blood—you don’t care. Your world narrows to a single point, big enough only for Ghost: the heat of his slick flesh in your mouth and the desperate throb of his cock against your cheekbone.

→Could he really?

→The thought barely registers in your mind before you’re clenching down hard enough to feel something click in your jaw. Ghost makes a wounded sound, his body jerking beneath you as a warm wetness begins to spread against your cheek.

→The hand at the back of your neck goes slack, and you pull yourself back, dizzy and shuddering. Ghost’s chest heaves, his limbs gone boneless and jittery as the aftershocks have their way with him. As he slowly drifts back to himself, his fingers trail absently through the slick mess you’ve made of his thigh. Blood and saliva dribble down to stain the sheets between his legs. When at last he feels present in his body again, he reaches out swipes a droplet of blood from your chin with a broad thumb, “Messy fuckin’ thing you are, hey?”

→You nod dumbly, the tang of his blood still sitting thick on your tongue. He pats your cheek, heavy and slow. Your head lolls against his large palm, your eyes going half lidded, fluttering with each rough stroke of his fingers. “‘S all your fault, Lovie, innit?”

→You nod and quick as a viper, he takes you by the back of the neck and presses your face down against the cum-damp fabric of his boxers, “And this too.” It isn’t a question this time, but you nod anyway. You can feel his spend already beginning to cool as his hips kick up against the softness of your cheek. “That’s right. So be fuckin’ useful and clean it up for me.”