#Primal Alexander

[the-fellowship-of-lalafell]

A little tidbit 'bout this blog's popoto in Dragoon blue:

Whenever someone says something like "May the Twelve be with you," in terms of current lore, any reaction Squallall gives to them is fake.

Why?

Because if you were to ask her, she'd respond with "Hydaelyn's a fraud; the Twelve don't exist." This is due in part to a few things.

1. She was raised by a singular caretaker that, during their time as a traveling merchant prior to discovering her, had come upon books and other writings talking about the Primal Alexander. Said caretaker then came to the conclusion that it is, supposedly, possible to summon the Holy Primal in its entirety, and due to the thing it's associated with, light/Holy, it is the best Primal to summon to protect as many people as possible. [Do note that my listing of Alexander as a Holy Primal is largely in part due to how the FF Wiki talks about him, especially in my favorite FF, Final Fantasy IX, where Alexander is seen being a protector at least once.] So, Squallall grew up being told that Alexander was the most likely thing to truly protect people. The fact a facsimile was summoned once before, like with Titan and Good King Moggle Mog, only cemented things. Squallall's caretaker was never tempered to the Primal Alexander, though, and was just someone who came to their own conclusions given the provided info.

"Given how more crystals than a carriage could haul in a day and a load and a half of prayer can summon a facsimile of a Primal that can cause devastation to a local, there must be some sort of key item(s) needed to summon the actual being instead of a half true copy." ~ Taken from the margins in one of the many books Squallall inherited about Alexander and Primals.

2. Same caretaker was unable to find enough consistent proof that the Twelve exist, and thus labeled all perceived proof as hearsay, and anytime Hydaelyn spoke of the Twelve herself was just an elaborate lie to make it seem like others were in charge of certain things and any issues those things caused weren't her fault.

3. The caretaker was one of a group of people, likely due to the Echo, but I am unsure 'bout that, that could hear Hydaelyn. Though said caretaker never had more than an occasional snippet once every blue moon, it was enough to prove she existed.

So, whenever someone says something like "May the Twelve be with you" to her, she's silently wondering why in the world you believe the lies of a fraud.

This is also why she says stuff like "May Alexander protect you" and "By Alexander's wings" in place of various Twelve-centric phrases.

She's been accused of being tempered, only to quip back that tempered people usually are actively seeking to summon their Primal, where as she thinks that now's not a good time to attempt.

[sirensongsea]

CLANGCLANGCLANG.mp4

[impossible-rat-babies]

me sobbing Charon u would have loved Alexander

[valfruits-archived]

in the fatt divine universe alexander would be a divine and in the ffxiv universe the divines would be primals.

[booty-uprooter]

there obviously isn't enough room for all of them so i just put my favorites + a few i remember liking more clearly than others

[askarsjustsoswedish]

Flashing Gifs // Happy 48th Birthday / Grattis på födelsedagen Alexander Johan Hjalmar Skarsgård! (25 Aug ‘76)

These darker, more twisted characters give me an opportunity to howl that primal scream and let it out, which I rarely do in everyday life. (x)

[terramythos]

the ffxiv 8-man raid series stories in a nutshell

Coils of Bahamut: hey remember that fucked up dragon that was in the moon. yeah :) also alisaie is here and an actual character now

Alexander: did you know machines can be primals too. Also do you like time travel

Omega: remember that giant unknowably powerful and intelligent robot AI we set free and it seemed like a good idea at the time? It really was not a good idea. Also did you know the dragons are space aliens and their home planet was destroyed. By robots, yeah

Eden: so you know the whole trope about true love persisting through death and like continually finding each other in every lifetime? What if you found someone you liked way way more and decided to abandon your evil Ascian destiny and boyfriend for her instead. Also go do the shadowbringers role quests it will add some context to this

Pandaemonium: the origin of monsters and bad parenting or something. Lahabrea (yeah the guy the pope killed in heavensward, keep up) WILL show you his sex tape btw

Arcadion: professional wresting is awesome IF you aren't using superpower mcguffins that make you terminally ill. Acts 2 and 3 pending

Disclaimer I haven't done some of these in a few years now lmao

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 38: Alexander's Sire

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September 1925

TW: Captivity, mind control, mentions of abuse and murder

The fireplace crackled cheerfully as Oliver's anxiety rose. "Your sire is the one who turned you from human to vampire, right, sir?"

"Yes. And in the process, a connection is established from sire to sired. A vampire's sire can communicate telepathically with their spawn, and a sired must carry out their sire's direct commands. In some ways, I'm also a thrall, of sorts."

"And your sire is dangerous, sir?"

"Dangerous isn't even the half of it," said Alexander. "Are you certain you wish to hear it? It will cause you nothing but anxiety over a problem you won't be able to solve."

"I'm quite used to anxiety over problems I can't solve, sir." Oliver knew very well that not knowing what this mysterious sire might do would drive him to insanity with fear regardless.

"I was chosen because of my lineage. My sire believed that I would have the power to be a great vampire lord. Enthrall a whole manor's worth of humans, bend vampire society to my aims, as he enjoys doing -- except I would be firmly under his thumb. A useful general in his insatiable quest for power and perfection."

"You don't seem to be doing that, sir."

"No, indeed. I was born with power, as he hoped, but I resisted his influence more than he expected. I've largely secluded myself and devoted my life to studies, rather than enslaving humans and pursuing my sire's aims. That's why I only keep one thrall, as a general rule, instead of a mansion full."

Oliver felt he was beginning to see the picture. "And your sire is not pleased with that state of affairs, Master?"

"Naturally, he isn't. He uses his connection to torment me with nightmares, intrusive thoughts... commands I don't wish to carry out..." 

Something clicked in Oliver's mind, gears turning despite the slowness imposed on him by enthrallment. "You..." He almost didn't want to say it, but he did ask to know the truth. "Were you forced to hurt your thralls, sir?"

Alexander looked haunted, his expression saying everything that needed to be said. "I did warn you against asking questions you would not like the answer to."

"Are you... were you... did he make you kill..." Oliver fought down the urge to flee from the room right then and there. "What are you going to do to me? Are you going to --"

"No," said Alexander firmly.

"How can you know that, sir? If your sire can force you at any time --"

"He won't. Not with you."

"I don't -- " Any semblance of calm had evaporated, as a far more primal instinct was rising in Oliver. "Sir, I don't want to die. Please don't kill me, sir, please --"

"Quiet, Oliver," said Alexander. "Be quiet now." 

Oliver's sensible panic began to dissipate against his will, as the command swallowed his mind and he slumped against Alexander. "Please, sir..." he said miserably.

"My sire will not kill you, nor will he make me kill you. I'm certain of that," he said, pulling Oliver close and running his fingers through his hair. "You're too..."

"Too what, sir?"

"...Too perfect. Obedient, docile, and exactly to his tastes. No, he'll certainly keep you alive, that I'm sure of."

As scared as Oliver was of dying, he didn't like the implications in his master's voice. There were many fates worse than death. He thought he'd escaped one at the auction house, but had he actually found himself in a worse trap? "What will he do with me, then, sir?"

His master thought for a long time, so long that Oliver feared he would not answer at all. "You'll be fine, Oliver," he said. "I'm going to make sure of it. I have a plan, I think." He pushed a lock of hair from Oliver's face, looking intently into his eyes. "You're stronger than you believe yourself to be. You may be the thrall that can break the cycle."

"Sir -- Master, I don't understand --"

"But that's putting far too much on you. I'm going to have to find a way to protect you permanently. To protect us both. That's all there is to it. I've been getting closer, but..."

Oliver leaned into his master's cold touch, craving that protection even through his fear. "So is that the reason, then, why you didn't want to take another thrall, sir? Because you were searching for a way to protect them?"

"Yes, that's more or less the reason. I thought I could find a way to defy my master before claiming you, and then we would both have a much happier existence. Unfortunately, leaving you to get bought by Jameson would have been no better for you. His torments are relentless, and your mind would have been destroyed at the outset. At least I can do my best to give you a comfortable life when my sire's attention is turned elsewhere."

Oliver nodded. Those were the only choices, weren't they? Be purchased by Alexander or by Jameson. Even now that he knew more of the danger lurking in his master's home, he still preferred Alexander without question. The prospect of nebulous future torment was nothing compared to the certain promise of memory erasure and illiteracy.

But were those truly the only two choices...?

Something was bubbling in Oliver's chest, something fighting to get free of the nets of control placed on his mind. 

He could let me go.

No -- he tried to push the traitorous thought from his mind. He knew how much his master needed him. How could he think...

He's going to hurt me. He might even kill me. And if my master doesn't, his sire will.

Surely he wouldn't actually...

If he were an honest man, if he cared about my wellbeing, he would let me go.

Oliver felt himself tremble from the conflict inside his head, self-preservation forcing his mind out of its fog. That's right, vampires had kidnapped him for money and blood. How had he pushed that so far from his thoughts? Was his master really any different from them? Didn't he admit to keeping Oliver for his own selfish needs?

If he truly cared, he would let Oliver go, or spirit him away so that he would be safe.

But Alexander clearly wasn't planning on doing that. He had to go himself. He had to find a way to escape this vampire and this manor while he was still awake, before the thrall took him whole. Even now, just thinking of such a betrayal was almost impossible.

"Oliver, quiet."

Oliver's hands dropped from his face as artificial tranquility washed over him.

"I need to hear what's going through your mind," said his master. "I promise I won't be angry with you, even if it is terrible. Even if you wanted to kill me."

"No -- no, sir, I wouldn't -- " 

"Even so." 

His master gently stroked his temples, humming something under his breath. Oliver felt himself sinking into a daze. "No, please. Please don't do this." The song filled his mind, coaxing it back into a trance, tunneling his focus onto what Alexander wanted. The truth...

"If I'm in danger here, sir," he said, the words being drawn out of him as if by a string, "why don't you let me go?"

Alexander drew back, and Oliver felt both the sharp pang of his sudden absence and the words he'd just said. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm so sorry I thought that -- I'm not going to try to escape, sir, I promise -- "

His master let out a loud, mirthless laugh. "Let you go. Yes. Yes, indeed. Yes, I should do that, shouldn't I? Just let you go. It's all so simple."

Oliver looked at him with pleading eyes. "...You would...?" he said.

"My sire already knows that I've bought a new and most delectable thrall, thanks to the public display of it I had to make at the auction house. Do you think he would simply let you go?" said Alexander, his voice chilling. "Or do you think he'd hunt us down and make sport of us both?"

"He would do that, sir?"

"He'd do that and worse. At least here in my mansion I can afford you all the protection I can muster, and work towards us both being free of him," said Alexander.

Oliver slowly nodded, his conviction fading. Yes, here in his master's mansion, that's where he could be safe.

His master began softly stroking his hair once more, allowing Oliver to rest against his chest. "I've troubled you too much with this conversation. You need to relax. You are safe here."

"But --" Oliver's mind struggled against the warm undertow of Alexander's soothing voice. 

"You need to relax," said Alexander again, his voice deep and low. "Relax, and allow me to take care of you. You will trust me. I will not harm you of my own free will."

All of the conditioning was tugging at Oliver's mind. He wanted to trust Alexander so much. He wanted to sink back under the waves of enthrallment. He wanted it all to be so simple -- that he could have his master and his books and his little comforts, and feed his master when called upon, and not have to concern himself with threats. 

But he couldn't help but imagine Alexander's face twisting, the gentle vampire becoming the terrifying monster he'd feared, and shuddered.

"Relax. Be calm. Your worries will not help you. This problem is for me to solve." Alexander's voice was like a sweet lullaby. "Let your anxiety go, feel it fade, fall back into the warm ocean of obedience and bliss. Be quiet, Oliver."

He was right. Worrying about it would not help. And he was safe here, at least for now, here in the warm library with the smell of old books and the crackling fire. He let himself relax, let the nightmare visions fade from his mind. "Yes, master," he said, tension leaving his muscles.

His master began to hum, a tune that further drained Oliver of his tension, a song to ease his fear and help him relax. There was only the briefest of struggles in Oliver's mind before he welcomed it in.

He was safe, wasn't he? He felt so safe, here in the library by the fire. His master wouldn't harm him. His master would protect him.

"Good, Oliver," said Alexander, and the praise made Oliver feel pleasantly fuzzy. "And I want you to know -- I will not be setting you free. I will never be setting you free."

Sinking deeply into Alexander's power, his sudden, desperate need to escape from just a few minutes ago now felt so distant. "You won't, sir?"

"Your blood and your company are both too appealing to ever let you go. I'd be a fool to allow my sire to ruin you, and I've had enough regrets in my long life without adding that one to it." Alexander stroked Oliver's hair so gently. 

"But... but your sire..." The last scraps of his sensible fear were slipping from his grasp, his mind fogging. "What if..."

"You're perfect, Oliver, don't you see? The perfect thrall in every way. I didn't think I would ever have you, but now that I do... I need you. You felt my need, didn't you?"

Oliver remembered it oh so clearly, the moment when their thoughts had mingled and he felt the strength flowing back into his master. He'd felt so wanted, so needed, so helpful and useful. He'd do just about anything to feel that again. "Yes, sir, I do." His master stroked his cheek tenderly, and Oliver leaned into the cold touch, letting his eyes fall shut.

"That's why I'm going to protect you the best I can. I swear on my grave I will. I won't fail this time."

It shouldn't be comforting. There should be nothing comforting about one vampire vowing to shield you from another, in order to protect the blood he craved. But Oliver wanted to believe, and his master's power made it easy.

It felt so natural to lean in closer to Alexander, so right when he fell softly into his master's lap, so comfortable as his master ran his hands through his hair and began to hum. There was something in the song making his eyes droop and his thoughts stop, but he couldn't mind being lulled asleep like this. Everything felt so cloudy...

"I think, perhaps, we could use something to lift the gloom," said Alexander. "Would you join me in the music room, allow me to play for you?"

Oliver's eyes opened, turning to look at his master. "That sounds lovely, sir."

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next week: Fitz's life changes forever.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

[bucca2]

Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod

König x high school sweetheart reader

3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.2k words

tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash

spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.

[PREV] [NEXT]

The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.

He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—

“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.

“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.

His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”

His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”

“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”

“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.

“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”

“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.

“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.

“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.

“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.

“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.

“Yes, mama,” he whispers.

That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)

He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”

“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.

He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.

“Is that why you wear the hood?”

“Hmm?”

“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”

“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”

“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”

“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”

She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.

“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”

“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”

“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”

“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”

“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”

She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.

He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.

“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”

“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”

That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.

“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You know what I look like, though.”

“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”

“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”

She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”

“You might not like what you see.”

“You said you didn’t look much different.”

“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”

He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.

He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.

“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”

She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.

He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.

Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.

For König, they’re the highlight of the job.

As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.

So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.

König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—

He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.

His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.

Hands-on.

He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.

In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.

That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.

That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.

“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.

Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”

König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“Drive yourself.”

“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”

He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.

He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.

That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.

Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?

He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.

The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.

Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.

The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.

Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.

He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.

He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.

But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.

He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.

It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.

He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.

He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.

His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.

He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.

It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.

It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.

“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.

“His loss.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.

She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”

There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.

“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.

“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.

It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.

“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

He scoffs. “Too late for that.”

“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.

“I want to help you.”

Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?

“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.

“I can listen to you, at least.”

They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).

But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.

“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”

Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?

“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”

“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.

“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”

“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”

“You have me.”

She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.

“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”

She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”

Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”

Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.

“For what?”

“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.

She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”

He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.

“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”

“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.

She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.

“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”

“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.

“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.

Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.

"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.

sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)

ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!

taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian

[la-imp]

AVATAR RECOM HEADCANONS - INTRO

Recoms!Deja Blu Unit - Science"Puke"! Reader

This is my first headcanon series and I am incredibly nervous because there are so many good ones out there already. I have read quite a few amazing headcanon series by various blogs who practically carry the whole Avatar Fanfic scene, which I am really grateful for! I know these sorts of scenarios have been done a lot by now, but I wanted to get one out and put my own spin on it. I hope to write more and update this series as well as take in requests, one-shots, etc, expanding on the characters as much as I can. I hope you enjoy! Avatar has consumed my life, lol...

Disclaimer: I do not own AVATAR, nor do I own its creative properties and original characters. I do, however, own the 'reader' character as well as other created figures that do not appear in the Avatar films, video games, or comic books. Characters involved: Miles Quaritch, Lyle Wainfleet, Alexander Ja, Mansk, Zdindarsk aka Z-Dog, Zhang, Lopez, Fike, Warren, Walker, Prager, Brown - mentions of Jake Sully

Plot Summary: The story takes place during the events of TWOW, right before the great reef battle. I won't spoil any crucial plot details (for those who haven't watched the movie yet), so I'll end it there. The reader is a militant medic with a biochemistry background, now assigned special care to ensure Project Phoenix's success. As their body chemistry is quite different and unique from that of humans, they require some help getting used to their new vessel. This is where you come in... and boy... you were not prepared for this. A bunch of Na'vi Human hybrids at the peak of their prime, fuelled by hormonal rage, primal instincts, and a knack for vengeance, they sure as hell turned your daily life topsy turvy. To them, you were nothing more than another science puke here to bore them out of their minds,  even though you had some military training as well. It is up to you to show them otherwise. To earn a place in their ranks.

Will (y/n) be able to handle this task or eventually fold like the others?

Warning(s): Cursing - Mild bullying - Negging - Foul language - Playful flirting

Content: SFW (Minors DNI) The reader is human and female. I plan to write specific headcanons for each individual character, but this was just a very long and detailed starter in order to get the ball rolling. Also this is not proof-read, so take this with a grain of salt. Happy reading! (also English is not my first language, so please bear with me) ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hailing from a gentle background of academics and artists, you've decided to take a completely different route from what your family had destined for you. Going against their wishes and dissapointing a few members here and there was a price you were willing to pay in order to fulfill a lifelong dream. The prize of independence. Or perhaps you were tired of people telling you what you could and couldn't do. The idea of an adventure, exploring new worlds and galaxies, far far away from home was far more attractive than spending your years trying to fix a dying planet. But you also had a knack for helping and aiding those in need. Being a healer with a vast background of medicine and herbs only came natural to you. And as you graduated top of your class, you sought a new challenge. So you joined the space force. Military training was hard but you managed adquedately.  And as you finally becamea full-fledged medic, you signed a contract with the RDA to be shipped off to Pandora.

Save to say, the six years of light-year travel did take a toll on your body. It was often emphasized that dreams do not occur during cryo sleep. Yet, your case was the opposite. Over and over you saw visions of a lush, prehistoric forest that almost looked magical and foreign. Due to overpopulation and pollution, nature seized to exist altogether back on earth, so thinking of what this mythical Pandora may look like, sparked a fire in the pits of your stomach. You began to wonder if these dreams held any meaning to them... or if it was just your brain chemistry running haywire during the cryogenic sleep. The closer you got, the giddier you grew - excited and electrified at the idea of setting foot on one of the most precious planet known to man. Perhaps in the entire universe.

After your space shuttle finally docked at the RDA's space station, you were quickly briefed on your assignment by the announcers, guiding you to the nearest secretary. The secretary looked over her glasses and tossed you an illegible glare before sighing with a shake of her head, handing you your paperwork. "May God have mercy on you," she mumbled before calling for the next candidate. You took the papers hesitantly, brows furrowing in confusion before your eyes cast down on  on these said documents. Your eyes widened as your heart nearly sank. You were assigned to assist military Avatar personnel? You looked back up at the lady who was now grinning at you, a glint playing in her gaze. "Fresh meat for the grinder. It's a bit crass they decided to assign a small girl such as yourself to help these beasts," You slowly nodded, an awkward semi-smile forming on your lips, "I guess I like a challenge," you said, tone matching her sarcastic one. You have studied them for three years now, after all. You were prepared.

A few labcoats accompanied by a good portion of cleanroom suits were helping you find your way before passing you your exopack mask. It was the first time you'd ever seen one of those from up close. The concept of not being able to breathe the atmosphere was somewhat daunting. But it was something you had to get used to if you wanted to survive Pandora's 'Adapt or Die' rules. Wasting no time, you quickly strapped them on and secured the clasps, allowing the small piece of machinery to flood your nostrils with fresh oxygen. Impressed, you found it was much clearer and cleaner than that of Earth's... sadly enough.  You then remembered the comment from the secretary earlier on, echoing in your mind over and over again until it festered in the back of your subconscious. Anxiety began to take a hold of you, shaking your confidence ever so slightly.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, you then issued a curt nod to your superiors who lastly gave you a clipboard, detailing all of your duties and rank among the Recom unit members. "Ready, greenhorn?" Dr. Vasquez piped up, drawing you from your trance. You blinked at him with a wide-eyed deer-caught-in-headlights look, lips parting, "Y-yeah." he chuckled in response to your nervousness before slapping a hand on your shoulder in confidence. "Don' worry, they may look very scary at first glance, but you will soon realize they are professionals just like us, alright?" You nodded, swallowing the lump down your throat before clamping the board beneath your armpit. "Alright then kiddo, let's rock'n'roll," he said with a smirk before punching in a security code to unlock the doors to the decompressors.

The air was filtered to fit the atmosphere of the recoms. Which was in turn, extremely toxic to humans. Unconscious in twenty seconds - dead in four minutes. The prospect didn't sound like very glamorous death. As the door opened, a hiss emitted from the pressure, giving way to the bright light of the sun peaking through the glass windows. Vasquez marched forward before beckoning you to join him. Upon entering, the energy of the room immediately shifted. It was almost palpable to the touch.

A good part of your confidence was chipped away once you laid your eyes on your future teammates. Breath nearly caught in your throat. To say they were tall was a big understatement. They were huge - as a matter of fact - larger than life! Nothing could've prepared you for this. Most of them stood at around ten feet and nearly scraped the ceilings if they hadn't been adjusted to meet their physiology. You continued to saunter forward, one tentative step at a time, eyes still glued to their physiques without so blinking an eye. Their bodies were even more strange, striking you with awe. Slender, graceful, svelte, yet powerful. The complexion was a deep cyan or darker powder blue, decorated in interesting patterns and luminescent dots, all accompanied by a long prehensile tail that idly swung from side to side, giving them a more animalistic edge. They were all broad-shouldered, even the women, as you scanned the room with all the blue-skinned individuals lurking about, their poise signifying a certain strength and fortitude that of a warrior. They could easily toss a person across the room and break every single bone in their body with one blow if they wished.

Eyes were striking like molten gold peering from the shadows, intensely following your every move. Their previous chatter immediately died down as their eyes glued to you and the other scientists. Vasquez took his position next to someone who seemed much more commanding and authoritive compared to the rest. He stood slightly taller and wore a khaki tanktop, exhibiting a set of toned, muscular arms placated on his hips. You caught a glimpse of his tattoo on his left arm. A black eagle. A remnant of his previous life? Or something to distinguish himself from the others, perhaps?

The way he walked with a certain swagger, taking a stance next to Vasquez, sharp yellow eyes peering into the hall, had you nearly choke on your own saliva. He was an intimidating man,  "As you all know, we are sent here to accomplish a mission that we couldn't last time. To hunt down and terminate the leader of the Na'vi insurgency, Jake Sully.  And in order to ensure our success, we have been assigned our personal medical officers who specialize in Na'vi physiology. They make sure none of us step out of line and patch us up during missions. Treat 'em with respect, ya hear? They are as much our responsbilities as we are theirs," his tone was a low, commanding drawl, hinting at his possible origin back from Earth. He also sounded a tad older than his bio stats suggested.

"Wait, we're going to have these science pukes tag along?" Someone groaned in the background.

Doctor Vasquez nudged you with his elbow before whispering something into your ear. So he was the colonel. Colonel Miles Quaritch. The leader of the first recombinant unit Deja Blu, the first Avatar squad produced by Project Phoenix. Vasquez then nodded and brought you and another male medical officer. Thankfully you weren't alone. And as you peeked into the crowd, practically feeling their eyes rake over your forms in a very scrutinizing manner, you wished there were more human scientists to accompany you. "Listen up Recoms," Vasquez announced, matching Quaritch's energy. Which you had noticed, was now glancing at you over his shoulder with a lazed stare. You quickly turned away, hating that all of their attention was on you now. Just great. "Those are your new medical officers," he gestured to both you and your counterpart, earning him a few whispers and hushed conversations between the Na'vi hybrids. The heavily tattooed individual grunted loudly, expressing a clear distaste at the fact.

You watched as the one with the camo cap began to chuckle before leaning over to the tattooed female with the mohawk, gossiping something into her ear. Your eyes narrowed at her, hoping to God they weren't talking shit about you. The male medic next to you semed quite nervous himself, almost glistening with a faint sheen of sweat whenever the light hit his complexion. Oh man... what a great start. "This here is Mr. Ryan," Vasquez said confidently and clamped a hand on his shoulder before pulling you to his side with a toothy grin, "And this is Miss (y/n). They're going to do a quick checkup on your vitals before we make land on Pandora. Their status reports will affect your mission. If you have any further questions regarding any of that, feel free to ask them. Good luck and have fun," he said before departing, giving you a two-finger salute before vanishing out the door.

For a moment, you wished he hadn't abandoned you so soon, but as you stood there, again with the hundred yard stare, you instantly began pulling out your clipboard, training your eyes on the papers rather than the giant soldiers around you. Quaritch cleared his throat before stepping forward, closing in on your proximity. The heat practically rolled off of him. Almost radioactive in a sense. "Right. Welcome to the crew," he said as a deep rumble of chuckles resonated within the hall. You flicked your attention back on them, seeing as their expressions turned from scrutiny to amusement. The one with the hat flicked his chin toward Ryan, "So you get to touch us all around?" Ryan nodded cautiously, "Yes, in a sense. We need to do some physical checkups to make sure your bodies haven't mutated or caught any diseases on the way here and-"

"So you're gonna be cupping my big blue balls, too?" he said, making an obscene gesture as the team burst out in synchronized laughter. Mr Ryan pursed his lips in frustration. You felt his pain, it was nearly palpable.

You were so not ready for this... "Shut your horny mouth, Ja!" one of the female recoms hollered, smacking him on the back of his head.

Judging by the 'joke', you came to the conclusion that they were full-blooded jarheads. You sighed before ticking something off your clipboard. "And what about her? Is she good with her small hands?" At this your eyebrows twitched before you began searching for the miscreant of this statement. Seeing as the one with the bandana had crooked a finger at you. "Man, she does look cute tho... tiny lil thing. What's good, mama?" their banter continued, slapping and fist bumping each other, having the time of their lives. What a fucking farce - you thought to yourself begrudgingly. The behavior reminded you of teenagers experiencing the surge of hormones for the first time. You couldn't believe Vasquez had vouched for their professionalism. Perhaps he was in on the joke as well. "Shut your pie holes. They're here to help, not entertain you, you fucking lowlifes. Treat'em with respect or I'll have your ass handed back to the infirmary, you get me?!" Quaritch's voice boomed, immediately silencing the lively chatter among his subordinates.

Looking over at the colonel, you saw his hardened, chiseled features directed toward you with an unreadable expression. His pointed ears were tucked back against his head as he issued you a small nod. You repaid him with the same respect and inclined your head in acknowledgment before moving on to your first patient. "Brown?" you said, louder than originally intended before you flicked your gaze around the room, searching for any response. "Steven Brown?" you repeated with a bit more clarity. The mohawk lady merely snorted with arms folded, watching you as you searched for your first victim. Suddenly a blue hand lifted, alerting you of your designated recom, seeing that he looked a little less grim and intimidating. Although equally large, he seemed a bit more approachable, in your eyes at least. With that being said, it wasn't exactly a joyride pushing and squeezing yourself through, as some of them actively made an effort of staying rooted to the spot, entertained at your slight struggle. You could have sworn hearing someone wolf whistle at you but you pushed those thoughts aside when you reached your destination.

He was slightly shorter than the rest, not that you could tell right away as he was seated on one of the benches slightly hunched over, his posture overly lax. Much like the others, he sported that classical short military haircut and fade. "Alright doc, whaddya got for me?" he drawled with a certain bite. You decided not to overanalyze everything, as you were already extremely nervous. You meanwhile scribbled down all of the data before setting the clipboard down, looking him in the eye. He remained there, sitting there in silence, monitoring you with a peculiar glint playing in his topaz irises. "Alright, Mr. Brown, could you please stretch out your right arm? I need to take some samples and check your haemogram if that is alright with you," you explained as you flashed him a polite smile while the convos in the background resumed.

Brown simply nodded and muttered a small 'sure thing' before complying with your wishes. Once he extended his appendage, you got a chance to examine it closely - realizing just how large and sinewy his arm was. The texture was interesting too, differing not much from human skin, save for the lack of arm hair. "Finding a vein shouldn't be a problem," you jest before pulling out a small device for blood sampling. It was not a syringe, but a highly advanced gadget that locked down on the skin cell before drawing a bit of blood. "Alright, just let me disinfect this real quick..." you continued before wiping the spot with a small disinfectant wipe, clearing it from any bacteria. The feeling of his skin was curious, smooth yet somehow rougher to the touch compared to human flesh. Pandora's rough climates had evolved them to become perfect survivors as even their skin was harder to penetrate.  Brown tilted his head to the side, ears swiveling curiously when you placed the blood-letting machinery against the crook of his arm. A small pinch broke through his flesh, extracting only a few tiny droplets. "There we go, that's about it-" Before you could continue, however, you caught Brown sending you a mischievous wink. "Didn't hurt at all, doc."

"Got what ya need, Miss (y/n) or... did I get that right?" you felt blood rush to your cheeks, heating your face altogether. They were trying to rile you up on purpose now... "(Y/N) right, but just call me by my first name. No need for being formal," hoping it would somewhat diffuse the awkward tension between you and the recoms. However, things did not go as planned when Brown's brows lifted for a short moment before his ears rotated in your direction, more attentive than before. "Well good to know, (y/n), looking forward to working with ya," your breathing became heavy to his deliberate teasing as he allowed himself to lean forward. You nearly jumped at his sudden intrusion "So (y/n), what does my blood test say?" just then the analysis was completed, giving you a clear stats report on his bloodwork.

"So far so good... bloodwork looks normal. Cholesterol is in the green and.... well..." His face faltered a bit, "What?" "be sure to consume fewer sugary drinks or sweets but other than that, you're fine. Wouldn't want you to be the first adipose soldier on Pandora," his features continued to crack "You calling me fat, doc?" he said before warming up to a smirk. You leaned away from him to avoid his sudden boldness. "Nah, just reminding you to be on your best behavior if you want to keep up with the rest, alright?" Brown scoffed with a shake of his head as you took your clipboard with you, writing down all of the info as well as checking a few boxes. "I'll get back to you later, just need to do the same with.... uh.. Wainfleet?" you asked, squinting your eyes to spot someone a bit taller and a tad bit more athletic looking. He lacked hair, like some of the others as he wiggled his fingers at you flirtatiously, a crooked smile plastered on his lips. "The one and only," you grunted in affirmation, feeling some of the dread returning before you headed over.

A sudden ticklish sensation and force tugged at the crook of your knee, having you to stumble and nearly fall flat on your face. Walker clicked her tongue with a roll of her eyes, "Come on Kevin, leave the poor girl alone already!" Quaritch's nostrils flared when he caught Brown fucking with you. A move of his tail that hooked around your leg in order to trip you. "You better secure that shit, Brown before I clip that thing off, capiche?" He growled, causing Brown to stiffen immediately. Eventually, he lowered his head and ears ".... yes sir... sorry,"

You managed to calm your thundering heart as you eyeballed Brown with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. What an asshole. Is that how it was going to be all the time? Good lord... how much you began to regret signing up for this particular unit. "Mr. Wainfleet?" you said softly, approaching the man cautiously as he eyed you up and down with that same grin on his face.

"Call me Lyle, sweetums. Only my mother calls me Mr. Wainfleet. So.... here to check the goods? Or maybe even get a feel?" Lyle chuckled before flexing his built physique, making you watch his biceps bulge and swell. The action made your throat dry out like the Sahara desert. Just what in the world have you gotten yourself into...

[bucknastysbabe]

Kink Bingo - Praise Kink

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1, 765

Tags: Dead dove, WHUMP?, Hydra Trash Party, Mentioned rape, Dub-con, confused WS murder meow meow, hydra!handler!reader, praise kink, touch starved Buck, hand jobs, He’s Just Super Sensitive Blame The Serum, crying what’s new, she loves him in the worst way possible

A/N: I haven’t really written something dark like this in awhile so WARNING! The one Russian translation is thanks commander. Poor Bucky but he gets petted and praised by an insane Soviet for a little bit. Subtle Steeb reference at the end. Listened to gimme danger the entire time.

You leaned back in the stiff leather chair, waiting for your delivery. Strike team was bringing the asset to your office at some point. Your mouth pinched at the thought— they played too rough with the poor thing. Soldat was the fist of Hydra, not a common whore. You didn’t like the Americans very much, but Karpov had sent you along with the asset to get adjusted to being under Alexander Pierce’s control.

So you handled your precious boy until the Americans grew tired of you. They’d already beaten the little life the asset had left into a pulp. He was even more quiet and confused than in Siberia. You’d give him some peace before being discarded, hopefully by the greatest creation of Hydra.

The door opened, the young agent Rumlow shoving the asset inside with an irritated noise. You raised a brow at Soldat’s state— bloodied and bruised moreso than the average mission. Rumlow barked, “He didn’t listen, stupid fuck needs to get wiped again. Got punished, so stop looking at me like that Komandir.”

“Fuck off,” you hissed.

Rumlow slammed the door with a scoff. Your precious soldat stumbled forward dazedly. He knew the drill even between countless wipes, come report to the handler after a mission. Soldat limped forward and kneeled between your legs, wide blues looking up blankly. His nose was bruised, one of his eyes bloodshot and blackened.

You frowned and carded a gentle hand through his thick brown locks, sighing softly. His jaw twitched, throat bobbed. You stated, “Status report.”

His robotic reply came quickly, “Fractured left orbital, nasal fracture, broken anterior ribs nine and ten. Palatal Petechiae, anal fissure.”

You almost hissed at the last part. The strike team was a bunch of mongrel deviants, using the asset to sate their primal urges. With a coo you placed both hands on his cheeks, carefully thumbing over his black eye.

“Baby, poor baby,” you simpered. His wide eyes searched your face, glassing over with tears. You lied, “Those strike team boys are dogs. You’re just so pretty they can’t help themselves.” Soldat whined sadly through his swollen nose, guilty gaze flicking to the ground.

“I didn’t listen- I- I need maintenance,” he said.

He thought he deserved it. He probably didn’t, they just searched for ways to inflict torture. Nasty American pigs. You would make soldat feel better in the meantime. He loved praise and petting, baby was so touch starved. Vasily had taught you that about the asset. Said it makes him more obedient in close quarters because he gets so overstimulated and needy.

“Soldier,” you sweetly said, “You’ll get your maintenance soon. Let your handler take care of her precious star.”

You moved your hands to gently scratch at his scalp, frowning at the pieces that were obviously ripped out using force. You murmured, “How did they use you?” Soldat had to open his hazy eyes, almost purring at your ministrations.

“They used my anus and throat. Multiple members of Strike team Alpha,” he rasped oh-so-quiet. You bit back another hiss, focusing on untangling his dark locks.

You liked the way his English sounded. Your accent was thick and guttural. The asset’s English was soft-spoken, lilting, pretty. You knew it was his native tongue long ago. Pierce told you to stop speaking Russian with Soldat, who currently leaned into your touch, quivering muscles settling down. His injuries would be slowly knitting up— the bruises would be a couple of days, the broken bones a couple more.

Soldat was perfect like that. You ordered, “Just relax precious, if you can.” He nodded obediently, stable hands clasped behind. You worked on the multiple buckles and zips caging in his finely tuned body. Soldat’s titanium arm clicked and clacked in the quiet room, the only noise besides the hum of the A/C.

You peeled off the tight leather from his torso, sucking in a breath at the bruising. You sighed again, “My poor baby, they did a number hm?” He nodded slowly, lips trembling. You rubbed at the knots in his thick shoulders, the asset moaning softly. He never got very loud, but the cries and sniffles when he came were divine.

“Such a pretty angel baby, I know you did great, you always do.”

He vaguely nodded, a half-assed jerk of his pretty jaw. The soldier whimpered, “C-commander please.” His swollen red lips still pouted and shook, sobs threatening to rip out of his sore throat. You purred, “Do you want a reward soldier? Sweet baby.”

“Mhm,” he croaked.

You eyed his peaked nipples and straining bulge in his cargo pants. He had a pretty cock, flushed and thick, just huge, like the rest of him. You unbuckled his belt easily, sliding the pants down strong thighs. They even quivered under your attentions. You couldn’t help the quirk of your lips at soldat gasping when his swollen cock slapped his toned stomach.

You pressed soft kisses to his neck and jaw, wandering hands paying mind to the broken parts of his body. Awkwardly you ushered the naked asset up, leading him forward to sit on your desk. His thighs tantalizingly spread out when he sat down with a wince. You apologized, “So sorry sweet boy, I’ll make it better then you’ll get some rest.”

“спасибо командир,” he murmured.

You chided, lips ghosting over his own, “No Russian, remember baby? I know the Americans are confusing.”

His lips puckered eagerly, waiting for a kiss. You closed the distance, winding a hand into his long locks. You rubbed soothing circles while sharing his lips in slowed smacks. The asset liked everything slow, you figured it kept him relaxed. Nothing like the jackhammering cocks of the disgusting strike team.

He whined happily into your mouth, arching into your body. You smiled, sweet thing wanted his tits touched but wouldn’t dare to ask. So you did it for him, “You want me to play with your tits baby? My needy star.” He nodded frantically, chasing your lips to crash back against his.

You slid the hand from his hair and hip to rub wide circles on his built pecs.

Then you ran your thumbs in tight motions on his dusky nubs, so fucking gentle like your super-soldier pet would break. You knew he would if he could. The asset shivered, a thin whine of ‘commandeeerrr’ elicited instead. You clenched your thighs to dull the ache. You never fucked the asset. Just played with him until he got his sweet release.

You weren’t like the thugs here taking and taking. Soldat needed you like the oxygen in the air. He needed some sort of twisted love in his lonely life. You sucked on his tongue to abate the pang in your chest from the thought of abandoning your sweet boy.

Soldat’s arm shifted and whined in random intervals— signals just as overwhelmed as the rest of him. You kept up the assault on his nipples, the poor thing’s drool making your kiss grow sloppier and wetter. He mewled into the lazy movements, hands trembling. You murmured, “You can touch baby boy.”

You almost squeaked at the feeling of his big hands groping your ass. He tried to be gentle but soldat rarely knew his own strength. You’d cherish the usual mottling of your skin afterward. He brokenly panted, “Commander, feels…s’good. Thank you.” His dark lashes fluttered when you pinched his now swollen peaks, full lips hanging wide open in ecstasy.

“No need to thank me precious, I know my perfect boy needs it. Do you want me to play with your pretty cock?”

He let out a mournful noise— huge arms pulling you even closer. Soldat would probably latch onto you like a puppy if he didn’t have orders. He pled, “Will you, pl-please please.” The asset flushed and winced, expecting a slap for asking questions. You pressed your lips to his slick mouth and hummed, “I’ve got you, my star has such manners.”

You pulled back, his brows furrowing in distress at the absence of your mouth. You let your collected drool drip into your palm and wrapped it around engorged flesh. He cried out and bit down to stop the noise.

“Don’t hide your sweet sounds from me, I want to hear my precious boy.”

A choppy exhale of breath was your answer. He squirmed and sniffled as you methodically fucked your fist on his cock. Slow, slow, a rough twist on the head and your prize was trembling like a virgin. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, puffing hot breath on the thin cloth of your top. The asset babbled random words in different languages interspersed with the most breathtaking little sobs.

You slid your thumb around the extra sensitive frenulum, the sweet thing sniffling and wetting your shoulder with tears. He tried to speak, “K-Ko- hah, haaah, mmh, fuck!” Your other hand— once tight in his perfect hair slid down to cup his overfull sac. You squeezed at the heated flesh. Soldat muffled his wail, hands scrabbling at your body.

His back was painfully arched, you ordering him to relax some. He did with a pitiful mewl, soaking more tears into your turtleneck. You grinned at the tell-tale little sobs. He’d get so pitchy you felt bad for your simple little weapon, his throat probably hurt even more from the high sounds. You husked in his ear, “That’s it my good boy, singing so pretty for your commander, you needed it baby.”

He was rutting into your fist with abandon, the left arm going off with buzzing signals. You dug your thumb into his weeping slit, guided a gentle finger holding his balls to that loose skin behind. You pressed up and gasped when Soldat almost crushed you with his arms, shaking and coming apart at the seams. The asset couldn’t catch his breath, aborted tiny cries leaving his swollen throat.

He wept openly now— flushed member shooting rope after rope of white cum. He stained your already ruined top and flooded your fist. You pumped Soldat through the climax until he mewled and shied away. He seized your lips again passionately, pouring singleminded need into the action. You kissed the perfect asset back, pressing your tits against his broad chest. You wanted to steal him away in the moment, leave with the priceless thing and start anew somewhere.

But that wouldn’t happen. He’d realize you’re just as tainted as the rest of Hydra and probably kill you as his brain inevitably cleared up. So you’d enjoy your pliant, perfect toy for now. You mumbled against insistent lips, “Baby did so good, Commander loves you. Precious star.” He teared up again— not sure where he remembered another voice telling the asset that he was loved.

[aro-geo-turtle]

vibefwerui malevolent part 45 guysssssss. just... a hooded stranger appears at your camp in the night. he had done terrible things, speaks in riddles, and knows far too much about you. but you welcomed him to sit by your fire and you're just trying your best to do the right thing and so he offers you one of two options to take as a gift and help you on your journey...its such a primal, archetypal story beat and I LOVE THAT SHIT.

and i have been thinking about fire as a symbol for arthur for AGES. he's the nurturing warmth and the destructive blaze, passionate faith and wrathful anger, entrancing and burning, the phoenix who is struck down again and again and just keeps getting back up, his greatest enemy being the water. and the stuff in this episode, the fire, the sparks, the children, the hope, "I lit this fire," it adds sooooo many more layers!!! gah im going to be thinking about this for ages.

arthur saying that he doesn't deserve to die T_T and marking the difference between wanting someone to die and them deserving it T_T and FAROE WANTS HIM TO LIVE.

i'm also really worried mallam wasn't actually referring to yorik when he said "he isn't what he seems" especially after they were just talking about alexander. what if he's one of "mother darkness'" spies???

[deaderthandoubledead]

I have this deep primal urge to bite Alexander J Newall.

Nothing serious, just a lil chomp.

I think he deserves it.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Broadway Divas Tournament: Round 2A

Laura Linney (1964) "LAURA LINNEY (Diana) Broadway credits include My Name is Lucy Barton (Tony nom. dir. Richard Eyre): The Little Foxes (Tony nom.) Time Stands Still (Tony nom.) and Sight Unseen (Tony nom.) all directed by Daniel Sullivan at MTC. Other credits include Les Liaisons Dangereauses, The Crucible (Tony nom.), Uncle Vanya, Hedda Gabler, Honour, Holiday, The Seagull, Beggars in the House of Plenty, Six Degrees of Separation. Television credits: "Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City," "Ozark" (SAG, Emmy nom), "The Big C" (Emmy, Golden Globe Awards), "John Adams" (SAG, Golden Globe, Emmy Awards), "Frasier" (Emmy Award), "Wild Iris" (Emmy Award), "The Laramie Project," "Tales of the City" trilogy. Film: Falling, The Dinner, Nocturnal Animals, Sully, Sympathy for Delicious, Morning, The Details, The Savages (Oscar nom), Kinsey (Oscar nom), You Can Count on Me (Oscar nom), The Other Man, City of Your Final Destination, The Squid and the Whale, Jindabyne, Love Actually, Mystic River, The Nanny Diaries, Breach, Man of the Year, The Hottest State, Driving Lessons, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, P.S., The Life of David Gale, The Mothman Prophecies, Maze, The House of Mirth, The Truman Show, Absolute Power, Primal Fear, Congo, Lorenzo's Oil, Dave. Training: The Julliard School, Brown University. Member: AEA, SAG." - Playbill bio from Summer, 1976, June 2023.

Audra McDonald (1970) "AUDRA MCDONALD (Suzanne Alexander) is honored to take part in Adrienne Kennedy's historic and long overdue Broadway debut. A board member of Covenant House International and co-founder of Black Theatre United, McDonald is a singer, actor, and activist who lives in New York with her amazing husband and children." - Playbill bio from Ohio State Murders, December 2022.

NEW PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

"Do you ever think Laura Linney reads her playbill bio and cries? Does she dream of the day when she too will hold a Tony Award aloft in triumph, or has she resigned herself to being one of four actresses with the biggest fail rate and will one day hold the record outright? (Given that Estelle Parsons is in her nineties, Dana Ivey is in her eighties, and Jan Maxwell, my beloved, is dead?) Anyway, the point of this isn't to rub salt in the wound. Love you, Laura Linney."

"It's too mean to title this poll Biggest Tony Winner vs. Biggest Tony Loser but it's pretty damn accurate, and given the overwhelming whiteness of award shows overall, it's damn satisfying that the Black woman is the one with a record-breaking Tonys on her shelf and the white blonde woman is not (no matter how talented she is). Audra McDonald, my beloved, you're going to sweep this entire tournament."

[glassprism]

It’s probably harder to find Phantoms who have different takes on the character the longer the show ran, so who were some of the earliest phantoms who deviated noticeably from MC’s performances?

I think Colm Wilkinson comes first to mind; he very much feels like a Phantom who looked at Michael Crawford's interpretation and decided that, if Crawford veers right, then he's going to veer hard left; if Crawford goes up, he's going down. Wilkinson's Phantom feels very rough in his voice and body language whereas Crawford was more elegant and smooth; very raw and primal where Crawford was refined and vulnerable; and very sexual where Crawford was more sensual.

That being said, I think many of the early Phantoms did a fine job of distinguishing themselves from Crawford while still sticking to the template that he created. I think of Dave Willetts, who added a more unhinged veneer to his acting; Davis Gaines, Kevin Gray, Franc D'Ambrosio, Thomas James O'Leary, and Alexander Goebel, who kept Crawford's smooth elegance while adding more anger and twistedness; and Steve Barton, with his exquisite expression of deep longing and grief.

And then you have Masachika Ichimura, who looked at Michael Crawford and went, "I'm going to copy this man's every movement and vocal inflection, only in Japanese." You go, Ichimura.

[blueaetherr]

over and over

pairing: trent alexander-arnold x fem!reader [she/her]

warning(s): none

summary: the one where they find pleasure in a heartbreak song

now playing: love you too much by lucky daye

Sometime during the day, probably in the later afternoon, it was Y/N and Trent in their kitchen. Together– away from outward interaction, away from the distraction of their phones– the two daintily danced around the kitchen space, dishes discarded in the sink not too long ago. 

Joy was present in their laughter as they sang and hummed the lyrics of the song floating around the room, stepping on one another's toes from uncoordinated dancing, moving their bodies like there was no one watching. Those twirls and dips by Trent were delicate and deep as he watched the enjoyment constantly grow on his partner's face through a dimpled smile with every turn they took.

In simple, they were having the time of their lives, living in the moment with their unique activity that was actually quite primal. Nonetheless, such an activity created a space to nurture the couple's happiness that was so clear and whole with bright and loving glances galore. They found all this happiness in dancing to their favourite song, one dejected, hurting and shying away from the same happiness the two always seemed to find themselves in.

A bizarre sight perhaps; they found such happiness in a hurting love song so comfortably, waltzing to someone's words that were sad and in pain, whether justified or not, over love that couldn't be reciprocated no matter what they did, heartbroken over a relationship that just didn't seem to want to work out.

Yet here the two were, giggling and laughing with no care as they swayed slowly back and forth, hands roaming free over each other. Not only because they were carefree, but because they were so into one another as they shared some soft glances, sharing the reciprocated love the singer seemed to have lost, dancing with their love so open and stretching for miles beyond one could identify, love so delicate and nurturing and caring.

Where was the consideration, the compassion for the singer who was all in their feelings? The couple's intentions, fortunately, were innocent.

It was easy to get caught in any song, no matter what the genre or your preferred genre. If the voice was soothing and promising, if there was a certain word or line that interrupted your line of thought, if the composer did everything to make the song so compelling– even if it was heart rendering and its emotional nature was devastating– you couldn't help but allow yourself to be pulled in by it. To plug in your headphones or turn the speaker up and fall into the earth with a particular song that moved you in one way and many others seemed beautiful.

That's how it was for Y/N and Trent; they found beauty in those sad love songs.

But it was easy too to take songs out of context, and Trent was the first between them to do so. Songs often mentioned phrases he could say to Y/N, so it was inevitable for him to lose the true meaning of the song. His favourite line from the song was i love you so much. Why? Well, if he sang it directly to Y/N while they moved freely in the kitchen, it was absolutely true. And always would it remain true.

In truth, he loved her. From her personality and presence to her physicality and everything else inward, he was so caught up in her, so much that the original meaning of the song would get lost whenever he sang it to her during their unique activity. So caught up and too smitten—he couldn't find a reason to love her any less—he always felt the need to vocalise his thoughts, and i love you so much fit so perfectly every single time.

And when i love you so much was repeated over and over again, Trent couldn't help but fall in love with the song, even with its troubling roots. He couldn't help but listen to it over and over, sing the lyrics over and over when it came on the shuffle playlist. Hum it and she would look at him with a knowing look, shy up a bit as she would easily recognise what he was trying to say. When i love you so much and many other lines were in line with their relationship, sadness from the song became their pleasure.

Or maybe it was just an excuse for Trent to sing. While the two were dancing a bit clumsy and outward with their footing, while they were out for a walk. There was love between them and the song would forever remain Trent's reminder to Y/N of his love for her with a simple, or a few, i love you so much.