#from the right person and/or for a good enough price

[izumiphoenix]

I apologize if this is an old post and not relevant anymore, but I happened to stumble upon it and wanted to respectfully share my opinion.

I’m approaching this purely from the game’s point of view, since, after all, that’s how Astarion’s story is told. I haven’t really seen interviews or developer commentary yet, and while I think they’re a great addition, I believe it’s also valid to form an opinion based only on what the game itself shows.

In BG3, we don’t know for certain what kind of person Astarion was before. Even he doesn’t fully remember that himself.

From what I understand, there are two main interpretations: one - that he was a corrupt magistrate who abused power and paid the price; the other one - that he was someone who genuinely cared about justice and crossed the path of a powerful figure.

Personally, I think it could be both or something in between. Astarion is one of the most complex and well-written characters I’ve seen, and trying to fit him into a black-and-white scale feels too narrow for his story.

I imagine he was young, still figuring out who he was, watching the world around him and trying to find his place. He wasn't perfect, he made mistakes. Maybe he was careless, maybe selfish at times, but I don’t think he was cruel, not intentionally. He probably didn’t consider the consequences of his choices and decisions well. And he probably believed he had a whole life ahead. Not a saint, not evil - just human.

When we meet Astarion, he has a lot of learned cruelty within him and a desperate determination to survive by any means. But he also has this softness, warmth and hope inside, too. He is intelligent, perceptive, and understanding. And he genuinely looks for connection. If Astarion chooses not to ascend, that part of him starts to really shine. And I don’t believe that came from nowhere. I believe it survived, all that time, just like him.

That’s why I don’t believe Cazador’s abuse taught Astarion morality - quite the opposite, actually. It taught him fear, cynicism, and the idea that power is all that matters. He said it himself: that he prayed to all gods he could remember, begging them to save him. And no hero ever came to his rescue. In one of the early dialogues, he plainly stated that it’s foolish to believe in good and bad - there is only what is good or bad for him. And power gives you the right to do whatever you want. This is what he was made to believe under centuries of Cazador’s “teaching”.

And the PC isn’t some moral savior either. They don’t fix him. What they offer him a safe space. A space to be seen, to breathe, to choose who he wants to be. And Astarion chooses to be better. Not for anyone else, but for himself. He chooses kindness, redemption and love over power and fear.

The idea from the follow-up post, that Tav should someday dig up old court records to confront him and “humble” him into reflection... honestly, that isn't helpful. Bringing up Astarion’s possible misdeeds - things he can't even fully remember from a life long gone - feels more like punishment, coming from a Tav who sees themselves as his moral superior. He has already been dehumanized and tortured for centuries, and after all that, he still chooses to break the cycle, to seek connection, to love and be kind. Digging up a past he can’t change, after he’s already made that choice, just sends the message that he will never be good enough. That he will always need to be “put in his place.” That’s not healing, that’s control. And I believe Astarion deserves more than that. He deserves a partner who doesn’t try to keep him on the right path, but simply walks with him. Because he isn't something broken to be fixed - he deserves respect, trust and space to continue becoming who he chooses to be, without someone constantly holding his past over his head as a reminder of who they think he really is.

To be honest, I think it's good that the creators didn't tell us in the game what kind of person Astarion was before Cazador, because his story is not about who he was, but who he wants to be. But I don't think we should dismiss him either. We may not fully know the man buried in that grave, but he is still part of who Astarion is now. Just like Ascended Astarion is still him, too - twisted, afraid, desperately clinging to control. This is painful to see, but it’s another possible path, and it deserves to be acknowledged.

Astarion is layered, messy and beautiful in his contradictions. He shines through his scars. He isn’t good or bad, he’s human. And I believe we love him because of who he is, not in spite of it.

There is a level of deep, bitterly poetic and cruel irony in Astarion's death and his eventual fate as a vampire spawn. Laughable, even. Lamentable.

Where do I even begin. I once posted here my thoughts on who Astarion was before Cazador took him; and all my thoughts were based on what we can assume to be canon from scraps on information in - game and interviews with Neil. That Astarion Ancunin who was laid into the ground at Baldur's Gate cementary was a corrupt magistrate, a shining example of power abuse, indulgence, hedony, existence in privilege without any service to the world around.

We also know for a fact that Astarion is not a good person in a moral sense. Again, Neil Newbon himself talked about it. He has capability to grow, mature, open himself up, soak in the positive influence and feel for others, but he never will be the default upstanding type. That is simply not at his core.

This is why (I am aware we're talking a fictional character, headcanon is free to all in whichever way they think it suits and pleases them) I cannot for the world believe in all the fanfiction based on the notion of the tragic, tortured soul unjustly attacked and turned into a vampire, because to me - it misses the entire depth and essence of Astarion's personality and arc. He was not a "worthy" persona before Cazador; in fact, the beating he got from the Gur was well - deserved and the near - death experience... Probably so as well. Maybe if anything, this would open his eyes and force him to reflect at least a bit on his choices in the position he was occupying. (But given that he mentions begging Cazador to turn him to be able to take revenge, I highly doubt that.) So yeah... The man got what was coming to him. He deserved it.

But what he got in the end once Cazador allowed him to drink his blood and had him in his hold? Two hundred years of misery and abuse beyond description, being completely stripped of any identity and personhood? No one deserves that. Such fate should not be thrust upon anyone. Ever.

It is the cruellest, most wicked twist of fate that it took that kind of ordeal to change a corrupt little elf's view of the world and force him to even acknowledge the existence of evil deeds and abuse of power - something I am quite sure he never gave any thought to before. It took being transformed into an utterly helpless victim to make him truly see that there is good and bad and perpetuating the bad leads to pain and misery for the innocents (and you can never be sure if not for you as well), and only then, at his most pathetic, most vulnerable, after centuries of torment, it took meeting, trusting, admiring, being grateful to, befriending / loving and being influenced by a genuinely good and kind person (probably the exact opposite of who he was before) to shake and cause some shift in his inner moral compass, or rather the way he was choosing to use it. The full circle, a poignant, unwilling journey from the one abusing power, to the enslaved puppet of someone with considerably more power abusing it in the most inhuman ways possible, and this time to his own woe, to the one person able to break the abusive cycle given the right influence.

Isn't that simply poetic in the most sickly sense? A tragicomedy, if you will.

Forget about Astarion Ancunin. The grave was good for lovemaking and sharing an important moment, but whoever was laid there was not anyone worthy of your time (just like "Ascended Astarion" )The one who stands by your side now is. Your Astarion. The new Astarion, the same "lovable rogue" with a taste for theatrics, drama, debauchery, beauty, murder mayhem and loose morality, but - a better person all the same.

[follow up post here

https://www.tumblr.com/glitteryinknotes/733162725841289216/a-little-follow-up-to-my-previous-post?source=share]

[nixofwaterdeep]

Let Me Hear Your Voice (One Last Time)

In his line of work, John Price was all too familiar with death. He had watched the light in his fellow comrades' eyes disappear before them as they bleed out on the battlefield. Death was never easy but this one? It hit right at home.

John Price x Gender Neutral!Reader

2,171 words

CW: Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Established Relationship, Hurt/No Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Mentioned Age Difference, Referenced Canon Typical Violence

A/N: I had a big cry. Impulsively made this blog. Now I’m posting a fic I wrote earlier this month and posted on AO3. As one does. Hello, everyone! 😂

Being a Captain in the Special Air Services, John was well acquainted with death. Practically an old friend to him now after years and years of service. Not only had he taken the lives of his enemies, who likely had families of their own, but had lost his fellow comrades as well, good men whose lives were cut short. While the unsettling feeling that came with witnessing life leave one’s eyes never quite went away, John had learned to make his own peace with it, keeping the greater picture in mind.

His years of experience, though, never prepared him for the day when death would take a visit a little too close to home.

The day had started normally enough. While it wasn’t John’s preferred way to awake, having grown used to falling asleep and awakening with his partner curled up against his muscular chest, in between his arms that wrapped tightly around their waist, and face buried into their hair. Instead, he woke up alone, again, with not a single word from his partner since their last brief phone call a week ago and months since he last held them in his arms. He was used to it. It came with the territory when both of them were in the same line of work.

Much like any morning, John started with a cup of tea. He was never much of a tea drinker, despite the British stereotype. At least, that was until his partner came along. What started out as a mere means to get closer to Y/N in the early days turned into something that made him feel closer to them when they were apart. The smell, the taste, the warmth, it all reminded him of them.

Forcing his aching body out of bed, John started the kettle like usual, and began on his first cigar for the day. It was a rare day off for the Captain, and his movements reflected that. His fingers loosely held the end of his smoke as he languidly leaned against the kitchen counter, his eyes falling shut momentarily. His eyes only opened again when the kettle screeched, and he begrudgingly pushed himself to his full height, scooting closer to the hot pot. John's cigar hung from his lips while he made his tea, the side of his lips opening and closing with each puff of smoke.

Just as he finished making his tea, his work phone rang from the other room. For a moment, he thought about not answering, truthfully wanting to keep his only day off a day off. In the end, he abandoned his tea and quickly went for his phone. No one besides a select few individuals even had the number to begin with, so he answered without checking the caller ID, suspecting it to be either Shepherd or Laswell on the other side. The usual suspects.

“John.”

His gray-blue eyes widened then narrowed. Quickly finding his way to his desk, John sat down in the worn office chair, his untouched tea long forgotten with a surge of energy pumping through his body. John’s work phone was for emergencies only, and they knew this. In all the years the two had known each other, Y/N had only ever called this number once, the remainder of their calls being on their personal cells.

Something wasn’t right.

“Love? Is everything alright?” He purposefully kept his voice even when he spoke, listening for anything and everything to give some sort of indicator what his partner’s situation was.

There was no yelling, gunshots, or anything in the background, it was purely silent. Y/N, however, didn’t sound like their usual self. Their usually melodic way of saying his name was short and strained, their voice in a lower register than they’d naturally speak in.

“Just peachy.” Y/N replied, grunting quietly as they positioned themselves against the nearby wall.

Their unoccupied hand clutched their abdomen, cringing with every slight movement. Thick crimson liquid continued to gush out, coating anything that it came into contact with, the desert cameo cladding their body no longer the color it was when they slipped it on that morning. Briefly, they lifted their hand and clicked their tongue. Their eyes flickered over to the dead soldier at their feet, their facial features furrowing into something ugly, one the person on the other side of the line would likely make fun of if he were there and under a different scenario.

“...Just calling to check in.”

John's brows knitted together. While they attempted to cover their moans and groans, pulling the phone away from their lips with every small movement, John could hear everything. He slowly took a deep breath and released it, his eyes squeezing shut, not entirely prepared to have the conversation they were about to have. Not only was it too early in the morning, but it wasn't exactly one he desired to have with them. The one who he had purchased a pretty little silver band he purchased with their mother's assistance sitting in his dresser merely waiting for their return. The one who he intended to never let go again, if he could help it, when they returned.

“How broken are you, love?”

"What do you mean?" Y/N weakly laughed, triggering a groan that followed closely behind.

"Love." He warned in a low voice.

They sighed. The line went silent for a moment, their breathing growing a hair more ragged than before, biting back a harsh cough.

"What gave it away?" They managed out before the cough they were desperately holding back slipped out.

The deep, harsh cough made them both cringe. The Captain didn't need to be there to know what that specific type of cough meant. If John were a betting man, he'd guess there was blood coating their plush bottom lip and chin, maybe a little bit coating their gloved hand or the front of their tactical vest.

"Never could hide anything from you." Y/N continued after coughing a few more times, the corners of their lips turning upward recalling similar times they've previously had together.

"It comes with age." He retorted, playing along for now.

"You're not that much older, John."

"It's enough."

There was a brief pause. The silence that fell over them was suffocating, neither quite wanting to face the reality of the situation head on, to get to the meat of the matter. With each painful breath Y/N took and their breath growing more rigged by the minute, the Captain side of John took over. Mostly.

"Are you safe?"

"For now." There was an unnaturally long pause in between their sentences, the muscles in their throat constricting their airway, screaming for them to not continue. They continued anyway, hoarse voice and all. "Those who were able, were able to exfil successfully. The mission was a success."

"And they just left you?” John found himself saying, the words leaving his lips before he could process what was coming out.

“John—“

“I know… I know.” Running a hand through his short, unkempt hair, he sighed. "How bad is it?"

Silence.

"Love?"

"I-I…" they paused. Their lips opened and then closed, repeating the motion over and over again. Their lips opened once more, the words they needed to force out at the tip of their tongue only to be forced away with another round of rough coughing. Patiently they waited for the fit to subside before trying again. "I don't think I'm coming home, John."

John could've swore his heart stopped in the moment. From the moment he heard their voice on the other side of line deep down he knew it was a possibility. That still did not change how hard the words were to swallow when they finally hit his ears and was forced to sit with such information.

"I really called because I wanted to hear your voice. One last time."

"Love—"

"Don't." They interrupted weakly, already know what he was going to say. "I know my fate. I don't need any false hope. I just want my final moments to be with you, even if it is only over call."

John's facial features scrunched together, doing everything in his power to fight his instincts when it came to Y/N. His brain was saying one thing while his body was saying another, fighting for dominance inside him, and it was painful to push down everything his body was telling him to do. Reassure them. Call Shepherd, Y/N's superior, anyone who had the possible power to get them out of the battlefield and into the hands of a medic. Hell, rush there himself. Anything.

John's free hand rested across the chair's armrest. His fingers curled around the long, thin material, clinging to it until his knuckles were white.

"Tell me about what you have been doing while I've been gone." Y/N's weak voice snapped him out of his head, drawing his attention back to them.

He noted the shallowness of their breathing now and the lack of power behind their voice. He sighed.

If he could do one thing, at the very least he could do this.

"Your mum dropped by this week. Spent some time with her."

"That must've been nice… how did it go?"

"Well enough. Treated her to lunch. She begged to visit that cafe you love so much."

Y/N gasped. At least, attempted to.

"Without me?"

John hummed.

"Told her we'll have all go again when we're all in town." He paused, forcing the growing pain in his chest away. "We did swing by one place while we were out."

"Where… did you go?"

"You remember that place at the corner of main street?"

The line went silent. The silence was deafening with not even the sound of Y/N's breathing coming across the call. The worst crept at the edge of John's mind, suspecting that he was out of time already, before he gotten the chance to tell them. His worries briefly dissipated when a faint hum finally came through.

"That's a… a jewelry store. What were- ahem, you doing at a jewelry store?"

Releasing the armrest from his grasp, John hoisted himself up onto his feet. With large and quick paces he quickly return back to their bedroom where he immediately reached for the drawers on his side. Just buried beneath a layer of socks was a small, red velvet box. His thumb popped open the box, his gaze locking on the simplistic band. Engraved on the inner band were their initials and the day John asked Y/N out on their first date.

"I bought a little something. For you, actually."

Awkwardly he cleared his throat, his mouth and throat feeling dry all the sudden. This was it. This was his one and only chance.

"An engagement ring."

There was another beat of silence.

"E-Engagement ring? John, we're not… wait?"

John let out a bitter chuckle.

"John."

"Was going to surprise you when you got home. Take you to that French restaurant you like, then the park with that pond with all the geese. They're all assholes, by the way."

A faint chuckle reached John's ears.

"I like them. They remind me of you."

"I resent that." He retorted, furrowing his brows slightly.

John ran his thumb along the band, the pain in his chest growing to an unprecedented amount. This moment was supposed to be one of the highlights of their lives. Not marking the end of theirs. It just wasn't right. Why did it have to be them? If it had to be one of them, why not him instead?

"I was going to pay to feed those damned birds, then take a stroll around the park. When the right moment stroke, get down on my knee. …I'm not good with all that mushy stuff, as you know, but, I was working on something to say for that moment. At the end I would ask."

"…Ask me."

He choked.

"Now?"

"Now."

There was another moment of silence. John removed the ring from its casing, rotating it slowly between his index finger and thumb, studying the unworn band for the hundredth time. He released a sigh, his breath hitching slightly as it left his mouth.

"It's unconventional but… Y/N L/N, will you marry me?"

Y/N's breathing was sharp and short by then. Remaining conscious had become a more and more difficult task with each passing moment. With everything they had left in them, Y/N nodded their head and managed out a short, tear filled answer.

"Yes. I-I'll marry you… I… l-love you."

"I love you too, Y/N."

John's voice fell on deaf ears. Shortly after Y/N accepted his proposal, a rough thud could be heard from the other side of the line before going dead. No matter how many times John tried to call back, the call was never answered, leaving him only the sound of the default voicemail message to answer his frantic calls.

[crystalprofessor-archive]

growing increasingly concerned by kris' willingness to become a mad scientist

[gamebunny-advance]

On Today's Episode of Sammy Only Plays Mediocre Games: "Sensei! I Like You So Much!"

AKA "Fangirl Simulator", AKA "Sensuki"

Originally, this post was written as like a full "game journalist" style deep-dive, but I wanted to cut it back and just talk about my experience with this interesting little game that I found. If you wanna see what the gameplay loop is like, you're better off watching a let's play and deciding from that if this is the kinda game for you.

So, I actually found out about this game while stalking the Ita Bag subreddit, where the creators promoted the ita bag feature in the game. As someone who likes decorating things both IRL and virtually (hence why I was stalking that subreddit), I thought it sounded interesting enough to check out. So shortly after getting the game on a whim with some Christmas money, I got addicted to it for a couple of days before dropping it for about a month and then coming back to write this post.

Anyway, the gist of it is that it's a management sim/visual novel where you play as a fangirl, making friends with other fangirls by writing fanfic and making merch of your OTP.

And when I say "your OTP," I mean your OTP. You can't customize the player character outside of her name and online handle, but you can customize the characters she (and her friends) ship through the in-game character creator.

I did my first play through with R.O.B. & Watch (becauseIwastoolazytodrawandimportpartstomakeTatiKliff).

As a "game" I don't know if I'd call it "fun" exactly. As someone who easily slips into doing menial tasks in games, I did find a rhythm to the management part of the game as I debated against writing fics that would be popular vs. finishing my commissions, and I'll always love decorating virtual spaces with cute knick-knacks, especially if I get to personally design said knick-knacks.

But, it being a buggy early-access game with a shoddy English translation did hinder my enjoyment on occasion. I don't think a game can do anything more to sour your opinion of it than to *make you lose all of your save data trying to troubleshoot it~

*Strictly speaking, the game didn't *make* me do that, it's just one of the last resorts I went through to try and fix the bug, and that didn't even work.

Things like that piling up took what would have been a 7 out of 10 game to a 6 or 5 in its current state.

All that said, I still had a good time (before losing my save) because where it lacks in being a good game, it makes up for by actually being the ultimate "rare pair simulator". Because when your ships have zero content, you'll really take whatever you can get XP.

For me, it was very amusing to experience a world where something like ROB & Watch matters to people and I get to read all the cheesy fanfic that never got to exist for it.

Slight spoilers for the main story, but I just couldn't replicate my (internal) laughter from one of the characters starting fandom drama because they originally rooted for the "rival ship" and me thinking, "Oh, she's a Pac & Watch enjoyer. XD". That's something that could only happen in a game like this.

For people who's OTPs are popular and already have an abundance of fan content out there, I don't think this game will have much to offer you that couldn't be accomplished by just *being* a fangirl (gender-neutral) IRL and consuming the fan content that already exists. But if you like any sort of ship that's niche, whether due to unpopularity, self-shipping, or heck, you can throw your OCs in there too if you really want to, I think that you might find a game like this to be at the very least amusing.

This is a game that's really going to benefit from custom content that just doesn't exist while the game's audience is in its infancy. But I truly think that it has the potential to be something really special with enough time and development, and I leave it up to you if that's a gamble you want to take.

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

Other thoughts:

There was actually a recent update that added a bunch of features that really upped the customization features, added a few minigames, and even a new "tamagotchi mode" where you can leave your ship idle on your screen while you do other stuff.

I haven't gotten to mess with all the new stuff in depth, but the addition of these kinds of features tells me that they're really committing to the bit of making a space where you can do anything you want with your blorbos in a single package~ If they could just iron out all the bugs, improve the translation, and add a "free play" mode, this game could be amazing.

Speaking of... the other little things that bug me:

Even though you can set the character's gender and pronouns, the stories don't always use them properly. This seems to be a programming error which might have happened due to the shoddy translation, but I do hope this gets fixed on final release.

Similarly, for most of the illustrations, they currently don't have alternate outfits which change with gender. Most of them are neutral so it doesn't matter too much, but there are a few which are clearly femme/masc which may be bothersome for some ships/characters.

I know it's a small team, and that's what stock materials are for, but I hope this team can pull together enough funding to hire (besides a proper translator) a composer and another artist. I would love to hear some original music because there aren't a lot of songs in the game, and the few we do have get grating after a while. I ended up muting the music entirely in the first few hours of playing it.

I say another artist not because the current ones are bad, but because for the new minigames they added, they are clearly using stock images for the assets, so I dunno if their current artists just weren't getting paid enough to make the assets, or if they're just placeholder while the artist makes new assets to replace them. Given that most of the artists in the credits are listed as "cooperating organizations", I get the feeling that most of the art in the game was on a by commission basis rather than having an in-house artist that gets paid to make assets.

I know that these are just little side things, but the cohesion of the entire product should be pretty important, so while I think all the new stuff is neat, there's still some polish that could be added.

[tactful-kind-daedra]

"I also don't have as much storage space," the redhead teased. "It's very rare I don't have leftovers in some manner! Though I suppose if I can finish a whole portion somewhere, it's safe to assume the establishment isn't very generous with portion size!"

Or it was a very, very fancy restaurant! Daedra had heard of the more high class places giving out what seemed like a single piece of something as a portion. That was all well beyond her means though. Frankly she'd rather have something tasty and well priced than something overly posh and elite, anyday!

"Even if your alfredo is very filling, only half didn't look to be nearly enough, plus I still wanted to make sure you had something for later." She was hoping that it being so convenient and there would ensure Emmet made sure to eat. it seemed he'd already forgotten for much of today already... though she wasn't going to hound him on it. Yet, anyway...

Lulu offered her own comments, looking rather pleased herself. Daedra never had to worry much with anything on her end going to waste. Pendra and Lulu were always happy for the occasional 'human food'. It was always a treat~

With everyone settling into their meals, Emmet set the movie to play. The movie was a relatively engaging action flick, and Daedra was able to follow it along in between her dainty bites of pasta. She occasionally asked Emmet a question or two, when something concerning the railway or similar flew by her too quickly. He was the expert, afterall~

Lulu was also enjoying it, as hint from her tail wagging. The Lucario enjoyed television, as it was a form of entertainment that didn't leave her spoiled. She'd always gotten 'readings' during live plays and contests, but with television and books, she couldn't read anyone in the flat box~ She could be properly surprised at the right time!

Daedra was the last to finish her plate, which was usually the norm. Neatly stacking her utensils, she took Lulu's and stacked all of them neatly with Emmet's, to ensure clean up ease for later. Just little habits she always seemed to have. She was just settling comfortably into the back of the couch when she heard Emmet's question.

"Oh-- I didn't mean to stare at them earlier," the redhead flushed a light red shade, looking a bit sheepish. She hadn't realized it had been noticeable. "I was more taken by surprise, honestly! But--- you don't have to tell me, if you'd prefer not to. Everyone has their scars... and their secrets."

Daedra also knew there would be little for him to say that would change her opinion on him. He was her friend, and she knew he was a good person. That's all that mattered in her mind.

While she had averted her gaze Emmet did catch the tail end of her looking him over and was confused. Why had she done that? Then his own eyes catch his bare arms and he tenses. Oh right. How could he forget that?! He could also feel the curiosity coming off her but he wasn't entirely sure how to respond to it. Thankfully she doesn't ask and merely stays on the topic of food.

"Oh I see. Heh heh, guess they really do give you a lot of food at that place. Thank you then for sharing, now that Emmet can smell it I think I realized I was a bit hungrier than I thought originally." He gives her a little embarrassed laugh as he gets comfortable on the couch. Once Eevee is settled against him he grabs the remote and looks over to Daedra.

"That's honestly fair. And you would think Emmet would cheer for the train but actually I cheer for the conductors! You'll see why as we watch."

He grins to her and pushes play before grabbing his plate and starts to eat his meal. It was interesting having the two pastas mixing along with the meatballs but it wasn't terrible. In fact it was a fairly tasty combo. Thankfully for him the movie is a good distraction from his wandering thoughts and he's able to focus upon it instead of the looming fact of his missing brother. It was nice to have a break from that actually. Once done he places his plate back on the coffee table and curls up with Eevee in his lap in order to watch the movie.

However there was something he felt he should clear up, "Emmet saw you notice them by the way... The scars. Were you curious about them?"

[theskyexists]

Ok looked at all the vampire f/f books listed on sappfic.com or whatever and. Thats not a lot comparatively and also I had an idea! Who wants to read the one scene i already wrote for it

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x dc: batshit crazy driver au.

Bruce hired a new personal driver for the Wayne's. He was a nice enough guy. His grades weren't great, but he was a great driver and very patient. Like, really patient. Like, he is so unbothered by traffic, stupid drivers, and villain attacks, its kinda scary. But all the background checks came back clean. Minus his mad scientists parents, of course.

Daniel (Danny) Fenton. He could relate to any of the Wayne kids and hold an intelligent conversation with Bruce. Bruce feels that he doesn't need to be all Brucie Wayne around the young man. He doesn't know about their nightly activities yet, though. They're not quite sure if he even needs to know.

The first sign there was something more to Danny happened when Tim was sitting in the passenger seat. Tim was struggling with a math problem. It was driving him nuts. It only took a quick glance for Daniel to solve it, though, "it's thirty-six"

"What?"

"The answer is Thirty-six. You forgot to carry the three."

"Huh..."

He was right, Tim made a simple mistake, sure. But that was advanced college level math. Danny was a straight c student and never went to college. It only took him a momentary glance to solve it. Tim, though suspicious, chalked it up to a simple case of gifted kid syndrome. He related to it and began to consult with Danny on some of his math problems. Danny was more than happy to help, for a price, of course.

Then, there was a villain attack. The villain's goons ran rampant through the city, terrorizing anyone unfortunate enough to be outside at the time. But not Danny, they'll tried, oooh they tried. But those goons swiftly found themselves zip tied, in the trunk of a car, and on their way to jail. All while Danny blasted some music by a small artist named 'Ember'.

Alright. He is in Gotham, and his mother was a black belt, so maybe he was just well trained. Its good to know how to deffend yourself.

Then, Damien was kidnapped. It was so fast they barely saw, but a white van sped by and grabbed Damien as he made his way tawords the car. Initially, Damien expected the chauffeur to panic and call the police. But when shouting and cursing were heard from the front seat, and the men in the back slipped the van door open to check behind them, it was revealed Danny had followed them and he had a gun.

What could only be described as an action movie chase scene ensued. Every corner they swerved, every shortcut they took, Danny was right behind them. Driving like a bat out of hell, he shouted and fired at the wheels of the van. Knocking one out, the van swerved and was forced to come to a stop.

A kidnapper grabbed Damien by the hair and held a gun to his head, but before the threat could even leave his mouth a bullet flew through his hand. He dropped Damien and fell to the ground screaming, clutching his hand.

The kidnapper in the van already took off running but was swiftly stopped by Redhood arriving just in time to see Danny helping Damien up and checking him over, profusely apologizing for "letting this happen."

When asked why he did all of it, his simply answered, "I don't think I would get paid if I let Mr. Wayne's kid die! I can't let a kid die in general!"

Bruce, of course, gave the young man a bonus and a few days off for the stunt. Accompanied wlth a few stern words about safety. What was truly remarkable was that there was not a single scratch on the car. Untouched, meaning he never hit anything during the whole ordeal. "I just learned what not to do from my dad!" He joked, but Bruce felt that, despite the clear joking tone, there was some truth to the statement.

The family is suspicious, very suspicious. The man they previously viewed as their simple and humble driver turned out to be a monster of a fighter, and they have no idea how or why.

----------------------‐------

A/N: Feel free to add onto this in any way you would like :3

[beloveds-embrace]

(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)

The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.

Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.

So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:

(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.

Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.

“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”

Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”

Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s cheeky.”

“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.

There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”

You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.

“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.

(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.

Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”

And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.

Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:

For the spookiest boy.

He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.

And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:

WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.

Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”

Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.

One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.

“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.

On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:

(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.

And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.

Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He groans. “She’s messing with me.”

“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.

Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”

Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.

“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.

Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.

“Five by five, Captain.”

There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”

Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”

Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”

“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”

Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.

“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”

Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.

“Price, your six.”

The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.

“Soap, slow down.”

“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”

“Clearly.”

“…Shut up.”

With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.

When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:

(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.

They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.

They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.

But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[burningcomputerpersona]

also how is it that spanish love songs has such good merch??? i don't think I've ever been to a show before where I had to struggle so hard to pick just one thing, like in a lot of cases there's only really one thing that appeals to me or I just get something bc i love the band and need to have them on me regardless of what the design looks like. but i was spending ages just staring at the merch stand trying to pick one out of alllll the things i wanted

[hyperlexichypatia]

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad at baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYZ doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[lay-z]

Things you shouldn’t say around Task Force 141, unless you know how to deal with the consequences.

It’s a rare lazy day at the 141 HQ on base in Hereford.

Lazy for you, at the very least, due to an upcoming long holiday weekend and the blessing of being one if not the most efficient secretary around. 

Days like this mean it’s time for some groundwork, cleaning up messes from the past weeks, and doing all the filing you’ve been procrastinating for longer than you’d like to admit. 

But they also mean that either your boss or one of his men will approach you to ask for your lunch order at some point—more than happy to indulge in some much-needed downtime between training and paperwork. 

While Captain Price sits behind his desk with you standing next to him, signing some documents for you, the other three men all lounge around the room like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves if no orders are given. 

Kyle and Johnny manspreading on the leather couch in the corner, Simon is standing by the open window with his mask rucked up and a ciggy dangling between his gloved fingers. 

“What about shawarma? Haven’t had tha’ in a while,” Kyle suggests, scrolling on his phone as he continues to look for restaurants and chip shops nearby. 

Johnny groans next to him. “Aye, ’s good, but gives me the farts–” A loud smack. “Ow!” Your eyes flit up with furrowed brows, holding out another document to the captain. 

“Bruh.” Kyle kisses his teeth snidely, shaking his head as he drops his hand again while Johnny rubs the rapidly flushing nape of his neck. “There’s a lady present, Soap.” 

Simon snorts, flicking ash out of the window before taking another drag. 

“Muppets,” Price mutters under his breath as he takes the next document from your hold. 

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish— 

Giving you a fat baby, each, and four men utterly obsessed with you along with them. 

[succubusvalentine]

Knight!Simon Riley with a bratty princess reader. CW : Small mentions of violence, fingering, unprotected sex, hate sex(?), Edging, Begging.

Faulds - a piece of plate armor worn below a breastplate to protect the waist and hips.

Cigarettes - 'poor mans smokes', or cigarillos, were some of the first cigarettes made of discarded cigar butts (circa sixteenth century).

Knightage - list of knights.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Simon Riley swore his life to the crown.

He had grown up in a world of violence, where problems were solved with fists, not words. By age twelve, Simons father had broken his nose four times. Leaving a scar and causing his nose to crook at an awkward angle.

He'd won the kingdom multiple battles, even a war in his early days.

Simon Riley was held in a high regard within the knightage, known for his ruthlessness and brutality in the world of war. Simon had quickly become a commander due to his history and loyalty to the crown.

So imagine his surprise when his Grand Cross, Sir John Price, informed him that he would be looking after you, the princess.

Simon protested heavily. He understood that you had recently had an assassination attempt against you, but he did not want to deal with you.

He'd heard the murmurs. That you were impossible to deal with. that you were an absolute brat. Believing you deserved anything and everything due to your birth status.

But he knew he couldn't go against the word of the Grand Cross.

Simons first day with you was hell on Earth. You were insufferable to be around. Always demanding things from Simon and making him carry things around the castle for you.

And after being your personal guard - and assistant - for over four months, he utterly despised you.

You'd get this whiny tone about you. Complain about doing anything and everything. This pouty look. By the Gods, Simon hated it all.

It all came to a head when you and Simon were at the winter solstice ball. You'd been annoying him all night, and when you said that you wanted another one of the knights to replace him? You were in for it.

Simon dragged you from the ballroom, not even making it to your chambers, but instead the empty library.

You'd never seen him so angry. The way he roared at you, his hot breath against your face.

Then you were spun and bent over a lounge chair. Your gown being lifted and panties being ripped off by Simons rough fingers. You don't see him tug off his gauntlet.

"What are you doing you big oaf-ah!" You gasped, two thick fingers filling you and pressing downwards. Causing your hips to jolt and press back against the pleasure.

It felt far better than anything you'd felt before. Biting your bottom lip in an attempt to silence your moans.

Simon had you hurtling towards the edge of bliss, but right as you began to tip over, he pulled his fingers out.

"What the fuck?!" You shouted in that familiar bratty voice that was honestly turning Simon on. Not annoying him like usual.

"You thought you'd come with the attitude you've been giving me Princess?" Simon growled, almost tearing the leather straps on his armour as he pulled off his faulds. Keeping the rest of his armour in tact.

Simon pulled his thick ruddy cock from his drawls, slicking himself up using the mess between your thighs and the remnants of it left on his fingers and palm.

He then pushed himself inside of you. Your hot cunt tightening as he bottomed out.

The moment he began thrusting, Your head fell forward as a moan tore from your throat. It felt incredible. Simon kept a good rhythm, quickly tilting your hips so that he would brush against your g spot with every thrust.

Your eyes rolled back as you began to tip over that edge, only for Simon to pull you back from it by slowing down to an excruciatingly slow pace.

You were about to protest, when Simon spoke. "Apologise."

"What?!"

"Apologise Princess, for acting like a fucking brat these past few months. If you do good enough, I might let you come" Simon growled.

You rolled your eyes, Clenching your fists for a moment. Believing Simon would give you what you wanted. You were the Princess, daughter of the crown he swore to protect and serve. Surely he would just give you what you wanted.

But no, Simon kept his snail like pace.

"Please" you murmur weakly.

"What was that?"

"I said please! 'm sorry for being a brat, okay?!" you almost shout, a small scream of pleasure coming from you as Simon gripped your hips tightly and began thrusting at that heavenly pace once more.

"Why are you such a brat, hm?"

"Because!" you whine, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Simon beginning to slow his hips again. "Because I wanted your attention!" You gasp, squealing as Simon started to move faster and now rub your clit at the same time.

"Gonna come! Gonna come gonna come gonna come!" You cry out, Arching your back as you came, legs shaking.

Not long after, you felt Simon pull out and finish on your thighs and ass. Claiming you.

You felt like jello as Simon moved you to lie on the cool tile in front of the fireplace, the two of you out of breath.

"This isn't going to stop me from being a brat, you know" you murmured stubbornly, Simon chuckling as he pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it.

"Wasn't betting on it, Princess"

Not like he wanted you to stop, anyway.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Oh, oh, oh, Val did her research. Val made sure stuff is mostly historically accurate. VAL IS THE COOLEST.

(I'm Val if you couldn't tell).

[nerdygirlramblings]

baby trapping(?) the 141

inspired by this post from @beloveds-embrace

It was an open secret on base that the 141 were together together. You'd occasionally see one of them - usually Gaz, sometimes Price, often Soap, never Ghost - taking someone to their barracks after a night out. You'd watch them pick up men and women, soldiers and civvies, fit and plush, but never the same person twice.

Whoever was lucky enough to join one of the 141 for a night always looked well-fucked the next day. And every one of them was tight-lipped about what happened. They'd never even confirm if sex was had, despite how obvious it was.

You're out at the pub when the 141 come crashing through the door. You heard they'd gotten in this afternoon, back from a semi-succesful mission: no one injured, intel collected, bad guys still at large. You didn't expect them to be out tonight, had figured they'd be tired or stuck in debriefs for a while.

It's clear right away they're on the hunt. Soap sidles up to two women at the bar sipping something pink in a martini glass, arms draping quickly over their shoulders. Gaz laughs as he joins a few guys playing darts, smile a little too calculated.

You're surprised when Price and Ghost are sat on either side of you.

Price nods to the bartender, who puts down a pint of something dark in front of him and Ghost, gestures to you, and says, "Amaretto sour for her." You have no idea how he knows your favorite drink. You didn't think he even knew who you were. He glances at you from the corner of his eye and asks, "'avin a good time, doll?"

You really have no idea how to respond to that. You try, and fail, to make small talk without making a fool of yourself, but it's hard when Ghost keeps chuckling - at you, not with you. He's slipped his mask up only enough to sip his stout and you try not to stare at the small glimpses you get of his face.

A few drinks later, Price puts his large hand on your knee, and you feel the warmth penetrate your slacks. "Seen you on base, doll. Glad to find you here tonight." To say you're shocked is an understatement. "What say we head out, yeah?" He drops a few notes on the bar and gently steers you up and off your barstool. You feel Ghost stand up on your other side.

As Price herds you to the door, you notice Soap and Gaz have abandoned the people they were with and have fallen into step with your little group. They get you into their vehicle, snug in the backseat between Soap and Kyle while Price drives.

Soap leans his shoulder against yours and puts his mouth to your ear. "Lass, 'm sure glad we saw you. Been hopin' fur it fur weeks." You feel the blood rush to your cheeks. Gaz drapes his arm across the seatback, heat radiating across your neck, but he doesn't touch you. Instead, you see him run his fingers through Soap's mohawk, and you squeeze your thighs together a little. You never thought something like, well, whatever this looks like, would be something you would be part of.

You're back at their barracks faster than you thought possible. Getting past the door and through the common areas is a blur. Instead your brain stutters on the feel of Price's mouth on yours, his beard scraping against your cheek and neck as he kisses down your throat.

There are hands at your waist, unbuttoning your trousers and sliding them and your underwear down your legs. Another set of hands is tugging your shirt up over your head. Once you're naked you feel multiple sets of lips kiss and nip: teeth tug on your ear, a tongue laves against a nipple, stubble rubs along your inner thigh. Big hands, fingers rough with callouses and bluntly bitten nails, roam your body. And through it all the praises whispered "good girl" and "so sweet" and "made fer us" carry you into oblivion.

It never occurred to you the 141 were the Three Musketeers: anyone they brought back was one for all and all for one. You understand why those before you believed in "don't kiss and tell." You leave their barracks feeling shell-shocked. It carries you home and into work the next day, where you fully expect things to go back to normal.

And they do. Mostly. Until a vase shows up on your desk two days later with nothing but a bar of soap on the card. The blooms are your birth month flower. Two more days pass before you hear Price's voice in the hallway. You peek your head out as he turns your way, and his smile beams. "There you are, doll. Brought your favorite," he says, holding take away. And not only is it your favorite dish from your favorite cuisine, its from the little shop you like best in town.

You really know something's different when Friday rolls around. Gaz corners you as you leave medical, and before you realize what you've agreed to, you're following him into the 141's barracks.

This is unheard of. They never bring the same person back twice. You don't plan to question it, though, just ride it out as long as they're interested. Six weeks of wooing - you couldn't think of another word for the presents and flowers and meals and conversations and the sex, god the sex - fly past before Price breaks the news of their impending deployment.

They ask you to wait for them, to be part of them, when they get back. It's on the tip of your tongue to say yes. You want this, you want them, but you hesitate. They've always been the 141, and you're an outsider. You leave your response vague and hope they hear the desire in your tone.

A month into their deployment and you're struggling to sleep. You can't keep food down. You regret how open you left things. But it's more than that. An itch in the back of your brain drives you to ask a nurse friend on base to discretely check your hCG levels. The response is what you hoped feared.

You don't know how you'll face them if they ever return. You were worried about getting between them before, but this is ten times worse. You can't imagine how this will change how they are with each other. You're carrying someone's baby. It never occurs to you to do anything other than raise it yourself.

You make it on base another two months, and there's no word about the 141. But as you begin to show, rumors start dogging your steps. People knew you'd been involved with various members of the 141 before they'd deployed. Now they're whispering about whether you even know who the father is.

As a civilian employee, you're a contractor on base, so you simply ask your employer to find you a job in town. You want to leave entirely, but your heart won't let you take their baby far, at least not until you can determine whose it is and at least let them know.

You don't expect them to be part of the baby's life, but it isn't fair to disappear when you know word will make it around base and they have the means to find you anyway. You figure this will allow for a clean break before any fallout.

Months go by, and you hear from friends still on base that the 141 came back but haunted. They'd had a few close calls on this last mission: injuries that could have been prevented, stealth ops where they were the ones being ambushed. Things that shouldn't have happened. Things that made them think long and hard about what the future held for them.

Now that they're back, you expect someone to track you down, find your location in town, but no one comes. You vaguely notice the large home on the edge of town, the run-down one with a massive garden, slowly starts looking better.

Two weeks after your little girl is born, the knock you never thought would come finally does. You carry your bundle to the door and clutch her tighter when you see the 141 through the peep hole. You open the door and wordlessly let them in.

The expressions on their faces range from awe to fear. You're sure your face displays the same. Finally, it's Price who speaks. "We should-a been 'ere, doll. Can ya forgive us?"

You know you're gaping and can barely bring yourself to nod.

"We meant it," Ghost tells you. "We want you. And now we want you both." It's more words than you've heard him speak at once, and without prompting.

Soap looks at you with such unbridled longing, reaching out his hands not for you but for your - their - baby that you don't even think before passing her over. As he cradles her carefully, Price chimes back in. "We bought a place, big, on the edge 'o town. We're not retiring, but we want to do more than look one day ahead. And in all those days, there's you, you and this miracle."

Finally, Gaz pins you with a look. "Come be ours, dove. You've been what we were missin' before we even knew we were missin' anything."

This time your answer is anything but vague.

main masterlist

[autisticmudkip]

I personally believe everyone deserves to get the medical care they need to live and thrive. You may not be able make huge changes to remove obstacles that prevent people from getting the care they need on your own. However, you can bring change by working with others, and you can actively take steps to help those who can't afford the care they need. One way you can do this is to support my good friend Fadel.

Fadel Aldani @fadel-dani lives with his family in Ghazzah. He and his family were in their home when it was bombed, which left them all injured. Fadel was the most seriously injured, with shrapnel being embedded deep in his body. The doctors were unable to remove all of it due to the lack of medical supplies in Ghazzah right now.

The shrapnel causes Fadel a lot of pain, and if it remains he is at risk of dying from it. He needs money to evacuate whenever possible, so he may recieve surgery to remove it. Fadel has also been diagnosed with hepatitis, but he has not been able to find or afford the prescribed treatment, due to overwhelmingly high prices and lack of medicine anywhere.

Fadel has been raising money for months now to afford the treatment he needs to survive. However, his original campaign was deleted by GFM without warning! He now has been forced to restart his campaign from scratch. So far, he has only raised €155. This is nowhere near enough to afford the vital treatment he needs.

Please, if you have any means to do so, help Fadel! Healthcare is a basic right. Fadel shouldn't have to live in agony just for being trapped in the midst of a genocide, and not being able to afford the egregious prices for treatment.

Please, share and donate! Even a small donation of €5 or €10 makes a difference to Fadel! If you absolutely cannot donate, send Fadel's campaign to some friends, and tell others about his story. Even just reaching out to Fadel to talk and offer a kind word makes a difference to him.

Vetted #197 by @/gazavetters

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[mulloey]

the shop

your car has broken down for the nth time, but yunho’s there to save the day. just your luck you don’t have enough money to pay him.

mechanic!yunho x fem!reader

words: 2.7k

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warnings: dom!yunho, sub!reader, paying with your body trope, you already wanted to fuck him though, probably inaccurate pricing for car repair services cus i can’t drive tbh, unprotected sex, degrading, choking, slapping, creampie etc. not proofread

—

You’re dizzy and delirious, putty in his hands as he holds you firmly in place, right where he wants you.

“Y-Yunho!” You squeal. You writhe in his grip a little but it’s far too strong to resist.

He’s got you bent over the hood of the car—your car—while he pounds into you like a desperate, starving man. His overalls are hanging around his waist, just low enough for him to pull his cock out; his white t-shirt is soaked in sweat and the oil-covered gloves on his hands rub painfully against the skin of your hips.

“F-fuck,” he grunts. Your hips collide painfully with the hood every time he thrusts into you and your ass bounces and reddens each time your bodies collide. “What a fucking cock whore. You do this every time you can’t pay the bill? Huh?”

“N-no,” you sob. “Just you, Yunho. Just… hngh… just you.”

“I don’t believe you,” he snarls. His hand comes down on your ass again, raw and painful over the marks he left earlier and you find yourself looking back on everything that lead you here—lead you to being bent over your broken down car while the hottest man you’ve ever fucking seen is slamming his dick into you like his life depends on it.

You suppose the first part—ending up at the auto shop—was inevitable. The car was fucked when you bought it, honestly, but there weren’t many other options for a broke college student. You lived in another district where rent is cheaper, so needed a car to get to class. Didn’t matter how good it was, it just needed to run.

Trust your luck that that seemed to be the only thing it wouldn’t do.

For a period you managed to get by fixing it yourself; Youtube tutorials and favours from friends were enough to deal with all the minor issues that came up, but as minor issues tend to do, they quickly piled up on top of each other until, the morning your presentation was due, you put the keys in the ignition, started the car and—nothing. It did nothing. You were the unluckiest person in the fucking world.

You’d called your best friend immediately, hoping he’d be able to find and fix the problem, but really, you knew it was past that point now—and if you didn’t before, the shock on Hongjoong’s face when he’d popped the hood was evidence enough.

“Jesus, woman,” he said. “You gotta get this thing to a repair shop.”

“You know I can’t afford that,” you snapped back. Instantly you felt guilty for your tone, he was just trying to help after all, so you tried to soften up a bit. “Joong, can you really not fix it?”

“No, I’m sorry. But I know a guy who owns an auto shop. He’ll probably let me use my friends and family discount on you. I’ll give him a call.”

Relief flooded your chest and you hugged him tightly, thanking him profusely even as he walked away chuckling to make the call. In the meantime you called your professor; you thanked God you were such a good student, never missing class or assignments—you doubt she’d have been so forgiving otherwise. “Come by during office hours tonight and you can present it then,” she’d said, and you thanked her with a smile.

Okay, you thought. You just needed to deal with this, do your presentation and the nightmare would be over.

How wrong you were.

—

The auto shop was, well, pretty much how you pictured it. Cars in various states of completion sat in the spacious garage, walls piled with wheels and various other parts, the uses of which you probably would never have been able to guess. The only thing that took you by surprise was the tall, young looking guy who came up and introduced you as the owner.

“Hey, darling,” he smiled. “I’m Yunho. Let’s get you all fixed up, yeah?”

You blushed at his words, and the deep, sultry voice that spoke them. You imagined that was his intention; the way his eyes flickered up and down suggested the attraction was mutual. Or maybe that was just his personality; maybe the flirtatious tone, the innuendo of his words and his intense, intimidating gaze just came naturally to him.

He walked you over to where he had your car laid out and ready to go. Popping the hood, he surveyed the condition with a serious, focused expression. In the heat of the garage, his face was sweating slightly, and he swallowed thickly as he looked everything over. It made the vein in his neck bulge, tension obvious. When he stood back up again he seemed cool and assured; the opposite of you. You felt… confused. Hot. Tense.

“It’s not a huge problem,” he smiled. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour to fix it.”

You didn’t expect that. “Really?” You lit up, overjoyed and he chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’ve got a staff room if you wanna wait around. May as well, since I should be done pretty quick.”

“Oh, yeah.” That made sense; there didn't seem to be many cafes or places around here for you to wait in anyway—and even if there were, none of them offered the view that the staff room he led you to had; the large glass window looking directly into the garage. You’d be able to keep an eye on your car as he worked—and on Yunho.

He got to work straight away and though you knew next to nothing about cars, save for the Youtube tutorials on greasing brakes and whatever else, but his skill was obvious. His large hands, covered by thick, dirtied gloves, worked quickly and efficiently.

He clearly knew you were watching him, and he clearly enjoyed it; every now and then he would look up from the car, meeting your eyes and tilting his head with a small, smug smirk. When he stood up to unzip his overalls, revealing a thin white t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, you found yourself inching closer and closer to the window without realising. Only when your face was practically pressed up against the glass did you back away, blushing furiously as you sunk into your seat. What the hell was wrong with you?

You’d never been like this about a man. Not even close. No one had ever made you so needy, so hot, so desperate. You didn’t even know you could be affected by someone in this way, yet here you were; thighs clenched together, breathing heavily and your face so hot you were practically feverish. He’d catch your gaze now and then still, and the expression on his face told you he knew everything that was going on in your head—and your body.

The sight of him putting the hood back down was a mercy and a curse; your car was fixed, you could leave, and you could get away from this man; three things you’d been waiting desperately for all this time.

But…did you even want to leave? It would be the smart thing to do, and the sooner you could get him out of your head, the better. But everything in your body screamed at you not to go, to stay and see what happens—if nothing did, at least you’d know. At least you wouldn’t have to wonder for the rest of your life.

He gestured for you to come out of the staff room, proudly showing you your fixed car. Your attraction to him aside, Yunho’s skill surprised you; the old, battered vehicle almost looked new, and when he started the engine to check it worked it sounded clearer and healthier than ever. “Holy shit,” you muttered.

Yunho laughed. “Yeah, I’m pretty good. How do you wanna pay?”

You sighed. You never liked this part; who did? It was always painful to part ways with the little cash you earned at your god awful waitressing job, but you had to do what you had to do. “Card,” you mumbled.

“Alright,” he smiled. “It’s 250,000won. I’ll get the machine.”

He disappeared into what you guessed was another staff room and you stood awkwardly for a moment. Even with him gone the air was thick, sweaty; tense. He returned with the card machine, holding it out for you to take and you put your card in with shaking hands, pressing down the familiar numbers. Well, there goes the last of your mone—

The machine made a high-pitched, displeased noise that you knew all too well. Declined. You made a noise of shock, shaking your head in disbelief. It can’t have declined. You knew you had enough for this. You had to have enough. What the hell is—

Oh. Fuck. When they towed your car here this morning and you followed in a taxi with Hongjoong. When you insisted on paying the fare to thank him for his help. Fuck. You need to be a worse friend.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you felt hands on yours; he grasped your shaking hands carefully, holding them steadily. His face was blank, but he seemed thoughtful.

“Fuck,” you groaned. “Fuck, what do I– I swear I–”

“Hey, hey.” His voice was calm and soft but a little lower than before. “Relax, doll. We’ll work something out, yeah?”

“Work something out?” You echoed his words, voice shaking.

“Of course,” he smiled. He tilted his head and you saw his eyes raking over you again; but this time it felt less like leering and more like… an inspection. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Tell me.” His voice seemed to have dropped an octave, thick with tension. “Are you really out of money?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Are you really out of money?” He repeated it, slower this time as though he was trying to dumb it down for you. “Or did you do this on purpose?”

You shook your head fervently, your body heating up with embarrassment and desperation and shame and, well, pretty much everything honestly. “No, Yunho, I—”

“I think you did.” He was grinning now, eyes piercing as he stared you down. He was still for a moment, seeming to consider something before he grabbed your chin, yanking your head up to meet his eyes. The material of the gloves was rough against your soft skin and the tightness of his grip was even more painful. “I bet you put the wrong numbers in on purpose, huh? Didn’t you?”

“I…” You didn’t know what to say. You knew what he was saying wasn’t true, but fuck, you could already feel wetness pooling at the thought of what he’d do to you if it was. But he seemed to have made his mind up either way, so you decided to play his game—you widened your eyes fearfully, lip shaking as you said “I promise, I didn’t” in the most pathetic voice you could muster.

He knew what you were doing, and he fucking loved it. His smile widened as he leaned in closer to you. From this distance you could see his pupils were blown, eyes flashing with arousal. “I think you’re lying to me,” he whispers. “And you know what’s more, little girl?”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He tightened his grip, yanking your head upwards again to expose your neck. His other hand wrapped itself around your throat like it belonged there. “I hate liars.”

—

You don’t even know how long he’s been fucking you now; your sense of time has blurred and muddied and it could have been minutes just as much as it could have been hours. All you can feel or think about is the feeling of his dick fucking you open, hitting your cervix over and over; and the strong arms that move and manipulate your body to increase his own pleasure.

He grabs your hair, yanking it back painfully and forcing you to look at him. “That’s it,” he grunts. “You’re gonna look at me while I’m fucking you, yeah?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, Yunho.”

“Good fucking girl.” His other hand wraps around your throat again, choking you just this side of too much. The head rush it gives you only sends you further into delirium, amplifying the other sensations. His deep, strained voice is fire in your ears. “Fucking stupid whore, aren’t you?”

He punctuates it with an extra hard thrust and you cry out again, voice strangled. “Yes, Yunho!” You scream. “Yes!”

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me you’re a fucking whore.”

“I’m a fucking whore,” you repeat. To hear the words from your own mouth, to taste them on your tongue as he forces you to degrade yourself sends another wave of pleasure through you that pushes you closer to the edge. Yunho makes a pleased sound, rewarding you by loosening his grip on your neck ever so slightly.

“You’re my fucking whore,” he whispers. “Yunho’s whore.”

“Yunho’s whore.” You repeat it without thinking and you feel him throb again inside you at your natural submission. “I’m Yunho’s whore.

“That you fucking are. Bending over for me over 250,000 fucking won. You’re a cheap little slut,” he spits. “But only for me, yeah?”

“Yes!” You feel yourself about to come undone and just as you finally reach breaking point he pulls out, cock hard and leaking; before you can protest he picks you up without a word, flipping you onto your back before shoving his cock back inside. “Wanna see you properly when I come in you,” he grunts. “Wanna see those eyes go fucking dumb for me.”

He lifts your legs and pushes them back towards you. The stretch is painful and uncomfortable but it’s hard to care about any of that when he’s fucking you so deep and hard. The weight of his hands pressing down on the backs of your thighs will surely leave bruises but you don’t mind—you’d probably love it, actually.

Now that you’re facing him you can see all the small details of his face while he fucks you; the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead, the black hair soaked through with it, the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw as his grip on your thighs tightens even further. He’s practically pressing all his weight against you now and it’s a delicious, painful pleasure. You reach out to him desperately—though desperate for what you’re not quite sure—and he grabs your hands, bending down to pin your arms against the car as he takes you in a hot, wet, messy kiss.

“Pretty girl,” he chokes. “So fucking pretty.”

“Yunho.” You feel tears pouring down your cheeks, overwhelmed with sensation, with the feeling of Yunho on every inch of your body. He pulls his mouth away from yours to press sloppy kisses across your jaw and neck, teasing the skin with his teeth. “Think you can come for me?” He murmurs. “Just from being used like this?”

“Yes, Yunho,” you whisper. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growls. He moves a hand down to press his thumb against your swollen clit, making you buck against him. “Come on my fat fucking cock like a good little girl. Earn your keep, baby.”

The heat in his words and the pressure of his thumb on your clit are enough to send you barrelling over the edge; you come with a noise you didn’t even know you made and he follows quickly, releasing inside of you with a strangled cry.

It’s silent for a moment and time seems to still while you process what’s just happened. You whine when you feel him pull out of you and he chuckles, gently slapping your pussy. “What a good girl,” he muses. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He sends you on your way with his business card in your pocket and his number in your phone. It takes you two weeks to find the nerve to call him, and that’s only because your car’s been making a weird noise that you can’t figure out. To be honest, it’s probably something Hongjoong or one of your other friends would be able to solve, but it’s too late now; you’ve already pulled up his contact and pressed call.

“Well hello, sweetheart.” Yunho’s voice is as deep as ever, his tone teasing. “Was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

“Yeah, um.” You clear your throat awkwardly, feeling yourself heat up again. “My car— it’s making a weird noise. Can you take a look at it?”

“Of course,” he says, and you hear the leering smile in his voice. “Why don’t you come down now? It’s a slow day at the shop anyway.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Great. Oh, and baby?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t bring your credit card.”

—

requests open! comments and feedback appreciated. love🖤🖤🖤

tags: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi