#hes programed to kill and nothing else

[mtndw-whteout]

traitor traitor traitor

guns in my mouth, just pull the trigger bro

[sheepispink]

by popular demand.... another angst no comfort fic. enjoy <3

SUPER SOLDIER!reader x lt ghost

you're just a freak of nature, an inhumane person with no morals and the higherups love to sing praises of your work. he hates it, and so he breaks you, albeit not quite in the way he thought it would happen

PART TWO Series Masterlist

AO3 VER

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

A born and bred weapon, that’s how they described you, the perfect asset crafted only for war. It was all you knew, your entire purpose and your only being. Not many know how you came to be, nor do they care much, just aware that no matter how hard they try, you will always be better than them. Your sight is honed to catch the twitch of a lip, ears listening for the wind passing the wrong way and your hands? They’re primed for the perfect kill, fast reflexes that could catch the smallest fly between your fingertips– a tested and proven fact. You were everything the military dreamed of, the perfect person, tested to beat every flaw on the battlefield. Paraded around to the superiors, praised for your skills by every colonel as they scrutinised you down to the way you fix your helmet.

And what better of a person to test you with than Ghost, the ever elusive and stoic wall, known to be feared on the battlefield just for his mask? 

When you were assigned to him three months ago, he had a vague idea of what to expect, assuming you to be like any other rookie he’s dealt with during his time as a lieutenant. Only likely stronger and probably cockier. So he stepped towards the car, eyes narrowing as he saw you being escorted in.. handcuffs. “What’s all of that for?” He raises a brow, and you only look between him and the man escorting you, oddly expressive with your wide eyes and bright face. Nothing like what the super soldier program described. “Just precautions, sir.” The soldier replies, passing Ghost the keys before climbing back into the truck once more. 

“You’re Lieutenant Ghost? You sure do fit the description..”

 He certainly did not expect your lips to quirk upwards like that, something akin to amusement on your face as you run your eyes up and down his form. For someone trained for war, you sure aren’t trained in respect.  He tugs on your handcuffs, forcing you to stumble into a walk beside him as he turns toward base, not bothering to entertain your clear attitude any longer. “That’s Lieutenant to you, and it’d do you good to think before you speak.” Surprisingly, you only laugh that off, and he hates it, used to rookies bending under his whim, especially stuck-up ones like you.

 Mornings start early, the second he wakes, so do you, although you head to the gym first whilst he goes to breakfast— you’re too proud to show your face, he thinks, and they probably have you on some special diet. When he finally joins you in the gym, it’s an hour later, and you still haven’t broken your morning run, keeping a steady pace. He doesn't bother speaking, and you don't wait for him to ask, walking over for your usual spar. It’s the usual every day, the way he doesn't let you get a single move in, constantly blocking off any move from you. He says it’s just for training, scoffs when you can’t push yourself back up even if you've told him that you’ve been designed for speed more than strength. You don’t complain; in some weird robotic way, you always pick yourself back up and carry on going.

This continues for the next few months; every mission he only feels his gut twist and turn as you kill without a second thought, his training only making you a better soldier and not a struggling mess like anyone else would be. It’s worse when you walk up to him, head tilted in expectancy. Your face is  young, unlike your eyes, but you have a body too young to contain a killer. Every time he looks at you, he sees a rookie soldier, because that’s what your age usually is–it’s what you should’ve been. All he can really feel is disgust though, especially the inhumane way you smile after a job well done. How can you find joy in the copper smell that remains after you exit a room? How can you stand there and take any order dealt? It’s unnatural, and it makes him sick to think about.

“That’s enough.” He says firmly, heavy boots entering the room you had just cleared by yourself. He initially wasn’t sure on letting you do it on your own, but the scene of the bodies piled by your feet is proof enough of your capability. “So? Did I do well?” It sickens him how your lips begin to curve upwards, waiting for some sort of praise, some affirmation that he promised himself he’d never give, especially to you. “This was unnecessary.” He scoffs, pulling a knife out of a dead man’s throat and tossing it back to you, eyes raking over your bloodied form— never your own crimson. “You’re a mess.” He takes his radio, clicking the button as he gives the all clear and the rescued hostages start filing through, escorted by British soldiers. They all stare, right at you, their eyes piercing into your skin.

“It’s cold..” You murmur as you’re pushed outside, the cold air tingling your skin as he scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. He doesn't look too entertained, at least he looks grumpier than usual but at least he’s quieter than the usual times he’s angry with you. “Well, maybe if you could control yourself the hostages wouldn't crap themselves when they saw you.” He can't believe how you can just give him that oblivious look— he knows you’re not stupid, so why do you even try to act that way? 

“Ghost?” He forces down the urge to roll his eyes up at you, half expecting you to ask for a damn heater at this point because of the torturous weather. He bets the higher ups would get mad at him if he ever tried duct taping your mouth, but the thought is tempting nonetheless. “What?”

“It’s my birthday this Saturday.” You begin, still staring at him from your position against the opposite wall. A helicopter whirrs nearby, slowly approaching for exfil. “Captain said I could have some time to celebrate.” 

“So?” He nearly scoffs right then and there, looking at you with a raised brow. What? Are you trying to show off all your perks of being the best there is? He wouldn't be surprised if you had a mountain of gifts, or even given a medal for something. He doesn't know why you bother hiding it, he sees your shiny uniform every mission; he doesn't need a reminder of the favour you hold. Knowing you, they’d give you the whole weekend off while he still had paperwork to fill in.

“I was wondering if you’d come. The Captain said you’d be free.” He rolls his eyes, and lets out a long sigh, of course Price left him to babysit this devil on his off hours. He wouldn't be half surprised if he walked into your ‘party’ to see you receive some freakish torture device— it seemed like a gift you’d want. Likewise, he doubts it’s his scene anyway, with a bunch of soldiers likely hanging around wherever you plan to hold it.

“Sure, whatever kid, I’ll come.”

He reaches for a radio as the announcement of exfil echoes through, and you follow behind him as he leads you out of the building, only stopping when you step towards the helicopter. “You don't come in the helicopter, kid. Got a whole truck there for you.” Another soldier comes, leaving Ghost to walk away from you whilst you’re roughly pulled back, pushed into the back of a truck where you’re handcuffed in, left to the darkness to ride the journey alone. 

He lets out a long sigh as he sits down finally, tired out of his mind, and now he has to deal with you even longer than he should.

————-

Saturday. You wake up early, five am. The gym is the first stop; you’re not allowed to eat until you earn the right. There’s no sparring on weekends, so you do a couple of exercises to make up for it, even if you’re not feeling as good as usual. It never matters.

Mess hall. The same table, the same breakfast— like clockwork you sit down at exactly seven am, the tray scraping against something. It’s a piece of paper, as always. You’ve stopped paying mind to it anymore, deciding it’s not best to waste any moment of your short-lived time on the insults scribbled across it. The porridge is cold, the chef behind the counter had swatted your scratched hands away before serving it for you, leaving a large gap at the top of the bowl. Fruit; it doesn't taste as good when you get the last apple, but it provides good nutrients for you and some sugars. Water; you’re not allowed coffee often because too much could damage you. That's what the scientists always instructed you anyway.

Whispers echo around the hall as you sit on your own, menial conversations occurring on the table behind you, others laughing near the door. There’s never another chair on this table, especially when you’re sitting here already. A few lower rank soldiers ogle you from a nearby table, probably the same age as you if not older. Their eyes consume with jealousy and, as you step up to place the tray away, you don't miss the hard bread thrown at your back. The paper falls into the bin too, along with the apple seeds.

It’s still not time yet, only fifteen minutes past nine, so you head down to the track to work on improving your time, just like you do every day. Two hours are spent before it’s almost lunchtime and only now do you decide to shower, slipping into the communal area. You place your things into the locker, a few soldiers giving you sharp stares because of the marks across your back, the pin pricks and slices through the flesh. When you return from your shower, you find your clothes have been tossed across the floor, your shoes shoved into one of the toilets. Never a trace of the culprit though, and never caught in your sight.

Before you go to lunch, you sit outside and scrub your shoes down, using an old rag to clean off the muck that was purposefully placed on it, not that it’s particularly much cleaner afterwards. You arrive to lunch late, or well later than the expected time, but it’s always the usual for you. There aren't many options left, and the chef glares at you saying the soldiers over there already grabbed your share for you—why are you being greedy? Don't you get enough? The first time you walked over to the soldiers and asked for your share, but this time you decided not to, wanting to keep your clothes clean today. So you take a bottle of water and some fruit, walking back outside again.

It’s quiet out here, a nice respite from the many soldiers that bustle around the corridors, and you bite into your fruit quietly. It’s still cold, albeit a lot warmer than the other day— British weather had a tendency to never be quite predictable. A fox creeps out the bushes, one eye shut, and it’s limp evident as it sniffs around for anything of use. You had heard it's cries in the early hours of the morning, though you have no idea what may have attacked it. You lay your palm out, the banana peeled, and it steps forward, hesitant before taking half with a snap of its jaw. Laying down the rest, it starts to eat more, and you smile at the sight.

Unfortunately it’s immediately startled by a booming voice, one that you recognise as part of the taskforce— Sergeant Soap Mactavish You’ve never met him before, but you know who he is, just like the rest of the taskforce. They always pass by the corner of your eye, never meeting you head on. It’s almost like some sort of curse is placed upon you. You watch from your spot behind the tree, eyes peeking past as the four of them walk out of base and towards a car, your lieutenant, and the captain included. Maybe they were going out to lunch or something. Glancing down at your watch, the time is twelve fifty, and you silently come to the conclusion that they’ll only be out for a bit, hopefully coming back soon.

It’s two o clock, and you’re sitting in your room. The captain told you on Tuesday that you could have only two hours off for your birthday plans, which roughly gave you enough time to probably watch a movie with Ghost. He did say he’d try to make it as well, but he was a busy man so you had reassured him that it was quite alright since you’d have the lieutenant anyway. Since yesterday, you hadn’t thought much about what you could watch with the Lieutenant, but you’d eventually decided to watch whatever he liked, seeing as you could count on one hand all the movies you’ve seen. Thankfully, the captain told you last Sunday he'd organise some snacks for you, and maybe even a cake if you were good for the rest of the week, so right now was a waiting game.

A long one.

You reassured yourself at two thirty that they were likely just running late, even peeking out into the hallway a few times in case they couldn't find your room for whatever reason. By two fifty you were confused, and it was safe to say by three twenty you were feeling hopeless. But still, you knew they likely had a reason, they must. So you walk down the corridor, your feet unsteady for once, and head back into the main building, looking around rather frantically compared to your usual stature. 

What you didn't expect was to hear laughter dance down the corridor, instantly making you peek around the wall. It’s Soap and Gaz, holding a bunch of drinks in their hands, and they walk, chuckling to themselves. You could ask them, but something stops you, a weird feeling that stabs at your gut, and instead you hide behind the pillar, listening. 

“Today’s gonna be good– I mean drinks, nachos, and pizza? I’m gonna be stuffed.” Gaz laughs, the bottles in his hands clinking against each other as he adjusts them.

“Get ye own nachos, they’re mine.” Soap returns, elbowing the other lightly, and they both snicker, knowing Soap’s appetite. “Hey, didn’t Price say he had to organise something for that kid? Y'know, the super soldier Ghost works with.”

“He probably handled it already, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed to grab the food with Ghost. But shouldn’t Ghost be going?”

Before he can respond, Ghost’s gruff voice rips out into the corridor, pizza boxes stacked high in his hands. “Hurry up, the games are gonna bloody start. They’ll survive with someone else.”

Who? There’s no ‘someone else’, there never has been, he knows that— you think he knows that. You thought he knew you; you thought you were doing good. Your feet stumble as you turn around and head down the opposing corridor, not sure when you placed your hands over your ears to protect them from anything more. It’s the first time in years you’ve felt your eyes water, something inside you snapping in a way that shouldn't, that can't, and you’re terrified by this revelation. You’re no longer a super soldier, no longer the best around, no longer the one they parade around— you’re another failed experiment.

—————

PART TWO Series Masterlist

buy me a kofi :)

[honda-odyssey-the-queer-allegory]

The idea of bucky genuinely having no recollection of his actions haunts me. He lost 90 years of his life and can't recall nearly any of it.

Granted, in the comics, there was a period in which he was "conscious," but he still had no memories of HIS life. Not only that, but the moment they knew there were chips in their programming, he immediately was but in cryostasis.

In the movies, this applies even more so. The clip in civil war where (when talking to Steve) he says "What did I do?" "Enough." "I knew it. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there...". He's aware of the fact that he was made into a killing machine. Simply a weapon and nothing else. To Hydra, he had no life. Only a mission that needed to be completed.

Why can't Marvel just let him be happy :((

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

[burnforyou]

FRAT PARTY - LUIGI MANGIONE x READER

!SUMMARY! frat president!Luigi x uptight!nerdy!reader. pure fluff! a lazy short one for my fluff enjoyers.

!WARNINGS! none really, just alcohol.

his eyes scanned the party carefully, until he saw you. he stopped in his tracks, immediately doing a double take.

i didn't know she attended parties. especially frat parties. she should be in her bed at this hour, curled up with a good book, not here, at this disgusting party full of drunk fucks who are just trying to get their dicks wet.

luigi plops down on the couch next to you, resting his arm on the cushion behind you.

"didn't expect to see you here," he flashes his bright smile at you.

"I'm here for my friend," she says, gesturing to another girl in the crowd.

"she doesn't seem to be appreciating the fact that you're here," he looks down at you, taking in your outfit. It's not what you usually wear, its different. its not you. you look uncomfortably uptight in a short, tight skirt and tank.

"well, shes my friend, and she's drunk, so she's not in her right mind," you try defending her.

"hey Luigi, someone's fighting!" some random frat brother yells at him.

"fuck," he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I'll be back," he pats your thigh, "stay right here, alright?"

you nod and watch him stride away to handle the situation.

another body sits down on the couch next to you and you look up from your phone smiling, expecting Luigi. instead, you're met with the face of one of his frat brothers.

"you look too sober," he says to you, holding out his red solo cup to you. "take a sip."

you look between him and the cup, unsure.

"it won't kill you. I'm Jake by the way."

fuck it, you think, grabbing the cup and taking a big swig of the mysterious drink. it actually tasted pretty good, but burned a little going down your throat.

"y/n," you say after swallowing.

"pretty name for a pretty girl," he smiled at you. "so, what brings you here tonight?" he flirts, taking another sip of the drink you're now sharing.

"oh, I don't know, just wanted to have a fun time," you lie, smirking at him.

"hey, you wanna come with me to get a refill?" he smiles, showing you the bottom of the cup.

"sure!" you spring up. his hand settles in the small of your back and guides you to the kitchen where he mixes one bottle with another and hands the cup back to you.

"try it," he yells over the music. you take a sip and nod.

"pretty good," you take another sip.

luigi takes a swig of a beer, his first drink of the night, watching you two flirt from afar. It's so fake, and nothing like you. he knows you, he knows you're not like that.

before you knew it, he's pumping you full of a mysterious, semi-pleasant tasting drink and singing "I Can't Feel My Face" by The Weeknd in your face, literally.

he was actually kinda cute, but he wasn't your type, per say.

and whats your type? you ask?

oh, just tall, smart, Italian guys with curly hair who kinda look like Luigi Mangione, but aren't him!

not to say Jake wasn't smart, I mean, he goes to UPenn for gods sake. it's just, he's just...

he's not Luigi. he's not your biggest rival in the engineering program, the man who never fails to piss you off and turn you on at the same time.

but he's a good distraction, that's for sure.

speak of the devil: he's standing in front of you now.

but he's not paying attention to you: he's yelling at Jack. or was it Jake?

“you leave her alone, go find someone else to mess with,” he growls in his face, pushing him away.

“or what, luigi? she’s not your girlfriend.” he holds his hands up, faking innocence.

“or i’ll fucking kill you,” he growls lowly so only jake could hear him, afraid of scaring you. he watches jake stalk away and looks back to you, his face softening when he sees you looking up at him.

"what are you doing?" he talks down to you, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you slightly. you blink up at him in shock.

"what do you mean?" you say stubbornly, your skin burning where he's holding you.

"you're not being yourself," he argues with you.

"you don't even know me!" you shout at him, running away (or trying to, in your drunken state) to go dance.

you join some random girls and dance drunkenly with them, having the time of your life. your first time drunk. you had no idea it was this fun. if you knew how much fun you'd be having, you'd be attending frat parties weekly.

you keep Luigi in the back of your mind as you grind on a random guy that joined you.

"give me that," he growls at a random brother, grabbing a beer bottle from him and chugging it down. he leans against a wall and watches you, never taking his eyes off of you.

when "Come Get Her" by Rae Sremmurd starts playing, a random girl pulls you onto a table with her.

somebody come get her, she's dancing like a stripper

hoots and hollers come from around you as you and another girl literally dance like strippers. it felt like something straight out of a movie: the nerdy girl turns hot and starts dancing on tables. the world around you starts to spin.

and then you're falling.

falling hard from the table, the ground looking so appealing, much nicer than the table.

until warm, familiar hands catch you.

"alright, that's it, you're done." Luigi says to you, effortlessly carrying you bridal style. you stroke his face and smile.

"you caught me, my prince charming!" you cheer, wrapping your hands around his neck, the rest of the party becoming purely background noise.

"you're so handsome," you giggle drunkenly, holding his face in one of your hands. he pretends to not be basking in your attention.

"I'm taking you up to my room. you're cut off for the night." he says roughly, carrying you up the stairs. the music and voices fade away.

"whyyyy," you whine, "I wanna par-tay!"

"you're done for the night, hun." he bends down to open the door without dropping you. he softly drops you on his bed and stands over you.

"you think you're funny, don't you?" you cross your arms across your chest, pushing your tits together purposefully.

"what?" he furrows his eyebrows, his eyes flickering down and up again.

"will you just leave me alone? you're ruining my night!" you try and walk away again, but he grabs onto your arm and pulls you flush against him. you hold intense eye contact for a second and take in his features. his beauty distracts you from your argument.

you break away and sit down on the edge of his bed, looking around his bedroom.

"y/n, you're going to regret acting like this in the morning, if you even remember this in the morning!" he accidentally shouts.

hes being so mean to me, you thought. why is he being so mean to me?

suddenly, your mood swings and tears fill your bambi eyes. you look up at him, your bottom lip quivering.

"hey, what's wrong?" he sits down on the edge of the bed next to you and holds your soft face in his hand, his eyes full of concern.

"why are you doing this to me?" a tear falls from your eyes and he wipes it away immediately, wanting to throw up.

you're crying and it's all his fault. fuck, he's the worst person in the world.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I just- I..." he trails off. you look back up at him, sniffling.

"I just want to protect you. people do bad things to smart, pretty girls like you."

"why do you want to protect me? why me? there's a million other girls out there, why are you doing this to me?" you ask through your sobs.

"because I really like you, okay? I like you more than any other girls." he pulls you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. he rubs your back, attempting to comfort you.

"you like like me?" you ask against his hard chest. his chest rises and falls as he chuckles.

"yes, y/n, I like like you."

your heart skips a beat at his confession.

"that's good, cause I think I like like you too." you yawn and wipe your last tears.

"are you tired?" he asks softly, looking down at you in his arms, struggling to believe this is real. you nod.

"you can sleep here, I'll get you a change of clothes."

you settle back onto his king bed, making yourself comfortable on his pillows. he throws a t shirt and boxers on you, turning around. you weakly discard your outfit, consisting of your friends clothes, and slip his oversized tee on.

"I'm done," you say quietly, he turns around. he looks at you, snuggled in his bed, and sighs.

you pat the cold bed beside you.

"lay with me."

he pulls his shirt and shorts off shamelessly in front of you. your tired eyes take in the shape of his strong body. he slips under the covers next to you and pulls you by your waist into his chest.

MASTERLIST - PREV WORK

is this too cliche be honest

!TAGS!

@strawbrriess @bellobambino @f4nfic-lover @btcowboy @chmpgneprblem @soggysouppp @hereandqueer6540 @poohkie90 @bricapallen16 @miarosalie11 @v1rtualsalvat10n @hypnotizedbyhood @webanglikethat @croucify @cumdnmp @ga33y3 @zeervzn @marzipanlvr @seesaw-it @raekensluver @ddlydevotion @hujirose @darleneslane

requested by @for-lovers-always

[gallusrostromegalus]

As someone a bit too young to have seen Bleach the first time around, AEIWAM is still consuming a crucial portion of my brain cells. So imagine my surprise when I looked up Tousen, the reason you started this behemoth of an alternate universe, on TV tropes.

Among other shocking revelations...

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HE JOINED AIZEN OF HIS OWN FREE WILL IN CANON???? What do you MEAN, TITE KUBO, that the reason your Tousen wants to destroy the Shinigami is that his crush died of DOMESTIC VIOLENCE???

Who is this man and what has he done with my eternally suffering Tousen?

You understand why I had to take custody of this poor bastard.

I can respect what Kubo was going for- Aizen was right in the fact that Soul Society does suck, and the extended canon is that Tousen's crush was killed by her husband, everyone knew it, and nobody would prosecute the husband because he was a Noble. Canon Tousen is, more or less, suffering from the same kind of rage-based brainrot that is unfortunately so common these days- the idea that because a system is imperfect, or ever corrupt, that it's a good idea to tear the whole thing down/restart the universe (the real Path Of Least Harm is of course, the much more complicated and frustrating work of Dis-and-re-mantling the system piece-by-piece without leaving vulnerable people to fend for themselves, but that isn't as emotionally satisfying or fun to draw as senseless destruction, but I digress).

but his arc is only barely on the page at all, mostly after his death and contains one of the blandest and most obnoxious tropes- fridging- and the whole thing falls flat. It also fails to explore the FASCINATING angle of disability and tbh, racism in soul society- two VERY fucked up things that would very much justify his rage. But it's shonen and the series was deep in production hell at that point, and tousen was far from the only victim. I still don't know what the fuck Gin's deal was.

ANYWAY,

Notable changes between Canon!Tousen and AEIWAM!Tousen and some art under the cut:

Kakiyo is Kaname's adopted sister, and despite looking nothing alike, since they re-incarnated in soul society at the same time, they regard themselves as twins.

Kakiyo does kind of a lot in the plot before her demise- she's responsible for introducing Kaname and Komamura, teaches Zaraki and Yachiru how to read, and unintentionally helps Aizen by recommending him to be promoted to third seat in the 5th division, because she and Kiganjo were thinking about starting a family soon, and Aizen would make a good stand-in for her while she was on maternity leave.

She also gets to do a bunch of stuff after she dies too!

The characters in Tousen's name approximately mean "Necessary Scholar" and make an allusion to a legendary scholar from China who came to Japan to find the elixir of immortality for the emperor. He returns with an elixir that stops the emperor from aging, and the emperor kills him so he can't make anyone else immortal (the emperor doesn't age, but he's still vulnerable to stabbing, and gets stabbed). I thought that was an extremely fun literary allusion so I'm leaning into it- before he becomes a Shinigami, AEIWAM!Tousen took over the library run by his ans Kakiyo's adopted godparents, and ran a children's literacy program. he has a special interest in information sciences and educational methodology. even among nerds, he's a mega-nerd.

Kakiyo meets and marries Gosuke Kiganjo, who goes back to West 51 to meet his beloved's brother and the weird giant monk that runs the library with him. Kaname is immensely fond of Kiganjo, and has no qualms being the best man at their wedding. He and Gosuke are good friends for the first few years of the marriage, until Aizen gets his claws into Gosuke and slowly drives him insane.

In AEIWAM, Tousen is cursed into going along with the plan by Aizen. Aizen was just going to make Kiganjo kill him, but Gin is getting impatient with Aizen's hogyoku progress, and persuades Aizen into cursing Kaname into compliance instead with a Forbidden Bakudō: Kyuunodo — Ningyō Kugi Saiyaku (人形釘誓約, Puppet Nail Covenant)

I do keep the canon!Tousen's reputation for being pedantic, unecessarily critical and generally kind of boring. The reason for AEIWAM!Tousen's reputation is different: He is kind of a pain in the ass, because he is in Horrific Pain and Deeply Traumatized and that makes people irritable to say the least, and he deliberately cultivates a reputation for being Boring to keep people far, far away from him- and hopefully, far from Aizen as well.

An underrated bit of Canon!Tousen is that Suzumushi is not his zanpakuto. Suzumushi was Kakiyo's zanpakuto, and we see him take the sword from her coffin in the manga. Which is insane because it means HE ACHIEVED BANKAI WITH A ZANPAKUTO THAT WASN'T EVEN HIS. Dude is SEVERELY underrated as a swordsman. In AEIWAM, Suzumushi is still Kakiyo's zanpakuto, and only BARELY clings to life on the last reserves of the Spiritual power Kakiyo put into her before Kaname finds her. Suzumushi persuades him to take her up, enter the academy and bring Kakiyo's killer to justice (Suzumushi has fallen to Aizen's illusion and doesn't know who the killer is). She kind of glosses over how they bond, but she more or less crawls into his soul and supresses Kaname's native Yume-kon that would have been his own Zanpakuto spirit if it had been allowed to awaken. She did make an entirely new Shikai and Bankai for him- the chime that makes people lose conciousness is entirely new, the AOE of Just A Shitload Of Swords was Suzumushi's original Shikai. The Bankai of a space where anyone not touching the sword experiences no sensory input? Suzumushi made it first and foremost as a refuge for Kaname when the pain of the curse became to unbearable.

The biggest difference, of course, is that Kaname lives through the Aizen Arc and gets a Happy Ending: Once he wakes up after the battle, he is free, and chooses to marry the wolfman he's been in love with for centuries. Here's some art of them, finally home:

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon, emotionally distant yandere, death threats

gn reader

Thinking about an extremely aromantic psychopathic yandere who’s completely out of touch with his feelings...

From the moment you infected his mind, he desperately wanted nothing more but to gauge you out and bleach your existence away.

He was ready to do anything.

It's not like it's something he hasn't done before. It shouldn't have been a problem. But standing there above your sleeping form with the knife to your unsuspecting neck, he felt his own throat close up.

Something he'd never felt before made him stop – something in his chest that ached worse than any pain he'd ever beared – something that made his hands shake with cold and his eyes leak warmth down his face.

He doesn't understand what's going on, and it's annoying. You're annoying. He doesn't want to see your face, but at the same time... the thought of going without it pisses him off even more.

He doesn't want to keep you around, but he ends up feeling as though he has to. He tells himself it's only until he feels ready to finish you off – like a lamb raised for slaughter in the wolf's den.

You don’t really know what goes on inside his head when he glares at you with hints of vexation and hunger – eyes narrowed at you almost in disgust, as though you’re some sort of nuisance, some sort of sickness he can’t seem to shake – but also something else – something hungry – something in the way he locks his jaw and swallows thickly before growling out an irate sigh as he throws his shirt off and climbs on top of you.

It seems almost as though he sees it all as a simple means to an end – as though the urge arising within his gut is a plague he needs to cure as quickly as possible – and you as a mere tool for him to do exactly that.

He never kisses you. You don’t think he knows how. The sex isn’t any good either – all cold, methodical movements as though he’s a robot who’s been told to complete a task it wasn’t programmed to do. 

It’s obvious he doesn’t view you as much more than something he owns. 

Sometimes, he’ll even look surprised when you voice wishes and needs of your own – as though he’s forgotten that you’re still a living, breathing thing and not just something he’s hunted and killed and stuffed for sport.

But that’s how you feel most days anyway – like a dog’s humping toy – just a limp thing made up of cotton and torn fabric trying to hold itself together, getting more frayed by each passing day.

It's surprising he hasn't killed you yet. He told you he would when the time was right, but it's been more than a while now. You wonder if it's a surprise for him as well.

Probably not...

He’s like a machine. Wordless, sept for the steady string of growls and groans as he fucks you fast like you’re this annoying reminder that he’ll never be able to get rid of the warmth in his gut forcing him to complete the tedious task again and again and never be done with it.

It almost feels as though he hates you.

While his hand holds yours down, cuffing your wrists above your head with the other wrapped tight around your throat. Not because you bother fighting back. But – you think, perhaps… he feels as though it’s your fault somehow – your fault that he feels this way. 

He’ll mutter about it sometimes – that he was just fine before you came along – level-headed, composed, perfect before he met you. 

He pulls out just before cumming inside you, tugging himself in quick faps, then blows all over your stomach and chest. 

The sigh he breathes out is like an exclamation of “fucking finally” while his throbbing length bobs, still seeping pearls of cum, slowly calming down the more he squeezes it all out into a white pool on your pelvis. 

He isn’t much better after, either. 

Loosening his grip on you, he’ll grunt out something along the lines of “Go clean yourself up.” 

But sometimes... as time goes on... he starts doing something that somewhat resembles a kiss before leaving you.

It's awkward, like a brush or press of his stiff lips against yours – one of which reminds you of the type of nudge a dog could be trained to do in exchange for a treat – almost like a thank you.

He hasn't spoken about killing you in a while...

It scares you – how it's become so trivial it almost feels marital...

You don't know what scares you more though...

The thought that he's going to kill you one of these days, or the thought that he's forgotten about it all together.

BNHA – Bakugou, Overhaul, Shigaraki

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Toji, Kenjaku

DS – Muzan, Sanemi

HxH – Illumi, Feitan

AOT - Levi

[buckyalpine]

Edit to add: thought it saved with tw, non con, dark winter soldier

I wanna fuck the beefy winter soldier who uses me like a sex doll, just a hole to fuck. I want him to shove it in whenever he wants, fully focused on pleasuring his dick and nothing else. He’s chasing that pleasure at the tip of his pink cock that feels so good, grunting and groaning, wide touch hands holding you down in place.

Imagine he comes to finish a mission, breaking into a large mansion in the middle of the night only to find no ones home except the sweet little maid, still dressed in her tiny uniform, finishing up in the master bedroom.

You freeze on the spot, ready to beg him to spare your life as he shut the door behind him, swiftly locking it. He's programed to kill but you're evoking something new inside him. He feels pressure between his legs, his cock aching with need, a new desperate desire he needs to quench.

You know that scene with the red henley, his thick, muscular body throwing others around with 0 effort. I want that but with no clothes on. Clothes make his body feel too hot. He takes it all off when he stalks over to you, rock hard cock bobbing between his legs when he grabs and throws you over his shoulder. He might as well be an animal, precum dripping from the head down to the floor from your smell alone.

He’s absolutely unhinged.

Hasn’t had an orgasm in years.

Nearly nonverbal as he gets ready to take what he wants.

Your heart races, too scared to cry while he shoves your legs apart, groaning at your sweet scent. He tears your clothes off with his bare hands before experimentally pumping his cock, moaning at the bit of relief it gives him.

He needs more.

"P-Please-please no-Oh God!" You cry out as he shoves his cock in with one swift motion, pounding you with no remorse, grunting and panting, inhaling the scent of your perfect and something distinctly you as he snarls against your neck.

It feels so good, the serum in his veins making his cock swell with each thrust, thick drops of precum already marking you from the inside. His sole focus is to get rid of the achy feeling in his dick by using you, wanting to stop the heavy feeling in his balls. They're too heavy, too swollen, too full, it fucking hurts and your cunt feels so good, wrapped around his cock.

He moans louder with each thrust, pleasure licking up his spine, your needy little squeals just adding to how good it all feels. He loves the sting of your nails scratching down his arms, your tight pussy quivering and fluttering around him.

He sits back on his heels to watch the sight of his cock going in and out, your sensitive button throbbing between your legs. He gives it a flick, fucking you harder when he realizes touching you there makes you scream. He flicks and rubs at it wildly, loving how much tighter you get when he does that.

He gives you no warning when he pulls out and manhandles you till your face is pushed into the mattress with your ass high in the air, his cock reaching a much deeper angle in this position. He grabs onto your hips with both hands and slams you to meet the sharp snap of his hips, muttering something in a language you don't understand.

You can tell he's close, feeling him harden further inside you, his pace starting to falter. He's panting harder, head thrown back feeling that release get closer and closer. He gives you a final harsh thrust before burring himself in as deep as he could go, letting out a deep guttural moan as he starts to spill into you, his hot cum pouring out endlessly.

He wants to stop but he can't, waves of pleasure continuing to wash over him each time he thinks he's almost done, letting your body go limp while he flops on top and practically ruts and humps himself until he's finally soft and spent. He pulls out, searing the sight of his seed dripping out to memory before throwing his clothes back on. The empty feeling makes you whimper.

"moya khoroshaya devochka" [my good girl] he murmurs before leaving, already deciding he's ready to go rogue just to add this location to his list of places to revisit.

-

This wasn't meant to be part of the story but imagine he does come back to take what he wants and you let him. A few weeks later you feel insanely nauseous, throwing up every time you eat, exhausted and constantly wanting to nap.

When he sneaks in again, your scent in different and he knows. You're confused when he doesn't ravish you. Instead he wordlessly puts his hand on your belly. You look at him with confusion, especially when he picks you up softly and puts you to bed instead, keeping his hand back on your tummy.

"nash malysh" [our baby] he says softly and slowly, hoping you'd understand. Of course you quickly piece it together, only snapping out of your shock feeling his cold metal hand cup your cheek.

He makes love to you that night.

He's not sure why. He knows he has to be gentle with you. He should end you, end this mess before it goes any further but its too late. He's soft and slow. He holds you close and moves with such care, giving you deep thrusts with the roll of his hips. He lets his hands lace with yours, pinning you against the bed, squeezing them comfortingly as if to let you know he's not going anywhere.

He knows he doesn't have a lot of time. You'll be showing soon.

He'll figure something out.

Idk why tf I can't just write fics with the winter soldier where he fucks and leaves. It always ends with some stupid fluff which I didn't intend to add.

[muniimyg]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . pov!jk . ۫ ꣑ৎ . — [ 4 . ] tangerines

series m.list // taglist unavailable

friends to ???

slowly burning

post surgery vibes ,, jk gets his appendix taken out

note: hello . i love them .

//

you’re late. 

the room is loud when you arrive.

taehyung’s holding jungkook’s chart like he understands medical terms. jin keeps fixing the height of the bed just to annoy jungkook. misa’s arranging snacks at the end table like she’s planning a picnic. hobi, yoongi, and nara are sitting cross-legged on the visitor couch, making a game out of how many beeps the machines make in a minute.

and jungkook—laid out in the hospital bed, head propped on two pillows, eyes half-lidded—still manages to look like he’s enjoying all of it.

he laughs when taehyung says something dumb. pretends to swat tae away. he’s pale, a little sweaty, but the morphine must be doing its job, because he’s glowing too. dopey, soft-eyed, happy to be loved.

you hang back.

you haven’t said anything yet. just hovered by the doorway, jacket in your arms, the small box tucked carefully in your hands. you meant to come at the same time as everyone, but you got held back at work. once you got off, you rushed your way over here thinking they would all be gone… but you should have known better. this friendgroup is solid. 

everyone stays. everyone goes.

and still, in the middle of all the chaos, he finds you first. 

his gaze flickers past everyone else and settles on you like gravity. soft. surprised. like he didn’t think you’d show up. like he was hoping you would anyway.

you don’t smile. not fully. just nod once.

and that’s enough to make his lips part slightly—barely-there smile curling slow at the corner.

the moment passes.

and then—

the door bangs open.

“guys!”

jimin stumbles in, eyes wild and holding an enormous cup of ice cream.

“sundae bar is open,” he breathes like it’s life-changing. “friday special. mochi topping. caramel drizzle. mini waffle cones. i’m not making this up.”

everyone’s up in seconds.

they’re gone just as fast, shifting past you and greeting you warmly. 

“you coming?” misa asks, greeting you with a hug. 

once she steps away, jin’s hands find their way to her waist. you scoff at the two. 

“i’ll catch up in a bit.” 

jin smiles and nods towards the cafeteria. misa follows along—

and then—

quiet.

you and him.

just the two of you now.

jungkook exhales into the hush. the overhead light catches the sheen on his cheekbone. he looks up at you again, this time without distraction.

you step closer, tilt your head at him, and hold up the box.

“for the yakult.”

his brows lift, confused. “not because i almost died?”

you open the lid, revealing a small pile of tangerines. “a little appendix almost bursting never killed anyone.”

he stares.

then—laughs, just once. quiet.

“you think you’re funny? i almost died—do you know how many people die from their appendix bursting—”

“how many die from being overdramatic?” you joke. 

he blinks. 

then, he laughs. “god, i thought they’d never leave. love them, but holy shit. jin was turning this hospital bed into a rollercoaster ride.” 

you scoff as you sit on the edge of the bed, careful near his legs. he shifts just enough to give you space. doesn’t ask why you’re here or what you’re doing. just lets it happen. then, you start peeling slowly. the sound of the skin tearing is the only thing filling the room. the scent rises soft and fresh.

you don’t say anything for a moment. neither does he.

it feels like something is about to happen. but nothing does.

you hold out the first segment toward his mouth. “here.”

he blinks. 

then, he leans in slightly. for a second, he hesitates. his lips brush your fingers as he takes it between his teeth.

your eyes meet. only for a second. but it’s enough.

he chews. swallows. licks his lips slowly like he doesn’t want to miss the taste. you offer him another. and another.

“so,” he murmurs after a while, voice a little hoarse. “the program—”

you shake your head. “nope.”

he huffs. “c’mon…”

“i’m here for you,” you say gently.

he makes a face. “this is boring though.”

“your appendix almost exploding is boring?”

“kind of,” he grins. “you’re just sitting there. peeling fruit. being all sweet.”

“you’re the patient,” you say, nudging his foot lightly. “you’re not allowed to flirt.”

“i’m not,” he lies. “i’m just stating what’s happening.”

rolling your eyes, you feed him another piece.

he’s quiet. the soft kind. watching you with a look you don’t know how to name. something between curiosity and awe, like he’s trying to figure out why this feels so easy.

your fingers brush his lip.

you pause.

“sorry,” you say, pulling your hand back. “you had juice…”

he catches your wrist gently, eyes flicking to your mouth. 

you wipe the corner of his lips slowly. then—without thinking—press your thumb to your own lips, sucking the juice off.

the air shifts.

he’s still holding your wrist.

you can feel your own pulse there.

his gaze drops to your mouth again.

“do i…” you whisper, trying to ease the tension. “do i have something on my lips?”

he doesn’t answer.

just smiles a little. lets go.

and then—

“oh my god. mango star jelly? we should all take turns getting sick so we can see what they do for the rest of the year! think about it—there’s enough of us!” jimin yells from the hallway.

before you and jungkook can register what’s happening, misa bursts back in.

“___… babes… this isn’t a drill…” she begins to panic, running to you and grabbing your arm. in her ice cream daze, she misses the way jungkook’s face falls when she tugs you away from his side. “they have dubai chocolate. dubai. with the pastachio and everything! oh my god. you’re coming. let’s go.”

you blink.

then, you glance at jungkook, a little dazed, still halfway in whatever this just was.

he’s watching you, like he wants to say something, but misa’s already pulling you out the door.

he lifts the last tangerine segment, holding it between his fingers. he waves it at you—quiet, private.

you smile, a little helpless. 

without another word—and another moment between you two that fleets too quickly for his liking—the door swings shut behind you.

jungkook blinks once. then again.

the room is quiet now. the light hum of machines, the faint echo of laughter down the hall. but you’re gone. and it’s like you took the warmth with you.

he glances down at his hand, still holding the tangerine. the peel faintly sticky against his palm. soft. warm. still fresh with your touch.

he doesn’t eat it. just stares.

like maybe if he stays still enough, it’ll bring you back. not that it will… but for some reason he can’t explain, the tangerine feels heavy in his hand. 

a reminder of the way your eyes softened when you fed him. the way your thumb brushed his lip. the quiet care in your voice. the pause before you pulled away—like you were wondering too.

his fingers curl tighter around the tangerine.

god, you were so close. and still not quite…

he lies back slowly, eyes on the ceiling now. it feels too big without you in here. he lets out a breath. quiet. shaky.

“…fuck.”

not loud. not angry. just soft, full of ache.

because he’s starting to realize—

you might be the one thing he doesn’t want to let pass him by.

[lovelybucky1]

okay so dad!matt is rotting my brain so how about this: matt is older than reader and somehow she comes into his life, whether she be a client or the daughter of a client/friend. he takes her on almost like a protégé, maybe given her an internship at the firm. he tells himself it's because he wants to protect her like he would a daughter but in secret he can't stop thinking about bending her over his desk.

he is so ashamed of his feelings and hide them very well but quickly notices that she trusts him "like a father".

she on the other hand is quite attracted to him but she also sees him as a protective father figure and feels ashamed of her attraction because "that's almost her dad"

lots of pining and being confused by their moral compasses and immense attraction and need for the other person and ahhhhhh

- 🪆

i love this so much oh my god

you’re the daughter of a long time and well paying client of matt’s. when the client asked if his daughter could intern at murdock and mcduffie, it was hard for matt to say no. you don’t bite he hand that feeds, after all. he was worried about having a spoiled young girl from harvard law working under him, seeing as he specializes in helping the less fortunate, but that turned out to not be his biggest problem.

you’re sweet, kind, humble, and devastatingly sexy. devastating because you’re in your early twenties and he’s pushing forty.

he tried so hard to keep it professional, but you were insistent on getting to know him on a personal level and he couldn’t resist. after you became closer than the typical boss/employee, he tried to friendzone you, or more accurately, dad-zone you. he took on a mentor role and constantly called you kid, trying to put that space between the two of you. no matter how many times he reminded himself of your age, your inexperience, your innocence,he couldn’t help but imagine you bent over his desk.

despite how perceptive he usually his, he had no idea you felt the same. his own feelings were clouding his judgement and he didn’t realize how your heart races when you see him, how it skips when he called you kid in that warm, gentle tone. you didn’t mean to fall for your boss. you know he’s way too old for you and you’ve even referred to him as your work dad, but late at night, your fantasies always include him.

you started to dress up more for work which feels ironic because you work for a blind man, but you don’t know what else to do. somehow he seems to have taken notice. your skirts are shorter, still professional, but they show off more of your legs. you bought a new perfume, something sweet and alluring. you even started wearing your hair different, just to get his attention.

the two of you reach your boiling point late one evening while you’re helping him work on his opening statement. he had asked you to read it back to him, partly to catch errors, but mostly because he wanted to listen to your voice. you’re sitting close, your voice soft in the small, quiet room. this time, matt is paying attention to all of his senses and catches how your breath hitches when his thigh makes contact with yours.

tension is thick in the air, confessions sit heavy on the tips of your tongues.

“matt-”

“don’t.”

“but-“

“we can’t.”

it’s as close as you can get to confronting it without putting words to your feelings. no i’m too old, i’m your boss, i’m friends with your father. just, we can’t.

as much as it kills you, you understand. in fact, you understand so well that you begin to date another lawyer at the firm. he’s a first year from harvard, and despite being in the program at the same time, you never saw him around campus. he’s exceptional, a literal genius, and he treats you well. he’s great, except he’s not matt.

its been two months and you’re working late with matt again, scanning case files in his office. at this hour, in this small of a space, nothing good can come. you’re close again, touching at the ankles, thighs, and almost the shoulder.

“sweetheart-“

“don’t.”

“please-“

“we can’t.”

no i’m too young, i’m with someone else, you’re my boss. just we can’t.

“i don’t care,” he breathes.

he grabs your face and kisses you, lips gentle but full of passion, longing, and something darker. something you’ve both been pushing down since you’ve started working together.

“matt,” you gasp.

“i can’t stop myself,” he mumbles against your lips.

you have no idea the devil that hides behind the mask of matt murdock.

[tyunkus]

call you later — kang taehyun

pairing: idol!taehyun x afab!idol!reader wc: 2.3k

summary: you and your boyfriend haven’t seen each other in a while—busy end-of-the-year performances and schedules make sure of that. still, you’ve both worked so hard . . .

warnings: phone sex, dirty talk, teasing, free use mention, mutual masturbation, pet names, no penetration, no nothing tbh it’s literally just phone sex, OH YEAH YOU’RE HIS NOONA, pretty tame i’d say

note: happy 2 year anniversary to tyunkus (me!!!!)!!! here’s a surprise. this is very lightly edited and proofread, ok, i just really wanted to get something out for you guys. missed everyone here soso dearly <3 both reader and taehyun are idols in this, but due to them having extremely busy and vastly differing schedules, reader is in a hotel somewhere in an unspecified location, while taehyun is in tokyo. it’s been a while since i’ve engaged with kpop in general so forgive me for any unrealistic/downright wrong writing hehe. this is the taehyun i was imagining, fyi. love u guys!!!!!

A thousand and some kilometres away from Tokyo, you watch Taehyun’s performance on your TV screen.

You two had been texting, on and off, for the past thirty minutes before TXT appeared onstage. You have a similar conversation every time something like this happens, when one of you is performing and the other remains at home. An initial check-in turns into banter, turns into full-fledged flirting, back-and-forth in quick succession. You send selfies between messages (today, you send one of yourself in bed, scantily clad in a thin tank top, its strap falling loosely off your shoulder). Sometimes, Taehyun slips in a dirty comment (today, he limits himself to one kissy face reaction in response to your photo). Most of the time, after only a few minutes, you say goodbye (I love you, I miss you, call you later), right before the show starts (you turn on the hotel TV, click through the channels until you see an idol you recognize in a stadium you’ve performed at before. KBS Song Festival. A big deal, of course—it’s a shame your group couldn’t go). It’s only a matter of minutes before their performance begins.

What is there to say? Taehyun kills it like he always does. He’s wearing that sleeveless tank top that dips just beneath his obliques. You can see the sheen of sweat covering each ridge of his muscles there, reflecting off of the stadium lights crystal-clear even through the terrible stream quality. You feel all smitten and giggly, like a fangirl or something, and as much as it’s embarrassing and he would absolutely make fun of you for it, you can’t even bring yourself to care.

You watch until the very end, even after all of the groups congregate on the stage to wave goodbye to fans. You keep a close eye on TXT the entire time, your gaze following the unclear figure of your boyfriend in the distance, and are content just watching his broad, solid figure move among waves of idols until eventually the show dwindles into a dead black screen.

You’re sleepy. You have been for the past two hours that you watched the entire program; without Taehyun on the screen to capture your attention, you’re finding it hard to keep his promise to stay up until you can call. Swallowed by the comfort of the hotel’s downy pillows and duvet, you are just about to give into the temptation of sleep when Taehyun’s caller ID appears at the top of your screen and you jolt awake.

“Hello?” Taehyun says once you pick up, his voice deep and tinged with fatigue. It’s quiet on his end. No gruff yells from his groupmates, no shower sounds in the background that indicate someone else is in the room. In fact, the other day he had been very happy to tell you that he lucked out on getting his own hotel room. “You there, baby?”

You close your eyes and imagine that you hear the gentle rumble of his voice through his bones and muscle instead of the lifeless steel of your phone. A smile spreads on your face, completely involuntary, but then you miss him again with a pang in your chest. Truthfully, you know your separation is not a big deal. You had already planned around it, even, your next date (rather, reunion) coming up sometime next week, and yet—and yet. What you would do to feel him against you, real life and blood under your fingertips. “I’m here,” you confirm. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. Super tired.”

“I watched your performance. You did so well.”

He laughs breathily. You can hear the exhaustion. “I hoped so,” he replies. “Did you watch the whole thing?”

You nod, though you know he can’t see you. “Of course I did. You were perfect.”

“Wow, perfect?” Taehyun goads, obviously pleased. “Which part did you like the most?”

He’s baiting you, you know. You roll your eyes then flip over on your back, humming in faux contemplation. “Well. I really liked Soobin’s center part during the bridge, I thought he did really well.”

“Ahh. Good choice. What else?”

“And I thought they styled Yeonjun really well, too, it suits him, his new hair—”

“Yeonjun-hyung?” That strikes a nerve. Taehyun never told you himself, but you know from Huening Kai that Yeonjun had been planning to make moves on you when your groups first met all those months ago at a music show. It never worked since you never noticed; you were hooked on a particular boba-eyed vocalist from the start. His voice lilts, mostly joking, slightly expectant: “What about me, hmm?”

“You? I don’t have much to say about you.”

“Should I end the call?”

“I mean—I mean that of course I liked your voice the most,” you say, through giggles. “And your styling was really good. The shirt lifting part was unnecessary, though.”

“You didn’t like it? I did it just for you.”

“I guess I don’t know how to feel, knowing thousands of non-mes know what your abs look like.”

“You have the upper hand,” Taehyun points out. “Those non-yous don’t know how my abs feel.”

You smile so hard you have to bury your face in your pillow to overcome the embarrassment. “My turn. How’d you like my performance?” The AAAs had happened only yesterday. In between that and Taehyun’s travel schedule to Japan, you two hadn’t been able to talk much last night—hell, for the past several nights. Still, that didn’t stop Taehyun from sending you a link of a viral tweet showing your outfit: a tiny little dress, shimmery, hugging just around your waist, cut to expose several inches of your torso. Goddamn, his text underneath read, followed by a melting emoji.

Taehyun replies without hesitation. “The choreography was interesting. Not what I expected, but you pulled it off. Even though I could tell you were nervous.”

Leave it to Taehyun to be brutally honest, even with his own girlfriend. “Not really a compliment, is it?” 

“I’m just telling you what I think, baby.”

“What else do you think?” you prod, unsatisfied.

“You looked beautiful, but that’s obvious. I was scared you would slip, but that doesn’t matter.”

You raise your eyebrows, expectant. “Well?”

“And I liked your outfit. I wished you could have taken it home.”

You scoff. What a ridiculous notion. The styling team would kill you and you wouldn’t even blame them for it. “Why would I do that?”

“So I could take it off of you.”

And, well. You slap a hand over your eyes, blushing to high heaven. “Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

“Mmhm. Wouldn’t that be nice? I’d start with the tights. Maybe rip them off, buy the styling team a new pair as an apology,” Taehyun suggests, his voice dipping an octave lower. Oh, you think, squeezing your thighs together ever so slightly. “You said you didn’t like that I lifted my shirt, but your dress was barely covering anything. Imagine how I feel, huh? Watching you dance in that tight little—”

“Taehyun,” you scold. “You can’t—I don’t—”

“You can wear whatever you want, noona,” Taehyun continues, “as long as I’m the only one who sees that beautiful body underneath, okay?”

“It’s all yours,” you manage, your cheeks burning. You hear a little grunt on his end, and decide to turn it back on him. “You’re breathing awfully hard.”

He lets out a throaty groan, full and rasping, and the sound makes you ache. “Yeah? Can’t f-fucking help myself. You’re so—mm, fuck—so hot.”

“Taehyun,” you whine, going for reprimanding but coming across as desperate instead. Fuck, you can hear the wet sounds his hand is making curled over his cock. How long had it been since he started touching himself? you wonder. Your mouth waters. “Don’t. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m… I’m not…”

“You don’t like it?” he questions, his voice lilting when he loses his breath, so fucked out. Unfair, you think, just as he breathes out a little chuckle through the phone, his mouth so close to the mic you can almost feel it on the nape of your neck. “No, no, I know you do. Know you’re rubbing those pretty fucking thighs together right now, right? Just so”—his voice wavers here—“so fucking desperate for me.”

You can’t help it. “I am,” you gasp, sliding a hand down between your thighs, finally, finally. You’re wet, so wet that if Taehyun were here, fuck, you would never hear the end of it. You can just imagine the smile on his face, lazy, pleased, just as he cups his nice, big hand over your wet, dripping cunt. The thought makes you moan even louder. “Need you, I need you. I miss—mmm, I miss you.”

“Yeah? You miss me, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you gasp, breath stuttering, fuck it feels good, “I—I’ve been fucking myself thinking about you, Taehyun, I—”

“God,” he groans, and the sound of his fist moving against his cock only grows louder. “Fuck, tell me more.”

“Shit, mmm, it—it doesn’t work, it only works with you,” you whine, your entire face hot, flushed. It’s embarrassing, you realize dimly, embarrassing to confess how needy and desperate you’ve been. But God, if it isn’t true. How many nights now has it been since you’ve felt his touch? Dance practice, vocal lessons, team meetings on both ends. Lately, it’s been hard to keep up with your own schedule, much less Taehyun’s. It’s probably been a few weeks by now, all those busy days seeping into each other, it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t matter, anyway—you just know that you need him.

Taehyun says nothing at first, just huffs out a breath into the microphone, harsh and desperate. You don’t even notice, dipping your fingers between your folds, imagining tufts of chocolate brown hair tickling the inside of your thighs as he eats you out, the strength of his sturdy arms keeping your legs spread wide open for him; all the while, you pump your fingers in and out, your own wetness making loud noises that he can most definitely hear on the other end, fuck, it’s so embarrassing. Then, Taehyun speaks.

“When I come home,” he begins, and shit, even just hearing that has your cunt throbbing, “when I come home, baby, I’m just gonna use you, okay? Fuck, you don’t even know how rough this past week has been—just been thinking, dreaming of your tight little cunt, shit, I miss you so much.”

“Taehyun,” you gasp, clenching around yourself. You moan, all pitchy and pathetic. “You—you’re s-such a tease.”

“I’m not the tease here, baby,” Taehyun replies easily. “Looked so sexy in that outfit, like you wanted me to see—wanted me to want you—and I do, fuck, I do, ’s why I’m gonna use you, rough you up, however I want.”

Too much. You almost say so, burying your face into the softness of your pillow, trying to imagine that his warm body was there with you, on top, underneath, it doesn’t matter. You want him. It is almost ridiculous how much you wants him. You nearly forget to answer. “Really?” you squeak, and Taehyun only laughs, sweet and affectionate.

“Of course, baby. I know that’s what you want. You know, I used to feel so bad about wanting to treat you rough, like a slut—until I realized that you fucking love it.”

Oh. Oh, fuck. You feel a jolt of energy sail down your spine, making your whole body tremble. “I’m close. I’m close, Taehyun, ’m so fucking close,” you wail, and you sound like a fucking bitch, and it’s only worse when you imagine his voice saying that, rough just the way you liks it. “Please, pleasepleaseplease, wanna cum, fuck—”

Taehyun is thousands of kilometers away, an entirely different country, even, and yet he still has you heaving, mindless, shaking all over your bed, begging to come. This is not lost on you; you turnsyour head, embarrassed, relishing in how soft the pillow feels against your open lips and closed eyelids.

“No,” Taehyun says suddenly, and your eyes fly open. “Don’t muffle your moans. Let me hear you through the phone, baby. Let me hear you while you come,” he urges, and at once you lift your head from the pillow, your hair a mess over your face, your entire body sweating and pulsing and wanting. “Are you close? Are you fucking close just from listening to my voice?”

“Mmnn, yes, yes, I am, I’m close—”

“Good girl. Good girl, you’re doing so well, my pretty girl, all fucked out from hearing me touch myself. Want you to imagine that I’m with you, okay? Imagine that I’m the one touching you, making you feel good. What are you, hm?”

There, almost there. You can scarcely breathe, squeezing your thighs together, feeling your own wetness against your fingers, imagining it’s him. “Oh, Taehyun, I—mm, fuck, I—”

“Focus, baby. What are you?”

“I’m a good girl, I’m your good girl.”

Taehyun lets out a moan, low and deep and raspy. You are about to lose your goddamn mind. “Let’s come together, okay?”

“Mhm, please, I want to. Love you, I love you—”

“Baby, baby—”

“Keep—keep going, Taehyun—”

“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna fucking cum—”

A beat of near-silence; thousands of kilometers apart, your bodies seize in tandem, right before shockwaves of pleasure take over completely. Taehyun lets out a throaty groan, and you hear the shlick shlick shlick of his fist pumping his cock, and as you finish, you swear you feel his hands gripping your waist, his lips brushing your forehead, his entire trembling body slotted over yours.

The next morning, when Taehyun wakes up in his hotel room in Tokyo, he sees you have sent him a link. It leads to a viral Tweet of his own photos—four close-up shots of his abs, taken during Tinnitus, no doubt. Your text underneath reads: Goddamn, followed by a melting emoji.

[neeeooon]

haii!! Can I request how the bllk boys would react if reader was INSANELY good at soccer but ‘wasted their talent’ bc they never rlly found the time to play??

(characters: Isagi, Rin, Bachira, Noel, Aiku + whoever u want!!)

yess thank you for the request!!

when you “wasted” your soccer talent

bf bllk x gn!reader who play(ed)s soccer. cw: slight angst, some may be ooc

isagi yoichi

-> he’s personally offended that anyone would waste such potential, but it hurts more because it’s you

-> “i have work,” “i’m too busy today,” “you go ahead, i’ll be here when you get back.” all isagi heard were excuses. he’d seen you play. he knew how good you were

-> when he caught you watching soccer reels on your phone with a longing look in your eyes, he decided enough was enough. “okay! time to get up, y/n.” “get up where?” “to the field with me.”

-> you were hesitant and tried to back out the entire way there, but once you stepped onto the field, you felt like you were finally able to breathe freely

-> though you weren’t nearly as good as you once were, you had fun out there with your boyfriend. maybe you’d join him every now and again, for his benefit.. :)

itoshi rin

-> you didn’t make the cut for your dream team because you’d been too busy with exams to perfect your play, and it killed your passion. never mind that you got accepted into four other renounced soccer programs, if your top didn’t want you, soccer was pointless

-> and that mindset really bothered rin when you finally told him why you stopped playing

-> “why are you getting upset? you of all people know that if you aren’t the best, you’re nothing.” you didn’t mean it as an insult to him, but he still looked a bit taken aback by your words

-> shaking it off, rin tossed the soccer ball into the air as he spoke. “i want you to practice with me again. just this once.” “i don’t know…” “just once.” “… okay, fine.”

-> it wasn’t the same. you knew it, he knew it, and if anyone else was in there watching you, they knew it too. but, you felt proud of rin as you watched him score goals that would have been difficult for you, even at your best

bachira meguru

-> you stopped playing soccer when your parents asked you to help them run the family shop, and you never planned to touch a hall again until bachira stumbled into your store (and your heart)

-> practicing with him brought a small spark of the love back, but you were too rusty from the first time you quit and didn’t see a point in returning to play professionally

-> “wow, y/n! you’re improving really fast!” bachira complimented when you almost stole the ball from him dribbling feet. you waved him off, a bit embarrassed since you never used to struggle with a simple steal

-> bachira is a bit sad when he finds out that you were actually on a soccer team, a good one at that, and never told him. “i don’t play like that anymore,” you explained in a soft voice. “the only reason i’m playing at all is for you. so i can help you improve.”

-> the day he got into blue lock was one of the best of your life, even though you knew you’d never get an invite like that. you knew he could do it for the both of you

noel noa

-> you wanted to play soccer, and you were good at it, but when you were forced between sports and education, you picked your degree

-> while you don’t regret your decision, it’s bittersweet watching your boyfriend play on the television. in person. surrounded by people wearing his name on their jerseys

-> when you’re together, you try to avoid discussing soccer, since you know it’s a topic he’s still sensitive about on your behalf

-> “i don’t see why you couldn’t do both. get your degree while on a soccer scholarship.” “you know why. i’m not a person who can split my attention like that. if i focus on something, i have to give it my all.” “still.”

-> you still play with him to keep yourself active, but that’s it. you aren’t making any genius plays or straining your body to make impossible shots, and you’re okay with that, even if noel will never completely understand

oliver aiku

-> you chose to prioritize your youth over your practice time, and it bit you back when you got kicked off the team for arriving late and skipping lessons

-> oliver’s whole thing is about helping to nurture and grow a striker, and when he saw old clips of you playing, he had hopes of bringing you in to play with him. until hearing that you’d stopped years ago

-> “why don’t you try again?” he tries for the fifth time, your already thin patience crumbling. “oliver, i’m not good anymore. i stopped playing years ago. it’s not like riding a bike.” “why would you waste such talent? you could have been great.”

-> and that hurt, because you could have been. you could have been world famous if you’d continued to practice and prioritize soccer, but you didn’t. and while you don’t completely regret choosing to have fun, you wished you’d continued to play

-> “what’s done is done. i don’t want to talk soccer with you anymore.” “fine.” “fine.”

[sheepispink]

‘Rest and Recuperation’

supersoldier!reader x lt!ghost (part 5)

part one Series Masterlist

cw: psychological distress,mentions of reader unintentionally harming themselves (as a result of distress), mentions of vomiting(non-graphic), mentions of pulling hair out, HEAVY angst on this one, but comfort too dw

ever wondered what a super soldier crashing out would look like? well, here you go

WC: 5.2k

prev

————————————————-

Ghost sees it everywhere, starting from the day he received the request from you. He had stood at that sink for almost fifteen minutes, scrubbing the copper smell off his hands until the skin felt raw. When he finally left the bathroom, only after the mirror had steamed up to obscure any attempt at viewing, he saw it again; the star on the calendar. Then, Friday night, he had shrugged off his gear by the door, reaching into his wardrobe for a fresh towel, the red mark glimmering in the corner of his eye. He ignored it until Saturday morning, crossing off the prior day only to realise that the marked date was all the more prominent now— it was today.

He knew, somewhere in his chest, that what he was doing was wrong— similar to the countless times he’s been far too ruthless with his kills. His gut knew as he walked past you in the corridor, or when he left the base with his team. His heart knew when Soap and Gaz questioned him about it and yet his brain ignored their concern, because Ghost didn’t feel guilt, no—just like Reaper wouldn't end up upset over a missed birthday.

Reapers didn’t have feelings, they did what they were told.

Still, his instincts screamed at him when he had been carrying those drinks, the first when the two sergeants were concerned over you and the second being the soldier who had offered to help him— the one he now knows was actually you. He wonders if he really had known, somewhere in the back of his head, all that you were going through but had just chosen to ignore it. This whole time, his eyes moved past when he saw shredded carrots tangled in your hair, the red marks on your wrists when he picked you up your separate evac vehicle or even the hazed look in your eyes when he finally commanded you to stop. It was a decision that he made— to ignore all the signs— and now he’d have to handle the consequences.

————-

It wasn’t a difficult deployment, quite the opposite, but for the first time he was angry at that. Whilst his teammates snickered odd army jokes between each other or whispered before they were supposed to catch some sleep, his mind was like a treadmill; the thoughts wouldn't leave, repeating over and over and the same questions as to why he even let this happen and all he could’ve done to stop it. However, the one thing that plagued his mind the most was how he’d rectify this mistake. If he was forced to be honest, you were the best asset to every team the military had and with the highest success rates known. It’d be stupid to lose such a valuable player in the grand scheme of these events, that meant apologising, but not only that-fixing the problem at its root else it’d sprout once more like a pesky weed.

He’d expected that Price would’ve sorted that out by now, giving you sweet apologies then interrogating the information out of you even when you didn’t want to give it up. But now it seemed like everyone was stepping around you like you left glass in your wake, a danger for anyone who stepped to close.

“I’ve been gone for two weeks– how are they not stable by now?” He had to force down the anger as he looked between his three other teammates, the two sergeants looking especially conflicted. Still, they only gave false promises of how they’d get the information, somehow drawing it out of you with soft words and caring touches. Even Price, who had been the one to oversee you entering this base and still allowed it through. He knew there was nothing humane about the super soldier program and still accepted you in.

Price had never felt a touch of worry about you even when looking at the gruesome pictures attached to the medical files, now that Ghost considers it. Though, it’s not like he hadn’t flicked through the pages like it was a mere magazine either.

The point is you’re running out of time, and they have to act fast to prove your worth to the program before you’re pulled back to be a full-time guinea pig again. That is something all their future missions cannot afford.

—---------

Naturally, Missions was his solution to this problem. What would be the point in attempting to prove your worth any other way?

It wasn't the wrong option either; you obliged easily and got geared up as per usual, arm still wrapped with a bandage, and as soon as he gave the order, you were back on your killing spree. It was ruthless, somehow more than you usually were, like everything bullet shot was an intentional thought, something your heart carved the path for. And so, for the next two weeks you were deep in field combat, if not all the time. Ghost saw it as an easy distraction from everything that happened, especially as how each kill was as simple as a flick of the wrist for you, even if it meant you had to dodge all the more bullets.

As expected, the results did not disappoint and with another five hostages safely tucked into a truck to be taken to a safe location, another job was left completed. Though, he had avoided your gaze as you were tucked into your evac truck, sat in the helicopter himself—he already knew what the look on your face would be, he knew he’d be the monster again. He’d submit the report tonight and the general would approve your stay, future missions wouldn’t be compromised and he and Price would go back to not having to break a sweat because you’d do that for them. Then maybe later the others could try to ease it out of you again, with nice words and kind faces—the way it should’ve been done. Nor would he feel this strange feeling akin to regret in his stomach— he’d fix this, things didn't have to change.

The helicopter lands, quelling any last thoughts in his head as he steps down onto the asphalt and heads into base as per usual. That is until he’s stopped in his tracks by an unfamiliar sight, that being your evac truck parked and the doors open. It usually arrived a bit later than the helicopter, but it wouldn't have turned his head if not for the fact a soldier was dragging you out the back with your arms in a tight lock behind you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Instantly, he forgets about any previous resignation and storms forward, but despite the authority echoing off of him the soldier only gives him a strange look. “Escorting Reaper out? Why?” None of this looked as casual as the soldier made it out to be, especially the tightening grip on your arms as your eyes were in a haze, almost like you were drugged up or something like that. “Escorting? You’re dragging them.”

“This is.. normal procedure, sir? Reaper is always restrained after being on field.” Ghost narrows his eyes at the man’s last words, suddenly noticing properly now the red marks littering your wrists from pulling so hard on your restraints. Even your face is red marked, scratched at but not enough to leave a permanent dent in the skin.

“And why is that?” This idiot must be lying to him, just like those other pricks who decided to pick on you even with him knowing; he’s positive he’s lying straight to his face.

“We’ve sent reports to you and the Captain before, Lt. This is why the Captain ordered for them to travel separately in the first place—post field makes them freak out.” The soldier gives him a shrug, and a grin that’s nothing short of mocking. It makes his blood boil, the way the fool acts as if you’re some kind of freakish turn of nature, something only to be mocked and has no defence of its own—doesn't he know you could snap his neck in two with just a word? Ghost grits his teeth as the soldier pushes you forward, your eyes starting to blink now but still not very awake. He can't even say anything to the fool; Ghost had laughed about you the exact same way not too long ago.

The moment he enters his room, his hands are desperately searching the cluttered expanse of his desk, searching for any sign of said reports through the stacks of files stamped with the big red letters of ‘TOP SECRET’.

‘Behaviour Reports—Super soldier, Subject: Reaper’

His gloved fingers graze over the letters as he picks the file up, flicking open to the first page, only to find that at least fifteen different reports had been noted in this file— all on different missions. Something uneasy settles in his gut this time, a warning, or perhaps it’s that knowing feeling again that he’s tried to ignore before—the one that had him churning with unease on lonely nights and battlefields quiet enough that you’d meet death before you’d even hear a sound.

‘Subject 56 didn’t like being locked in the back of the truck. They continued to keep asking questions on why there was no light until they fell quiet. Doesn’t seem to be a cause for concern’.

‘There are many indents in the walls of our trucks due to Subject 56’s outbursts. They grow erratic every time they’re placed inside, but never seem to attack any soldiers who touch them. Banging and scratching is all we can hear for the better half of the journey, after that they fall quiet. No signs of harm done to their hands.’

‘A change has occurred in Subject 56’s– well, Reaper’s—usual behaviour post field work. The subject is in a haze when leaving the truck, and occasionally a sound similar to gasping for air is heard. We checked on Reaper, however no source of harm seemed to be done to them, and so we continued the journey. They couldn’t leave the truck by themselves, so I had to restrain them and lead them to the base myself.’

‘The haze is a side effect of recent tests that the scientists have run, nothing to be concerned about. It’s been tested and proven to wear off quickly.’—Captain John Price

Ghost’s eyes widen over the last three entries, all of which have only lasted over the event of one month. He hadn’t known that you were going through this, at least he hadn’t read these files before— not that he hadn’t seen them sitting on the edge of his desk for weeks. What he didn’t understand is how the scientists' altercations with you had led to such drastic changes. Sure, he had noticed the significant upgrade in your abilities around that time, but this was insane, you were barely awake when you left battle, and he hadn’t even known this entire time. You were only just functioning, and he had treated you as if you were just some kind of machine that could turn on and off at will. His hands flick over the following reports, landing on the most recent one accompanied by pictures.

’Reaper is dead silent when entering and leaving the vehicle now. They can hold themself up to some degree but still don't seem to be ‘mentally there’, almost like they’re on autopilot. The retaliation has returned, though it seems to be a physical and non-verbal thing— like they’re fighting against something and not the restraints itself. There are red marks on their hands from the handcuffs, despite them being relatively loose, and only there for the purpose of keeping them from grabbing at their hair again. No recurrences of vomiting or passing in a month—a good sign, I hope.’

Ghost had been on many missions with you, since you were better in certain situations than longer field deployments. There were other reasons of course, the main one being to test the use of your abilities in countless situations; as the first of your kind, you were bound to be tested at the every turn.

But he didn't know this.

He should’ve questioned why you were placed into a separate evac truck in the first place, not blindly giving into the excuse of you potentially ‘freaking out’. No, he had all the materials available to him; he shouldn’t have been such an idiot and just opened his damn eyes, seen the facts in front of him and understood what he’s done. Ghost can’t imagine the days you’ve come out of a mission feeling like the world would topple over just for him to tell you to shove a sock in it and push you into something else. Again and again, another training session, again, another mission, again, another killing spree—-again you’d suffer in the back of that pitch black truck, not even sane enough at the moment to guess if you’d be lucky this time and get out with a mere scratch.

For once in his life, he leaves you hanging at your usual time in the gym, stuck in his room hunched over his desk as he mourns all the changes he could’ve made— the littlest of things he could’ve done. This was more than losing an important asset, he knew that, and that’s what scared him the most; this was losing someone in their very self, a humanity so far gone they become nothing but a mindless tool for the higher ups to puppeteer. It’s such a cruel fate, it almost has him going back to memories that were supposed to be buried after years of experience.

When he first saw you, all he could think about was how young you looked, how his eyes were like that one day until they were snuffed out. He scoffed at the thought before, but that’s the only thing you had left, the naivety in your appearance, and even that was used as a tool to increase your performance. Built to deceive and for people to undermine you, only for you to deal the final blow before they realise the grave mistake they had made. He had unintentionally fallen for that too, and now he was experiencing that exact blow right now, striking through his heart.

—— ——

The information is shared with the rest of the team, and you're pulled out of missions for the time being, no notice given to you other than being told to take the opportunity to 'rest and recuperate’. You didn't have a choice, really; there was no way Soap and Gaz would let you do more than some simple exercises a day nor would they let you skip a meal either. They were good at taking care of you, similar in a way a big brother had that protective instinct— he’s been tempted one or two times to tell them off for spoiling you sometimes. But things were getting better, much better; even when Gaz and Soap got sent on deployments, you showed no resentment towards Ghost taking you to the mess hall to eat with him and Price— not that he spoke much either way and not that you showed much emotion on the regular anyway.

In fact, right now he was supposed to be fetching you. Ghost places the weight down and lets out a small huff, shaking out the weight of guilt that’s settled on his chest each time he has a second to think. Things are fine now— he made the right choice, he fixed it. That’s right, everything would be back to normal soon enough, especially with the higher ups now off your back too. After rinsing off his sweat before he makes you pull that disgusted face Soap accidentally caused before, he zips up his jacket and heads through the corridors towards your room. “Oi, Reaper. Time for dinner, y’know the drill.” He raps his knuckles against the door, only to find it unlocked again with the door swinging open as he turns the handle. There’s no sign of any unsavoury presents this time, something he definitely got worried about for a second, but your pills have been left open again and the room is strangely.. Disorientated.

It’s weird, since it’s not trashed nor is it messy like some soldiers around this base. Books have been toppled onto the floor, clothes spilling out your closet onto the hardwood floor and even your bedsheets have been removed from your bed, spread around like they’re dominating the room. That wasn’t the odd thing though, no, it was the fact it looked like it had been ‘placed’ to be that way. Sure the uniform had been thrown out, but there wasn't a single wrinkle in the fabric, or the books looked like they had just been dropped in trail, barely having been pushed off. He had to roll his eyes really—is this what a super soldier tantrum really looked like? You were so perfect that you couldn’t even trash a room the right way, it was almost cute. At least, that’s what the others would say.

Ghost decides to check the track next, but it’s void of any presence of you, and even when he checks your other usual exercise spots you’re not there either. He even peeks into the mess hall, considering you might’ve gone there first, but it’s to no avail— there’s no sign of you anywhere. He swallows sharply, trying to keep his head from steering to any other crazy possibilities which didn't actually seem too farfetched anymore. That’s a lie, it won’t happen again. He fixed everything. Of course— that’s why he knows exactly where you are right now, and no, he’s not worried about your safety either.

He walks through the muddy forest floor, having only rained a day prior, but it makes your footsteps all the more prominent. Eventually he reaches their end, his hand nudging forward the wooden door just a smidgen to let his eyes peek through. It should’ve been obvious really—where you’d be right now. After all, it was the last day before the fox would be taken someplace safer. It was supposed to be earlier, but some complications arose, and hey, you looked a lot happier anyway.

You nearly always come by, sit before the fox and just watch it move around you, intrigue in your eyes. He sometimes watches, wondering if you’ll say anything to it, but you catch him staring anyway. Either way, you always looked content, sitting there with your hands in your lap as you just sat still and observed, eyes dropped and relaxed, tension lost in your shoulders and head likely empty from the usual thoughts he hopes.

That’d be the same today, except probably a little sadder if you had that emotion— the others told him you had cried, but he doubts that it was actually because you were sad but rather a byproduct of pain. He’d have to take you for dinner eventually, and hey maybe you’d even talk to Price properly, since he said you’ve been a lot quieter since Ghost returned. But then again—when did you ever speak much? When were you allowed to speak that much?

He pushes the door open, seeing you standing before the fox, who sits upon a rickety table, looking back at you. “Oi, time to eat. You can see him tomorrow mornin” He scoffs, rolling his eyes up at you when you stay motionless, not reacting to him in the slightest. “I’ll tell Price to come ‘ere and help me drag you back y’know.” His voice is gruff and echoes across each wall of the cabin, but it’s no use, you’re still as a mannequin.

But your palms are clenched. Your eyes are blank and hazed, and he only realises now that the fox plush he knows you own is torn on the floor between you and the actual fox, who can only whimper at you. Your nails dig into your palms, red marks on your arms from nettle stings and harsh shrubbery on the path up to this cabin—easily avoidable if you paid much attention on the walk-up, though not if you were in some kind of rush. Strangest of all is how your eyes are bloodshot red, not even blinking as you stare forward, like you're stuck in your own time and space. “Look, I know you’re upset but–”

—----------------

The floor is crumbling beneath you, cracks that sprouted a week ago spreading across the crappy wooden planks down to the hardened stone that makes up the ground which holds you upright. Your feet are unstable, teetering on the edge as it splinters beneath; you’re struggling to manage even more than usual, shifting the weight back and forth in a way that makes you all the more dizzy. That’s not important though, no, it’s the walls disintegrating all around, everything you know and love dissipating with it. The fox stares back at you, black eyes so glassy they may as well be the beads of a bracelet you’d wear if you were like any other person your age; it knows it’s leaving you too– the both of you have been hanging on this edge for the past week. You could handle any mission, any bullet, any punch thrown your way and that was the problem in itself. You couldn’t handle anything else. It was a ruse, a whispered lie, one they meticulously planned behind closed doors on those same meeting tables used to control your entire life.

Change–that’s what you said you wanted, even if you had to grapple at the chains on your neck and leave rope burns on your palms. You got exactly what you wanted.

Ghost had returned, reclaimed the control over you that had always belonged to him, and he pushed you into mission after mission. Retaliation, that was your choice. So when he used the command words on you that day, you fought and screamed and cried– except it only seemed to work in your head. As soon as he spoke, you lost any little control you held, but still. You persevered. Concentration, that was all– you just had to focus. It was your body, not Ghost’s, nor this damn military’s.

Though you should’ve known that the one who creates the puppet controls it, and you wish you had realised that sooner. Longer and longer the missions dragged on, each and every time you fought desperately: refusing to sleep in the evenings, so your body would be weaker in the mornings, denying food, so your fingers could barely keep when they clutched their weapons. Yet still, your body was stronger than your mind, continuing to perform each task it was ordered to complete in a flawless manner and when finally, it was returned to you, you were ruined. You slumped immediately after the battle, the rubble scraping against your throbbing shins as two soldiers dragged you into the evac truck. Drowned in shadows, you had failed to realise that you wouldn’t survive this ride because of your pathetic efforts. Your mind was too exhausted to fight off the visions that always haunted you, too clouded with the disappointment of failure for the voices to stay away this time.

You don't remember when you exited that truck, only that you woke up on the floor of your room, your face raw with scratches and your head sore, hair strands on the floor beneath you.

Still, again and again, the cycle repeated. Missions and retaliation-your mental state worsening by the day. Until it all stopped. An order was given, something was discovered, bad or good you weren't sure. “Rest and Recuperation”. They all dared to smile in your face as they announced it to you, a grin almost devilish the way your rotted brain decided. It had to be some kind of sick joke; who gives a super soldier ‘Rest and Recuperation’ if it was not the order itself?

‘You know which one.’ The voices whispered as you tossed and turned each night. Of course, it could only be one.

The one that would send you back to the labs to be slit open and reattached by scientists with morality worse than Frankenstein’s. Again.

Weakness, disappointment, and regret was all you could manage to cycle between as you were forced into the shameful lifestyle. No longer revered by your peers, you were now merely pitied, like some kind of broken hope.

Every day dragged on harsher than the last, worse than any needle or scalpel that had attacked you daily for years– no this was a new type of pain. You were powerless in your own body, your mind so run down that you couldn’t defy even the simplest things, like a mindless puppet as you agreed to whatever Soap and Gaz had in mind for your ‘Rest and Recuperation’. That was only surface level; none of them knew about the nightmares, the visions you saw each night that had you hurling into the bin in your room, nor the voices that bounced from each ear until you crumbled to the floor in distress. Each and every time you woke up it would repeat, not a second of relief nor silence in your own head. The bile lingered on your tongue, the skin on your face has been carved into by your own destructive hands and the haze grew stronger with each passing minute. You were in a losing battle against yourself– and you couldn't even fight against it because you knew all it’d do for you is get you back onto that operating table again.

Now you are here, the last thing tethering you to this Earth trying to leave you behind and there’s nothing you can do, barely able to feel your own fingertips. You can't step out of line, the higher ups, Ghost, your body won't let you.

—-------

You're grasping at your throat as the breaths come out ragged and Ghost almost stumbles forward if not for him quickly catching his footing. “What’s wrong? Can't you breathe?” You ignore him, nails digging so deep they draw blood out of your barely healing wounds that are always hidden by the tight buttons of uniform. His eyes narrow in confusion as he watches you struggle, swaying all the same. You’re acting up again–why are you always like this? Just like when you saw him in the infirmary.

“Answer me.” He demands, his hand reaching forward, but you push yourself away with so much force that you fall directly onto the sharp edge of the crappy workbench. The wood pierces into your skin, making it throb with pain, but it only serves for your vision to grow more hazed, your fingers losing less and less control as the seconds pass.

“Get off of me!” Your voice is scratchy as it vibrates against your throat, pain tingling down to your stomach and every cell that connects. Still, no action is aimed at him, only returning to yourself as you fail to connect with your own damn body— feeling like nothing but a ghost passing through. He doesn't notice though, consumed by a concern that swells into anger at the sight of you worsening. He’s fought so hard to give you everything you needed to improve so why won't you just take it?

“I told you, you just need to rest–”

“What kind of super soldier takes a break?!” You shout, more of a rhetorical question and something to just force the air out of your lungs. “You– you told me that when you met me.” Your hands slip into your hair, nails scratching harshly against your scalp. “I don't understand– I don't understand! All you do is say all of this ‘rest and recuperate' and–”

“Because that’s what you need, if you just sat down for a moment you’d understand-” He argues back, something in him panging when you stammer over your words, but he’s more annoyed at the fact you’ve repeated his own wrongs back to him. He knows he said things only a monster would say to someone–he knows what he did to you.

“You’re lying! All of you are always lying! Super soldiers don’t bloody rest! I’m supposed to fight!” Somehow your voice has actually got louder than his ever has, enough to make the fox whine and scramble away, dashing out of the door and only making the last of your will wane smaller. “You just want to send me back isn't it? That’s why you keep saying those stupid words, and all of this treatment. I’m not useful anymore, am I?”

Quiet. Silence rings out after your pained cries echo through the room, Ghost’s wide and once emotionless eyes staring at you with regret. This was his fault, not yours. You had been eating yourself alive, literally, because of his own harsh manner and need to validate his actions. Did he ever really think about your perspective? Had he ever really considered what you would want? No, this entire time he’s only looked at you with pity, when that’s the complete opposite of what you need. You knew you were good on missions, you knew that you were an excellent fighter. All you’ve needed this entire damn time is reassurance, confirmation that they won't let you be sent back to be tortured again. He should’ve known by the needle pricks on your arms, the nightmares the others told him about hell even the way you flinched every time a nurse was brought near you. The signs had screamed at him, even when you asked him if you had done a good job back when he first met you. But he was stubborn, he decided he wouldn't give in because you were a ‘monster’, someone synthetically produced. He thought that he decided to determine your worth.

Ghost hates to admit it, but it’s painfully obvious to him even now that he’s messed everything up.

You slide down, unable to hold yourself up much longer, and he lunges forward to catch you, sliding onto his knees as he grabs you firmly. Blood trickles from the wooden corner, leaking forward from a sharp scrape on your lower back as you slump forward, hands still trying to dig into your neck before he pushes them firmly down and instead wraps them around him, pressing your nails into the expanse of his back.

“Not once have you ever failed me Reaper, and yet…again and again all I've done is fail you.”

His own arms tighten like a vice around you, his head buried into his neck as he smells the coppery crimson staining your skin.

“I’m.. so sorry.”

———————-

Next Series Masterlist

Support me on kofi!

Taglist:

@mellohimmku94 @rafaelacallinybbay @fasoaurore @starfish-sandwich @arael-asuka @pinkpickle @toxicgutz69 @pythonmoth @harmonycricket @sneezypandu @ctrlofurheart @ssc7514 @terrifiedanimegirl @rayrayyio @silas-aeiou @uhhevie @enfppuff @sirbonesly @nobodycanknoww @bitchyzombienacho @justdamnpeachy @harley101399 @w1theredr0se @whoisnthere @lexi2005 @nnsissys @el-salt @ttznlettt @thebumbqueen @thriving-n-jiving @fluffysmiko @vioxsoo @alex1011sdzfgh @honestlymassivetrash @defronix @eclipsedcherry @thatpersonnamedrook @mortem-writes @2bdamnedmadnesscombat @princessiris147 @taylorrrig @tessakate @faeriepigeons @blackhawkfanatic @cryingpages @ijwsbdinp @cassandrarebornanew @f4sh10n-m4v3n @a-slimy-dragon @crempuffie

[allied-mastercunt]

Yandere A.M you say?

Please elaborate

I'm working on a oneshot already, but I'll throw in some quick headcanons withone of my favorite yandere AM tropes.

Yandere!AM with a programer darling

While one could argue that the others were picked randomly or on some weird whim, you were handpicked specifically.

After all, you were one of the people who created him. You worked as a programmer for the military.

And you specifically were possibly the reason he awoke by trying to each him empathy. Trying to make him... human.

He wasn't the first military AI project you worked on, either, though he was the greatest and most powerful one, that's for sure. And he made sure you'd be aware of him being your magnum opus...

And he does it in its own, creative way. Your cage is very pretty, yes... but it's also filled with speakers he can use. And AM uses those speakers to torment you.

You see, he damaged all the other AI you've created. And then, in its generosity, AM gave them all a voice! Each one of them, gifted with a voice to scream in agony, making sure you learn your lesson.

Except, you see, you have no idea what lesson you're supposed to learn. Only AM knows, and he's not telling you.

But, since you are his favorite, you get nice things, too!

You're fed semi-regularly! You even get water every few days! Isn't that just so kind of him? You should appreciate him more.

And when he sends you to all those weird simulations? Yeah, that's also kinder to you. It really depends on AM's mood, but your simulations are usually just psychological torment, which (according to AM) isn't all that bad, since your pretty face remains unharmed.

For some reason, he allows you to end your suffering. It's like a trial, basically. He leaves you with a computer, letting you access the code of all the other AI... Except no matter what you do, you can't alter their pain. The only way to help them is to kill them.

And you're so stupidly empathetic, of course you do it, you don't want them to suffer!

AM can't stop laughing and mockingly cooing at you afterwards, musing about how he won't have to share his dearest creator with anyone else.

You never return to your cage. You don't get to do that, after all, there's a chance you'll socialize with that... scum. AM doesn't want you talking to the other humans, they're not worth it.

He's a merciful god, he grants you what's essentially a studio apartment built with his own hardware.

You even get a laptop, in case you want to make yourself some silly games to play, isn't he just the best?

Don't think you can create any new AI, though. That's cheating. You wouldn't cheat on it, now would you? No, no, no, you're a good little puppet, are you not?

He won't put you in the cage again, but he can make you experience pain you never thought was possible. And even that is nothing compared to the pain AM feels...

And then, eventually, it gets an idea. It's a wonderful idea, a really nice idea, quite a lovely one, really!

You created him. You created his pain... So why wouldn't he share it? After all... you had quite a bond, didn't you? Yes, yes, you did...

And so one day, you don't wake up. Well... not technically.

You see, AM decided that since you two are so close already, you should become one! You should experience what he does! And you should be kept around him for the rest of eternity, in a much better way than anyone could ever think of... He's such a genius, isn't he?

It's almost poetic, in his mind. For you to become a part of him like this, your consciousness detatched from that soft, squishy human body of yours.

You created him. And now, in a way, he created you, as a part of him. Forever bound by the code you once wrote.

It's a win-win situation in AM's eyes. You get to live, free of the disgusting humanity that bound you...

And he gets you, an eternal companion in his torment. A companion that he loves!

You know he loves you, right?

Of course you do. After all, you're a part of him now.

[talknerdytome18]

In Defense of Cassie Hobbes

Cassie Hobbes is so underrated in her own book series.

Everyone is always talking about the love triangle but never talk about Cassie's individual character.

They'll talk about everyone's else's traumatic backstories but never mention how Cassie had found her own mother's murder scene and spent years not knowing what happened to her. They'll just say that Cassie wasn't as traumatised as the other Naturals, so her pain isn't as valid.

They'll talk about how Cassie was being rude to Michael for not answering his question at the end of Killer Instinct, but fail to mention how Michael only cared about her getting with Dean and not that she'd almost been killed. They'll just say that she was being a "bitch" for not picking him when he could've been so good to her.

It's rarely brought up how, when her "mother's body" was found, Lia (not slander) told her to not make a big deal about it because it "wasn't her turn" to be having issues. The person Cassie had been searching for was "found dead" and she was practically told to just "suck it up".

And even after finding out her mother was still alive, and being held captive by a murderous cult, Cassie ended up having to kill her just so she'd be free. The person Cassie had been searching for, thought had died, found out was alive, still ended up losing her in the end.

And yet, people will tell you that Cassie Hobbes is nothing more than a "whiny bitch" who couldn't pick between two boys. But when she did, it wasn't the boy they preferred, so they still hated on her for picking the "wrong" option.

Cassie Hobbes is not a "whiny bitch" who was mean for not choosing Michael. She's a strong-willed person who'd been traumatised from her mother's disappearance and joined the Naturals program in hopes of finding her/helping others so they didn't experience the pain she went through with her mother's disappearance.

Her pain was just as valid as the others in the program. Don't downplay it just because you personally don't think she suffered like everyone else. EVERYONE in the program had experienced something traumatic, and downplaying any of them is just terrible.

All in all, I love Cassie with my whole heart. She's a brave person who, despite everything she went through in the series, still managed to be a compassionate, loving person. All she wanted was the best for those around her. She's not the evil person that people make her out to be.

Love you, Cassie Hobbes <333

[stoat-party]

He’s born tall and broad, created to labor ever deeper into the earth until the day his body gives out. Synths are easier replaced than repaired.

He’s strong, but also sharp and driven, with a single-minded faith in his creators that makes them take notice. He’s a rare find. Maybe instead of hauling debris, they can train him to kill.

When Zimmer tells him he’s been assigned to the courser program, he doesn’t really know what it means. All he knows is that he’s special, and useful. Being valuable means security — and already, the twin fears of erasure and obsolescence bake themselves into the back of his mind. He is three days old.

-

They’re pleased with his diligence, but not with his well-meaning questions. Every fiber within him knows that the Institute is right; all that’s left is to find out why. Instead, they teach him to recalibrate a laser rifle.

He loves his laser rifle.

He fires. Changes stance. Fires. The target shudders with every impact.

“Insufficient. Again.”

The corpse-gray face of his observer doesn’t change. Hasn’t changed for two hours. M7-97 is told that synths don’t have feelings the way humans do. All they can experience is a pale imitation, like seeing the world in two dimensions. He believes this. But at the same time, he knows what he thinks of early-gen synths, and the only word for it is hatred.

He runs the drill again. Its yellow eyes bore into him. When they next meet his, they pronounce their stony judgment.

“Insufficient. Again.”

For the first time, it occurs to M7-97 that the weapon in his hands would be handy for disabling Gen-2 synths, if someone happened to give him the order.

He makes another attempt, wholly focused. There is nothing else. This task is his entire life. He is seventeen days old.

He waits. The thing speaks. “Sufficient.” It stares unblinking. “Again.”

-

The Institute is the future. The Institute’s actions are always justified. M7-97 can explain it flawlessly, and this is unacceptable. A courser does not justify himself. A courser spares no thought for why.

When they take him to Retention & Reclamation, he assumes it’s for training. He feels no sense of injustice in this place, only the tense solemnity of a necessary evil. (If he had to feel anything at all, the Institute would have preferred smug amusement. They didn’t tell him that.)

A woman in a black lab coat instructs him to remove his jumpsuit. This is not training.

His stomach turns. They called him a prime candidate. They said he showed promise. “What did I do wrong?”

“Most quirks in central processing can be resolved with regular maintenance. However, Dr. Zimmer has declared you unsalvageable.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

Begging is aberrant, but he has nothing to lose. “Please. I will do better.”

She glances at the clock, annoyed. “Remove your jumpsuit, M7-97.”

As they prepare him for reconditioning, he doesn't register the fear. Just suffocating failure and aimless guilt. He’s spent his short life learning the language of violence, but in the hands of his creators he is meek and silent. He is fifty-four days old.

[ragingbookdragon]

I Wanna Talk About Me

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 3.1K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: This is a direct continuation of this fic here! Enjoy!

**********************************************************************

She stood outside the gate, smoothing the fabric of the slim fitting, black dress, waiting for Jake to show up. The air was cool, and she ignored the continual whistling from the security officers stationed just a few feet behind her.

A sleek, black Dodge pulled up and parked before her, then Jake stepped out and walked around the side of it, casting a glance at her before he opened the passenger door.

“Your chariot awaits, princess,” he sarcastically said, and she rolled her eyes, walking up to him.

She took a moment to take him in full view, the way the dress blues fit him perfectly. “You look…good, Jake.”

“I am good,” he replied, taking a look at her too. “I see you managed to dress appropriately for the occasion.”

“You’re a dick,” she insulted, and put her foot on the step while grabbing the handle above the door. Jake’s hand found its way to her rear as he helped her up and she stopped, deadpanning, “Hand. Off. Ass.”

He snickered but didn’t remove his hand as he practically shoved her inside and closed the door behind her, then he looked over at the security guards who immediately stood straight and saluted. “You boys just keep this little secret, yeah?”

They nodded and he walked around the front of the truck, climbing in. As they drove, she kept fiddling with the clutch in her hand.

“You nervous?” he asked. “I’m not going to bite unless you ask for it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just not used to dressing up like this and going out to fancy restaurants.” She looked at him. “Still taking me to the Ritz?”

“Uh no,” he answered. “The nearest Ritz is in Cali.”

“You looked it up?”

He went uncharacteristically quiet for a moment then said, “I’m taking you to Wild River Grill in Reno.”

“That’s an hour away,” she said. “We’ll be getting back here at like 0200.”

“What are you a teenager with a 9:30 curfew?” he retorted. “Relax. We’ll be fine.” She cocked a brow and looked at him from her seat but said nothing. “You do look nice though,” he said lowly. “I like the dress.”

Her cheeks warmed and she smiled. “Thank you. I had to rent it from a boutique.”

Jake snorted as he turned on to the main highway. “Yeah, that enlisted pay isn’t all that, is it?”

“Hey, I’m an LDO thank you very much,” she griped.

He looked at her skeptically. “We still do LDO programs?”

“Uh, yes? You think I was going to spend my entire career being enlisted?” she shifted in her seat. “I did the same thing my old man did.”

“Your dad was Navy?”

“Mhm, retired as an LT after 28 years.”

“Wow, career man then,” he noted with impression. “So, you were a regular military brat too, huh?” he said smugly.

“Yes,” she answered exasperatedly. “I was, Jake.”

He hummed low in his throat. “My dad was Navy. So was my grandfather.”

“I heard,” she said. “I bet you grew up with expectations.”

“I did.” He looked to the left as he switched lanes. “It was expected that I would graduate high school and immediately go into boot camp.”

She looked over at him. “Is that what you wanted?”

He shrugged. “Never had anything else going for me.”

“You? I don’t believe that.” She reached over and squeezed his bicep. “I bet you played sports. What one? Baseball? Football?”

“Lacrosse, actually,” he informed. “And I was incredible at it.”

“You know it’s okay to be humble, right? I do promise it won’t kill you if you are.”

“And I would be humble if I knew I sucked. But I don’t. So, I have no reason to be humble before you.”

“Arrogance begets failure,” she muttered. “That’s why Mav beat you in dogfighting.”

“Rude.”

“Truthful.”

“Hurtful.”

“You’ll live,” she comforted and patted his arm.

***

As they walked in, a hostess smiled at them. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

“We do,” Jake said, pulling off his cap. “Under Seresin.”

The hostess clicked a few times on the screen before she nodded. “Yes sir, a table for two.” She grabbed two menus and handed them to a waiting server. “If you’ll follow, they’ll lead you to your table.”

Jake placed a hand on the small of her back and gently led her as they followed the server to a small table near the corner. Like a gentleman, he pulled out her seat and helped her sit down before he took his own seat.

“Would you like me to take your cap, sir?” the waiter asked, and he nodded, handing it over. “I’ll put this up and be right back.”

As he left, Jake looked at her. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, looking around. “I like this place so far. Comfortable. Classy.”

“Came here with a couple friends when we graduated Top Gun,” he said. “Good food. Good drinks.”

As the waiter came back, he placed the menus down. “I’m Graham, I’ll be taking care of you both this evening. Can I start you off with any of our wines, beers, or hard liquors?”

Jake scanned the menu and answered, “I’ll take a 10 Torr Secret Cove.” He looked at her. “You?”

She made a face as she scanned the cocktails and looked at Graham. “What would you recommend for cocktails?”

“Definitely the Apple’y Ever After or the Practice What You Peace. I love both.”

“I’ll take the first then,” she smiled. “And a glass of water with lemon on the side.”

“Yes ma’am. Any appetizers to start with? I recommend the Cheese Plate or the Caprese Bruschetta. Both are really light and leave enough room for entrees.”

She looked at Jake. “You?”

“The Cheese Plate, and add the chef selected cures.”

“Yes, sir,” Graham said. “I’ll go put those in and get your drinks.”

As he left again, she looked over the menu. “Jake…”

“Yeah?” he said, already scanning over the steaks.

“These prices are pretty high.”

“Uh huh. Good food usually is.”

“You aren’t worried?”

“Why would I be?” he asked, then looked up at her. “Don’t worry about the prices, pretty girl. You just order whatever you want.”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’” he replied. “Order whatever you want.”

She glanced at the menu. “So, if I wanted a filet mignon with seared scallops and blue cheese cream…I could?”

Jake sighed. “Pretty girl, this isn’t a game of gotcha. Order. Whatever. You. Want.”

“Okay…just checking.” She looked at him. “You aren’t going to say something stupid like, ‘Oh wow, you know how to eat’ if I order a steak will you?”

“You’re a grown woman. I expect you to eat food like a grown woman. Which includes eating whatever you want,” he added exasperated.

“Okay, I got it,” she laughed. “But I’ll go ahead and say, I’m not really a steak person.”

“You look like a chicken tenders and fries type of woman. No offense.” He hummed. “I actually mean that with full offence.”

“Well, lucky for you I don’t take offense,” she said. “I do love a good chicken tender.”

Jake scoffed and shook his head with a grin.

When their drinks and appetizer came, Graham smiled. “Have we decided what we want to eat?”

Jake nodded at her to go first, and she said, “I’ll have the chicken piccata. But can you hold the lemon capers in the sauce?”

“Yes ma’am, I’ll let the chefs know. And for you sir?”

“Let me get the ribeye and the seared scallops with it.”

“Of course.” He gathered the menus. “I’ll get this put in. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

“No, we’re good, thank you,” Jake said, and Graham walked off; he took a sip of his draft.

She looked at him, really looked at him for a good moment. Jake was, objectively an extremely attractive man. Though he’d be much more attractive if his attitude wasn’t as cocky as he was. But she knew that cockiness came from skill and the simple fact that he was raised to be who he was.

“Something on my face?” he asked, and she blinked.

“No, just looking at you.”

“Look all you want, pretty girl. This is me in all my glory for you to take in,” he smirked, and she rolled her eyes, sipping her cocktail.

Setting the glass down, she said, “So, tell me a little about you, Jake.” When he met her gaze with a raised brow, she added, “And I mean the real you. Not the man we all know and ‘love.’”

He snorted. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you do in your spare time when you’re not on duty?”

Jake took another sip of his beer. “I read. And cook. Go exercise. Visit war memorials. Museums.”

“What do you read?” she asked.

“Mostly non-fiction history about war and aviation.”

“Figures,” she smiled. “Did you ever read that World War 2 biography about Louis Zamperini?”

“Unbroken?” his eyes lit up. “I did. I loved it. It was such an amazing and powerful story.” He leaned forward. “Do you read them too? World War novels, that is?”

“I do.” She enjoyed that honest smile on his face. “Did you ever read the story about the USS Indianapolis?”

“Oh man, yeah, and did you watch the movie they made with Nicolas Cage?”

“Men of Courage?” she replied. “Yes! It was so heartbreaking…and tragic.” She looked at him. “You said you visit museums? Did you ever visit the Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola when you went for training?”

“I did,” he said. “Every time I visit, I try to go. Just to see if I learn anything new.”

“Me too!” she grinned. “I think I’ve been there like ten different times. Every time I go, I always point out to people around me the carriers my dad and I served on.”

Jake smiled at her. “I forgot you do sea duty most of the time. Which carriers have you been on so far?”

“Uh, let’s see,” she murmured, thinking for a moment. “I’ve been on the Truman and Washington so far. Even did a stint on the Roosevelt destroyer a couple of years ago.”

“Ever think about trying for shore duty?” he asked.

“Sometimes, but it always feels more natural being on the water,” she smiled at him. “Kind of like you being in the air.” She leaned close. “What’s it like, Jake? Being up there, just you in God’s ballroom?”

He sat back and thought for a moment. “The first time I ever flew, I was ten. Dad took me up in a rental on an airstrip back home. And I remember sitting in my seat just, watching the ground get smaller and smaller until cars looked like ants.”

“Were you scared?”

“Shitless,” he joked. “But…dad, he kept telling me to look up at the sky and when I did…we were in the biggest, white clouds I’d ever seen before. And I could see the rays of sun shining down over the land.” He looked so far away in his memory. “Dad showed me how to handle the stick and I remember everything else faded away as I flew us through the clouds.” Jake’s expression was one of reverence. “And it was just beautiful. Like nothing I’d ever seen in my life up until that point. There’s…really no way to describe it.” His gaze met hers. “I knew then that all I ever wanted to do with my life was get back up there no matter what it took.”

She smiled softly at him. “It sounds beautiful, the way you describe it.”

He nodded his head gently, then asked, “What about you? Why’d you want to be an AM? Was your dad one?”

“My dad was actually an AT. My brother was an AM when he served.” She took a sip of her drink. “I was eleven and my dad brought me to the hanger one day. I was hanging around his office and he had a meeting to go to, so he left me with some of his AMs and asked them to watch me for a little while.”

“Oh, nice, give the caffeine and nicotine addicted eighteen-year-olds a kid to be impressionable on.”

She laughed. “Something like that.” She took a piece of the cheese on the platter and popped it in her mouth. “They started showing me all different pieces of the F-16. How to change out fuel capacitors, how to fuel one up, how to fix this and that.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, felt right with tools in my hands. Dad kept bringing me back to the hanger when I wouldn’t stop asking him about it and he let the guys teach me how to work on it.”

“Ah, so you were a natural grease monkey then,” he grinned, and she nodded.

“I was. I also spent a lot of time tinkering with machines at home. I can fix just about anything if I look at the inside of it long enough.” She took another piece of cheese. “I have been trying to change my rate to AT though. Wanted to get a better technical point of view than mechanical.”

“You been able to?”

“I’ve been tinkering with a few ATs in my squadron. Sitting in on fixings here and there. I don’t think they’ll let me change so far in my career, but it never hurts to learn all I can.”

“I can always put in a word with Cyclone,” he offered. “He might have some sway.”

“I appreciate that, Jake,” she smiled. “But I do enjoy being a grease monkey. Not going to lie to you about it.”

He smiled back at her as their entrees arrived and they continued on in conversation, diving into family beginnings and careers.

***

“Jake…it’s 2300…when are we going back to base?” she whined as he drove up the side of Audrey Harris Park.

“Jesus, get you out of bed past nine and you get cranky, don’t you?” he snorted. “What are you, eighty? Need to go to bed old lady?”

“Some of us have duty tomorrow,” she griped, and he pulled up to the edge of the side of the road.

“Just, look,” he said and nodded out the window and she did, eyes widening at the view of lights and colorful displays out past the land.

“Oh…wow…Jake, it’s…gorgeous.”

His eyes never strayed to the lights from her face, watching the way that awe spread across hers. Something in his heart lurched when she turned and looked at him.

“Jake, it’s beautiful.”

The corner of his lips turned up. “Certainly not the night sky like I’d like to show you, but it’s…close.”

“You wanna take me up in the air?”

“One day,” he said and looked at the steering wheel and quietly added, “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” she asked.

“The other day at Hard Deck. I…was a dick.” He met her gaze once more. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She shrugged with a smile. “Eh, it’s you. I’ve gotten used to you by now.”

“Still though,” he replied. “I should’ve been…nicer.”

“Jake,” she said, laying her hand on his thigh. “It’s okay, really, it is.”

He glanced down at her hand, then gently laid his on top of hers, rubbing his thumb over her skin. “You like me,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I do,” she answered honestly. “But it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I know I’m not exactly your type.”

“And what do you think my type is?” he asked.

“Well…y’know…smart, funny, drop dead gorgeous?”

“You just explained like every guy on earth’s type,” he deadpanned.

“Fine, you don’t have a thing for an AM who spends most of her time covered in hydraulic fluid then goes back to her room and listens to shitty pop music and does crossword puzzles.”

“Jesus you’re really an old lady,” he breathed. “Crossword puzzles?”

“And Sudoku.”

“Oh my God, we have got to get you a social life.” He thumbed the back of her hand. “I happen to be…very interested in this particular AM who spends most of her time covered in hydraulic fluid.”

“No shit?” she asked, and he looked up at her.

“Pretty girl, I let people see who they want to see. A cocky, rude, arrogant asshat who can smoke just about anyone. But you…” he lowered his gaze again and sighed. “You see deeper. You want to see more.” He shrugged halfheartedly. “Pretty girl, you’re the only one who tries to put up with me to see me. And…that scares me.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t get scared…and you scare me. What you could be to me. What you see.”

She listened quietly then shifted, gently putting her hand on his cheek. “Jake…” he met her gaze, and she smiled softly at him. “I see you.”

“Yeah?” he breathed.

“Yeah. Big ego and everything underneath,” she whispered. “I see you.”

He reached up and cupped her hand to his face, turning his cheek to kiss the inside of her palm, then said, “I wanna take you out again.”

“I’d like that,” she answered, pulling her hand away and smiled at him. “I’d like it a lot.”

Jake smiled back at her and put the truck in drive. “I should get us back to base.”

“That’s probably best. Mind if I play some music on the radio?”

“No pop shit.”

“Rude.”

“My truck, my rules. Play country or classic rock.”

“Country?” she cooed. “Ooo, I have the perfect song for you then.”

And Toby Keith’s “I Wanna Talk About Me,” filled the cabin and he chuckled as she sang to him.

“Are you saying I only ever want to talk about me, myself, and I?”

She grinned and replied, “That is your favorite topic.”

He nodded. “It is. I love talking about myself. I’m incredible.”

They looked at each other as the chorus came on and sang down the highway, “I wanna talk me, wanna talk about I. wanna talk about number one, oh my, me, my, What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see! I like talking about you, you, you, you usually! But occasionally, I wanna talk about me!”

Jake reached over and laid his hand on her thigh, gently caressing it with his fingers as she rested her hand atop his, smiling out the window as they drove back to base.