inkspottie · 27 days ago
Note
One last question what exactly is that crystal entity?
Essentially it’s what Urbanshade had found when digging deep in the trenches of the zone they’re in. When Brahams died she specifically requested for them to use her body as a cadaver for this crystal and see how it worked on humans.
She didn’t get to tell people when she died that they can fuse with the crystal since she had done it with Seb but it was a tiny silver compared to what Urbanshade did to her.
So when she was injected, the crystal formed inside her, healing her and encasing her but Lopee was able to get Urbanshade to contain her and slowly chip away at her body using the chunks as a energy source.
It’s not until the mass break out that the containment broke and she was free to do what she was meant to do. Infect and spread her gift.
17 notes · View notes
yuri-alexseygaybitch · 1 year ago
Text
If you go to a Palestine demo and zionists show up the only two things they will say are "terrorist" and "baby-killer." That's it. Those are literally the only two lines they have.
52 notes · View notes
colorisbyshe · 1 year ago
Text
It’s been said better and more thoroughly than this but employing “women and children” rhetoric in the wake of an ethnic cleansing, where the men are framed as barbaric and expendable, is absolutely heinous and inappropriate.
Yes, women face somewhat unique (but not totally unique—there have been reports of male hostages facing forced sodomy) threats and obviously children are the most vulnerable out there, but men are being brutalized and murdered as well and they aren’t “more” deserving of this occupation.
Discussions of misogyny are obviously welcome in any context but framing male victims as lesser (less victimized, less worthy of saving, less innocent) just furthers the dehumanization that affects all victims of said ethnic cleansing. You are giving an allowance to the racism and bigotry that is utilized to justify their deaths, torture, starvation, maiming.
Anyone actually educated in meaningful feminism should easily recognize this.
Even if you don’t want to recognize the humanity of these men (which is, again, racist and heinous), do you think the women and children you claim to care for are better off without these men? Their fathers, brothers, children, cousins, lovers…
Please, do not forget the Palestinian men. Please, learn to understand that criticizing the patriarchy (and, yes, pushing back against bad faith “not all men” discussions) should not mean signing off on an ethnic cleansing.
Palestinians are innocent; age and gender does not change that.
End the occupation for the women, men, and children.
4K notes · View notes
elder-millennial-of-zion · 2 months ago
Text
I know it’s only been a day, but so far the US is showing the world that a terrorist organisation can kidnap an American citizen, hold them hostage for a year, execute them, and face no consequences.
Either that, or they’re showing that to be the case for Jewish American citizens specifically. They are showing American Jews like me that in the end, our American citizenship means nothing, that we are just expendable Jews. I always learned that cautionary tale as a history lesson, but it feels too real now.
There is no difference between me and Hersh Goldberg-Polin. I know now that if I’m ever in his place, my country would leave me to rot.
470 notes · View notes
all-purpose-dish-soap · 7 months ago
Text
1.8k / 22 / soap soulmate au, part 3
Oh, shit, Ghost thinks. What the hell did you just do?
Ghost stumbles out in the road, looking after you in shock. You just... jumped out. In handcuffs. There's no way you think you can make it anywhere like--
Oh, double shit. You're running right for the cliffs in the distance. Looks like you might make it, too. That ain't good. Morally justified or not, he's still the criminal here. If you get to rough terrain and he loses you by car and on foot, you’ll go for help, and his squad won’t stand a chance.
He swears, grabs his pistol, and points it at your back.
He has a clear shot. He's sniped easier targets.
… He sighs and lowers his gun. Johnny, you owe me one.
You've got a good head start on him, but when he eventually catches up, he's going to be pissed.
Your ankle and hand sting from your rough landing. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing--you've got to get to those cliffs, and fast.
Behind you, the engine roars closer. Wheels crunch over gravel. He’s catching up. But the cliffs are right there. A river snakes through the rocky terrain. If you can just throw yourself across the water, you can make it. You can lose him on foot.
You pump your legs as fast as you can. The wind burns in your lungs. Keep moving. Just a few more seconds before you reach the water.
You’re so focused on the water that your foot lands wrong between river rocks and your ankle twists. You keep going, gait lopsided. You can’t stop. Once he catches up, you’re either a hostage again or you’re dead. But first, he's gotta catch up, get out of the car, open the door, grab his gun, sprint after you--
Then his car swings around you, pulling what should be an impossible drift over the rocks, one tire scattering river water into the air. You skid to a stop, making a break for the cliffs instead. There's a waterfall. You might make it if you jump--
Then Ghost is on you, a blur from the open car door to the edge of the rocks. He grabs you almost out of the air. You land stomach-first on the ground. You grunt, windless, gasping for air. Pain surges through your body. Fuck, that hurt. The rocks are harder than the grass was. You see stars.
Then you start to realize the position you're in. Your hands are still cuffed in front of you--over your head, now--and he's got his knee on your back. He's holding you down with all his weight, the barrel of his pistol pressed between your shoulders as he grits his teeth.
"Stay. Down," he growls.
He's not gentle. It'd be inconvenient to kill you, but you're really testing his sense of pragmatism. You're making him expend a hell of a lot of effort to keep you alive--jumping off a cliff, fucking seriously?--so he doesn't owe you any extra effort toward keeping you comfortable. Quite the opposite.
You shift your pained body under his knee, groaning into the sharp river rocks cradling your face.
"I said stay down," he growls, grinding his knee down against your back. You feel every individual sharp rock pressing into your skin. "I will hurt you.”
Normally he doesn’t give warnings like this, but he figures he owes it to Johnny to keep your stupid pretty face intact. As much as he wants to put a dent in it right now. And if you keep acting all resourceful…
You keep still, trying to catch your breath. Your hands curl around the river rocks and feel around for something loose and sharp. No such luck.
He grabs your shoulder with one hand to keep you still. His knee moves off your back for a second. You realize he’s trying to get a better look at the soulmate mark on your neck.
"Got to be another John MacTavish somewhere in the world," he mutters. "Bloody common name."
He grips the back of your vest and hauls you to your feet, practically scruffing you as he drags you back to the car. He growls something under his breath along the lines of irritating little shits finding each other.
Back in the car, Ghost’s phone rings again. This time, he glances back at you and switches his phone to his non-dominant hand. He picks up his pistol with his other hand and steers with his knee.
“Ghost,” he answers. This time, the reply has him shifting in his seat. “Negative. Didn’t see her.” Another long pause. The voice on the other end is louder and more animated than the one before. “I told you I’d look, and I did. Wherever she is, she’s fine.” The reply is clipped. “The captain told you not to go looking. Chrissake, Johnny, you’re not hanging out at base looking for a date. You’re a wanted criminal. Have a crumb of self-preservation.” Another long reply, this one rising in volume. “I know. Yes. I hear you. I know— Johnny—”
He goes quiet for a long while, uttering single-syllable responses occasionally. You can’t hear Johnny’s words, but you do hear his tone of voice. He doesn't sound happy.
“If the captain tells you to stay put, you stay put. End of story.”
You glance at the rear-view mirror again. Ghost is looking back like this is somehow on you. The sour face of a man getting chewed out.
Ghost and Johnny go back and forth until Ghost finally seems to tire of it. "No, not right now," he says. "I told you what I know. I’ll call you back."
Johnny curses from the other line right as Ghost hangs up.
Your fingertips are still tingling from the sound of Johnny’s voice, even at a distance, even over the phone. Maybe from the cuffs, too.
You don’t miss the irritated look on Ghost's face. "You in trouble?" you ask.
Ghost doesn’t hold your gaze. "He's a little pissed off, yeah."
After that, you don't speak for a long time. Your whole body hurts, and the adrenaline and sheer length of this day are taking a toll. Your eyelids sag. But every time you drift into sleep, you see Johnny's face again and jerk awake. It's torture. You don't have the mental fortitude to block him out anymore. You’re terrified that wherever Ghost is taking you, Johnny will be there.
You lean your forehead on the window, squeezing your eyes shut. "So..."
"What." There's no venom behind the response this time. He doesn't bother looking at you. But he's listening.
It takes longer than you'd like to work the words you're trying to form out of your throat. "John is still in one piece?”
He keeps driving in silence for a moment. You can almost hear his brain ticking as he considers. There's a tenseness behind him, a tension that's wound up and ready to snap.
"Yeah. Got a few holes in him, but it takes more than that to keep him down. Stubborn bastard." Another long, heavy silence. His hands grip the wheel, and he glares ahead. "Got a problem with that?"
"I'm not sure."
"You got issues with Johnny, you tell me. Got enough problems without you being all coy."
“Do you, uh, have a soulmate?”
Christ, he hopes you're kidding. He can only take so much of this from Johnny, and now you? Obviously Johnny hasn’t stoppedtalking about you. Can’t stop talking about what a pretty thing you are. Face like a muse, he keeps saying. Bastard described you in so much detail that, when Ghost was surveying the Las Almas base, you popped out like a neon sign the moment his sniper scope swept over you. He could've grabbed any damn Shadow, but no, he decided to do Johnny a favor and grab you. Now he can't bloody shoot you no matter how much you deserve it. Lucky Johnny’s not here to see what a bloody mess you’ve made of yourself under his watch. Not that he tells you any of that. Best to keep Johnny in the dark until they get the information they need out of you.
"You're a hostage," he says. "Act like it. And Johnny's off the table."
That’s a relief. You dread the thought of looking Johnny in the eye and trying to figure out how to make excuses for almost killing him. You can only hope to delay it as long as possible.
It turns out the "base" Ghost spoke of is a shed in the middle of nowhere. A barn at best—from the outside, but from the inside, it’s huge. You recognize a few members of the Mexican Special Forces, also your former allies before your company betrayed them on Shepherd’s orders. Rodolfo in particular gives you a hard stare as Ghost drags you past him and into a much smaller room. It's a weapons closet converted into a makeshift interrogation room. He pushes you down into the chair hard by the shoulder. You lean on the table, flexing your sore wrists behind you and wishing you could just put your head down and sleep.
He keeps a close eye on you once you're down. You show no clear desire to run again and no more than a passing interest in the impressive spread of rifles and launchers on the walls. You’re in the heart of an enemy safehouse. Even if you managed to grab a gun and escape this room, every other person outside wants you dead. You’re almost glad Ghost locks the door. At least there’s a barrier between you and them.
In the dim light, Ghost notes the bruise on your cheek and the scabbed-over cuts and gashes littered over your exposed skin. Your forehead sports a nasty, wet-looking burgundy splotch where your head hit the ground after he tackled you. You look about as defenseless as a wounded rabbit. If he weren’t busy trying to keep you from escaping as a hostage, he’d probably feel bad about hurting a friend's soulmate.
He's not his most charming self here.
"Stay awake, now," he warns you.
The overhead light clicks on. Ghost stands across from you, but the person standing by the light switch is Captain fucking Price. He stares at you, his hard gaze boring into the soulmate mark on your neck.
Then he smiles. "Good find, Ghost," he says. "This is the one. Guess Soap wasn't lying."
part 1 / part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12
more Soap / masterlist tag
851 notes · View notes
bits-and-babs · 1 year ago
Note
i need breeding kink!konig before i cryy also w small reader eeee
𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃, 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃
Tumblr media
pairing : könig x f!reader ('perle')
synopsis : könig snaps after a particularly hard mission, unable to hold back his desire much longer.
warnings : [ 1k words ] Emotional distress, unprotected pinv sex, utterly pathetic könig, breeding kink, creampie, overstimulation, cum eating, reference to oral (f receiving). könig is a babbling mess.
notes: this is pure filth. barely any mention of small reader because i like to be inclusive <33
Tumblr media
König’s combat boots drag across the floorboards of your shared apartment, depositing clumps of dried Spanish mud across the oak with each weary trudge of his feet. Your boyfriend carries his body over the house threshold like a wounded hound, his tail between his legs and eyelids still splotched with patchy grease paint. König is prideful, usually holding his gigantic frame with a regal posture to match his name– you’ve never seen him so crippled by what he’d promised would be a straightforward mission, in and out.
You open your mouth to ask, to say his name, to offer your support, noting the way König didn’t take his shoes off at the door like he always did. He doesn’t let you, his prodigious forearms encircling your waist with a vice-like grip.
“Just give me this, Perle. I need nothing else,” he promises you, his accent delicate to your ears when he whispers his plea into your hair. Clutching him tight, you liberate the breath you’d held hostage between the bars of your ribcage since König left. You’d been fearful, as always, that the oxygen in your lungs would serve a life sentence, but when your lungs expand again, aching at the edges, you smell his exertion, the earthiness of the mud that clung to his body, the gunpowder he’d expended while taking lives. He’s home.
“König,” you whisper to him, scared a louder decibel would rip apart the fragile foundations that kept the hefty Austrian upright. He shakes his head in response, his palms pawing at your hips, squeezing at the flesh he finds with overwrought neediness.
“Please, Perle,” he murmured, his voice cracking beneath the tide of his emotional turmoil, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass to pull your body closer, “I just need you. Need you close- need to be in you.”
It’s jarring, the distress you feel roiling inside the tense muscles of his back that you skirt your palm over not matching the dripping desire that coated his tongue. When you lean back in his grip, attempting to catch a glimpse of your lover’s eyes, he pulls you impossibly closer. The thread-worn material of his battle-tested uniform is soft against your skin, but the firmness of his cock against you is undeniable.
“Anything,” you whisper, and it’s as though you’ve let the hounds loose. König launches you over his shoulder, ignoring your squeals of shock, and hurries towards the bedroom with absurdly broad strides.
☆ ☆ ☆
He chokes out a string of unintelligible German curse words when he finally bottoms out inside of you. König’s hands, webbed with silver scars that spanned across his knuckles, grasp at your hips and angle them skyward, his thighs flexing as he attempts to keep still for a moment.
“Hahh-ah- Still, Schatzi, be still,” he urges you brokenly. You wail, winded by the sensation of his preposterously thick cock spearing your cunt. It lays deep inside you, nudging at your cervix when it twitches. “S-Still-“
Statuesque, you haven’t moved a nanometre. It’s König, his face buried deep into the crook of your neck, mindlessly pushing his hips deeper into you with shallow thrusts. They’re barely there, slight and feeble, as he dramatically gasps out each time the sensitive tip of his dick brushes your cervix.
“Aha-Haaa, please, please, Perle,” he keens, his rumbling voice strained by his frantic desire. His fingertip pushes into the swollen nub of your clit, and it draws dangerously lazy circles over the sparking nerves there. You sob his name weakly, almost missing his rambled plea. “So tight- your cunt is so tiny for me, Perle. Ughh-fuck- let me cum in it? L-Let me fill it up, watch it spill out of you-“
Your back arches from the mattress as he withdraws his hips slightly, only to plunge them deeper. It’s ludicrous, you think, the way your body gives way to his ridiculous intrusion, but your toes curl with delight, and König wails out another string of profanity.
“Hah-sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, his cock rocking in and out of you but never once entirely withdrawing from your heat, “I just need to fill this cunt, Perle. Need to see it leak– See you swollen with our child– fuck!”
König spits a broken moan when your hips arch to meet his thrusts. Your clit brushes his pubic bone with each joining of your hips, hurtling you towards orgasm and tightening your walls with bliss.
“So tight, so fu-huhhking tight, Perle– Fuck!” König gasps, his hips stuttering as he braces for your answer.
“Yes,” you whine, eyelids fluttering as your orgasm threatens to crash through you in a tidal wave, “Please, König, please fucking fil–“
König cuts off your appeal with a hoarse cry of your name, his whole body trembling with the force of his orgasm as his cock spurts thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside of your cunt. The warmth of the blooming pressure inside you sparks a blissful throb, your nails sinking into König’s forearms as it detonates inside you. You hear him through the mind-blowing buzz, wailing and sobbing about how you’re milking him, how it’s dripping from your cunt and into the bedsheets.
It’s hazy when the overwhelming euphoria floats down, König still hunched over your body and thrusting inside of you helplessly. His jaw hangs loose, eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of agonising pain and paradisical ecstasy as he fucks his cum deeper into you.
“Hahah-Ahhh fuck, c-creaming all o-ohhhver my cock-“he slurs, his removing his oversensitive cock with a pathetic sob. His fingers sink into your cunt almost instantly, ignoring the curl of your toes and the arch of your back to stuff the dribbling cum back inside of your fluttering pussy.
“Need it to take, Perle,” König garbles, his eyelids heavy as he sinks low to the mattress to swipe up the remaining excess with his tongue. He mumbles around your pussy as he laps up his cum from its glistening lips, “Jus’ lift your hips, Schatz. Sit them on my face; I want to taste us–“
Tumblr media
join the taglist here:
@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth
@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art
2K notes · View notes
lethalchiralium · 7 months ago
Text
High Water | Happiness Series
a/n: okay guys, I have ONE MONTH left of school for the semester, THEN I WILL HAVE TIME FOR THIS I PROMISE. a lot has happened since I last updated, this was all written over a six month period and of course finished three weeks after my major breakup w my bestie of 7 years LOL ENJOY
a/n 2: and thank you always to @as-is-above-so-below for not killing me over taking forever to update and for letting me fall down her stairs and (separate incident) get a splinter from her floor LOL
warnings: military talk. TW: TORTURE
summary: Price has to make a difficult decision.
PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Night vision, gloved finger tensed on the trigger of his rifle. The back alley was secured, Soap kept two feet behind him at all times as Price unlocked the side door of the “abandoned” factory warehouse. 
Four pairs of boots were muted against the cracked concrete, rifles pointed upwards and watching for any hostiles in their way. The mission was to collect intel and neutralize any threats - hopefully this would deliver them to the target. A man who was a ghost just like Simon Riley, but just… tied up in debts that span decades. Expendable men were set in the center of the warehouse, a table set up with chairs, chips and cards strewn about the wooden surface. Silence was a friend to the Russian men’s killers, but not to them. A small radio lowly played some sot of music, it was melancholy and heavy on the sax. Blues, Simon reflected, fitting.
One Russian - wearing a white shirt and black pants, a deep purple bruise on his fair face - pulled a chair from the table, setting down a laptop on a handful of worn cards.
“Boss has two targets with him, they’re to be sold by the end of the week.”
The man with a green jacket shrugged, as he sat down too; kicking his feet onto the table. “Not sure if there’s a big enough market for screaming babies, друг.”
“We’ll be getting a big payout if we get them to auction before their family finds out.” 
Simon’s stomach clenched, he almost shot them both right there if it wasn’t for Gaz grabbing his arm and squeezing it. He couldn’t imagine it being you and the girls, it wouldn’t be anyway. Calm down. He focused on slinging his rifle silently over his shoulder, taking hold of the corner of sturdy boxes, wrapped up in plastic film. He hauled himself up, keeping his balance and grip focused on climbing up since the crate was the height of his shoulders. He placed his right foot on the top, pushing himself up before repeating the action with the next and final crate. It was routine the way he retrieved his rifle from his back, laying prone on the hefty crate with his finger parallel to the trigger and his eye in the scope. He was swift, it was second nature; his breath didn’t falter when Gaz settled on his torso beside him with his tact scope in his grasp.
“Bravo 0-7, do you have sight on the target?”
Ghost’s eye closed, the other focusing through the scope of his rifle. 
“Affirmative.”
There was a loud screech of the door Gaz was watching, Ghost’s chest clenched with anticipation as he watched the intel walk in - wearing joggers and a long sleeve shirt, talking loudly on his phone in Russian. 
“Soap, detain the target as soon as he is within range. Gaz, Ghost, drop ‘em as soon as Soap is clear.”
There wasn’t a beat of silence after that, as everyone launched into action. Johnny was quick to tackle the man, the other two dropped dead within milliseconds. His gloved hand seemed to cover the man’s whole jaw, fingertips pressed uncomfortably into the man’s skin. Ghost had dropped from his position in seconds and across the room in a few strides.
“Where is yer boss?”
Gaz slid a chair behind the man, Soap shoved him into it. Struggling hands were strapped to it, the man with dark blond hair and joggers spat out vicious words towards the skull balaclava. He barely caught Price snatching the open laptop from the table before he looked back to Soap and the hostage, the Sergeant dug his nails into the Russian’s face. The Lieutenant pulled a rag from his vest, watching them intently. The 141 was a well oiled machine, oiled with the saccharine taste of blood. 
“Where the fuck is yer boss?”
“You’ll never find him-“ Ghost shoved the cloth into the man’s mouth before in a flash, his knife found its new home in the hostage’s knee. The screams muffled, he leaned closer. The words spoken were low, but enough to elicit a snarl from the hostage before another scream.
Price only gazed at Ghost for a moment before looking back at the laptop, checking through folders for measly information. Gaz was stood by the door, watching for any  intruders - hand on his rifle, ignoring the muffled screams of the last threat alive in the room. But he wouldn’t be alive much longer with Ghost’s knives sticking out of his body like decorations. Don’t ask for mercy, my hounds won’t give you any, he remarked.
He looked down at the dashboard, seeing a browser left open. He clicked on it, seeing an encrypted chat log with the target and his right hand man - the man screaming for his life in the chair. 
Don’t be late
The damn baby is losing it
If I have to hear another word from this girl I’m going to kill her
Price is a stoic man, one hardened by war - barely scared of anything; yet, Price wasn’t prepared when he scrolled up. His heart shot straight into his throat, eyes widened by a fraction, his hand gripping the table could’ve broken it in half. He blindly grabbed his phone, taking a picture of the screen before slamming the laptop closed. It was secured between his arm and chest in three seconds, tapping a number on the screen of his phone before he walked past Gaz and out of the room. The building was secured, he knew that - yet, he felt the fear that he may be watched. The secure line droned on for only a moment before there was an answer.
“John?”
“Laswell. What the fuck happened?”
There’s crying in the background, he could recognize Winnie’s voice anywhere. They’ve been gone for three days. Nothing was supposed to get to Simon’s second chance, John thought he was sure of it. No, he was sure of it. He cased the house himself, did all the work to make sure one of their strongest and toughest allies would stay and protect them. What the fuck happened?
There’s a breath. “König’s been shot. Someone took Mellie and Y/N.”
“And the other one?” 
John’s stomach settled like concrete, weighing him down and making him sick. 
“She’s okay. She’s with us at the hospital. We took her to the park like her mother asked and when we came back, the door was kicked in, König was unconscious and bleeding out, and Mellie and Y/N weren’t there.” There was a pause. “There was a fight down here. König killed seven of them before going down.”
Okay. At least they could ID the bodies, link them to the mob - or at least, former associates of the mob. Any lead he could get.
If he could run his hand through his beard, he would’ve. It was a comfort, especially now that he has never felt this stressed in his life. Simon cannot know. Simon will destroy everything we’ve worked for to save them. 
“It has to do with the target.” 
John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Their intel is here. I am holding their intel.”
“John, these men are Russian. They are escaped convicts in the mob, known associates of the target.” There’s a pause, a short yell from Winnie, and Laswell sighing. “König left one unconscious. Roach is interrogating him now on base.”
“How long ago were they attacked?”
“Yesterday.” Another pause, soft words from Laswell to who he assumed was Winnie. “Listen, I’m working on this, but I need you. We need Ghost to run the rest of the operation, and we can’t do that if you tell him about this.”
There’s shouting behind the door, screaming from the victim that Ghost was torturing. John looked down the empty corridor, knowing he has to go to keep his friend safe. 
“Because if they came after the girls, that means they’re coming after him. And they need him alive.”
His hand could have snapped that laptop in half. “He needs them alive.”
“I know, John.” 
There’s more shouting in Russian, a loud thud and more incessant screaming. 
“Keep this on the down low. I only need you. Make sure Ghost knows how to proceed.”
“With caution and safety off.” John murmured, muscles clenching in his chest. This is not going to end well. 
“Get back to Manchester immediately. I’ll call if we’ve found something.” The line goes dead, Captain Price slipped the phone into his pocket before taking a deep breath. 
He opened the door back to the room, being submersed in the victim’s screaming as Ghost’s black blade dragged into the muscles of his leg. Price shut the door, standing tall with worry on his mind. Gaz nodded to him, hands out for the laptop - John shook his head. 
“Lieutenant.” 
The skull mask didn’t look away from his target, the one screaming Russian that he didn’t know anything, stop, you’re hurting me, go to fucking Hell- Soap took the man by his throat, forcing his head back before spitting some choice words at his face. Eyebrows furrowed, Price tried again.
“Mactavish, take over for the Lieutenant.” 
The Scot nodded, hand ripping Ghost’s knife out of the man’s thigh - all that filled the room were screams. Ghost finally looked to Price, an enraged look in his eye as he stood and walked towards him. 
“What the fuck-”
“I’ve been reassigned.” The Captain spoke with an even tone. Nothing is wrong. Believe me, Simon, believe me. “You will be running this operation until I get this assignment under control.”
It seemed that anger swelled throughout the Lieutenant like a poison, invading every space of the menacing man. “What the fuck did you get reassigned for?”
“Diplomat’s wife and daughter have been kidnapped.” The lie slid off of the tongue like butter, smooth as easy to go down for some people. For others… it’s unsettling. Price was a good liar, it came easy, but his lieutenant was always able to tell. Not always immediately, but he will know sooner or later. “I have to run this. Are you okay doing this assignment-“
Ghost patted his Captain’s shoulder. “Got it under control.”
Price smiled, strained. “Knew I could count on you.” He glanced to the man in the chair; blood poured down his face. He then looked back to his Lieutenant, his right hand man with as straight of face he could muster. “We need to hurry this up. Only 10 minutes remaining.”
“Rog.”
•••
The front door was covered in a tarp, the front porch light on and curtains drawn. John Price felt the cold sickle of Death slide down his spine as he could see blood splatter on a home he once considered sacred. Simon’s home, your home, was under red tape, unknown to anyone the military who wasn’t close to Ghost. Simon created a home from nothing for his child, then opened it for you, then his new little one - God, was John proud of him. Creating a life more than worth living, in a quaint house that should have never been found - even when it was hidden in plain sight. Even the most holy grounds have had blood shed upon them. 
Kate knew he was walking up the steps, she always knew, so she opened the door enough for him to slip through. Instantly, he’s met with the remnants of the carnage of your entrance way. Bullet holes and stains of blood decorated the walls and floors, even when they had been mopped and wiped clean. Dents in the walls, the floor - John imagined the beast that was König wrestling some of those fucks to the ground, snapping their necks with the twitch of his wrist. He couldn’t imagine your screams, couldn’t think of little Mellie wailing in terror. 
Did you scream? Did they drug you? Hurt you? Did they dare to touch the baby? God, Simon is going to burn the world.
He looked to Kate, there’s a hardened glint in her eye. He handed her the laptop, which hadn’t been scanned yet - it would take too much time, they both knew that. She took it without a word, turning back into the front room. John strode forwards, stepping over the baby gate that was recently put there. He assumed it was to keep Winnie out of the carnage that was the front entrance, he continued on to the living room where he could see Alex sitting on the couch. A little head peered over the side of the couch and as soon as her eyes saw John, she stood at full height with tears instantly pouring down her face. 
“Unc’John!” 
His heart felt bruised then, the beat of it aching with every stride he took to her. He instantly plucked her from the couch, holding her to his chest as she loudly cried. “Winnie, sweetheart, it’s alright.”
“Where-Where’s Mummy and Mellie?”
John could only bear to mutter a soft, “We’re finding them, sweetheart.” He couldn’t bring himself to say that the bad guys got them, that her daddy couldn’t be the hero she knows she wants him to be because of John’s decision. He was quick to bring her to the kitchen - which seemed untouched compared to the adjacent entryway - and settled her on the countertop, right beside the sink. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet to the right, filling it with water before handing it to Winnie. The five year old took greedy sips, breathing through her nose as tears raced down her face. “Put the water down, love, you need to take some deep breaths.”
He took the glass back, only for her to reach for his hand - he took it, giving it a small squeeze. God, he can’t even remember the last time he had seen his niece cry, let alone sob. Had it been that long since she had gone without you? 
“Are you hungry? Tired?” He set the glass on the counter, seeing her hiccup as she tried to catch her breath. He squeezed her hand again, all Winnie could do was let more tears fall down her face. 
“Where’s Mummy?” She begged, John’s tongue felt dry. He hated lying to her, he hated not knowing anything, he hated seeing her bawl her eyes out. She didn’t witness anything, thank God, but going without you after not having to for years is terrifying to a little girl. “N’Daddy? Why-Why isn’t Daddy home?” Her hand squeezed back, much harder than she did before. “M’scared.”
“I know, Winnie.” His throat began to itch, he wanted to desperately tell her that everything would be alright - that today was just a bad dream she’ll wake up from tomorrow, that her parents will be here in the morning with her baby sister. He also wanted to scream at God and tell him that it was fucked forcing him into sacrificing Simon’s family for a stupid fucking lead, even if it did lead back to you and Mellie. He didn’t want to have the possibility of telling his niece that neither of her parents were coming home, instead of the off chance of one; he hated delivering condolences, but he wasn’t sure he could do it to a five year old girl who he has watched grow up. “I think we need to go sit down again.” A little nod and she was scooped up into his arms again, held tight as he walked back into the couch; Alex nowhere to be seen, which was fine with John. He took his normal seat at the end of the couch, resting little Winnie on his chest and pulling the blanket from the back of the couch to lay on her. He tucked it in around her stomach, making sure to cover her socked feet before gently petting her hair. 
His eyes wandered to the TV, to the stupid blue dog show that she seemed to love - yet she held no interest right now. His eyes darted across the floor, seeing little firetrucks and airplanes and dolls scattered across the floor; then to the little mesh play pen that sat underneath the window, the blinds pulled up enough to where Mellie couldn’t reach, the strings tied up even higher. Soft toys and colorful blocks scattered inside of it, not to mention a few blankets and a pillow or two. Winnie’s been sleeping down here. She’s petrified. 
His gaze moved to the ceiling, hand gently patting her head with a calm rhythm. He’d lay here all night, way past when his back would get sore, way past when his legs would cramp, just to give Winnie some sort of stability. He refused to think about the possibility that he may have to follow through with his promise of being her godfather - he just never imagined that it might possibly be just Winnie, not Winnie and Mellie. The thought stirred nausea in his stomach, more than any whiplash, concussion, or shitty helicopter ride could give him. He had already made the silent promise to find you and Mellie, but just for tonight, his whole goal was to make sure Winnie isn’t more scared out of her mind than she already is. 
“Unc’John.”
He hummed at that, looking back down her. “Yes, sweetheart.”
Her little chin swiveled to rest on his chest to look up at him, her sweet brown eyes full of tears as she whispered, “I don’t wanna visit my Mummy at-at the cemetery like Mum G-Grace.”
I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace.
I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace. 
The words that leave his mouth are soft, spoken like a twisted prayer. “This isn’t like your Mum Grace.” His eyebrows furrowed, petting her hair back with a gentle touch. “I swear it.”
The five year old’s lip quivered, “Promise?”
John doesn’t promise anything, he never makes a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. He never dared enter the realm of uncertainty, knowing he could fail and hurt someone he cared about. Hell, he rarely makes promises on equipment orders for his men. He doesn’t even promise his mother anything, not since he promised he wouldn’t go into the military and did it anyway. But as he watched his friend’s daughter, his niece and goddaughter, sob quietly on his chest, he felt he had no choice but to nod. “Promise.”
At that, Winnie’s head finally fell to rest on John’s chest, he watched her eyes close as it was evident she had only held out to hear his promise. She had stayed awake to see and hear someone she trusted and knew well, she waited to close her eyes until she knew he would find you, even if she didn’t directly ask him to. 
John felt obligated to keep Simon’s family alive since he knew just how much the deaths of his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew nearly killed him, how the death of Grace and embracing fatherhood almost drowned him, and just how much his daughters and wife saved him from saying “Fuck it.” and stepping into enemy fire. Not only that, he felt obligated to you - to find you and Mellie, bring you home, keep Winnie safe too. You had many years left with Simon, John could see it. You couldn’t possibly leave Simon now, not when he needs you the most. 
John’s eyes blinked slowly, looking down to the dozing Winnie on his chest and holding her closer, reminiscent of when she was a small toddler sleeping on his chest when he babysat. Fatigue was catching up to him, the hours in the early morning were spent combing through data for the prisoner the 141 now in had in possession, and now - your kidnapping. Simon is a dear friend, John knew him too well to say otherwise. And he also knew that you, Winnie, and Mellie were his whole world - the monster Simon was, the one John had nurtured and cared for to create a weapon, was sitting dormant in the man’s ribcage because of the unconditional love he had received. John could never argue that Simon had “gone soft” because of it, Simon had weeping and infected wounds healed by the soft touch of his wife. The Captain’s previously abused and petrified weapon was now perfect, he was the epitome of the perfect soldier. But with the knowledge of his wife and child’s safety at risk, John knew what the military didn’t. 
“Captain.” 
There’s a reason your husband wasn’t alerted of your abduction. John Price knew the second he said that you and Melody were missing, Simon would rip his ribcage from his chest with the force of a thousand men to expose the monster underneath. The one you only hear about in movies, the one that is passed down through tongues to generations, the one you fear will come from the shadows to eat you alive. Simon Riley is what the Captain likes to call, the Monster Under Your Bed. 
“Captain.”
He grunted a little, looking over his shoulder to a stoic Alex Keller. “She’s almost asleep, Alex-“
“We might have a location.”
Tumblr media
taglist: @idkwtftitbh  @blingblong55  @local-spidey  @sanfransolomitatm  @frazie99  @Awilan @cosmoscoffeee @khadeejarh  @babygirl-riley  @emi-flaces  @marini03  @jeannieboys  @koshehehe  @tutuwuworld @froggy-anon @cxltblood @egdeverauxx @freyjasfenrir @lexi-zsy09 @Hosshihusshi @Isopaine @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @domaniquessidehoe2 @iaur @starsinyoureyes @graciereads @urfavoritepookie @ghost-with-a-teacup @moris666 @ghostwifeyy @ziggy0stardust @live-love-be-unique @magoopi @coririley @lunyyx @sterlizx
274 notes · View notes
woodchoc-magnum · 7 months ago
Note
how do you have so much faith in buddie after that episode? i just feel like the show just told us buddie won't happen but buck will be with a guy(maybe not tommy) but some other random ass guy.
Because:
"You can have my back any day." "Or you could have mine."
Buck taking Eddie to collect Christopher after the earthquake
Buck recognising that Eddie needs support, and finding Carla for him
"You two have an adorable son."
Buck and Christopher in the tsunami
Buck telling Eddie that he lost Christopher
Eddie literally coming to the loft and reassuring him that he trusts Buck more than anyone in the world
The lawsuit breakup and reconciliation
"Wanna go for the title?"
Ana says Christopher shouldn't skateboard, so Buck finds a way to build him a skateboard.
Eddie gets trapped at the bottom of a collapsed well, and Buck CLAWS AT THE DIRT SCREAMING FOR HIM (aka the television moment that changed my life forever)
Abby comes back, and Eddie is RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of it.
Buck going out of his way to buy Eddie the coffee machine he secretly wants
Buck Begins, where Eddie spends the entirety reassuring Buck.
Eddie starts dating Ana, so Buck starts dating again (because one can't date without the other panic dating as well)
Eddie gets shot in the street and Buck is literally splattered with his blood
Buck crawling under the firetruck to save Eddie's life
Buck having to tell Christopher that Eddie was hurt
Buck RACING TO THE HOSPITAL WHEN EDDIE WAKES UP - oh Ana is there? No she doesn't matter, Buck is the one that matters
Eddie telling Buck that he isn't expendable and confessing that he changed his Will so Buck would be Christopher's guardian
Ana being mistaken as Christopher's mother and Eddie subsequently having a panic attack about it
Buck recognising that Eddie wasn't in love with Ana and essentially guiding him into breaking up with her
Leading to the most queer-coded breakup in the history of television. "The idea of us??" Eddie
The hostage situation; the gun going off and Buck thinking that Eddie is hurt
Depression era Eddie, and Buck literally breaking down the door to rescue him
Buck then being there for him every step of the way. Girlfriend? what girlfriend
Culminating in them working together again when dispatch burns down, and Eddie returning to the 118
Buck FINALLY ending our misery and breaking up with Taylor
The family scenes at the start of season 6
Buck getting struck by lighting and Eddie climbing the ladder to try to pull him back UP because he was so panicked
Eddie trying to get to him; Eddie giving him CPR
Eddie telling them to DO MORE
Eddie sneaking Christopher into his hospital room and crying at his bedside
Buck knowing in his coma dream that Eddie and Christopher were missing
Eddie being Buck's safe place; the only place he can fall asleep
Eddie taking him on a poker date and apparently not railing him afterwards??
the look on Eddie's face when Buck tells him that Natalia "sees him"
And Eddie immediately trying to date because Buck's taken
The fact that we start season 7 with Buck already single and Eddie having essentially filled a permanent babysitter role in his life with Marisol
Eddie and Tommy becoming friends, being the cause of Buck's jealousy - this is not about Tommy, by the way, because Buck hasn't quite figured the Eddie of it out YET
All leading to the BIG BI KISS
And wherever the fuck the next episode is taking us
So yeah, one kiss doesn't invalidate five six seasons of build-up, and that's why I'm not worried.
156 notes · View notes
ohtobeleah · 1 year ago
Text
Bruises // Jake Seresin
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Chapter Two: [Tactile Takedown]
Summary: When a missile is headed right for Roosters F-18, Jake makes a decision that could end up costing you your life.
Series Warnings: Heavy themes of violence, sexual assault, torture. 18+ content. Minors DNI. Mature themes. Being held in captivity. Hostage style situation. Main character death! Whump, Angst. Conversations that discuss antisocial & antisemitism views.
Word Count: 4.4k
Author Note: THIS SERIES IS CONFRONTING, FICTIONAL, AND DEPICTS IMAGES OF TORTURE. DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU BELIEVE THAT THIS SERIES WILL BE DETRIMENTAL TO YOUR MENTAL STABILITY. CURATE YOUR OWN TIMELINE.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***
Tuesday - April 18th 2023. D-day. 
“How you doing back there Hollywood?” Jake asked as you settled into a steady climb, You’d just taken off from the carrier that had taken you out into the middle of nowhere to complete a mission that seemed somewhat impossible. But you were told these guys were the best of the best, that they don't get any better than the Daggers. An elite group of Naval Aviators who had completed some of the most insane covert operations you'd been blessed to read about. “How's my radar looking?” 
And now? Well–now you were one of them. 
“Radars clean Hangman.” You confirmed all the while trying to calm the pit of nervousness in your stomach. “Recommend increasing to three hundred knots, you've got Dagger Two approaching at around ten o'clock closure.” 
“Confirmed.” Jake replied as he pushed up on his throttle, it sent your head into the back of your chair a little from the force of gravity changing around you. “Increasing speed, Rooster you still with me?” It was just the three of you, Rooster, Hangman and yourself. A small yet tactile team of experienced and highly trained naval aviators sent it to disable a rogue insurgent group that was making far too much noise for the United States navy to ignore. 
The mission? Dismantle what Nav-Con believed to be one of the two main insurgent camps situated in the middle of a communication desert. With one highly explosive missile and two of the best air to air combat pilots the navy had ever seen, you were tasked with getting in through a valley that had been similar terrain to a mission Bradley had flown a few years prior. 
That was why he was chosen. Experience. 
Jake Seresin had a reputation, he was the Hangman. He had two confirmed air to air kills and wouldn't lose sleep over a third of forth. From what you could gather since being assigned as his weapons system officer, Jake took risks. Risks that paid off well. He was highly skilled and that somewhat egomaniacal belief that he was a god given gift to aviation made it easier to pull through with such risks. 
That was why he was chosen. Taktical ability to compartmentalise. 
But Jake Seresin had a fault. He had a single thread loose that if pulled could undo all that male bravado. He cared, deep down, about his squadron. His colleagues had become more like family than anything. He couldn't turn that blind eye that was so necessary to have if this mission were to fail. 
And that's why you were brought in. Why you were chosen for such a dangerous mission. You would have been easier to lose against Robert Floyd or Mickey Garcia and the Admirals all knew it. Jake didn't know you. You were a pivotal part of the mission design, a means to an end if necessary. 
You were simply expendable: 
From the Admirals who had tasked Bradley and Jake with this mission to Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, they all knew that if it were Bob or Fanboy sitting in Jake's WSO seat, he wouldn’t take so many risks. And for once–they needed him to take risks. To not think and just do. 
“I'm right behind you, Hangman.” Bradleys voice came through the comms as clear as day. He was taling right behind Jake. “We’re looking good so far.” 
“Better not have just jinxed us Bradshaw.” Jake sighed as he made a small turn right, heading down into the canyon below. “We get in, we get out and we go home.” 
You had spent the last month revising the mission, sitting in hour long debrief sessions with Rooster and Hangman to go over critical points of the mission. You knew they were close, but there was an underlying sort of animosity you couldn't quite figure out. 
And that's why they were both chosen for this mission together. There would be no love lost between the two.
“Still nothing up ahead on radar Hangman.” You spoke firmly with enough conviction in your voice to cover up the fact your heart was racing a million miles an hour. You never thought in your wildest dream you'd make it to TopGun and then further, a specialist unit. But this was not the time to doubt your ability. “All systems go back here, max ceiling is three hundred feet if you wanna keep out of line of sight.” 
“Aye aye Hollywood.” Jake had never flown with a weapons system officer before. This was his first mission with one. When he’d been called into Admiral Simpson's office one random Thursday afternoon before finishing for the day–He thought for sure he was about to have his ass handed to him for something he’d surely done. 
“Hangman.” Admiral Simpson stood at his desk to greet the aviator who looked a little green around the gill upon first entry. He gestured for the flight suit clad, broad shouldered man to sit in the empty seat beside you. “I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Y/N “Hollywood” Y/L/N, she’ll be joining us here for the foreseeable future.” Jake listened as he sat down beside you. 
Without hesitation he sent you a strong smile that took up the entire expanse of his face, completely intoxicating and undeniably hollywood. 
“It's nice to see some fresh meat around here, keep the competition guessing.” Jake chuckled as he extended his hand to shake yours. “I'm Lieutenant Seresin, Jake.” He was all confidence and cocky ego until you touched his hand, until your hand shook his back in a friendly gesture. Jake wasn't going to pretend that he didn't feel that sharp spark, that jolt of energy, that lighting strike that ignited his skin when you touched him. “But everyone calls me Hangman.” 
“Hollywood here is actually joining us as a WSO Seresin.” Admiral Simpson explained as he let his elbows rest against the old oak desk that put some distance between where he sat and where Jake sat, completely unaware that your presence in North Island was about to completely change the trajectory of his career. “She’ll be your WSO.” 
“I’m sorry–” Jake retracted his hand from yours as he shot Admiral Simpson a look, he had previously warned you of this reaction, so you chose to remain silent. Taking in your surroundings and observing Hangman's emotions. It was your job to be observant after all. “Since when do I fly with a WSO? I've never flown doubles before and I don't intend to start now.” Jake argued before he turned back to where you sat. “No offence sunshine, I'm sure you’re great and all, it’s just I don't particularly play well with others.” 
“I'm more of a midnight rain kinda girl.” All you did was eye him off with an emotionless expression. Jake didn’t appreciate your tone, he did however appreciate the way your eyes nearly sparkled in the warm afternoon sun that came beaming through the window of Admiral Simpson's office. “I’m not too over the moon about working with you either.” It was a dig. “With a callsign as transparent as Hangman I’m sure I’m in great hands.”
“And I’m sure Hollywood has some outstanding depth to it.” Jake was quick on his feet with his comeback before he frowned a little more and turned his attention back to Admiral Simpson. “Why not Bradshaw?” He groaned, seemingly unimpressed by the decision to dump a WSO on him after years of flying solo. “He doesn’t have a WSO, or Coyote!” 
It was then that Admiral Simpson pulled out a cream coloured file from his desk draw and slid it across his desk. He let out a sigh that told you someone wasn’t coming back from this one. 
“Because we need it to be you.” 
“Approach the canyon entrance with caution.” You directed from behind as you watched the Radar closely. “Remember, we only engage if absolutely necessary.” 
“Once we’re in we make this quick.” Rooster spoke firmly, he had been a little hesitant to accept this detachment knowing its risk to reward ratio. But he’d been promised a shore leave after this. A well deserved vacation. “Let’s get to work.” 
“Copy, heading into Risk Range now.” That was the name on the cream folder Admiral Simpson had passed you and Hangman on day one. Risk Range. Because once you were in there was no way of pulling you out. It was risky, and a mountain range that expanded as far as the eye could see. “Hollywood, have that laser guide ready for me.” 
“On it.” It was like they knew you were coming, because as your radar began flashing with approaching enemy aircraft you knew immediately that they knew. It was a gut instinct. 
“Rooster evade left! Hangman break right, we’ve got company.” Jake didn’t waste a second of time reacting accordingly. He broke right as Rooster tailed off. It was the very definition of an ambush, cold calculated and premeditated. “Jake!” 
“Hangman on your left!” Rooster's voice came through panicked on the comms as Jake did his best to avoid the enemy aircraft that had seemingly come out of thin air: stealth pilots. Trained to be completely unseen until they wanted you to see them. “Break left!” 
“Breaking left!” You twisted and turned and left fingerprints on the canopy as you tried your best to get a better visual. It was madness, pure madness. One two three six how many were there? “Come on, talk to me Hollywood, tell me what you see!” As Jake asked you what you saw you felt your heart pounding inside your chest as you saw a single missile. With wide eyes and panic racing through your veins, you spun around. 
“Smoke in the air! Smoke in the air! Six o’clock Hangman break right!” 
“Deploying flares!” It was only by the skin of what felt like his nose that Jake was able to avoid a direct hit. These guys were ruthless, where one was evaded another would pop up. “Rooster, talk to me man where you at?” 
“I’m here! Hollywood, tell me what you see!” You could have sworn the next few seconds played out like a three hour long Christopher Nolan movie. Time stood still as Jake turned around to expose the full scene playing out on the big screen. A surface to air missile was aiming right for Bradley Bradshaw. 
“Jake—“ It was a mumble, a murmur even. It threw a spanner in the cogs of this well oiled detachment you thought you knew everything about. Every angle, every concept, every reason why the three of you were specifically chosen. Because as Jake made a decision that would send the F-18 the two of you found yourselves to be in into the side of a mountain range, you realised there would be love lost, a hell of a lot of love lost if anything happened to Rooster. Bradley Bradshaw was Jake Seresin wingman, period. “It's on him.” 
“Not if I can help it.” Jake mumbled under his breath as he swung around and headed straight for where Rooster was. 
“Banit coming in hot on your tail Rooster, break right!” It was your confirmation that you were all in, every decision Jake made in the sky affected you and vice versa. There was nowhere to run, not here in this mess. “Jake, deploy flares!” 
“Deploying flares!” It was only the smallest of miscalculations that caused it. If Jake had deployed his flares just three seconds prior, then perhaps you wouldn't have been hit. Perhaps you would have been able to save Rooster without sacrificing your own safety. Perhaps if Jake had deployed his flares just three seconds earlier, then the missile that hit the tail end of your F-18 with such force, that it blew the ass end right off the aircraft, wouldn't have knocked you out from the impact. 
The explosion was the last thing you heard. The warmth of the fire that kissed your skin was the last thing you felt before everything was cold again. So cold. So cold that it almost burned.
“Y/n!” Jake shouted with a panic in his tone of voice as he shook you softly. “Hollywood! Wake up!” There was blood dripping from your nose, a sign Jake wasn't too keen on but other than that? He couldn’t see any other physical injuries. You still had both arms and legs. “Lieutenant Y/L/N wake up!” It was all so muffled, like you were under water, you could hear Jake calling your name, you could feel him shaking your body, but you couldn't talk, couldn't open your eyes. Until you did, slowly and with a groan. “Oh thank god.” It was the first thing you heard Jake say clearly without the muffled understone. “You scared the hell out of me.” 
“What happened?” You asked softly as you tried to sit up. “Where are we?” Jake could recognise the panic taking over your being as he kneeled beside you, helping you to sit up with a groan. He noticed the way you held your ribs on the right side of your body, most likely bruised at the very least from the impact of your parachute deploying. “What happened?” 
“We got shot down.” Jake said the four words no aviator ever wanted to hear. “You blacked out on impact.” He explained tentatively, not wanting to scare you any more than you already were. “I pulled your chute.” 
“Rooster! Head back to the carrier, abort the mission!”  It was the last thing Jake could communicate to his wingman before he lost his radio. The fighter jet was totaled, there was no saving it. 
“Hollywood we gotta go! Punch out!” Jake shouted over the warning signals that blared in the cockpit as he spun out of control. There was no worse feeling than burning in. He hadnt experienced it often, only once before–but it still felt the same if not worse than that last time. “Y/n?” When you didn't respond Jake knew something was wrong, as he turned to look behind him he saw you slumped forward and unresponsive. “Dammit Hollywood!” Jake did the only thing he could think of that would help you– he reached over and pulled at the yellow and black ejection handle between your legs. 
Almost immediately the canopy went flying as you shot out of the fighter jet. Jake saw your chute deploy–relief flooded his system before he pulled his own ejection handle. It sent him flying high into the sky at the speed of light. He just prayed when he hit the ground he’d be able to find you alive and well.
The time between the moment Jake hit the snow covered ground below to the moment he found you lying between the trees was far too long. He ditched his chute and ran and ran and ran until he was at your side. But there wasn't a mountain he wouldn't climb to reach you. That much was true. You were his WSO. His responsibility. 
“Rooster?” You asked as it all came racing back. “Did he–?” You didn't even need to finish your sentence before Jake was giving you some sort of peace of mind. 
“As far as I know he turned back to the carrier after we got hit. I haven't seen him doing any flyovers.” Jake explained softly as he assessed your current state. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You watched as Jake held his hand up in front of your face and moved it side to side. You followed his every move. 
“Two.” You said confidently, still sitting in the snow. “I'm fine, promise, just a little bruised.” 
“You think you can walk?” Jake was helping you to your feet before you even gave him a response. “I'm sorry you're in this mess with me, it's just–” It was your turn to interrupt as Jake wrapped your arm around his shoulders to help you stand. If you had seen him demonstrate this kind of behaviour three days ago you would have sworn black and blue you were dreaming, or that some fictitious creature from another realm had replaced the Jake Seresin you’d been flying with for the past few weeks. But after seeing his harrowing attapet to save his wingman's life without a single second of hesitation, you knew Jake actually cared about the people around him. 
“It's fine.” You hissed as you took your first guided steps on wobbly legs after falling out of the sky. “You were protecting your wingman, I would have done the same thing.” Jake had a pretty nasty gash on the side of his head from when he’d landed pretty ungracefully. The side of his helmet cut into his temple on impact. “But now we’re down here, with no backup.” 
“E-stats are still working.” Jake reminded you as he continued to help you further into the woods, hoping that it could break the chill of the raging wind. “They’ll see us, hopefully, if we just stay put surely the carrier will be able to track our location.” You knew right then and there that Jake was bluffing, you were smack bang in a communication desert. 
“Hangman–” You sighed as he helped you sit down against a rock that was further in, Jake didn't miss the way you squinted as you did so, still holding your ribcage like something was wrong. “I don't think anyone will come back for us.” You did your best to try and block out the pain radiating whenever you took a breath in. “It would make more noise than they want to make.” 
“You don't know my squad Hollywood.” Jake smirked as he shook his head slightly with a chuckle. He was right, you didn't know the lengths they’d all go to for each other. Jake reached out to cup your cheeks softly, the pad of his thumb swiped at the blood that had dripped down from your nose. “Someone will come, we just gotta get comfy till then.” There was a moment of silence that passed as Jake really took a moment to drink in your features. Even through all the snow and all the worry your eyes still sparkled the same way they did when he first met you in Admiral Simpson's office. “Your ribs? You think they’re broken?” 
“Probably just bruised from the impact.” You replied, lost in your own mind as you stared at Jake’s features. From his eyebrows to his emerald green eyes that you swore swirled with desire. Everything was perfect, even the dusting of that five o’clock shadow that was threatening to expose his not so clean cut navy aesthetic. 
“Can I have a look?” You missed the feeling of Jake's hand on your cheek the minute he was gone and had pulled away. You couldn't help but to chuckle as you compiled and started undoing your flight suit. 
“You trying to cop a feel Seresin?” 
“Would that be the worst thing in the world?” He teased back almost too quickly to not have already been on his mind. Jake was as careful as he could be when you had undone your flight suit enough to expose your black under shirt. He watched as you lifted up the cotton fabric enough so that he could press his palm softly against where your ribs were killing. His heart broke when you whimpered, he knew you were holding back as much as you could. “I know why they call you Hollywood, you know.” Jake thought a distraction from the pain and the situation in general would be good. He kept pressing his fingers around your side trying to see if he could feel anything unusual. He knew it hurt like hell, but when your eyes met his as he looked up at you from where he was kenaling beside you–he hoped the distraction helped. 
“Oh yeah?” Jake could hear the pain in your voice as you tried to breathe through his poking and prodding. “What's the consensus?” You groaned through gritted teeth as tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. 
“Your dads Rick Neven.” Jake concluded as he finished up his examination. “I thought maybe you were some childhood hollywood hotshot at first but then I overheard Mav telling Mando that you looked just like him.” Jake paused for a moment, reading the terrain of your reaction—when you didn’t totally annihilate him for figuring it out, he pressed on. “You don’t like people knowing you’re practically Navy Royalty, hence your mums maiden name.” He shrugged all the while you worked to fix your flight suit up. “And just like you said, just bruised, not breaks.” 
It was hard to believe the same man who hadn’t really looked in your general direction for the better half of the time you knew him was paying this much attention to you now. But then again, he had been the one who got you into this mess in the first place. If you were gonna play the blame game. 
“Guess there was some depth to it after all huh?” You referred back to the very beginning, to when you had first met Jake. He smiled at you with that golden boy grin that took over the entire expanse of his face. 
“Yeah, yeah I guess there was.” Jake knew just by flying with you, albeit reluctantly, these past few weeks, that you were an extraordinary weapons systems officer. You knew your stuff as well as he knew his shit and together you actually made a pretty decent team. He’d been wrong about you personally though. He kept his distance knowing you were only supposed to be around for this particular detachment then you were off again. There was no real reason to get to know you when you'd be gone in the blink of an eye. But oh how Jake was kicking himself for that thought process. Because now here he was, stuck in the middle of nowhere with the very same WSO he’d been actively trying to not get to know. Something told him though the pair of you were going to have a hell of a lot of time to get to know one another. “The sun's starting to set, we should probably find somewhere to spend the night, maybe make a fire.” Jake looked around, trying to see if there was a place in eyesight where the two of you could make camp for the night. It wasn't ideal, but what else was there to do?
“Yeah–yeah that's probably–” Before you could finish your sentence you heard the unmistakable sound of tree branches being crushed under the weight of footsteps. You spun around to see what was behind you and your heart sank into your stomach. 
Insurgents, pointing guns directly at you and Jake. 
“Jake.” You whispered as you stood slowly, they didn't make any attempt to move from their positionings. Crouched behind rocks, trees and some were just out in the open. They were everywhere. Surrounding the both of you so that there was no way out. 
“Get behind me.” It was the only thing Jake could think about, protecting you. He got you into this mess and he was sure as hell going to get you out of it. He ushered you behind him, making sure to keep turning periodically to look at all angles, wondering if there was by chance a way out of this. “Listen to me, you say nothing, you hear me?” Jake reminded you as he assessed how many you were outnumbered by. “No matter what you don't say anything.” 
You’d seen movies before, what could happen to a woman held as a prisoner of war. You couldn’t help it when your mind went straight to that awful place.
“Jake, don't let them take me away from you.” It was the worst situation Jake had ever found himself in. “Please—don’t let them.” You begged as tears streamed down your face. You fisted at the back of Jake's flight gear he had yet to take off. Holding him as close to you as you possibly could. You were beyond terrified. 
“Put your hands where I can see them!” One of the insurgents shouted as he stepped closer, still aiming his assault weapon directly at the two of you. “Don’t make any sudden movements besides raising your hands above your head.” 
He was wearing all black clothes, they all were. Against the white of the snow it made them stand out like sore thumbs. But they did well enough to cover their faces. No identities were exposed besides your own and Jakes. 
“I want your word that you won’t hurt her.” Jake growled as he began to raise his arms around his head. Palms facing out. You didn’t dare to move as Jake felt you balling his uniform in your hands a little tighter. “Don’t you touch her.” Jake had his attention drawn to the insurgent in front of him all the while you had your face buried between his shoulder blades—trying to shelter yourself from this hellscape. “Touch her and I swear I’ll kill you all.” 
“Lieutenant, I highly doubt you're an incompetent man, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when I remind you that you have absolutely no authority or power whatsoever in this situation.” The insurgent snickered as he approached closer. “Take the girl.” He tilted his chin in the direction of his men standing off to the side. Before you could react, they were on you. 
“JAKE!!” You screamed at the top of your lungs as one of them wrapped their arms around your waist and pulled you away harshly—Jake felt your hands slip from the Normex of his flight suit as he spun around to try and grab your wrist. 
“Don’t touch her!” Jake warned again. 
“No! No! Stop please—PLEASE!” Jake hated your pleas, your screams would forever haunt his heart. His fingers grazed yours as he whipped around to reach for you. “LET ME GO! GET OFF OF ME!” 
“I SAID DONT TOUCH—“ Before Jake could finish his sentence he was in the ground lying in the snow face down. The insurgent making the orders had hit him over the back of the head with his gun. It was enough to make you stop struggling, enough to make you stop resisting. 
There was a moment where you just stood there in the detainment of insurgents, taking in everything that was happening. Just how were you going to survive this? This wasn’t in the mission parameters. 
“Get them to the truck, before we lose any more light.” The insurgent ordered before he turned around, shouting over his shoulder at his men. Jake lying out cold in the snow was the last thing you saw before it all went black. You felt a pinch at the side of your neck before everything went black and your knees gave in. 
“Keep them alive, for now.” It was the last thing you heard before everything went numb. “I want answers.”
***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***
Tags 🏷️ @americaarse @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @athenabarnes @imaginecrushes @whyareallnamesgone @mjmaximoffbarnes @amiets2 @mads-weasley @gabbyella @ephemeralninon @xoxabs88xox @pedrohoe04 @starkleila @je-suis-prest-rachel @clancycucumber230 @maisie-rebloging-blog @callsign-barbell @obiwankenobis-lap @some-lovely-day @paperbag333 @callsign-magnolia @jhiddles03 @hardballoonlove @shanimallina87 @seitmai @abaker74 @missemrose @starset21 @kmc1989 @phoenix1388 @emma8895eb
414 notes · View notes
suspicious-whumping-egg · 1 year ago
Text
I just love when a characters been taken hostage as bait for a stronger, more powerful character. No amount of begging or offering for information can ease their suffering because their only purpose is to be hurt.A livestream being done of their torture, broadcast to their powerful lover or family member or friend, and while they desperately don’t want anything to happen to someone they love, they can’t do this anymore. They know they should beg them not to try and rescue them, not to make the deal and trade themself for whumpee, to ignore their pain because whumpee is expendable and this other person isn’t. But they’re not the strong one. Instead they beg to be saved, guilt eating them alive as much as the agony coursing through their body. And when someone comes for them, they know they don’t deserve to be rescued.
317 notes · View notes
rahuratna · 4 months ago
Text
The Feast at your Table (Part 1 of 2)
Content: Sexual content (MDNI!), explicit sexual content in next chapter, pining, friends to lovers, food play mentions in this chapter.
Posting some drafts that I've been sitting on for a while. Here goes.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
It was official. You had no idea, whatsoever, how deal with your burgeoning attraction to Taishiro Toyomitsu, known to most as the pro-hero Fat Gum.
It wasn't that Taishiro was unapproachable. Quite the opposite. He was the embodiment of comfort, the patron saint of open door policies. There was nobody, out there on the streets he worked so hard to protect, or here within the doors of his agency, that wouldn't trust him with their lives.
Taishiro was kind, effusive, magnanimous and always determined, the kind of man who'd never fail to cheer you up, who'd be the shoulder you could always lean on.
All of which formed the basis for the reasons you couldn't ever let him know how you felt about him. You didn't know when it had started. And by the time you caught it, it was too late, spreading like a rampant infection through your system, weakening you to each and every one of this kind man's habits, gestures and traits.
It wasn't as if heroes were strangers to public attention or people wanting a piece of them. As pro-hero Fat Gum, Taishiro had his fair share of fan mail, propositions and adoring followers. As an employee of his agency, with a quirk that certainly didn't fall under the category of 'flashy' you'd managed to make yourself quietly indispensable over the past year.
It was also why you wouldn't want to pursue anything actively with the man who was essentially your boss. Taishiro was kind to you, as he was to all members of the agency. He'd buy you takeout, make sure to check in on you even with his busy schedule, and even dragged you out of the office at times to have celebratory meals with the team.
There were times when you felt something, perhaps a figment of your sorry, affection-starved imagination, times when you felt his eyes linger on you a moment too long, when his expression would switch from its usual congeniality to something more tender. But you'd studiously brushed away any thought of hidden feelings. On his part, at least. Why would he even look in your direction, anyway?
You certainly weren't anything special. Ordinary you'd always been and ordinary you'd remain. All you had to do was continue being the silent support, the rope that bound this agency together behind the scenes, the one who was always there with the towels, bandages, extra snacks and comforting words, the one who fielded the phone calls and briskly dealt with paperwork nobody else wanted to handle.
On this particular evening, there had been an emergency alert in downtown Esuha City, and Fat Gum along with two of his interns, Kirishima and Amajiki, had been called in to deal with a potential hostage situation. You remained at the office along with the two other employees of the agency, Rei, who handled marketing and publicity and Fukushima who dealt with tech and communications.
It turned out to be a tense evening, fraught with danger, and the added challenge of crowd control, considering how packed the area where the hostage situation occurred had been. By the time everything had been resolved, it was almost 2 am and the ragged heroes, their various sidekicks and interns included, were slowly making their way back to agencies all over the city. The rest of the team had left, packing up and congratulating each other with tired eyes on a job well done.
You remained, however. You wouldn't be able to rest easy without knowing that Taishiro was back safely and had a ready supply of food should he be low on energy. Time ticked by and the elevator pinged with its customary chime. Standing hurriedly at your desk, you breathed a small sigh of relief when Taishiro's bulky form appeared in the doorway to the office.
He'd obviously expended a lot of his fat today, his tall form still bearing a visible protective layer around the middle, the raw brute strength beneath now more evident in the chest and arms. His uniform hung on him. It was dirty and torn in various places, the signature knee pads scuffed and dented. The golden tufts of his unruly hair were streaked with dust and grease. He looked worn down and weary when he came in, but his expression changed to one of surprise and tenderness when he saw you.
You realize that's it's been a while since you've been alone with him. To take your mind off the potential awkwardness your infatuation could induce, you hurry forward and start to warm up some of the food you'd ordered earlier, calling over your shoulder to him.
"I'm glad you're back in one piece. But you look like you need something to eat. I'll have it ready in - "
A large, solid hand on your shoulder cuts off your stream of words.
"Why didn't you go home with the rest?"
"I - well, I was worried."
"About me?"
He huffs out a small laugh, and coming from him, it's never condescending or mocking.
"You never have to worry 'bout me, sweetheart. This ol' body of mine can take a real beating and come out just fine. But hey, I'd never turn down some snacks. Now what ya got for me?"
The endearment rolls so naturally off his tongue, and for a moment, you wonder what he would do if you grabbed his collar and tugged him down towards you. You flush and turn away from him, suddenly very occupied with the pork buns you've been re-heating.
"There's a lot we - I ordered in earlier, because I thought you'd be low on energy. Why don't you go clean up while I handle all of this?"
"Gotcha."
He ambled away, yawning and stretching sore muscles slightly with a groan. He headed to the locker rooms that could be accessed through a door in the hall outside the main office. Normally, you wouldn't hear sounds through the partition so clearly, what with the bustle of the office during the day, but the quiet of night allows you to hear the shuffle of clothes being shed, the water turning on and Taishiro humming tunelessly as he gets in.
Those pork buns just might spontaneously combust under the laser-lit stare you're giving them. If you could just focus on getting this food ready ...
In what feels like too short an interval, you hear Taishiro's slipper-clad feet approaching the office once again. You look up and take him in. He is wearing a simple t-shirt and loose cotton pants, of a size more suited to his current form. He lifts one arm up over his head and his shoulder pops, allowing him to utter a distinctly masculine grunt. The shirt hugs his powerful shoulders and stretches over his abdomen in a way that you find very difficult to look away from. Oblivious, Taishiro approaches, warm eyes gleaming at the spread you've set out for him.
"Well now. You've outdone yourself. You know just what I need, dontcha?"
You hope the shaky laugh you utter doesn't give you away, but then the laugh turns to a yawn and you lift your hand to your mouth in surprise, eyes watering. Taishiro chuckles, but he hasn't touched the food yet and his gaze suddenly holds something warmer, something you hope you're not reading too much into. He reaches across the table and pushes a plate towards you.
"You must be tired too."
"Oh, come on. I've only been here in the office all day. It's just late, that's all."
"Late enough that the rest of the team have gone home hours ago. Now eat what's on your plate."
You pause, chewing on an onigiri.
"Don't worry, I'll just... stay over at the office. We do have the sofa here."
He stares at you, the seriousness of his gaze catching you off guard.
"You're telling me you've slept on the couch before?"
"Um ... "
"That's not okay! If I'd known you'd stayed over when we were out on missions, I would've given you the key to my place. It's only a block from here."
The idea of sleeping in Taishiro's bed, surrounded by sheets that smell of him, on the mattress with the dip in the centre that his body would make, almost shuts your mind down. Luckily, you have the wit to respond.
"You don't have to do that! It's only been ... once or twice, anyway - "
"Once or twice too often. Seriously, I ain't gonna let you sleep on that couch again, princess. Just say the word when you're ready to go and I'll take you over."
Arguing is futile. As accommodating as this man is to each and every request, whether from client or friend, he draws a solid, unwavering line when it comes to certain things. And he won't, absolutely won't, have you take the train home at this time. He even offers to sleep here in the office, if that makes you more comfortable, an option you hastily refuse.
Soon enough, you've both finished the food (the bulk of it having been savoured by Taishiro) and your fingers are tapping against your thigh with the anxiety that has now infested your body as you put on your coat and head out into the street with him. Taishiro has always been a walking furnace, the pleasant heat from his tall form distinct whenever he stands close to you. Proximity to him has never been an issue. His bulk, in his fully fat-protected body, is always taking up space in the office, brushing against you every time he moves past.
His confidence and the manner in which he wore his own skin, with pride and certainty, makes him all the more attractive. Taishiro always welcomes other people into his space, into his protective warmth, and you are lucky enough to fall into that category. He obviously found your spluttering reactions hilarious every time he spread his arms and asked you to 'ride the Fat Taxi'.
As you neared his place, a decent-sized apartment with modest furnishings in a high rise not far from the office, you noticed that he'd fallen uncharacteristically silent.
"Taishiro?"
"Yup?"
"You don't have to have me over, really. I understand if you just want your space and ...  rest after that mission."
He was looking at you now, but your eyes were fixed on the street ahead.
"Told you before. It's no issue at all. You'll be safe at my place, and that's what counts. Plus, I know you. You don't even want to go near the train station. You don't like the cold. Come on now. I know you want that hot cocoa and good ol' fleece blanket."
He wiggled his fingers in what was obviously supposed to be gesture of entrapment. You'd never seen anything less threatening and a laugh burst from your throat.
"Fine. I do want that fleece blanket."
The elevator ride up to his apartment was a strange reversal of roles. Taishiro was the one who now seemed a little on edge, while you were humming slightly, imagining the hot shower and comforting softness of the blankets that awaited you. It was just him. Just Taishiro. Just the man you'd already spent so much your time with. You could handle this. Nothing to worry about.
He unlocked and held the door open for you, hitching up his pants slightly. The fabric was still loose on him, even after the snacks you'd provided. You entered and immediately sighed at the warmth which greeted you. Taishiro came in, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.
"Make yourself at home. There's towels in that cupboard, middle shelf, if you need them. The bathroom is that way."
It was common knowledge that Taishiro preferred to wash off the grime of his missions at the agency showers instead of his own bathroom. You supposed that it was something to do with the desire of many heroes to create a separation between the peace of home and the slog of hero work. All the same, you couldn't help but admire the relaxing, muted colors and panel work in the bathroom, the tub huge enough to accommodate someone of Taishiro's height and bulk, with space left over.
Locking the door behind you, you unzipped the small carry bag you always packed in case of having to stay overnight at the agency. It contained a simple silk shift and shorts, a change of underwear and some toiletries. Outside, you could hear Taishiro moving around in the lounge and kitchen, pots and pans clanking. He dropped something with a loud clatter and you heard him mumbling softly.
You ran a bath, scrubbed yourself clean and got into the tub, thinking carefully over his behaviour since you had arrived. There was something different than usual. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was nervous. Surely not? How many times had the two of you worked long hours together, spending almost every day enmeshed in each other's company when he was at the office? All the same...
Standing, you dried yourself off and dressed in your sleep clothes. Suddenly feeling a little self conscious at how much the sheer shirt and shorts revealed, you slung your cardigan over them, slowly opening the door and heading out.
The scent of burning came from the kitchen. Worried, you hurried over. Taishiro was very proficient at cooking, so it was surprising for you to see him like this, waving his hands through the smoke that permeated the air, coughing slightly. The blackened remains of what looked like pancakes lay curled and shriveled at the bottom of a pan. Taishiro looked up to meet your concerned gaze and froze, one large hand coming up to sheepishly scratch the back of his head.
"Ahhh ... sorry about this. I was just ... making pancakes and ... yeah. I guess I wasn't watching them closely enough, ya know?"
You stepped slowly towards him, as if approaching a skittish animal. You'd never had this issue with him before.
"Are you okay? Was it ... something that happened on the mission today? You seem out of sorts."
Placing a hand on his arm, all earlier hesitation forgotten in the warmth you felt for this man, you couldn't help how your body gravitated to be closer to him. He had always been the one to surround everyone with his reassuring presence, his natural charisma buoying up your spirits. Surely, this was one thing you could offer him in return.
"Why don't you go sit, Taishiro. I can handle the pancakes."
For once, you were met with silence as Taishiro looked down at your hand. His gaze travelled along your wrist, lingering on the button-down front of your cardigan, held together over the shift beneath. There was a gentle fire burning in that glance that you could in no way explain through platonic means. The warmth of his regard was removed from your person as quickly as it had arrived. You plucked away your hand from his arm and his shoulders sagged a little.
"It ain't that. The mission went well. I just - I'm - "
He raised a hand and swept it back through his hair, tousling the golden strands even further, before turning to you.
"Ah, it doesn't matter. It's 3 am and you ain't even in bed yet. That's a crime."
"Not until you talk to me."
Determination was straightening your posture, allowing you to look him in the eye without any of the usual nerves that plagued you in his presence.
"I - c'mon sweetheart." The word rolled out differently on his tongue, wrapped in the sort of hushed intimacy reserved for lovers. "I can't ... don't want you to feel uncomfortable or anything- "
"You could never make me feel uncomfortable."
"Well ... it's just that ... I've never had you over before. Like this, I mean. It's just a little ... you know."
Oh. Oh.
The simple fact that he felt this way, that the implication of being alone with you at his apartment carried the same weight for him as it did for you ...
Something in your expression must have changed because he was hastily waving his hands and attempting some form of what he must have thought of as damage control.
"I mean, it ain't every day that you come over here. And sure, I'm a pro-hero and all, but ... " he paused to chuckle ruefully, "I guess I'm just like the average guy when it comes to having a ... lovely lady like you over. I just ... was wondering if being here was okay for you. I wasn't being pushy or anything, I just wanted you to be safe."
"Taishiro."
Your voice was soft, some part of the slow, steady creep of passion you kept hidden from him on a daily basis filtering through. You couldn't help yourself.
"Taishiro, I was ... also a little nervous to come over here. Not because I don't trust you. I trust you with my life. You know that. It's more... to do with the same reason you're ... feeling the way you are now."
There. You'd gone and said it. You'd finally let him know some small part of what you felt for him. He was staring at you with his mouth slightly open. Something about how ridiculous this situation was, two grown adults behaving like hormonal teenagers simply because they were under the same roof and feeling attraction to one another, snapped you back to some form of reality.
You covered your mouth and looked down. Taishiro raised an eyebrow.
"Are you giggling?"
"What? I don't giggle."
"Oh yeah you do. When you think nobody's looking."
"So you're watching that closely?"
He glanced down at the pan and prodded at the burnt remains of the pancake. He was also smiling now.
"Ahh ... okay, yeah. Most times. Can't help it."
"I see. Now do you want help with those pancakes or not?"
"On one condition."
"What's that?"
"That thin little sweater you have on ain't gonna do the job in this cold. I got some warmer stuff in my closet. Go choose something and then you can help me."
Seeing that he had finally regained a semblance of his usual hearty confidence, you smiled and did as he asked. You'd never seen the interior of Taishiro's bedroom before. The decor was simple, with plenty of room to accommodate him moving around. The bed looked custom made, reinforced and sturdy, a huge mattress cushioning the top.
Hastily looking away, you approached the built-in closet against the right wall and opened one of the doors. It took you a while to find a suitable sized sweater, and when you did, it was obvious that even the smallest size he had would be very, very large on you. At least you'd be warmer. Shrugging, you slipped off your cardigan and had just taken the sweater from where it hung, when Taishiro entered the bedroom.
"Hey, you want syrup and cinnamon with your pancakes or just - "
He stopped dead, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you. If you'd been alone in your own home, your choice of sleepwear would never have raised any issues. Suddenly, you were very conscious of just how sheer the material was, how you'd forgone a bra in the desire for comfort, how the shorts were little better than underwear, now that you really thought about it.
It wasn't as if your body was anything special to look at, at least, in your view. You considered yourself average in most aspects, definitely on the curvy side. Your work clothes were always modest enough to never draw attention. Taishiro, however, was looking at you as if you'd somehow covered yourself in syrup in lieu of the pancakes. Your breathing accelerated a little, and with the way he was watching the rise and fall of your chest, it would probably be very hard for him to miss it.
He swallowed thickly and turned his head.
"Uh, sorry. Didn't know you were still looking for the ... ah ... "
"The sweater."
"Yeah. That. Found one?"
"I did."
You waved the garment around and he must have seen it in his peripheral vision, because he nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets, as if not quite sure what to do with them.
"Okay. Well, when you're ready, the pancakes are done. Come and get yours."
Hurriedly pulling the sweater over your head, you followed him into the living room. Although you weren't particularly hungry, you wanted to keep him him company while he ate, at the very least. Taishiro was now pouring steaming milk into a mug, before stirring and handing you the cocoa.
"One sugar. Just how ya like it."
You didn't know whether it was the encounter you'd just had with him in the bedroom, but somehow, everything he said now seemed laced with innuendo. It didn't help that his warm, deep voice was huskier than usual, that his honey-brown eyes were helplessly tracing the shape of your legs when he thought you were looking away.
You shifted in your seat as your own growing arousal threatened to unseat your composure. You ate the pancakes he placed in front of you and wondered what it would feel like to cover those thick fingers of his in syrup and slowly take them into your mouth with him watching. Your knees brushed against his under the table and you thought of how easy it would be to straddle him, the plush flesh of his stomach cushioning your abdomen. You took a sip of your cocoa and wondered whether he'd taste as rich. You thought of his skin, the soft growth of barely visible stubble on his jaw, the wide and generous mouth, those heavy, powerful hips and how they might undulate between your trembling thighs.
Taishiro has always been so open, so free with his emotions, and now that same transparency is doing little to hide just how much he wants you when he catches your eye across the table. He takes another bite, as if making an effort to tear his gaze away.
"Are these any good? I kinda rushed them."
"They're wonderful. Your batter is always the best."
If it had been a normal day at the office, your comment would have passed unnoticed. Under these circumstances, though, with this tension growing in the air between you both, Taishiro choked slightly. You felt a rush of embarrassed heat cross the bridge of your nose. He cleared his throat.
"Ahh, err, thanks. It's ... just pretty basic. My batter gets the job done."
He was just making it worse. With a sense of impending horror, you felt your nervous giggle coming on. It slipped out of you in a short, staccato burst and Taishiro looked up, surprised, before his own lips quirked upward in amusement. His belly started to shake slightly with repressed amusement. Seeing that contagious smile of his pushed you over the edge. Your shoulders began to heave and you leaned back in your chair and tried to breathe evenly as Taishiro's chuckles grew louder as well. Before long, you were both helpless with laughter.
Wiping your eyes on a nearby serviette you regard him with fondness. This sweetest of all men. He clears his throat and pushes aside his empty plate.
"You don't look so tired anymore. Did my pancakes liven you up?"
"Kind of. They've fooled my body into thinking it doesn't need sleep."
"Lucky tomorrow is a day off, then. The guys from Trackstar's agency will cover the regular shifts and call us in if anything goes wrong. Feel free to sleep in."
"I can't do that, Taishiro. I don't want to inconvenience you," you remind him, gently.
He looks disappointed for a second, before his beautiful countenance brightens once more.
"Hey, come to think of it, there's a farmer's market I wanted to check out on the city limits. Think you'd want to come along?"
"Oh? I'd love that! I haven't been to a farmer's market in ages."
"Then stay here a bit longer. We can just leave together tomorrow."
You don't miss the slightly pleading note in his voice. It softens you in ways that only he can achieve.
"Okay, sure. That's a good idea."
Face as excited as a child with a new toy at this news, Taishiro stands and collects your plate and his.
"Right, off to bed with you."
You hesitate, and he scratches his chin, as if having anticipated your question.
"I have a guest room, just down the hall. I made up the bed while you were in the bathroom."
"Oh, thanks. I'll... head off to bed then."
"Er, yeah. Have a good sleep!"
Hurriedly turning away from each other, you both head in opposite directions. The guest bedroom is smaller, but no less comfortable. You slowly crawl between the covers and realise that he'd thrown the fleece blanket he'd spoken about over the duvet. You take the warm material between your fingers and stroke it gently. A rush of uncontrolled feelings, of all the desire and affection you have for this man, comes flooding through you.
It is at that moment, of course, that a soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. You call for him to enter and he does, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in pleasure when he sees you tucked away, sitting comfortably under the covers. He places a glass of water on the bedside table.
"Just leaving this here in case you get thirsty. It gets cold up here at night. Wouldn't want you freezing your toes off in the kitchen."
He's about to leave, when you capture his large hand hesitantly in your own. He stills immediately, glancing down to where your fingers wrap around his.
"Thank you, Taishiro. For letting me stay here."
He remains like this for a minute, facing away from you, as if fully aware of just how much his expression would betray him. He raises your hand to his lips, slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of it.
"Anytime, sweetheart. You can come over ... whenever you feel like."
He doesn't, however, relinquish his grasp on you. You raise your other hand and trace your fingers with infinite softness over his larger knuckles, the surface scarred from old injuries and trauma. He shivers slightly under the contact and you close your eyes before placing that hand against your cheek.
These same palms that slammed a runaway vehicle to a dead stop last week. The same fists that punched a hole through a cement wall to get to the people trapped in a flooded basement. These same hands that protected from stray bullets, that ruffled the hair of his shy intern, that pushed extra sweets into your lunch box when you weren't looking. You had no adequate words for what he made you feel, for how his very presence tugged at some place deep inside of you, creating a void that could never be appeased until you were close to him.
Taishiro's unsteady breathing was loud in the small room, which had suddenly become unaccountably warmer. Before you could fully process what was happening, your body was being tugged gently, but firmly closer to his, your chin  being tilted up until his warm breath washed over you. You opened your eyes and felt a delicious, heavy heat settle in your abdomen when you saw how he wasn't bothering, in the slightest, to conceal how much he wanted you.
His gaze wandered languidly over your face, scorching where it travelled, and then he was leaning forward, mouth capturing yours, his sudden intake of breath echoed by yours. His kiss was like basking in afternoon sunshine, deliciously warm and comforting, hungry as he always was, eager and slightly clumsy. His hands were now on either side of your waist, just beneath your breasts, thumbs stroking dangerously upward. Your arms were coming up as he deepened the kiss, wrapping around his wide neck, fingers tangling in his soft, soft hair.
Taishiro pulled away, breathing hard, unconsciously licking his lips to retain some of your taste. His grip on your body tightened briefly, asking a tentative question, the answer to which pooled like molten honey down there, where you wanted to feel him most. You nodded wordlessly and your breath was briefly snatched away as he tugged at the duvet and looped one arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly out of the bed. The soft, intimate ache of desire in his voice, what had been lingering under the surface all evening, was now laid bare as he pressed his lips against your ear.
"C'mon angel. I'll get you real warm tonight."
Tumblr media
113 notes · View notes
angstydiaz · 1 year ago
Text
welcome to stages of intimacy with buddie
-dick measuring contest
-become best friends(+adopt child)
-near death experience 1
-divorce
-near death experience 2
-add him to your will
-have him get covered in your blood (you got shot)(near death 3)
-tell him about said will(he thinks hes expendable)
-get held hostage together
-tell him to move on (you are mentally unwell)(he persists)
-he died you know how long he is dead for down to the second
-gay poker date
-domestic marriage life (has been going on since stage two:best friends)
-see him more than he knows.(he is not doing well)
-gay sex coming soon
360 notes · View notes
mslanna · 6 months ago
Note
What about Raphael realizing that Tav thinks she means nothing to him? Maybe another fiend is getting wrecked by Raphael, so the other fiend grabs Tav to use as a living shield & hostage and is all "Unless you want this mortal to die, you'd best stay back!" only for Tav to give a sad laugh and tell the enemy fiend "You're an idiot if you think I mean that much to him." I just really want to see Raphael having an 'Oh 💩' moment regarding his feelings for his little mouse and how he had been handling (or failing to handle) it... 😅
enby Tav without body configuration Angst and anger happy end Read on AO3
Nobody's Fool
One good thing that came from the tadfools company to his little mouse was that by now, Tav did not suffer shitty father figures. Or mothers. Any kind of sub-par parent. They set Ulder Ravengard straight and got up in the face of any god trying to control their followers through bad parenting practices. Vlaakith was fighting her unruly daughter now and Mystra lost Gale to the plight of mortals. Even Shar was having troubles.
Lucky for him, that Raphael had a truly spectacularly bad father to show for. An irresistible cause for Tav. So instead of hobnobbing it out with the gentry of Baldur's Gate or kicking back at the wizards tower in Waterdeep, they were back. At his side this time, where they belonged. And they kicked ass.
A beautiful sight to watch his paladin – their oath might as well be to him at this point – throw themself into battle. Their armour – hand-picked by Raphael himself to reinforce their strengths and highlight their ferocious beauty – shone with reflecting light on the golden pattern and splatters of enemy blood.
It was almost enough to distract Raphael from his own role in the fight. He rained hellfire over the attaching devils. Some were not smart enough to realise the difference to normal fire which couldn't hurt them. They paid for their stupidity with their lives.
Ksula didn't like that but the devil also didn't care about the deaths of his underlings. While the devil had expected the parlay to be a trap, he did not anticipate how few people Raphael needed to take him down. Yurgir with a squad of cambions. Korrilla. And of course, Tav.
Tav did the work of a squad all by themself. The few opponents getting past them, close enough to be a danger to him, were easily picked off by Korrilla. And Yurigr wiped the floor with what was left of Ksula's forces. If the other devil was smart, which Raphael doubted, he would make a desperate dash for a last second deal any moment now.
Ksula did, but not in the way Raphael expected. Black smoke shot from his hands and materialised into sticky tentacles around Tav's armour. With a jerk, Ksula pulled the paladin towards him. Tav stumbled, not fast enough on their feet for the lighting speed. They crashed into the devil who immediately put his blade to their throat.
The helldusk armour only left a tiny weakness because the wearer needed to be able to turn their head. But Ksula knew about it and exactly where to apply to blade to pry the plates apart.
"If you want your mortal to live, you better surrender," Ksula grinned.
Raphael's blood turned to ice, churning through his veins and extinguishing all fire. His first instinct was to launch himself at Ksula and rip his throat out. An appropriate reaction, though endangering Tav's life. His eyes narrowed in on the blade sitting between the armour plates, teasing Tav's skin.
He shouldn't hesitate. His devil nature demanded action regardless of cost. Raphael looked at Tav and the cold in his veins froze solid. Tav was not a cost he was willing to pay. Tav was – not expendable. He growled under his breath.
Of course he was protective of his little mouse. They were an asset, a treasured former client. Loyal to a fault without contract or binding agreements. Of course he kept them close. Kept them safe. Still, If Ksula had Korrilla in his grasp, Raphael doubted he had hesitated.
The maelstrom of his thoughts came up with no feasible solution. Anything he could do endangered Tav. But if he yielded now, Ksula would retreat with the perfect shield. He'd never let Tav go again, the perfect – and only – safeguard against the cambion. Raphael glanced to Yurgir and Korrilla, both waiting for instructions.
He had none. The thought that harm befell Tav – irreversible, deadly – was unbearable. Raphael's body froze up in a panic unknown. He simply could not endanger his little mouse. At least Tav would live if he surrendered now. There would be a time to save them. Hopefully.
A drop of sweat mixed with enemy blood ran down the side of Tav's face. He would make everybody who dared touch them suffer for eternity. He'd scour the word, all realms and the nine hells for any who laid hand on his little mouse.
The force of the possessive rage surprised Raphael. At the same time, it conveniently covered the deeper roots of it. His blood ignited again, ready to strike. His little mouse would be safe. They were his and after this battle, they
It was Tav who broke the silence. An unexpected fit of laughter shook their body so hard, a thin line of blood seeped down the blade. "You're as stupid as you look," they got out between bouts of laughter. "You think that will stop him? Raphael? He doesn't care."
The words cut the cambion to the bone. But they also relaxed Ksula's grip on his mouse a little. A smart ploy. If Tav could convince the Ksula he did not care…
"Oh my, you really believe he cares!" Tav wheezed. "I'm a tool, Ksula. Well-kept, honed and treasured, but just a tool still." They looked at Raphael, their eyes dark with a sadness glowing deep in them. "I'm not even the one most difficult one to replace."
Their face fell into a wistful resignation and Tav went limp in the devil's grip. "It's alright. I always knew it'd end like this."
What was that supposed to mean? Anger flared up in Raphael. How dare they resign in the face of – well, in the face of what exactly?
… tell me, oh apple of my eye…
Words spoken to serenade Tav into a deal with him. Words used and put at the forefront. A perfect façade. When did it slip? At what point was it not a sweet lure any longer? Raphael frowned. This feeling was not new. He avoided putting a finger, or a name, on it. But the hot surge of anger, hate and desperation made it impossible to ignore.
His eyes softened as he looked at his little mouse. His little mouse. On a crusade against shitty parents for him. A flimsy disguise if he had ever seen one. But he had accepted it. If Tav needed an excuse, they should have it.
Their eyes showed that the excuse was now discarded on the floor. Only soft truth shone in their gaaze. A truth he would have to confirm as soon as they were alone. His lips tightened into a thin line. However he would get his mouse of this predicament, their reward would be truly infernal.
"Do I get last words?" Tav asked softly. They glanced at Ksula.
"Make it short." The devil forced Tav's head up with his blade.
Raphael wanted to cut his tongue out. For a start. There were many forms of torture and so far he had never applied all of them to the same individual. Ksula would be the first. His fingers trembled with the need to make a fist. But his best chance was to seem unaffected, just as Tav claimed he was.
How could they even claim that? Why would Tav believe such drivel? He had been generous with his gift, time and attention. They had a place in his House of Hope, at his side in all of his plans. A subject he'd have to breach vigorously.
Tav smiled at him. It wasn't really sad and they slowly raised their empty hand as if reaching for him. The hand changed course in the last moment and Tav cast their words with a soft sigh: "Temperari Monstrum."
61 notes · View notes
grand-theft-carbohydrates · 4 months ago
Text
-Bargain Bin Prince-
Lu Buwei was once a wealthy merchant who hailed from the kingdom of Wei. He made his living buying cheap and selling dear. One day, while on a business trip to Zhao, his fortunes took a change for the extraordinary.
He was taking his lunch at a wine house when he looked out into the street and saw a group of young noblemen playing a cruel and unusual game. They had bought some hot meat buns and were using them to tease a beggar—a painfully skinny youth whose clothes were so old and small his wrists stuck out a whole chi from their sleeves. First, they made him bark like a dog. Then they made him get on all fours and walk like one. After he had completed a few circuits, yipping and yapping, they finally made good on their promise and tossed a bun onto the ground. The young man pounced on it in a flash and shoved it into his mouth with both hands, nearly choking himself in his desperation to eat. 
Lu Buwei realised with surprise that the boy was wearing pure silk. The fabric had once been top-shelf stuff, though now it had become hopelessly threadbare and dirty. What he initially took to be a beggar was more than what met the eye. 
The merchant moved closer to the window. His wine had long grown cold. What began as morbid curiosity had been overtaken with eager fascination. His instincts were telling him that he was witnessing something important. 
As the group of nobles prepared to ride off, the boy scrambled to his feet and obediently took the reins of the leader's horse; it belonged to a handsome young man wearing an expensive coat fringed with brocade. As this strange group passed by the window, Lu Buwei heard the rider crack his whip and call down in a sickly sweet voice, "Do pick up the pace, A’Ren.” 
“Yes, Young Master,” the boy panted. His speech was refined, though his accent was rather hard to place.
Lu Buwei hailed a passing waiter and asked, “My good man, who was that gentleman in the fine brocade coat?” 
“Sir must be new ‘round here,” the man chuckled, “that’s the Duke’s eldest son, Young Master Zhao.” 
Heaven bless the gossipy wine sellers of the earth, Lu Buwei thought, “and who was the boy leading his horse? He doesn’t look like a servant.” 
A sneer crossed the man’s face. “Oh, him? No one important, just some minor Qin prince.”
"A prince?” 
“That’s right!” the waiter said gleefully, “you’d never guess from the looks of him. I tell you, he was real uppity when he first came here with his fancy airs and expensive clothes, but our Young Master Zhao’s been teaching him his manners. What an improvement that’s made! He’s proper regal now, ha ha!” 
“Remarkable,” Lu Buwei murmured, stroking his beard, “how very remarkable.” 
The merchant spent the next few days methodically panning the city of Handan for every nugget of information. The Qin prince was sixteen-year-old Ying Yiren, currently living as a political hostage in Zhao. Despite the deeply ironic name, which meant "extraordinary person," Yiren was only a concubine's whelp and barely worth the scraps he was fed. He had been the most expendable of his litter without being too lowly to offend his captors. That certainly explained why the duke's son could bully him so terribly. Like all currencies, princes depreciate rapidly in value when they’re over-minted, and the kings had a habit of pumping them out, two or three dozen at a time. They were not rare goods, so anything short of death or disfigurement was fair game.  
As Lu Buwei watched this pitiful, downtrodden creature, his heart became greatly moved—moved by the allure of profit, that is. He knew from experience that if he invested in wheat, he could earn back ten times as much profit. If he invested in pearls, he would make one hundredfold. Just imagine the returns he could get on a prince! 
Lu Buwei was a wealthy man with every worldly procession he could desire, but there was one thing money couldn't buy: respectability. Merchants were looked upon with the same warmth reserved for headlice and tapeworms. They were the most hated class of people, considered by many to be thieves in silk clothes, stringing their belts with other people’s hard work and contributing nothing of value themselves. 
Lu Buwei thought this was a simplistic but not unfair assessment of his work. It was true; he grew no wheat, spun no silk, and mined no jade, yet he could profit from all these things. He was self-aware enough to pity the muddy, sun-burned farmers who spat at the ground as he passed. Farmers were the lifeblood of every nation; they were born in filth and broke their backs keeping the country fed, yet he could earn ten times as much for each jin of their wheat without ever picking up a hoe. He'd envy himself, too, were their roles reversed. 
Yes, he could begrudge the farmer. But it rankled him to no end when it was the nobles who sneered at him from behind their sleeves. It got inside him, scratching and irritating like a grain of sand in an oyster. It felt unfair in a way that he could not quite explain. The only difference between himself and the average liege lord was that he had to work for his bronze, which made his money dirty, somehow—tainted by the sweat of his brow. Because he had started off as a faceless clerk in second-hand clothes, huddled together with a dozen coworkers, sharing the weak light of a single oil lamp as they copied tallies filled with goods they could never afford, this made him an unworthy pretender in their eyes. Working was both right and wrong; it seemed paradoxical. If he was up from sunrise to sundown, running around the city, balancing accounts and keeping abreast of the latest investments, it made him greedy. If he lounged about all day, reading poetry and taxing peasants at his leisure, it would make him respectable. 
Fair or not, it was heaven's mandate, and every mortal was made for their role. Lu Buwei had no interest in flipping the world upside down on a whim. He was no axe-wielding giant or muddy-handed goddess, just a simple little sparrow who wanted to line his nest with something comfortable before he got too old and grey to fly. 
Lu Buwei knocked on the doors of every associate in Handan and pooled together every favour that was owed him. This got him a meeting with Duke Zhao. The duke was not pleased to host so far beneath his station, but Lu Buwei had invited his most eloquent friends to speak for him; these were silver ingots, lacquerware and bolts of fine silk. In the presence of such esteemed company, the duke had no choice but to smile graciously and hold his nose. 
The trick to climbing the social ladder was to start near the bottom and work steadily upwards. Once Lu Buwei had Duke Zhao in his palm, he was able to secure an audience with the King. All of his eloquent friends were invited, of course. As Master Sun wrote in The Art of War, 'Make a noise in the East and attack in the West.' Lu Buwei pretended that he was here to rub shoulders with the nobility. His real goal was to get close to Ying Yiren. 
----------
[Lu Buwei befriends Ying Yiren. He convinces the Zhao King to let Ying Yiren stay at his house, ostensively as a live-in clerk. Lu Buwei tells Ying Yiren that he is extraordinary and deserves to be the next King of Qin. He plans on convincing the childless Queen to adopt Yiren as the heir apparent.]
The door opened in a haze of sandalwood incense, revealing a new set of clothes and a pink, freshly scrubbed Ying Yiren standing stiffly inside them. Lu Buwei eyed the prince critically. The extra layers gave him some much-needed bulk, but the best thing to be said about the boy at this stage was that he was not deformed or sickly. Fatten him up by five or six jin, double the amount of brocade, and he might eventually pass for stately.  
“My Prince, you look splendid!” Lu Buwei turned to the servants, “doesn’t he, girls?” 
“Oh, yes, My Prince!” they cried theatrically, “so handsome! So manly!” 
Ying Yiren turned crimson and tripped on the doorsill. “Sorry! Sorry!” It wasn’t clear who he was apologising to: the girls, Lu Buwei, or the door. 
Lu Buwei held back a sigh. He wanted someone malleable, but this was going too far! What happened to the stereotype of Qin men being war-loving brutes? How did he end up with this woolly little lamb? 
A dull gleam caught Lu Buwei’s eye. Ying Yiren was still wearing his old jade pendant, which clashed terribly with the new black silks. It was the same one he had fought for so fiercely two months ago in front of the king and his court. It had been a rare moment of genuine courage, and Lu Buwei would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to see the trinket that inspired such an outburst. 
“Was this the pendant that Young Master Zhao stole from you?” 
“Oh, you remember that?” Ying Yiren looked surprised, “I…Yes. It is.”
"How could I forget, My Prince? You conducted yourself so bravely that day. You should have seen the fear in their eyes!” Lu Buwei had been petrified of losing his nest egg before it hatched. Everyone else was probably worried the prince had contracted rabies and might start biting. 
“My mother—I mean, Concubine Yu, gave this to me," Ying Yiren started twisting the red string between his fingers. “It was the last present I received before I left Qin, to grant me protection and to hasten my safe return. I don't know how she managed to afford it--"
“It must truly be a peerless item!” Lu Buwei had no stomach for this saccharine outpouring, “may I see it?"
Ying Yiren hesitated, “of course, Sir.” 
Lu Buwei held the jade to the light and pretended to admire it. It was a genuine article, though that scarcely did it any favours. It was the cheapest grade of serpentine, with dull, muddy colours. One of the edges had been broken and clumsily fixed with flour paste, doubtless by the boy's own hand. 
Ying Yiren hovered anxiously by his side. He all but snatched the pendant from Lu Buwei's hands, cradling it protectively like it was some precious heirloom. 
"It has so much character!" Lu Buwei said heartily, which was not a lie. "Much more memorable than those common, gaudy baubles." 
"Yes! It is, isn't it?" Ying Yiren pointed excitedly to the two weak veins of blue running through it, "The brown represents the earth, and these blue lines are the two great Chang and Huang Rivers! Isn’t it auspicious?”
“How extraordinary!” The only extraordinary thing here was that jade seller’s outrageous pitch, spinning such a fantasy to convince an ignorant concubine that this second-rate rock was a rare and marvellous item. 
Lu Buwei brought forth the new jade pendant. It was much larger and thicker than that shabby embarrassment; the colour was such a pure snow-white that it seemed to glow faintly. 
Ying Yiren looked ecstatic to receive such a princely gift. Then he looked torn. "I…I cannot accept this, Mister Lu." 
"A prince needs to dress according to his station." 
"I know! But I can’t just throw this away! This jade may not be grand, but it’s a piece of A’niang’s heart. She worked so hard for it!” Ying Yiren’s bottom lip started to tremble, “she was always working so hard for me. She always believed in me, even when no one else did, but I was too untalented to get Father's attention.” 
Lu Buwei put on his most indulgent smile and coaxed, "My Prince, you have a noble heart, but the best way to honour your birth mother would be to fulfil your birthright rather than holding onto these material items. She would want to see you become a great man." 
Lu Buwei held out the jade again; this time, Ying Yiren nodded minutely in acceptance. The merchant deliberately humbled himself by kneeling before the young man like a servant and personally affixed the pendant onto his belt. Ying Yiren helped him to his feet and said with wide, teary eyes, "Sir, you are truly a virtuous and loyal subject. I swear I shall never forget your generosity." 
Lu Buwei muttered some humble platitudes and pretended to be awestruck. What pleased him most was not the promise of reward. It was the sight of Ying Yiren furtively tucking his A'niang's pendant inside his shirt, wincing a little when the cold stone touched his bare skin. This action was worth more than a hundred blood pacts or promissory slips. Lu Buwei didn't want a clever prince who had visionary ideas. He didn't want an ambitious prince who could soar high on his own merits. He wanted a sentimental one, blinded by gratitude, who held every scrap of kindness close to his breast. 
notes: Blue and green were refered to by the same name "qing" 青 during this time period.
Bronze money was strung onto the belt, so i replaced the phrase “lining his pocket” with it.
This story is about 80% conjecture. The historical records said that Lu Buwei befriended Ying Yiren because he was an "extraordinary person" and it occurred to me that there could be a satirical twist to it, because Yiren literally translates to "extraordinary person."
this is my favourite quote. It just sums up poor Yiren's entire life so well.
“How extraordinary!” The only extraordinary thing here was that jade seller’s outrageous pitch, spinning such a fantasy to convince an ignorant concubine that this second-rate rock was a rare and marvellous item. 
39 notes · View notes
ageingfangirl2 · 1 year ago
Text
You Could Do So Much Better Than Me! Buggy (OPLA)
Tumblr media
You are a princess from a small island kidnapped by Buggy and his crew. Little did Buggy know he'd kidnapped the wrong princess, and after time together he feels sorry for you and asks you to join his crew. Buggy x Reader (Female)
Your head was groggy, why couldn't you remember anything? Yes, you drank but never enough to blackout. You groan loudly and attempt to stretch your hands but hit something metallic. Your eyes dart open in fear, and you have to cover your eyes from the light because it makes your head hurt more.
'Finally, the princess wakes up,' an unfamiliar male voice chuckles.
A clown was crouched down in front of you, you scramble backwards but your back hits metal, 'WHY AM I IN A CAGE? WHERE AM I? WHO ARE YOU?'
The clown grins menacingly at your fear, 'I kidnapped you princess. You're on my ship, everyone calls me Buggy.'
You click your tongue as realisation dawns on you that you'd been kidnapped by a notorious pirate, 'Buggy The Genius Jester, I've seen your wanted posters. Why kidnap me?' you question, calming down a little.
Buggy's eyes sparkle when you use one of his other names, 'I'm glad you've heard of me, princess. It should be obvious why I kidnapped you. I've already sent a ransom demand to your family, royalty will pay a lot of berry.'
You can't help but laugh, 'now that's funny. Do you know nothing of lineage?'
Buggy frowns, 'why are you laughing? I kidnapped you, you should be scared.'
You try to control your laughter and wipe a stray tear away, 'you couldn't have picked anyone worse to kidnap. Everybody knows I'm, the throwaway, the expendable one. You should have taken my sister since she's next in line for the throne. I'm the spare to her heir.'
'QUIET!' Buggy growls and slams his gloved hands on the cage, 'they'll pay, otherwise, I'll have to send them body parts as an incentive.'
You bite your lip and roll your eyes, 'I bet the ransom money they don't do anything. You can slice and dice me, sell me, or even kill me and they won't bat an eyelid. I'm a realist Buggy.'
Buggy huffs, stands up and storms up the stairs leaving you locked in a cage in the depths of his ship. This wasn't your first kidnap attempt, but the first successful one. Buggy could be dangerous, and you didn't know how he'd react if he didn't get his way.
1 WEEK LATER
BUGGY
'You're going to want to see this captain,' Cabaji says, holding out a newspaper to me.
I snatch it from him and my heart sinks a little at the headline halfway through the paper not even considered major news 'ROYAL FAMILY DEVASTATED BY DEATH OF BELOVED PRINCESS - ASK FOR PRIVACY WHILE THEY GRIEVE'
'I kind of feel bad for them, doesn't even mention a kidnapping. Puts all the fault on her for being careless,' Cabaji sighs.
I wasn't annoyed that they didn't mention my excellent kidnapping or ransom demand, but I was angry they blamed their own daughter making them out to be a bumbling idiot while their older sister couldn't do anything wrong. I guess I better show this to y/n and decide what to do next.
I'd had the cage moved to my quarters to make y/n more comfortable, I wasn't a monster and they'd been the perfect hostage. Over the past week, we'd talked about a lot of things, especially my adventures since y/n had never left their island. They may have a fire and a yearning for something more than a title, and I maybe kind of wanted to help them because it was nice having someone else intelligent on the ship.
I enter my quarters and y/n looks up at me from inside the cage and waves, 'You're back quickly, it usually takes you half an hour to check things over.'
I hand them the paper between the bars, 'I might owe you than ransom money. Your family are assholes.'
y/n reads the article and snorts, 'I never asked to be royal Buggy. I hated the etiquette and the dresses, and don't even get me started on arranged marriages. I spent my days sparring and fighting with my tutors. I'm pretty good with a blade.'
Next thing I know they pull out a blade from behind their back and twirl it in their hand, 'Now where did you get that?' I ask, intrigued.
They smile, 'took it from one of your crew on my daily walk around the ship, no one even noticed me.'
I'd have to punish the crew member who let a princess steal one of their weapons, but an idea popped into my head and could benefit the pair of us, 'Join my crew. I'll turn you into a feared pirate and we'll destroy your family.'
Their eyes light up, 'sounds like fun Bugg--I mean captain.'
Hearing them call me captain had a nice ring to it. If they could fight and thief they'd fit in fine, and with their knowledge of royalty we could easily make a lot of money and boost our reputation. They insisted I'd chosen the wrong princess to kidnap, but it looked like I'd chosen the right one. With them by my side things would get a lot more interesting around here.
146 notes · View notes
senselessviolets · 4 months ago
Text
"don't wanna be alone."
Roman Roy x Original Character
Rated T (Angst/Feels, Drabble)
Word Count: 1.6k
AO3 Link
WARNINGS:
Cursing, canon typical humor, descriptions & themes involving PTSD/depression. Roman is kind of a dick.
Author's Notes:
Heavily inspired by "Calling U Back" by The Marías. I realized there was some unintentional overlap between this fic and the headcanons about being Rome's assistant that I made so shared universe I guess? /s
Tumblr media
Set during Caroline's Wedding in Italy at the end of season 3.
Summary: After a business trip in Turkey ended with her and her boss being held hostage, personal assistant Maxine Lee has some big questions to ask herself; why has he now gone cold on her? Will they be able to work through these unresolved feelings? And most important of all---is the paycheck really worth it?
I could feel two hazel beams searing into my back as I stood across the party from him. There was nothing that stated in the e-vite he forwarded me that I was to be his armpiece for Italy. And yet, Roman’s unshakeable gaze nearly had me feeling guilty or at the very least—unresolved. I knew jetsetting was going to be a part of the job and my brief stint in PR for the luxury fashion label ALMEN had gotten me well acquainted with travel of the sort. Instead of preparing statements for reporters about the brand’s upcoming collection for the spring-summer season; I was having to be a pincushion for the World’s Wealthiest Brat/Fuckboy.
It was a rather impromptu thing in the beginning. My father had gone to Wharton with Waystar’s CFO Karl Mueller and according to him; they “go way back.” Funny how Karl’s name had never once come up until his youngest daughter needed a cushy job in the city. All because someone (me) had to bite off a little more than they could chew. 
“It’s, uh, nice that you stuck around even after the whole Turkey…thing,” Cousin Greg emphasizes, using his hands.
The briefest mention of Turkey had my stomach doing flips. I didn’t speak to Roman for weeks after. Beyond the now bi-weekly video calls with my therapist; I became something of a recluse. I didn’t dare to leave my apartment. The meals I did remember to have were left at my doorstep. I convinced myself this leave of absence was helping me cope and all it was doing was prolonging the inevitable. Sooner or later, I was going to have to face him even though the last time he would’ve seen me, my face was hot and wet with tears. Tears I’d done everything to keep from spilling over.
There was just so much uncertainty at that moment. Being the lone female companion on that trip left me more vulnerable. In ways that Roman, Karl, or Laird weren’t or would ever think about. Beyond that, I was the most objectively expendable member of the group. I wasn’t a big-name banker like Laird, much less a high-level exec like Karl. If I were them, I would without a doubt choose me first to get thrown overboard if it came down to it. 
I wouldn’t fucking think twice about it, in fact.
But Roman, as powerless as even he was at that moment, did everything he could to assure me that wouldn’t be the case no matter what. He was sweet. Why’d he have to be so fucking sweet? There were a couple of nights I’d spent awake in bed, eyes trained on the dark ceiling above me asking myself that same question over and over again until I either drifted off to sleep or the ache in my heart dissipated. Usually, it was the first one.
“It’ll…um…no, d-don’t…don’t cry. Please. You’re gonna be okay, w-we’re gonna be okay actually. Yeah. I mean, w-we got Laird. He’s like a fucking behemoth. And I know he sorta…got pulled away but we do have Dave. Dude is jacked. Y’know Colin? My dad’s security? Dave’s that but not as scary. We’d be covered. We a-are covered. We got you, Max. I got…,” he assured, almost rhythmically, “...I’m gonna…make sure you stay okay, okay?”
Was it incredibly verbose and clumsy? Yes. 
Did it make me feel any better in that moment? Somewhat. 
It was something to hold onto when there wasn’t anything else; it was something. I remember feeling weak and sick. All these powerful men occupying various corners of this decadent hotel lobby and here I am; a little girl dabbing snot into her sweater sleeve like I was eight years old again, legs criss-crossed in the church pews during my mom’s funeral service. Being utterly alone had been the bane of my existence for some time. Not just simply being by myself as I actually preferred that a lot of the time. Some mindless Netflix binge and takeout was enough most nights. “Utterly alone” to me meant being nothing in the eyes of the people around you. An organism, a space-filler—being interminably interchangeable. Roman had done what he could to assure me I was the opposite at my most terrified.
Though I didn’t owe him anything and I was on his payroll and a result, had received the fruits of my labor—I felt innately that I was indebted to him. An entire year later I had still yet to rid myself of this feeling. There was a heaviness to it. It usually occupied any prolonged gaps of silence in between our conversations. It was tangible to me but I often wondered if it was for him too. 
I figured it was; otherwise, he might not be as much of a hellish prick as he had been to me lately. He’d spontaneously request revised versions of the business plans he’d drafted. Late into the night, he’d call me, harshly demanding I send over the revisions. At a certain point, I realized he wasn’t even checking to see if I had sent them or not. Like he just needed somebody to bitch out for the hell of it. I remember when I shrewdly accused him of doing so during one of his random calls, this one occurring around 2 AM.
“Do you even read my fucking notes? I feel like you don’t otherwise I wouldn’t be fuckin’ calling you at odd hours of the night to remind you to do your fuckin’ job.” he chastises, in a voice that’s made gravelly due to the phone and fatigue. 
I was calling from my bed, propped upright by some pillows with my bedside lamp turned on. Likewise, I could tell Roman was sprawled out on his mattress due to the shifting of the bedsheets the mic picked up. The sound of sleep was always palpable in his voice. 
“Well, if you bothered checking if I’d sent them over before calling to bitch me out for not sending them at all; it could save us both the fucking headache, yeah?”
“...lookit you, being all big-bad-bitch out of nowhere. Was wondering when I was gonna bring that outta you. I’m legit so proud of you right now, Max. Keep killing it, Kween!” Roman taunts, “Makes you wonder where this Max was when we were living it up in Turkey way back. Okay, okay, if you can admit right now that the only reason you were putting on the waterworks then was that you were weeping over the possibility of losing your meal ticket…I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”
What kind of twisted ultimatum was that? 
Unfortunately, my throat becomes too dry all of a sudden and I’m unable to question what possessed him to ask such a fucked up thing this late at night. Instead, I’m only able to bid him a choked-up farewell and hang up. 
“...I-I’ll send you my next round of revisions soon. I appreciate the follow-up call. Thank you, Roman. Have a good night.”
It wasn’t exactly a secret that Roman could be incredibly cruel with his words when presented with the opportunity to be. I’d had a litany of expletives hurled at me over the most minor of mistakes. That’s not even including the constant sexual innuendo but even he had the common sense not to push things too far with that. For all of his kindness; there was always an edge. Gestures of appreciation were undercut with sarcastic comments and name-calling. “Thank you” was most commonly followed by a well-timed “fuck you” or “fuck off” if he wanted to evoke his father’s bitterness.
  This was by all means the norm.
But that’s why Turkey had been so different. That’s why it had been sitting in my craw so strangely these twelve-odd months. Sure, he had been trying to keep things light-hearted and get a smile, better yet a laugh, out of me since things were so dire. However, there was no “edge” to be found. No rug to be pulled out from under me and him to snicker at. 
Cliche sure, but I could just feel the difference. 
I could feel him trying to make a genuine connection which I’d come to surmise was typically quite difficult for him. Then again that seemed to be the case with most who shared his status; especially his siblings. His little-spoken-of partner Tabitha was evidence of this failure to connect. As were his handful of Raya dates that ‘never panned out’. 
He was my boss. I was his first-ever assistant; meant to ‘help him acclimate to the increased levels of responsibility he hoped to gradually take on.’ At least that was how Ms. Kellman further described the position in my follow-up interview. While having Waystar’s General Legal Counsel conduct my second job interview was beyond intimidating, I was under the impression she was attempting to mentor him. Clearly, the two had history and that was none of my concern. Though I’d be lying if I’d said I hadn’t thought about asking her what his deal was. If he’d ever been the way he was at the hotel in Turkey to her. Maybe he had. 
Or maybe she wouldn’t know a serious, genuine Roman if he was looking her dead in the eyes. 
He was a confounding person who contradicted himself all too often. It made him impossible to decipher sometimes and intolerable to be around other times. And yet, I was stuck making the same mistake I suspected many individuals that came before me had too made; trying to make sense of this person named Roman Roy while at my core hoping that maybe he’d break through and be better. 
If not for me or his would-be-girlfriend or his deeply flawed family—at the very least for himself. Because regardless of all he’d said or all he’d done, it’s what he deserved.
End.
{ Feedback is always welcome! Let me know if you want to see a follow-up to this! <3 }
41 notes · View notes