#this was awful to even TRY to color so its not good :)

[notbecauseofvictories]

nosferatu is a beautiful movie, amazing choices by everyone involved---except the main actors. they were terrible.

#I know uta hagen won't be around for another thirty years or so but stanislavski was doing good stuff in the early 1900s! #where was that naturalism!! come on!!! #instead I believed everybody was exactly who they said they were except hutter ellen and orlok #(though some of the supporting cast were treading dangerous territory too....) #apart from that...I cannot stress how unexpectedly beautiful the movie was. really. #given that it's all in weirdly-colored frames and occasionally more impressionist painting than film-accurate #it is strangely and devastatingly effective. #some of its imagery lingers even now. for example: #there's a whole section where you're flickering between the increasingly-desperate demeter; jonathon riding hell for leather #trying to beat dracula to england; mina wasting away; and renfield growing increasingly agitated in his cell #it's important to know: these flickering images are wordless. they are silent. #they are also incredibly effective and beautiful. #every shot of the ship at sea was lovely. the crowd scenes were lovely! #the actors were awful. the end. #a proscenium for our dreams

[spamtoon]

i would take their poison

Sketch + Line Art for those Clicking Under the Cut(tm) (archival purposes honestly)

#moshi monsters #sweet tooth moshi monsters #experimentation i am COG AWFUL at digital dear goodness i was playing with coloring and transparency and all those fun digital doodads. #next time i probably wont have black outline or i'll do it differently. or i'll try well. not doing this. it sure was a process im #i'm an amateur everyone who masically only doodles. does the sketch look better than the final. kinda! but thats okay because im learning #and y'know what. sometimes in life you just need to draw faves no consequences #for how saturated a character they are i kinda feel like i pastelled things too muc and trapped myself with my convoluted layer setup but m #it was looking WEIRD with everything at full force #maybe the sparkles look dumb maybe the hair looks dumb and out of place and why i kinda made the lollipop a little funky too #uhh. first digital piece posted... ever? #the arm is SO fucky i am not that was. thats not what perspective is spam #yes this is what i spent a good chunk of today doing after i started working on coloring it and then. decided to go for it. #cooolrs a little inaccurate on the horns and such but man one of the biggest art things was like #i dont have to have everything at their perfect hex codes all the time. this would look way worse if i just. used their standard colors #yeah this is. instead of looking like its forward and to the right it kinda just looks like they have a Bigger hypno-lolly #especialy becase. i did not bother on the gloves and platforms i the sparkles work with 2 kinda sorta but you know #im practicing! i'm learning! i'll get better and learn how to do things more effectively! #anyway. sweet toof #though hey their arm looks even more fucked in the line art and sketch SO #note to future self have a Consistent Line Art Size so that if you feel like the line art looks like shit during coloring you dont have to #gamble on what size it was while changing it #sketch lollipop looks better i should have kept it small. but its fine. we'll get em next time boys (tm) #yes i know my gif post was so fancy and then the drawing is just THIS

[angelhound]

.

#i think i need to start a journal #life is terribly disappointing sometimes #its worse when it’s disappointing in the anticipation of events yet to come #there are events i can see in my future of which i feel are… lackluster so to speak #im not sure what to do about this. surely i can change fate but how much change will fate allow if im just being picky #i have a vision and i want it to be followed #the details of a thing are the most important part #i need them not to be overlooked but i cannot in fact. direct god like my life is a movie #i fear overlooking…. everyone overlooks the important parts…. thats why people dress so badly all the time even when they’re trying not to #it is about the smaller things. its about the exact color its about the material and the structure and the way it intermingles with #the structure color etc of everything else u are wearing plus the color of your body and the lines they all make together etc etc etc so on #people tell me all the time its unfair that i look good in everything and its because of this that i ‘do’ ish. i dont theres so much i look #awful in… i have seen it. but i agree w them what they see i always look Right in and im CONVINCED. That its because of details because #i can see why other peoples things are not working well even if its the ‘same’ thing. ex: black t shirts are not created equally and if u #choose wrong it looks wrong always. other people think theyre the same shirt but they ARENT. #anyways the point is i want my fate to be run with my analysis brain and i cannot curate it Enough #i am great at manifesting so idk maybe i can. but theres one thing coming i do not like the details of.. the overall Goal is the same but #the lighting is wrong the costumes are wrong its the same play but its wrong. i need everyone else to wear their fucking costume right #follow my vision or else. its literally in Everyones best interest that my vision be fulfilled the way i am seeing it #i would not be leading you astray the prophecy is for Everyone #im going to better specify what i want and make a vision board like a suburban mom at the crafting party #my vision requres not the control of others btw i can do it with or without cooperation the right people who wish to participate will fit #in place if they are aligned in their own vision yk? #however it does require the control of how i wish to experience my sequence of events #divine intervention is being haphazard about something i wish to experience in full #i am going to brainstorm choices i can make to better realize my necessary details #it is however hard for me to meditate lately but idk why. everything goes very quiet when i close my eyes i feel as if there is a dangerous #surprise party being planned in the undercurrents that i am not to be aware of. so to speak #trying my best to like it <:( i meant to type the angry face but thats more accurate i will grumpily wear my little party hat. if i have to.

[sweetiecutie]

Part five: strap on 🩷 Kinktober Masterlist 🩷

Pairing: Valeria Garza x fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, strap on, overstimulation, mommy kink, lesbians in love

- Aw, what’s the matter hermosa? Is it too much for you to take? - Valeria tutted at your squealing, her fingers gripping your thighs even harder, blunt nails leaving bright semi-circles on your skin. Her hips snapped hard against yours, 7 inch strap burying deep inside your raw pussy, silicone tip of was nudging your poor cervix, causing a small bulge to appear on your tummy.

- Can’t… Can’t take more mommy, - you whined, writhing in her tight grip. She’s been at it for hours, holding your legs opened wide, fucking you into a babbling senseless mess, wringing one orgasm out of you after another. Your whole body shook with intensity of pleasure, toes curling every time Valeria shoved all of her length in your sopping cunt, your juices covering her lower stomach, causing bronze skin glisten wetly.

- It’s up to me wether you can take more or not, - her stern voice boomed, dominant tone she uttered these words with made your cunny clench desperately around thick shaft, eyes rolling back into your skull as it grazed all the sweetest spots inside of you repeatedly. - Look at you, so pretty on mommy’s strap. You’ve been thinking about this whole day, haven’t you? Sending me those photos like a needy little bitch, just wanting me to destroy you completely.

You only managed to nod your head, too cockdrunk to form a coherent sentence. You did feel needy, thinking that sending Valeria a few nudes in that sexy new set you got recently was a good idea. Well, it worked all too well - her bending you over first flat surface in your house seconds after finally getting back home, nimble fingers scissoring your drooling pussy open before fucking her biggest strap inside of your greedy warmth, making you purr and squeal under your wife’s rough touch.

Valeria reached for your tits, grabbing a handful of soft pudge, cruel fingers twisting your nipple out, mixing slight pain into concoction of pleasure, turning your brain into thoughtless mush. Her other had was busy bullying your swollen clit, each swipe of calloused fingertip against exposed tip sent electric shocks running up and down your spine, setting your nerves alight. Your back arched off soft mattress, hands gripping onto now messy sheets, needing something to hold onto.

- Fuck, mami, gonna cum! Can I please cum? Please… - you wailed, a heavy feeling setting in the pit of your stomach, thick strap ramming in and out of you along with Valeria’s relentless abuse on your clit drew you closer to your orgasm. Your eyes watered with tears of pleasure as you gazed up at Garza, a smug smirk curled her lips as black eyes studied your every smallest feature intently.

- Yes, you can cum, - she said finally, her voice a bit breathy from exertion with which she was fucking you. And with that a dam broke - thick pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, subduing all the colors and sounds around, only leaving place for pure euphoria to ripple through your veins.

Valeria fucked you through your high, prolonging it as much as she could, trying to burn your precious expression in her brain, sexy sounds of your release made her heart beat faster with excitement. As you slowly came back to your senses a satisfied grin made its way onto your flushed face; you puckered out your lips indicating that you wanted a kiss, in which Valeria gladly indulged.

There really wasn’t anything else Valeria needed - all she has ever longed for was here, laying underneath her and giggling at her in post-coital giddiness, causing Garza’s cold soldier heart to skip a beat at intensity of her adoration for you.

But well, maybe pulling one more orgasm out of you would make Valeria even happier?

#valeria garza #valeria cod #valeria garza x reader #valeria garza x fem!reader #valeria garza x you #valeria garza x reader smut #valeria garza smut #valeria el sin nombre garza #el sin nombre #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty smut #cod mwf2 #cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod smut

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 10

part 1 | part 9 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

When they get to Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s mom is sitting on the couch, eyes unblinking as she watches the TV.

There’s just static on the screen.

“Steve?” she slurs when she finally realizes they’re there. Sways a little when she stands. There’s a dreamy quality to her voice, a blank look on her tired face: agreeable but distant, a smudge of campfire smoke curling far over the trees.

Double-dosed her pills again. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Stevie, baby, it was just awful.” She reaches out for him, and he wishes he could find comfort in the way she cups his elbows with delicate hands. Wishes he could lean into her touch and offer comfort in return, but her tone is so dull and mild that bile rises in his throat. Chemical calm bullshit, and Steve has had enough.

“Ma, just…” he sighs, shrugging her off. Scrubs a hand over his face. Too young and too old for this. “Just go home, okay?” The street is quiet again, all the neighbors tucked back in their houses now that the show has run its course. He doesn’t think anyone will notice her stumbling across the road. “Get some rest. I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Sure, baby.” He leads her to the door, and she turns there on the threshold, eyes glassy and unfocused; looks through him like he’s a ghost. Then her gaze shifts around the room — the hats, the mugs, the clutter; the lived-in explosion of color that Steve’s annoyed he likes so much — like she’s just seeing it all for the first time, and absently, she murmurs, “This place is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Mom.”

“Hmm?” she asks, but she’s already drifting out the door.

Steve’s face is on fire. He stands there for a moment, just staring dumbly out into the dark. What the hell is wrong with her??

Behind him, Eddie snorts. "Oh, she’s on the good shit, huh?”

Steve whips his head around. Eddie’s eyes are full of mirth, his dimple peeking out, and it startles a laugh out of Steve. He thinks maybe he’d take offense if he weren't so busy being mortified.

But also, like.

It is a little funny.

Or maybe it’s so unfunny that it circles back around.

“Jesus, man,” he huffs, “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why she…”

“S’fine,” Eddie says with a casual flick of his wrist. Seems like he means it. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, just sort of eyeing Steve up. Assessing. Running his tongue over his lips. They're big, for a guy's. “…You want a beer?”

“Fuck.” That sounds so nice. “Yeah. Please.”

“Have a seat.”

Steve takes the offer when Eddie nods at the couch, too tired to do the whole song and dance of ‘oh heavens no, I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Who’s got the energy for that?

The couch is old. His skull thuds against the un-cushioned back when he sinks down into it, but he’s too tired to care. Worn out as the lumpy springs under his ass, the frayed fabric beneath his arm. A wave of exhaustion rattles his bones, reverberates in his teeth. He thinks he could sleep for sixteen years.

Eddie clears his throat when he comes back with the beers, a sudden cautiousness about him as he hands Steve an unopened can like Steve might claw him in return.

"Sit down," Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna bite."

Eddie makes a strangled noise. The springs bounce as he plops onto the seat beside Steve, sitting sideways with one leg up on the couch between them, his arm resting on the back. "So, ah...." He gives a wavering chuckle; pulls a lock of hair across his face to hide himself. "Is this the part where I formally apologize for trying to knife you?"

Ugh. No the fuck it isn't. Steve’s too drained for it, absolutely at capacity for more serious shit this evening, thanks; and besides that, it was...

Whatever. It's old news.

Instead of giving a real answer he reaches into his pocket, snicks his own knife open and pretends to brandish it at Eddie, asking, "Eye for an eye?"

Eddie's eyes go huge. "Dude, what the fuck??"

"Just fucking with you," Steve laughs, lifting the can up to his mouth. "But there; now we're even. Shoulda seen your face."

“Ah—!” Eddie’s jaw drops in offense. “Ex-cuse you!”

God, of course he’s more dramatic than all the kids combined.

Steve jabs the knife into his beer, pops the top and starts to chug, throat working as he gulps the whole thing down in four big sips. It tastes like frothy, bitter piss, but it's cold and it soothes the scratch in his throat.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. "Well, goddamn, Harrington."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" "You're not?"

Steve grins and wipes his mouth.

—

They get drunk pretty fast (Eddie refused to be upstaged in his own house, so one shot-gunned beer became two became four), and somewhere along the line the conversations get weird; hilarious and dumb. Saying shit just to say it, chipping away at the ice wall between them with bare fingernails.

Eddie hollers some shit like: "What are you even talking about?" and his arms fling out wide, almost spilling his beer. "The deep sea is so much scarier than the mountains!"

"Are you joking?" Steve throws back. "The mountains have, like, giant cats and shit! Birds of prey with wingspans the size of your van."

"Yeah, and the deep sea has eldritch monsters that live in volcano vents and hunt with no eyes and eat their young for fun or whatever the fuck. You ever heard of an anglerfish? Or a phantom anglerfish? Tell me that shit isn't right out of a Lovecraft story."

"A what story?"

"How am I the one who hasn’t graduated yet?"

Then later:

“Dude, Batman? Seriously?”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective!”

“He’s a greasy little weirdo. You only like him because of your whole…” Steve gestures at his tattoos.

“Whatever, Spiderfan.”

And later still:

"Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill... Shit. Y’know this would really be easier in a town where so many people hadn’t died."

Steve grimaces at himself; expects Eddie to call him out. It’s too insensitive, too soon.

Eddie just cracks a grin and suggests, "Fuck, marry, revive?"

—

They talk for a long time. Eddie's kind of charming when he's not being a dick. A nice smile, deep laugh lines. Steve can almost see why the kids are so obsessed with him. He's never met someone so animated; feels like he's talking to a Saturday morning cartoon. The conversation mellows out after a while, and he doesn't realize he's dozed off until Eddie shakes him awake.

"Hey, man," he says, voice just above a whisper. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to crash on the couch, but, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, your back is probably gonna hate you for it."

Steve rubs his fists against his eyelids and blinks himself awake. Feels jittery and weird, yanked out of the start of a bad dream. When he looks up he sees that he’s got his shoes up on the couch; and there’s dried drool on his chin, and all at once he feels embarrassed, off-balance and panicked like he missed the last step down a steep flight of stairs. Of course he's overstayed his welcome. He's being fucking rude. "My bad," he mutters as he jumps up off the couch. Stands up way too fast, makes his vision tilt and swirl. "I'll get out of your hair."

Eddie reaches for his arm. "Dude,” he says, “you're fine. You can stay if you want.”

Steve moves out of his hold. “Nah, get some sleep; I’ll see ya around.”

Eddie frowns at him, a little furrow between his brows, and somehow Steve feels like he’s in the wrong, like Eddie isn’t the one who just kicked him out.

Like maybe Steve’s just running away for a second time in one night. Always back and away, this guy.

Who's the fucking coward now?

—

part 11

y'all know the drill, tagging whoever commented on yesterday's installment provided your tumblr settings let me <;3 @thealwithnoname @violetsteve @manda-panda-monium @stuftzombie @bronwenmarie @aliea82 @slowandsteddie @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @ahsokatanoss @steveshairspray @hallucinatedjosten @estrellami-1 @ppunkpuppyy @stevesbipanic @silver-snaffles @yourmom-isgay @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @zombiecreatures @im-a-disgrace-to-humanity @faery-god @hotluncheddie @runninriot @a-little-unsteddie @teatimeeverybody @newtstabber @pearynice @hellion-child @cuips-not-cute @steddieas-shegoes @steves-strapcollection @loguine-linguine @griefabyss69

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw: alcohol #tw: drinking

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

There's definitely a conversation to be had about the presentation of real historical figures in historical fiction, I think. As both a professional historian (PhD student 🤘🏾😔) and a man of color, I'm a bit more sensitive to this than a lot of people, and for me it always comes down to the question - what real harm is being done here?

And that's where I think OFMD does well enough for me to be comfortable. If you look at the fact that the show is based on real-life terrible people who did awful things and participated in the slave trade and you don't wanna fuck with the show, that's completely understandable, but I find it so much more palatable than (for the easy comparison) a piece of media like Black Sails (I actually like Black Sails, believe it or not, but there are a lot of things about how it treats many of these same figures that make me uncomfortable).

Now, yes, OFMD is hand-wavey with the slave trade in the Caribbean. None of our main characters own slaves or directly reference the slave trade (again, this is a romcom, I'd be shocked if they did). For me, this works alright for two big reasons. First, there are things that I think you can include in a romcom and have it still be a romcom, and a thoughtful, respectful depiction of the slave trade would take the show firmly out of romcom territory. Second, the show doesn't pretend racism doesn't exist, it treats its characters of color as three-dimensional people, and we always get the last laugh when racism is depicted. The very first episode sets the scene by having racist English Navy officers demean and call a Black character "slave" and they immediately get their asses kicked for it. Compare this to a show like Black Sails, where one of my main criticisms is how we're expected to sympathize with characters who actively participate in the slave trade and own slaves.

My other thing here is the people OFMD is working with are both heavily mythologized and not treated with any degree of historical accuracy. Many of our characters who are famous pirate names you might know are nothing like their real-world counterparts (take pirate queen Zheng Yi Sao, who wasn't even born yet when the show takes place). We know so little about any of the real people, anyway, that OFMD doesn't even bother trying to get anything right.

Like I said, I'm a professional historian and I love working with the golden age of piracy. That's a big reason I was drawn to this show in the first place! And if there's one thing I know, it's that pirates have been made into legends. We know very little about the real people, and in pop culture they're just myths.

The characters in OFMD are basically fictional characters working with the loose mythology based around the real people.

Now, back to my big thesis here: are the real, awful people benefitting in any way from OFMD taking these characters and making them into the good guys? Realistically, no, I'd argue. Most people with any critical thinking skills know that real pirates were not good people. Many people think Blackbeard is a made-up generic pirate character as it is. I've been to the real-life Stede Bonnet's grave site (NOT for the show, this was years before it aired and I was visiting the archives there to see the trial documents for a research project), and the historic marker there says he was "brought to justice." No one is wataching this show and thinking "oh those real guys must have been pretty great dudes!" because it's not about those real people.

This show isn't trying to change your perception of the real people, it's showing you fictional characters with the same names. One of our characters is runnig around in crocs, this show isn't trying to teach you about history or the real people and it's obvious.

If you're put off by the premise, I get it! But I just don't buy the idea that OFMD is putting anything harmful into the world just by existing.

#ofmd #our flag means death

[kedsandtubesocks]

give you something to dream about

joel miller x f!reader

summary: It’s game night at the bar and you stumble upon the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, no outbreak AU, Joel has both of his daughters, ‘strangers at a bar and maybe something more’ scenario with eventual husband!Joel, mentions of drinking, spicy making out session, Joel gets a bit handsy, gendered language / reader is addressed as “baby” & “darlin” light football discussions and terminology, lovesick and possessive!Joel

word count: 4k

a/n: this is my love letter to Joel, his love for football and maybe my own love for Texas football as well lol. To have this as my first fic of the new year and for it being for Joel means so much. To come back and write for the Pedro fandom is special and means so much. Big thank you to my babe @ahauntedcowboy for letting me scream my sports girl head off about this, and for @lowlights for giving me guidance when I needed it. And lastly - thank you for reading, you are what truly makes this so incredibly special and wonderful

A mixture of bright neon and low soft white lights bathe the bar in a cozy ambient glow. The music is barely audible, a sort of after thought. Instead commotion and the ramble of sports announcers fills the room.

You manage to squeeze through the sea of onlookers dressed in burnt orange. Maria thankfully stays close to you. Now at the bar counter relief floods you as you lean against it.

“Order me a beer, I’m gonna find our table.” Maria yells over the liveliness swirling around.

You give her a thumbs up and thankfully don’t have to wait for the bartender long.

“Like your shirt!”

The bartender’s voice catches you instantly. Bright and direct you blink towards him. He’s cute, young, maybe a grad student from UT Austin who works here.

You can’t help but glance down at what you’re wearing.

Even under your jacket the shirt is comfortably a bit larger on you. The main focus is the old cartoon type logo of Bevo, the Texas Longhorn's mascot. The burnt orange coloring is faded adding to its weathered look.

A warmth flutters through you from just seeing it.

“It’s vintage, cool as hell.” The bartender continues admiring.

“Thanks. Uh, a friend of mine gave it to me.” Thankfully the bartender nods understandingly and doesn’t press the topic more. Instead he soon asks what you’ll be having.

You order Maria’s beer and a drink for yourself.

“So, you a big Texas fan? Well okay, I mean…you gotta be if you’re here.” The bartender, grabbing a drink glass, starts up another conversation with you as his tone becomes playful.

“A lot of people I know and love are. So by default I am too.” You admit with a sleepy grin.

“Aw,” his face melts. “Now that’s sweet. Well glad to have you here cheering for Texas.”

The bartender now even winks at you. You politely laugh but then, the bar erupts silencing the conversation.

Excited yells come so loud you jump out of your skin. Quickly you turn around to view the many tvs and projectors showing the game.

From what you can tell the Texas defense managed to take down the quarterback. You even watch the replay to see what the fuss is about. It was a good tackle and the play kept the other team’s quarterback from even advancing.

The game has you memorized now. You watch as the burnt orange and white uniforms of the players scramble like chaotic ants now trying to rush after the ball was kicked, no, punted to them.

Your lips twitch. You never would’ve thought you knew this much football terminology or could at least follow the game. Yet here you are.

The bartender clears his throat and embarrassingly fast you turn back around.

Not two but three drinks sit before you on the bar counter.

One happens to be a surprise shot that makes your eyes go wide.

“Uh, so the guy at the end of the bar sent it your way.” The bartender explains lowly, trying to be discreet about it.

Your eyes instead whip up to search for the mystery man. Then your heart sprouts wings when you discover him.

Leaning against the bar rail at the very opposed end of where you are, the man seems like something out of a romance novel’s dream.

Ruggedly handsome, his distinguished aged face and striking nose glow against the mixture of neon and dim lighting. It highlights the grays in his beard and gorgeous dark hair. His chocolate eyes bore into you as if you’re the only one in this bar.

His attention on you alone has your knees weak and you wonder maybe you suddenly turned into jello.

Your mystery man lifts his beer up to you, a silent ‘cheers’ and then takes a sip.

Just watching him take a swig of his beer has you dizzy. So you readily snatch up the shot, toast it back to him and down it.

The alcohol burns, but you’re surprised it’s your favorite liquor of choice. You can’t help but cough up wildly and the bartender snickers at your reaction. It’s been too long since you’ve had a shot and you’re thankful to chase the stinging sensation down with your mixed drink.

“Hey!” Maria’s voice calls out and her bright smile greets you as she slides through the packed crowd.

“Hope you didn’t think I forgot about you.” She laughs warmly. She grabs her beer and slides a tip to the bartender.

But then her eyes notice the empty glass.

“Oh? You took a shot without me?” She teases.

You tell her someone bought it for you and her eyebrows fly up fast in eager surprise.

“Oh?” Even her tone is warmly excited. “You get a good look at who your mystery shot buyer is?”

You turn your attention towards the end of the bar, right where he should be. Except your mystery man has vanished.

A bit of disappointment trickles in.

“I did, but guess he took off.” You tell Maria a bit low.

“Well, his loss then. Come on! Let’s head back to our table-”

“S’cuse me…”

A smooth deep and accented drawl, direct and firm enough cuts through the commotion politely cutting in on Maria.

Just as fast, there’s suddenly a deep warmth behind your back. The presence is broad, warm, and smells of the beautiful hint of a sandalwood cologne.

“If you don’t mind, I think I might steal this pretty gem for myself.” The accent seems thicker now and melts off his voice like sin.

He’s talking about you.

Maria smiles wildly entertained while her eyes flicker between you and your mystery man.

Silently you stare back and with pleading eyes you mentally communicate that yes you want to stay, yes it’s okay for her to head back.

“Alrighty then, see you two later.” She says grabbing her beer and gives you one last amused look before heading back to the table.

Your heart races so loud in your ears you don’t even notice the upset yells at a bad call given by the refs.

“…Howdy…”

The voice purrs, absolutely dances against the noise of the bar and beckons to you, your personal siren’s song.

Turning around the shadow of the mystery man falls over you. He stares down with those obsidian pool eyes as his lips turn into a boyish grin.

“I’m Joel. S’nice to meet you.”

You think about all the songs that sing about Texas beauty and how they all must have actually been speaking of this man.

Joel extends his hand out to you and the simple pure southern gentleman introduction has excitement bubbling in you like you’re a champagne bottle about to pop.

Your lips fight back a disbelieved smile as you introduce yourself and shake his hand.

It’s larger than yours, warm and beautifully callous that speaks of hard work. Joel leans closer to you and you can’t help but slide more towards him as well.

“I like your shirt.” His fingers playfully tugs at the bottom edge of your shirt.

“Thanks,” you take a sip of your drink to gain more courage. “A friend of mine let me wear it.”

Joel laughs. It’s warm, touches his face and sounds like it settles in his chest.

“A friend huh?” His voice grows even more amused.

You simply hum a nod as you take another sip of your drink. Your body hums with so many wonderful emotions like a jenga tower trying to hold onto its form on a moving table.

“That friend of yours a boyfriend?” Joel asks, a dark drawl sticky as molasses and trapping you to him.

You can’t help but shake your head no. The taste of your drink momentarily settles you.

“Pretty thing like you single? Ain’t that a shame.” Joel comments with a low rumble and all the ease you had gathered floats away.

Your eyes flicker back to Joel. But your focus goes between his stunning eyes and his lips. You don’t miss the way his eyes gloss over, become hooded with a hazy desire. How much it intensifies his gorgeous features makes your stomach flutter.

The game must have quieted down or maybe you’re just this focused on this man.

He moves to whisper in your ear.

“So…Wanna find a nice quiet spot to chat? Get to know each other better?” His lips softly graze your ear and an electric current runs up your spine.

“Yeah.” You mutter back now tipsy off Joel’s presence.

The moment you agree, Joel’s hand slips towards your waist and draws you to his side. He quickly slams down plenty of bills on the counter to cover for the drinks and tip. Your poor drink and his are forgotten.

Now Joel shifts into a man focused.

Squaring up his shoulders, he stands taller as he takes the lead. His broad shoulders become a guiding force, keeping you close to him. His hand intertwines with yours while he navigates you among the crowds.

His larger hand suddenly squeezes yours, a reassuring pressure that draws you closer to him. Moving through the tables against the crowds, you arrive at the outdoor patio where the early night air clears your mind.

Joel continues guiding you to a smaller area where the bathrooms are outside by the patio. You stand before the family restroom that holds the sweet title of “cowpokes” on it. Opening the door, Joel leads you inside. You take in the slightly larger yet still small rustic bathroom that glows under the murky amber light.

The door locks behind you and you turn around to find Joel staring you down with hunger brewing in his smokey eyes.

That’s all you can focus on before you get caught up in a dizzying whirlwind.

Hastily Joel rushes forward to pin you against the wall. His body firm and large presses so deliciously against you. Before your eyes can even soak in the close sight of him, he sweeps in and kiss you with a ravenous fierceness that steals your breath.

He quickly consumes you.

Joel faintly tastes of beer and something intoxicatingly uniquely him. While his hand moves to hold your face, his tongue licks into your mouth, diving in, almost trying to get drunk off you. You can’t help but draw him closer to you as much as you can. You want your nails to dig into him the same way he’s burning under your skin and seeping into your core

His hips begin to grind against you with an eased pace and you moan into his mouth. You want more, need more.

“Oh baby.” Joel groans out and sounds like sticky delicious sin.

Suddenly the loudest cheers leak into the bathroom.

So fierce in their excitement it echos into the room and freezes you and Joel immediately.

He sighs against your lips.

“We must‘ve scored.” Joel mutters.

“Are you upset you didn’t see it?” You ask gently and kiss his lips soft as the heat begins to settle.

“Nah. I’m aimin’ to score here myself.” He grins and the line has you laughing. Your face goes to rest against his as you continue to snicker. The prickle of his beard gently scratching against your skin feels wonderful.

“Darlin’ you’re killin’ me. I wanted to sound slick.” Joel sighs again, sounding deflated now.

“You did...sort of.” You smile.

“Forgive me,” He smirks and turns to press another soft kiss against your lips. “Been outta practice for a while.”

“You aren’t too bad, cowboy. You managed to get me in here.” You hum amused while your fingers run against his jaw, through his scruffy wonderful beard.

Joel chuckles and it dances within his chest, resonating through him.

“You’re the only one I want in here.” He mutters.

You and him share a few more soft slow eased kisses that are rushed, almost shy now.

With one last kiss, a deeply melting one that now makes you ache to keep him here, Joel pulls away. You hold yourself back from pouting.

But, you’re now rewarded with the sight of Joel fully before you. The dim amber light paints him like something pulled from a sunset dream, an aged handsome man so sweet with his furrowed concentrated eyes.

You watch Joel pat around his jean pockets and suddenly your eyes go wide.

“Joel Miller if you lost them-”

“Calm down!” He huffs cutting you off while he rapidly digs into his deep jeans pocket. He yanks something out in his grasp.

He smoothly slides closer back to you and holds out his palm where two wedding rings sit waiting.

His and yours.

Your heart melts out of your chest seeing them and your ring finger itches for its missing piece. You grab Joel’s ring, leaving him yours and move to slide his back onto his hand.

In the same manner, Joel slides your wedding band back onto its rightful place. The memory of when you did this at your actual wedding faintly flutters in and settles warm in your heart’s chamber.

Joel draws your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

This man, your husband - you yank him towards you again to kiss him.

It’s a kiss that’s like coming home, of sweetness and cultivated bliss reuniting together again.

“Wanna see that bartender try flirtin’ with ya now with that ring on your finger.” Your grumpy husband grumbles adorably.

You bark a laugh. “Oh please, he was being nice for the tip and you know it.”

“Uh huh.” Joel dryly huffs as he stares at you unamused.

“Hey he was nice. He even liked my shirt.” You reply back.

“My shirt.” Joel clarifies strongly. “That’s my shirt.”

You roll your eyes playful.

He is right though. The shirt is his. Your husband is a superstitious football fan. And ever since you wore his shirt and Texas won, Joel used his beautiful brown eyes as weapons to get you to wear his shirt every game since then.

“Come on, curious to see what the score is.” With one last sweet kiss, Joel leads you back out into the evening air.

Hand in hand with him, you find your way to Tommy and Maria. Both of them brighten up at the sight of you and Joel.

“Hey! Look at that! You’re a married man again!” Tommy cries happily and you laugh. Joel, after sliding your chair in for you, rolls his eyes now while you and Maria snicker to each other.

“Bet it was fun while it lasted.” Maria grins.

“Eh.” You shrug but the truth tugs at your lips amused.

A few nights ago, when you and Joel had come up with this idea of going to the bar without the rings, pretending to not know each other, you worried for a split moment that you’d enjoy the freedom.

You worried you would realize how much you missed and enjoyed the playful banter, the flirting and pull that comes with being single. But instead you simply found your way back to Joel.

The excitement of seeing him, of having that same sensation rush through you like it did when you first met him, was nostalgically addictive for a moment.

However, you instead soak in the comfort of sitting beside Joel because it feels like coming home. While being single for another moment again was fun, you want to find Joel in every lifetime, find him as your husband in every universe.

The bar suddenly breaks into wild excitement. Joel as well cheers so loud. You turn to the game and find Texas intercepted a pass.

Now you go to check your phone and find both your daughters thankfully are doing fine. Sarah even sent you a photo text of her and Ellie at the classmate’s birthday party they’re both at. There’s a lightness that settles into your bones seeing them and having their father, your husband, beside you.

Joel and Tommy, as if they’re ESPN announcers in deep analysis, dive back into how Texas needs to sharpen up their offensive line. It’s adorable. It makes you fall in love even more with him.

Maria goes to ask Tommy something about the game and Joel leans towards you.

“You happy to be married again?” His voice drops soft and low. You catch the hint of true curiosity and almost hesitation residing under his tone.

“Of course. It’s my luckiest day all over again.” You truthfully tell him with a warm grin.

“Yeah?” He mutters tenderly as his eyes flicker to your lips again. “Make sure you share some of that luck with the team alright?”

You playfully nudge his arm and Joel smirks. You love him like this, light and teasing.

Joel drops a kiss to the side of your head.

“Don’t worry baby, this is my lucky day too. Goin’ home with the most gorgeous person here and I’m married to her.”

You could say the same thing. You’re leaving with the most handsome man and knowing you’re married to him? You feel honored, proud, and grateful.

Even when he starts yelling at the quarterback as if the poor guy can hear him.

“I could throw a better pass than that!” He argues upset.

You’re not as big of a fan as Joel, but Texas holds a place in your heart forever. It intertwined you and him in its own unique way.

Back when you were dating Joel patiently explained the game, so gently spoke to you without any judgment when you asked questions you were sure would make any other seasoned fan mock you or get annoyed. But not your Joel.

The first big moment you met Ellie and Sarah it was over at his place during a Texas game.

You experienced how wildly invested Ellie got, just like Joel, and how amused Sarah got seeing her dad and sister scream at the tv. From that point - all the days, the games, laughs and moments cultivated into a path that has led you to this moment, to this bar.

And now, here you are.

You love Joel’s love for the game, for the sport. You love how it’s connected you to him.

“Honey, you okay?” The voice of your husband pulls you from your thoughts, like a call home.

You turn to find Joel intently looking at you, your sweetheart provider. You can’t help but grin and nod.

“Yup, just thinking about the handsome stranger I met earlier. Hope he asks for my number.” You tell him.

Joel breaks into a chuckle that touches his earth eyes.

“Between you and me, he’d be a fool if he didn’t.” His hand now slides to yours, his thumb even begins to twist and fiddle with your wedding ring, a sweet habit of his.

You snort amused at how effortlessly he can play along with you.

Before you can tease him again or even wander back into your thoughts, the crowd roars to life with shouts. All eyes including yours snap to the game.

Texas just intercepted the ball and the play breathes life into the bar, into your husband who claps loud and proud.

It’s a great energy to see the end of the second quarter and the start of the halftime.

Suddenly, Joel’s hand begins softly trailing against your thigh. Warm and almost eased, the slow movement ignites a blooming desire in your chest.

Joel easily laughs with Tommy about the game. His eyes stay on his brother. Yet Joel’s hand slides now confidently deeper into the inside of your thigh. Your throat tightens and heat now begins to soak between your thighs, almost daring him to touch you.

Then a collection of happy cheers burst in the bar and steals all the attention.

All the tables nearby including yours turn to find a group of ladies. One of them currently grabs the cowboy hat off a taller man who grins so warmly down at her. She laughs loudly after doing what had to have been a wild shot.

The guy orders her, and her friends, another round causing them to squeal loud and excited again. Maria leans back to talk to Tommy and so you too lean closer to your own husband.

“Maybe I should pretend to be single again.” You tell Joel. “To see if I’ll get free shots and attention like that.”

Not that you’d want any of that. You just enjoy teasing your sweet grumpy husband from time to time.

“Nope.” Joel says with an unwavering sharpness. “You ain’t going anywhere without that ring Mrs. Miller.”

His words are rather light, almost playful, but you catch the underlying possessive simmering. It ignites an even stronger warmth beneath your skin.

“And who says you don’t get free shots? I’ll buy you as many as ya want.” Joel adds and his clipped almost ruffled voice has you laughing.

But as you settle, your thoughts wander. The smell of Joel so close, the mixture of his faint cologne and the detergent you use to wash his clothes, brings back the sensation of having that smell surround you when you were in the restroom with him.

It makes you ache.

Your hand now softly wanders to rub his warm broad chest. A low rumble comes from him, an awareness of your presence as you drape against him now. Maria and Tommy thankfully have begun to make fast friends with the couple sitting beside your table.

Your face leans to rest against Joel’s and the slick honey like desire you felt earlier creeps over you once more. It urges you to be bold.

“Wanna go mess around before halftime is over?” You offer soft and low, only for his ears.

Joel peers over to you, his eyes now smoldering coals.

“You wanna?” He mutters back.

Your answer comes as a soft kiss you place against his cheek. However, your hand now begins to slide up his thigh just like he did to you earlier.

Joel loudly clears his throat and sits up fast which untangles you from him. Immediately he yanks out his wallet to slam his card on the table.

Tommy and Maria now blink back at the sudden action.

“Order anything y'all want. We gotta grab somethin’ from the truck.” Joel lies effortlessly.

But Maria knows as she grins knowingly while embarrassment instead rises in you.

And apparently her husband isn’t as easily fooled either.

“Yeah yeah! Get outta here ya horn dogs!”

Joel barks a sharp ‘hey!’ at his younger brother’s crudeness while you can only laugh against him. Tommy simply makes obnoxious kissy faces while Maria snickers besides him. Unable to endure anymore teasing Joel playfully calls Tommy a piece of shit and with that you wave a quick and thankful to Tommy and Maria.

Joel once again leads the way to the entrance.

The two of you now stay stuck together closer than earlier. An almost giddy frenzy now keeps you both hyper aware of the other. His hands keep you so firmly close to him.

The giddiness you had earlier while pretending to be single with Joel is nothing compared to this. This feeling swirling in you comes from knowing you get to sneak away with your husband. It has you floating, only tied to this world by Joel keeping you steady and protected.

Around you, small chatter about the game hangs in the air.

Texas might not win. But as you slide closer to Joel, a unique shade of triumph washes over you.

Your good man, your wonderful husband.

He is your victory and champion.

Your victory lap and your welcome home party all at once.

And when he kisses you wildly against the side of his truck…you think he might also be your sneaky devilish opponent as his hand already starts to slip under your, no his shirt.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#I blame my heartbreak over Texas and Pedro losing but it’s okay cause I got inspired LOL #thank you to anyone who reads this I love you #Joel 🤎 #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader

[angelltheninth]

The Stuff of Wet Nightmares

Pairing: Male!Sleep Paralysis Demon x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, fear play, dirty talk, cunnilingus, whimpering, dream sex, biting, clit stimulation

Word count: 1.6k

Ao3

A/N: Recently heard of a book that had a sleep paralysis demon in it. Apparently it's pretty hot but I haven't read it yet. Hopefully I will once I get through Learn My Lesson. Anyway this is, a very late, next part of my Monster Week.

The first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes was that, yes you were still in your room. It was still nighttime judging from the sliver of moonlight coming from your window. But something wasn't right. Try as you might you couldn't move a muscle.

You opened your mouth to try to curse but no sound would come out. You were completely paralyzed. In your mind you trashed and kicked, but it wasn't translating to your body at all.

"You really should stop trying that. It makes the experience worse for us both." The scratchy, deep voice sounded from somewhere in the room. Your eyes frantically searched for its source. "Up here sweet dreamer."

You manage to shift your gaze upwards to the corner of the bedroom door. There you see a pair of piercing ice blue eyes, in even darker colors of blue, staring at you. You can't make out anything else as the eyes move down the wall in unnatural way, almost gliding.

"Forgive the intrusion on my part." The entity smiles as it straightens up, towering over you even at the distance. You're able to see sharp rows of pointy teeth, it too a glowing blue color, both its eyes and its mouth seem to give out a faint blue shimmer. "Your dreams smelled so sweet, I just couldn't stay away." It crept closer, the form shrinking and shifting, almost shadow like from what you could see, "Oh, are you scared? Hm, how about I take a form more familiar to you?"

It smirked, eyes narrowing then widening as it took a male bodied shape and tone of voice. The blue eyes and teeth stayed but there was also a shadowy strand of hair falling over its left eye, almost entirely obscuring it. And while the body was muscular you could still make out little wisps of light dancing across it like firelights.

"Better now dreamer?" He tilted his head and walked close, aware of the nakedness of himself and your eyes taking him in. "What troubles you tonight. Let me take a look."

His hand, smooth, warm and almost tickling you, pressed against your cheek.

"Oh dear. That's an awful lot of stress for just one person. No wonder you've been having trouble sleeping lately. Perhaps I can do something about it. You humans are a complicated yet simple bunch, I've learned many things about your kind over the years. Such as..." In a moment he was above you, on top of you, grabbing your chin and making eye contact with you. His knee pressed between your legs, lightly massaging the aching spot, "how to best make you come."

Once again you tried to speak but to no avail. The pressure felt good, but you didn't know this... demon, you had no idea of his true goals. It scared and aroused you at the same time. His hands, a little big on your hips still, took hold and moved you against his leg.

"How long has it been since someone touched you like this?" He questioned against your skin, his long, forked tongue licking down your neck. It too was a shade of blue, a little lighter than the interior of his mouth. "Haven't you been a good girl? Haven't you earned your release?"

Heat pooled between your legs fast, building up until it crashed over you like an avalanche as you came with a soundless cry. For a moment you thought you'd closed your eyes again, when actually that was just your mind trying to come back to you.

He smiled above you, his hands smoothing under your shirt and hiking it up. He licked downward, between and around your breasts, biting the right underboob, making you shiver at the sharpness of his teeth and the knowledge that he could rip you apart if he wanted to. But he didn't, that wasn't his goal. His goal was between your legs. Your panties were slid off and left barely hanging at the foot of the bed.

"You smell even sweeter when aroused." The long tongue flicked between your lower lips, smooth and hot, sending a jolt of arousal through your still body. "Taste even better." He dove in with his mouth and tongue, licking between, around and inside you. This time you found that you could whimper, but only barely, resulting in him smiling against you, "Does it feel good? Tell me, I'll allow it."

A high and choked "Yes." left your lips before you went right back to making those lewd sounds that he seemed to thrive on.

"I'm glad." He made eye contact with you as he licked a long path from your pussyhole to your clit, tapping against it with his forked tongue. "You taste better than dreams. You might be my new sustenance. A win-win."

He lifted from between your legs, your juices dripping down his chin. His hand went between his legs and fisted around his cock. You don't know how you were able to miss it until now, it wasn't small by any means.

"I can shift it. For any shape that suits your needs. So how do you want me? Do you want me?" His eyes found yours, searching for an answer as he slid his hand up and down the hard appendage. You moaned as you saw it shift in the perfect shape and girth for your pussy. "This one?" He circled the tip on your clit, his hips barely moving.

"Yes. I want." Were all the words you were able to speak out, that he needed to hear before you felt the head of his dick on your entrance. He gave it a few experimental thrusts, pushing forward more with every roll of his hips.

"Oh yes." He moaned, deep and breathless as he bottomed out, "Much better than a dream. You take me perfectly my sweet. Your body is responding so well to me. This cock is just what you needed isn't it? Fucking you deep, filling up your empty hole like no other."

You wanted to nod, to moan, to ask him for his name, to shake your hips into his. But all you could do was lie still as he moved back and forth above you, his hips pressing against yours, his face close to yours, your breath mixing together before he kissed you.

The kiss further muffled your moans as his pace increased, his hands grabbing hold of your hips, his nails leaving pink scratch marks on your skin as he started to hammer his hard cock into your pussy. Not even you realized how much you needed this. You needed him to fuck, and mark you, and drive you to the brink and pull you back. "Harder." You were able to say against him before he dove back into another, deeper kiss, his teeth nibbling and pulling at your lip before licking over it, constantly reminding you of what he is.

"Whatever you ask." He obliged with much glee, driving with cock deep it had to be kissing your cervix. "A little more and I bet I could open you up. But even in a dream I think that'd hurt a little too much." There was a darkness in his concerning tone telling you that despite knowing that he wanted to do it. "Let me hear you my sweet dreamer. I want to hear you come undone around my cock."

"Oh fuck!" The left your mouth before you could register it, your moans no longer held back some invisible force although your body was still paralyzed, rocking only because of his thrusts. "Yeah, fuck, make me come!"

"As many times you want." He drove his cock back and forth into your twitching, sensitive cunt, each thrust accompanied by wet slapping sounds of skin against skin. "Do you want my cum too? You've been so well behaved, I think you deserve it."

You could barely even choke out your confirmation before you were flooded by huge loads of cum. He kept fucking you through his orgasm, intent on getting you there too. His cum only made his cock more slippery, the length twitching and pulsing as it dragged against your quivering walls and pushed you over the edge. His arms went around your shoulders, his teeth latching onto you neck.

For a moment your pulse quickened, wondering if he would kill you now that he got what he wanted. It wasn't until you heard and felt a deep rumble from his chest that you realized he was completely calm. It irked you a little, you were all out of breath and shaking and here he was, still completely fine.

"A mark for you. So others know you're mine." He whispered against your skin, "Until next time my sweet dreamer." His voice echoed in your ears as you felt yourself fade into unconsciousness.

It was an emptiness and ache between your legs that you woke up with. Your whole body ached in fact. "Fuck. Was that... a dream?" Considering there was no one in your room but you and no cum between your legs, something that a part of you looked forward to seeing, it had to have been a dream. You rushed into the bathroom, you had to be sure.

There it was, a bite mark on your neck. Not a dream, not reality, but something in between.

A shiver went down your spine and straight between your legs as you remembered his words: "Until next time."

"Until tonight." You smiled into the mirror. It was brief but for a moment you swore you heard his voice, his chuckle, right behind you.

#monster x reader #monster romance #monster boyfriend #monsterfucking #monster lover #sleep paralysis demon x reader #monster imagine #monster x human #monster x girl #monster smut #sleep paralysis demon smut #monster fic #terato

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Blewbird Debut: Super Mario Bros. Wonder

Blewbird is weird. I mean, no duh, it's being featured on "Weird Mario Enemies," even if our blog title gets less and less fitting by the day, but I mean weirder than you'd realize by just looking at it at a glance. If you just take a quick glance at it, you might not think much of it -- just a stylized cartoon bluebird, reminiscent of The Artist Formerly Known As Twitter.

But then you look at it more closely, notice things like its black shell and brown shoes. How weirdly smooth its skin is, without even the suggestion of feathers. The fact it doesn't have wings at all. The fact these things burrow out of the ground.

Oh, and let's not forget the fact they shoot off their own beaks!

Yeah, let's not ignore the main hook of the enemy here! Blewbirds predominantly appear in the level Blewbird Roost, where they'll stand against walls and shoot out their beaks at Mario and Friends. Of course, usually their beaks end up sticking to walls across from them...

And unfurling into platforms! That's right! Blewbirds are an animal that evolved to create Platforming Challenges! Is this how they traverse all the open air in the caves they live in without wings? It's not like they can burrow everywhere!

So whatever Blewbirds are, I'm pretty sure they're not birds. Blewbirds are birds in the sense that jellyfish are fish. (A comparison I'm pretty sure I've made multiple times on the blog at this point.) But if they aren't birds, then what are they? Well, let's take another look at Blewbird without its beak...

Does it remind you of anything...?

Because it reminds me of Birdo, another character who's named after a bird for no particularly good reason whatsoever! Almost like it's all connected... But I mean, the similarities are hard to ignore -- the tube mouth optimized for shooting projectiles, the white underbelly, the weirdly smooth skin, heck, you could probably make the very bold argument that Blewbird's ponytail and Birdo's bow are connected somehow.

But wait! I'm not ending things right there, because Blewbird doesn't only have similarities to Birdo...

You see, Nintendo has connected the Birdos and Yoshis for a while now, as Mario's main Weird Dinosaur Characters, but there hasn't been an awful lot actually connecting them in-universe... until now?! For you see, I'm making the radical claim that Blewbirds are proof of a missing link species that connects the Yoshis and Birdos! Look at it! The tube mouth of Birdo. The shell and shoes of Yoshi. It's all so clear now!

Blewbirds aren't birds! They're some sort of weird dinosaur! Just like... just like... just like real birds. Hmm.

Maybe I need to rethink the point I was making with this post. Taxonomy is weird, guys.

*phone ringing*

Oh! Hold on, I need to answer that. Hello?

Hmmm... as a matter of fact, I think I am! I spent so much time talking about Yoshis and Birdos that I forgot to do this: *touches Wonder Flower to trigger Wonder Effect for the post*

During Blewbird Roost's Wonder Effect, Blewbirds will start blowing very large, very colorful bubbles! Your character can bounce on these bubbles to go *Pauline voice* ♪ High up in the sky~! ♪, but you need to be careful, since each bubble pops when you jump on it! The number of Blewbirds in the Blewbird Roost doesn't make that much of an issue, but in a Special World level where you're a Goomba who can hardly jump at all? Well... Good Luck!

That being said, this raises even more questions about Blewbird anatomy, because they blow these bubbles out of their beaks! You know, the ones they shoot off that, as far as I'm aware, aren't even part of their bodies? And in order to blow bubbles out of their beak, their mouth has been moved to the end of it! What is going on here?!

I'm not sure, but I can try to provide a relatable human analogy! Imagine if you put a Cone in your mouth, but someone nearby touched a Wonder Flower, so the Cone fused to your face and the mouth was at the end of the Cone, and you were very scared about this development so you tried to scream but only bubbles came out. We've all been there! And for the Blewbird, it's exactly like this. Hopefully now you understand!

#blewbird #weird mario enemies #super mario bros wonder #mod hooligon

[gtsdreamer2]

   You were deep in the Amazon rainforest. A recent graduate with your mycology doctorate, you were researching a special species of mushroom that only was said to grow deep in the jungle and only during the twenty four hours of the full moon during the autumn months. According to ancient texts found in the indigenous people's temples, the mushroom was used in fertility rituals and to signify a bountiful harvest during these months before the cold winter. You were curious about the cultural significance as well as the medicinal properties of this rare shroom. You didn't know what it looked like, only that it wasn't foraged for by the locals anymore and that it should look like a mushroom that you don't know.

   Hours of searching later, you begin to grow tired and wonder if you should give up and wait until the next full moon. The sun is starting to set when you finally spot something different. It's a mushroom you've never seen before, which is remarkable seeing as how you've seen them all. The cap is a pinky flesh color with an even pinker button on top. You giggle to yourself as you remark that it looks like a tit with a firm nipple poking out of it.

   Kneeling down, you take out your notebook and a pencil and begin to sketch it. 'I'm just drawing a boob.' You think to yourself. You stare in awe at this shroom as the sun continues to set. Taking your pencil, you poke the nipple-esque protrusion. Immediately this mushroom expells a giant cloud of spores right in your face. You gasp in surprise, sucking into your lungs an ample amount of the potent plume.

   You hack and cough, but its way too late for that, they're already lodged deep within you and entering your blood stream. Your eyes dialate and your body grows hot. You stand and lean against a tree, trying to catch your breath. You can feel your heatbeat in every nerve. Your cells are responding in a way they never have to the new foreign agent that has begun to take over you. Your heatbeat concentrates in your breasts as you feel your nipples grow almost painfully erect. Then you feel your breasts start to press against your soft white cotton top. You can feel the belts on your corset tighten to try and contain whatever is happening to you. Suddenly you shoot up four inches in height.

   Your sudden growth spurt elicits an a forced maon from your mouth. "Mmmph!" You cry out as a second wave hits you. The belts on your corset snap and suddenly you're six foot five with the seams of your jeans splitting. You feel your feet break free from your hiking boots as your toes sink into the damp rainforest earth.

   'This is starting to feel really good.' You think to yourself as you start to regain a semblance of your normal senses. Doing a body check, you can tell that you've grown. Your breasts have at least doubled in size and are now very hot and sensitive to the touch. You can feel a hunger deep in your womb as if ovulating on steroids.

   You attempt to sit down on the cool jungle floor, your now massive ass shredding the back of your jeans as you squat down. You pick up your pad and pen and continue to make notes about the shroom.

   'It is clear that this is how the Amazon women in the lore of this land gained their stature, and I can clearly feel why this particular fungus was revered for its fertility-inducing properties. I feel so full of life, yet I also feel the need to be bred full of babies.' Looking back at your notes, you are in shock that you actually wrote that down.

   You wonder to yourself how potent the flesh of the shroom might be, considering what just inhaling some of the spores had done to you. As the sun began to set, you walk back over to the shroom and delicately pluck it out of the ground before greedily shoving the whole thing into your mouth, quickly swallowing it without so much as trying to find out what it tastes like. Again the euphoria strikes your body. You feel its effects ten fold as you quickly gain four feet in height and explode out of your inadequate top. Sitting back down on the remainder of your ruined clothes, you bask in the feeling of your massive body and heightened strength and senses. You close your eyes and listen to the jungle around you, lamenting that you ate the only specimen that you had found on your journey, and now the only evidence was what it had done to you. When you open your eyes, the realize that the moon has peaked through the canopy. Your dialated eyes can see the jungle floor quite clearly now, and shimmering all across the damp dense expanse before you, you can see dozens more of the mushroom glowing against the moon, as if drinking in its power. 'It would have been so much easier to find at night.' You chastise yourself as you stand up again. You leave your ruined clothes behind as you pick up your foraging Satchel and start to delicately pick as many of the shrooms as you can carry, trying your best to put them in containers without them expelling more spores. 'This will be so great for my research.' You think to yourself. 'And it'll make a great snack for the walk back'. You giggle to yourself as you pop another three into your mouth.

#gts #giantess #size kink #sizetumblr #growth #gts story

[kaleldobrev]

Mutual Pining

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Fem!Reader

Summary: Dean and you are in love with each other, and it's obvious to everyone but the two of you

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Cursing (10x), Mutual Pining, Fluff

Authors Note: Switches between reader and Deans “POV” but still written in the third person | This came out a lot longer than I thought, but I loved the way it turned out! I hope you guys do too! | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

For as long as you’ve known Dean, he has always been incredibly nice to you, which initially surprised you given his gruff exterior. Growing up, you were always told to never judge a book by its cover, and things aren’t always what they seem to be; and you had felt that this truly applied to Dean. Despite his appearance (although a very attractive one you had to admit) and his very I don’t give a fuck attitude he sometimes gave off, he was genuinely one of the nicest, funniest, charismatic, loving, and selfless people that you have ever met in your entire life. He was just someone that wanted more than anything to love someone (to be loved by someone) – and craved touch.

He was a catch in all senses of the word: he was smart, sexy, cute, he could sing (well not good, but at least he liked doing karaoke!), he could cook and bake (you were teaching him a lot about baking lately, even though he did already know a thing or two), he was handy (both when it came to cars and household maintenance), and he was a nerd (Star Wars, horror movies, Star Trek, cartoons, you name it). For as long as you had known him, it amazed you that someone hadn’t snatched him up yet. Well, you knew about some of these instances (Cassie or Lisa for example), but Dean seemed to be under the impression that the reason it never seemed to work out with these women is because of the job, or he would blame himself. “I just don’t think you found the right woman yet.” You had told him. This had earned you a weird look from Dean, and since then, you hadn’t given your two cents into his love life, despite being one of his closest confidants.

For as long as Dean has known you, you’ve always been incredibly nice to him; even when he knew he didn’t deserve it. When he had met you years ago, it took him by surprise to find out that you were a hunter given your exterior and extremely bubbling personality and positive energy that you radiated (he would later come to start calling you Sunshine as he considered you the light of his life in his ever so present and consistent cloudy days he called his life). “Just because you’re a hunter, doesn’t mean you have to be depressed all the time.” You had said to him. “But we’ve all witnessed and endured horrible things. Don’t know how you can still be so happy.” He had said back to you. You had simply shrugged stating, “You have your way of coping, and I have mine.” What Dean had initially thought that he hated about you (you being that Ray of Sunshine) had actually grown into something that he would love and appreciate about you.

Something that he always tended to carry in the back of his mind is quote that you had frequently said: Never judge a book by its cover, and things aren’t always what they seem to be; and he felt that your quote really did apply to you. Despite the type of energy that you give off, and despite your colorful array of clothing, you were genuinely one of the best hunters that he has ever met or worked with in his life.

You were a catch in all senses of the word. You were smart, cunning, funny, cute, sexy (even when you weren’t even remotely trying to be). You knew how to cook and bake (he was particularly fond of your peach and apple pies that you had made), you could sing (despite you saying how awful you were, your voice had sounded like honey to him), and you knew how to shoot a gun almost as good as him (in reality, you were probably a much better shot, but he would never admit that). It amazed him that you hadn’t settled down yet, even though he knew that was something that you had wanted to do at some point in your life. “I guess I just haven’t found the right yet guy. Just like how you haven’t found the right woman yet.” You had told him. “He’s sitting right in front of you Sunshine,” he had desperately wanted to say to you.

It was a lazy Sunday at the Bunker, and since there was no cases you had decided that you were going to do some baking today. You had promised Dean that you would him your famous peach and apple pie sometime this week, and since that was something you promised him last Tuesday, you were getting near close to almost falling through with your promise – something that you didn’t want to do, especially when it came to Dean.

Dean didn’t ask for much. So when he asked ever so politely if you could make this for him adding “no rush of course” at the end of his request, you were more than happy to oblige. This man has saved your ass more times than you could possibly count, and never asked for anything in return. So, the least you could do for the man was bake him a pie right?

Walking into the kitchen you were wearing your comfy clothes which consisted of a very faded AC/DC shirt that Dean had lent you they you had never given back (to be fair, he never asked for it back), a plain hot pink sweatshirt, black sweatpants and hot pink fuzzy socks.

Rolling up your sleeves, you walked over to the cabinet to grab everything they you would need in order to make the pie for Dean. Technically speaking, you were making the pie for everyone to enjoy, but you knew the second Dean for a whiff of the peachy and appley goodness, he would most likely hoard this (not that you had a problem with that, you were happy that he enjoyed your cooking and baking that much).

Placing your phone on the counter, you decided to play some music, picking the playlist you had rightfully named “Baking/Cooking Jams” (pun intended), so the quietness didn’t seem so eerie to you. You didn’t like the quiet at times, but you had such fond memories of singing along and dancing along to the music when you were a little girl in the kitchen with your mom or grandma.

One of the things that you appreciated, was the fact that none of the boys made fun of you while you did this (not that it would have bothered you if they did), but you half expected one of them to say something. The closest any of them had gotten to “making fun” of or commenting on your dance moves or singing had come from Dean, and his comments which very complimentary. You were so thrown off, that at first you thought he was fucking with you.

It’s been almost a week since Dean had requested you make your famous peach and apple pie, and there was a part of him that was starting to get just a tad disappointed when you hadn’t made it yet. But one of the things that was holding him together, was the fact that you always kept your promises and followed through with them (it was one of the things that he loved about you. He had asked for the pie on Tuesday, and it was now Sunday. He had wanted to re-ask you, but decided against it because he didn’t want to seem pushy and he didn’t want to bother you with what he seemed to be a silly request. “You could never bother her Dean. Trust me.” Sam had told him numerous times.

As Dean walked down the hallway of the Bunker, he could hear the quiet sounds of your music coming from the kitchen. The only reason he knew that it was your music is because he recognized the current song that was playing as a part of “Baking/Cooking Jams” playlist (pun intended). He smiled, hoping that since you were listening to this playlist it meant that you were baking something - specifically, baking the pie that you had promised him.

Dean peaked his head into the kitchen and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight before him. You were bopping your head, quietly singing along, and shaking your shoulders to the music as you were lining a tin with your homemade pie crust. You were wearing your hot pink sweatshirt (something that he loved always seeing you wear) and your fuzzy socks (another thing that he secretly loved). Wonder what’s underneath. Hope it’s one of my shirts…or nothing at all…He thought to himself. No Dean, don’t think that way.

Almost as if you could read his mind (which he knew you couldn’t do and was extremely thankful that you couldn’t) you stopped your dancing and looked at him, giving him the biggest smile you could muster up. “Hey you!” Your voice sounded so cheerful, so inviting, it practically made him melt.

“Hey Sunshine.” He said, walking into the kitchen and making his way to the island. “Whatcha making?” He asked, as if he couldn’t tell from the fresh cut apples and peaches on the counter in front of him.

“Your favorite.” You smiled, alternating between placing the peaches and apples into the pie tin. “Sorry it took so long Dean.”

Your apology surprised him. “Why are you saying sorry?” He questioned; you literally had no reason to be apologizing to him right now.

“Well, I know you asked for this Tuesday and it’s Sunday now.” Your voice that was once full of joy, was now sounding almost slightly sad and embarrassed, almost as if you were disappointed in yourself. “I swear I didn’t forget. Got a bit sidetracked with research this week.” You looked down just then, finishing up with the filling.

“Hey.” He began to say and you looked up at him. “Please don’t apologize for something like that okay?” You nodded. “Need any help?”

You shook your head. “I’m good Dean. But thanks for the offer.” You said, placing the pie into the oven.

“It’ll be ready soonish.” You gave him a smile. He could sense that you were trying to go back to your joyful voice, but you seemed still slightly upset, despite you having no reason to be.

Although you said you didn’t need the help, Dean started to gather all of the dirty dishes that you had made while you were baking. “Dean, you don’t have to do that.” You said as you watched him bring all of the dishes into the sink.

He turned the faucet on and looked at you. “It’s the least I can do Y/N.”

“I would have done it.” You walked over to the sink, picking up a dish rag and started drying the dishes he was finished washing. He looked at you briefly before letting out a small chuckle. “What?”

“Sweetheart, no you wouldn’t have. You would have left the dishes in the sink and I would have come to clean them up anyway. I know you love baking and cooking, but you hate the clean up.” You had started to open your mouth to comment, but you knew what he had said to you was the truth. Yes, you didn’t mind doing dishes, but you hated doing a large amount of dishes.

“I see Y/N finally made you your pie.” Sam said, gesturing to the giant slice of pie that Dean came walking into the War Room with.

Dean walked over with the biggest smile on his face. “It’s her best one yet.” Dean said, mouth full of pie. He sat down across from Sam who was on his laptop. “I really do think the singing and dancing helps.”

“I don’t know why you just don’t tell her.” Sam said.

“She knows I like her singing and dancing.” Dean took a mouthful of pie and Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his brother.

“I mean how you feel about her.” Sam’s comment had made Dean stop chewing his pie mid bite before he gulped it down.

Dean went to open his mouth, to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything clever or snarky to say. “I’ll pass.” He decided to say.

“You’ll…pass? What does that even mean?” For as long as Sam had been around you and Dean, it seemed completely obvious to everyone that you two had feelings for each other, but for some reason, it seemed like neither of you understood that you two had feelings for each other.

“I said, I’ll pass.” Dean repeated. “What about that can’t you wrap your head around?”

“Dean, you’ve been in love with Y/N since you’ve met her. Which, honestly, is quite a record.” Sam had never seen his brother be so in love with someone before, let alone being in love with someone for as long as he had been in love with you.

“Look Sam, she doesn’t like me in the way okay? I’ve made my peace with that. Why would I tell her that I love her if she doesn’t feel the same way? Sounds very silly to me.” Dean got up from his chair and walked out of the room with this now empty plate.

You were lying down on your bed with your laptop in front of you researching. You weren’t really researching anything in particular, just random things that had peaked your interest. As you were typing away, a small knock came from the other side of your door. “Who is it?” You asked.

“It’s Sam.”

“Come in!” You called back, the door opening and quickly shutting just as fast. You questioned the abruptness of the door. “Everything alright?”

“Peachy.” Sam replied. He pointed to the edge of your bed. “Can I sit?” You nodded.

“Did you get to try any of the pie yet? Or did Dean finish it already?” You joked, closing your laptop.

“No, not yet. He uh, he didn’t finish it yet shockingly.” Sam’s expression looked at you more serious now. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” You smiled.

“Have you ever thought about telling Dean how you feel?” His question seemed to be coming out of nowhere.

“I…No.” You had wanted to tell Dean more than anything how you felt about him, but you knew that he didn’t feel the same way about you. “Why would I tell Dean that I love him when I know for a fact that he doesn’t feel the same way? It’s a little silly don’t you think?” Sam couldn’t help but almost let out a laugh. You two really are meant for each other. Sam thought to himself.

“But what if, there actually is a chance that he loves you too?” Sam asked.

You laughed. “Don’t you think he would have told me by now?”

“What if he’s afraid of the same thing you are?”

“Meaning…?” You weren’t completely sure of the point that Sam was trying to make to you.

“Meaning, what if he loves you too but thinks that you don’t love him back?” You furrowed your brow at Sam’s question.

“Dean afraid of telling me how he feels?” You laughed. “He doesn’t love me Sammy, trust me. I know what he looks like when he’s in love, and that ain’t the same way he looks at me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sam challenged.

Dean and you both were laying awake at night, thinking about the comments that Sam had said to the both of you. The both of you had similar thoughts in your minds: Does Dean really love me? Does Y/N really love me? Have I been reading the signals all wrong?

“Sam wouldn’t just bring that up if he didn’t say something right?” You said quietly aloud to yourself.

“Did Y/N say something to him?” Dean said quietly aloud to himself.

“I could easily ask him.” You said.

“No, no. I can’t just ask her.” Dean said.

“Sam’s fucking with me.” You and Dean said in unison.

“No…Sam wouldn’t do that.” You rationalized with yourself.

“No, Sam wouldn’t fuck with me like that.” Dean rationalized with himself.

“He’s literally right down the fucking hall. I could just…be hypothetical?” You questioned.

“It’s three in the morning. She’s probably sleeping.” He said.

“Fuck it.” You two said in unison, both practically jumping out of your beds.

You opened your door and started making your way down the hall. As you were walking, you were trying to keep your composure despite how nervous you were in that moment. “Don’t chicken out now Y/N.” You mumbled.

“Alright. You got this. You got this.” Dean mumbled. “Don’t be a pussy now.”

Your head was down, but just up enough to catch yourself if someone else was in the hallway. As you were walking you noticed Dean coming down the hallway, he seemed nervous and you wondered why.

“Fuck I can’t do this.” You whispered and started turning around back toward your room.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice had made you stop in your tracks, making you turn back toward him.

“Hey.” You tried to make your breath even. “What are…What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He replied.

“I asked you first.” You said.

“I…Wanted to talk to you.” He sounded so nervous.

“At three in the morning?” You questioned.

“Yeah I uh…You know what, this can wait till later.” He said, starting to turn back into the direction of his room.

For some reason you had found yourself running after him, like you were in some cheesy romcom that you both secretly loved. “Wait.” You grabbed his arm, and he almost spun back in your direction.

Dean looked at you before looking at your hand. It amazed him each and every time how soft they had felt whenever you touched him. God, what I’d do to feel your hands all over. He thought to himself. “What’s up?”

“Dean…” He watched you take a deep breath. You were nervous and he could tell. He had known you long enough to know what you were feeling by just your body language.

You removed your hand from his arm, and he already missed the contact. “Y/N?” He asked.

“I uh…Can we talk in your room?” You asked, and he found himself automatically nodding.

“Of course.” He gave you a smile, hoping that would comfort you in some way.

You didn’t realize how nervous you truly were until you had made your way into Dean’s room. You had been in his room numerous of times (even spending the night in here) and it always strangely gave you comfort, but not in this moment. It was one of the rare occurrences in which even the calmness his room usually gave you, ceased to help you.

Dean shut the door behind you, something that made you even more nervous. You weren’t afraid that the door was shut, a majority of the time you and him had been in your room or his room, the door was usually shut. “I can, I can leave it open if you want?” He almost questioned, gesturing toward the door.

“No. No. It’s fine.” You said. “Can I…Mind if I sit on your bed?” You asked. It felt strange asking to sit on his bed. In normal circumstances, you would have just walked into his room and just sat down, never asking if you could first. Something that you were now realizing, was that you were the only person that never had to ask if you could sit down on his bed - everyone else had to ask him.

“You know you don’t have to ask.” Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and patted the spot next to him, in which you hesitantly sat down.

Dean looked into your eyes as you sat down next to him, placing your hands on your thighs. You rubbed them up and down. It kills me to see how nervous you are. He thought to himself, so badly wanting to say it out loud to you. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m nervous.” You let out a small, nervous chuckle. It made his heart ache.

“I’m nervous too.” He said, hoping that it would make you somehow less nervous.

“Why are you nervous?” You asked. Crap. How do I answer that? He thought to himself.

“Probably for the same reason you are.” He looked at your face, looking for some kind of hint of what you possibly could be thinking.

“I highly doubt that.” You looked away, and folded your hands as if you were back in school, patiently waiting for the teacher to give you instructions.

It started to seem very evident to Dean now, that you were either nervous because Sam was right - you did in fact love him, or you were nervous because you were trying to figure out the best way to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way that he did about you. Either way, it scared him.

“I…I thought this would be easier somehow.” You admitted, after what seemed like a forever amount of silence between the two of you.

“I feel like I friggin teenager.” Dean joked, you knew he was trying his best to lighten the mood.

“Same here.” You gave him a nervous smile. “Um…Dean…” You took a deep breath, trying to figure out the best way to tell him, while at the same time, talking yourself out of telling him. “You know you’re my best friend right?”

“You know you’re my best friend right?” There is was, the sentence that he didn’t want to hear.

“Yeah.” He said, feeling his heart quickly sinking into the pit of his stomach.

“And you know I appreciate you more than anything.” You couldn’t even look at him; he wasn’t sure if that was better or worse somehow.

He reached out for your arm, gently grabbing it. “I appreciate you too Sweetheart. And I know I don’t tell you that enough.”

“Don’t be silly. You show me plenty.” Your statement was true, he may not have realized it, but there were plenty of times when he had found himself doing things to show you how much he truly cared and appreciated you, even when he didn’t outright tell you - you were the same way. You sighed. “Dean –”

“Before you say anything, I just want to tell you that whatever you say to me, our friendship is never gonna change. I won’t hate you. I could never hate you, okay?” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure you, or reassure himself in that moment.

“Here it goes then.” You took yet another deep breath.

“Fuck it.” You heard Dean mumble. Not even getting a second to react, his lips were suddenly on yours. His lips were just as soft as you had thought that they would be. Despite wanting to kiss him for as long as you had known him, you never thought that this is how your first kiss with him was going to go.

The kiss was quick, and not nearly as long as you had wanted it to be. He released his lips from yours and he stared at you blankly, almost embarrassed. “Sorry.” Dean said. “I uh…” He was actually speechless. “Shit.” He let go of your arms.

“Sammy was right.” He hears you mumble.

“What did my brother tell you?” He needed to know how badly the damage control was going to be, and how much he was going to kill his brother.

“He…He asked me if I um…If I ever thought about telling you how I feel.” So Sammy got to you too huh, Dean thought. “I told him that it would be silly of me to tell you how I felt because I knew you didn’t feel the same way.” You chuckled, nervously. “I guess…I guess I was wrong.”

“I told Sammy the same thing earlier.” He admitted. “As much as I wanted to tell you…” He trailed off, unsure of what he had wanted to say next, because there was so much he had wanted to say to you.

“You didn’t want to ruin our friendship in case I didn’t feel the same way.” You said, practically finishing his sentence for him. “I felt the same way. I mean, you know just as well as I do how hard it is to find people you can trust and rely on. I love both of you, and I didn’t want to say or do anything that would of fucked my relationship up with you guys.”

“So, what do we do now?” You asked, unsure of what was going to happen next. Just because the two of you had admitted your feelings for each other, doesn’t mean that you would actually do anything about it. As much as you had wanted to try out a relationship with Dean, you knew that he wasn’t much of the relationship type – then again, maybe it was because he hadn’t found the right person?

Dean looked over at the clock, noticing that it was almost 4:30 in the morning. He looked back over to you, almost looking too tired. “You spend the night in here with me. Or, morning in here with me.”

“And do what Dean?” You asked, curious as there could be a million things on his mind.

“Just lay here together…” He began to say, slightly pulling you in close. “Maybe cuddle…” He continued, leaning in slightly, inches away from your lips.

“Do some more kissing maybe…?” You whispered, slightly questioning. “Or are you too tired?”

“Hmmm, don’t think I’d ever be tired enough to not kiss you Sunshine.” He smiled tiredly, leaning in and kissing you again.

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#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #spn #supernatural #spn imagine #supernatural imagine #spn one shot #reader insert #female reader #mutual pining the fanfic #dean x you #dean x reader

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I’ll Take the Night Shift

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Before you knew it, John was gone - taken from right under your nose and leaving you no choice but to retreat without him. But you would do anything to get him back, even go into the lion’s den itself.

Word Count: 15.2k

Warnings: Torture, blood & gore, V suggestive & some spicy bits, vulgar language, angst, found family tropes, eventual fluff, and comfort, injured Price would be the sweetest person idc, so much plot, briefly edited

A/N: The flashbacks are spicy because I said so. (Soap request being written after this). Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

You try to remember how you felt the first time they told you. Your combat vest was still on, that night vision rig still connected to your head and weighing about as much as John did when he rolled on top of you in the middle of the night. At your front rested the M13, its black and sleek metal bumping against your chest with every teetering step.

Black, on black, on black. Except for one item, hidden, kept close to heart, and even closer to mind at all hours. You were always aware of it, the metallic press that was ingrained into your body just as the caress of John’s fingers was, burning over your pulsing epidermis as it traveled.

Around your neck, your wedding ring sat heavily on its chain – gold more bright than the sun and kept safe and warm against the flesh of your breast under the numerous padded layers. Your face was bathed in sweat, lungs aflame with blood dripping from a knife puncture on your right thigh. Although the limb is bathed in crimson, the dark fabric of your pants hid most of it. But it couldn’t hide the red footprints in the dirt.

It was a Black Op in Finland – a target stashed away in a mansion that was clawing for breath in this dense forest with more viridian-colored trees than any you had seen before. Green seemed to breed in the small spaces, between rocks, up crackling bark; crunching under your black boots as you came to a shattering halt. Moss and tiny plants get crushed under your fierce steps.

If it was any other circumstance, you would have loved to drag your husband here for a vacation.

You had felt fear when they told you. Cold. Chest-tightening. Skin tingling as your limping body fought to focus on anything but the pain that was spiking in your leg, but that was simple when the words flew from Gaz’s lips with panic. Simon had stopped behind you as well, the two men dressed just as you were and holding their breath for your reaction. They knew it wouldn’t be good.

“The Captain isn’t responding. Soap can’t bloody find him.” The chill of the night was nothing compared to the dread that flooded your veins, eyes snapping forward blankly at flashing shadows as your panting breath was all at once sucked back down.

What?! Is all you can numbly think.

A brief stuttering inhalation ensues, your brain screaming as if banshees wail and smash against the bone of your skull with sharp teeth and blunt nails; tearing to try and get out. But you were not born to break at such a fickle emotion as fear in your bloodstream, or the adrenaline making your eyes vibrate. You were taught to act. 

You’re turning on your heels and hiking back to the mansion without a word or hesitation, the world around you speeding by. In a single instant, the organ in your head promptly goes silent in a fell swoop of horrified realization. Everyone left in that mansion would be dead if you got your hands on them – ripped to tiny little pieces until that which was yours was returned unharmed and conscious into your arms.

You hold the M13 tight around the stock, jimmying it into your shaking grip.

“Whoa!” Gaz rushes to get ahead of your warpath – which didn’t take much as your wound was throbbing; making your head pound something awful. 

It doesn't matter what I feel…Where is my John?

Dark hands grasp your shoulders tightly, shaking you as your lips turn into a snarl.

“Out of my way, Garrick,” You growl, face suddenly twisting into an image of pure animalistic rage, “I’m going to Soap’s position.” 

Attempting to jerk out of the man’s hold, your skin crawls at the thought of John. He always answered the comms – always stayed within eyesight of his partner when placed with another individual. Your husband did not leave men behind. He would never leave Soap behind. 

And that meant he was either dead or captured.

Your mind jumps to violent imagery. Your Captain, riddled with bullets and bleeding as he writhes in pain; left to die like a feral dog as he snaps at everything that moves. Or worse, taken and stashed away, far from you, and tortured for information. John would never break – they’d have to kill him anyway.

There was no version of this story that involved him living if you did nothing.

“Johnny isn’t at the mansion,” Ghost comments, popping up in the side of your vision as you have a stare-off with Gaz and releases the radio attached to his vest, “He was under heavy fire – had to pull back. Should be closin’ in on our position soon.” 

“I’m still going back!” Growling, you snap your arms back and shoulder past Gaz, “You’re idiots if you think I’m leaving John by himself in fucking Finland surrounded by hostiles.”

But what if he’s already dead and I don’t know it? Can I handle that?

You grunt under your breath, trying to stop the sting of your eyes.

“Love,” The younger man pleads, Kyle’s dark eyes worryingly going from your thigh to your face, “You’ve got to be bloody joking with us. If you go back to that place you’re as good as dead. We have to pull back to the Evac Point. There are too many guns – we’re outnumbered.”

When you had joined Task Force 141 you had never expected to marry the older Captain of this rag-tag bunch. It had been surprising enough that you had been spotted by the brown-haired Brit at all, only seeing him once when he had come to teach a class of rookies on Counter-Terrorism. Naturally, the two of you had struck up a conversation – or, rather, you had forced him to speak to you. But how could you not? The man was about as handsome as they came. The gruff and gravel tone that rumbled his chest, his large build reminiscent of a brown bear, and how the muscles under his shirt had rippled when you snuck up on him. Physically, he was everything you wanted, and the same went for attitude once you got to know him.

And, hell, how could you look at someone like John Price and not get entranced by his eyes? Storm gray and raging waters; you swore you could see an entire world hidden in the flecks of silver as if he was carved from stone and his soul was pure electricity. But despite all of it, his serious face had seemed warm under that beard of his and that bucket hat on his head wasn’t helping. He seemed kind enough, and that had piqued your interest as you were constantly being surrounded by less-than-respectful men in the barracks.

In fact, your first sentence to him was, “How many times have you nearly lost that hat of yours mid-Op, Sir?” 

You had snuck up while the rookies were working through a practice course down below the loft, where the two of you currently were. John’s head had snapped to the side, his constantly narrowed eyes widening a fraction. If you had to guess, he didn’t get snuck up on often. 

But he had never met you before.

His arms were attached to the collar of his vest, and you saw the fingers tighten as his shoulder-width stance tensed below him. The shouts and calls of the people below blurred as you tilted your head, blinking innocently up at him, watching his lips move with heated thoughts. 

You quite liked him looking surprised.

“Ma’am,” He utters in greeting, before letting out a deep sigh that makes you huff a laugh in turn. He seemed tired – stressed, “Very funny. Don’t suppose you’re part of the others down there, then, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir,” Your gaze filters to the flailing limbs and you watch with creasing eyebrows at the chaos, amusement deep in your blood, “I mean…they look like they’re having fun, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s a bloody exaggeration, that is,” His wrinkled forehead had creased, following the horrific sight as well, “Laswell told me that this group was promising.”

Your laugh makes his head fully turn back to you, blinking down and fighting the flick of his eyebrow in confusion.

“Oh, God, she told you that?!” Shaking your head you shifted your body to face him and stifled your chuckles. You say your name and utter out, “If you want someone who’s not going to sugarcoat things for her amusement, Captain Price, you come straight to me. Squad 5 is the one you want for Counter-Terrorism courses; certainly not 3. That’s a good way to get shot in the ass by your own guys.”

He stared at you for a long minute before his eyes flickered down to your hand; he grunted and grasped it in his own. 

You were correct – he was warm. Firm. The ingrained lines of his palms splayed over yours, and the flesh of your lips softened at the delicate way he was holding you. Like you were a prized weapon. 

And you would have it no other way.

“Just Price is fine, Ma’am. Kate mentioned you in her call…You were in Romania in ‘04, Yeah? Quite the job to do by yourself…You ever think on joinin’ a team?” 

Three months later Laswell was giving you a call saying you were getting a promotion and the rest was subtle glances that evolved into stolen touches in dark corners when no one was looking. It had been scary how instant the feelings were realized…you trusted John with your life, just as he did with you. That was the first feeling after lust and the one far before love – protectiveness for each other on the same level as wolves in a pack.

You can’t leave him behind.

“He’s the Captain–” Your lips begin to hiss out, eyes narrowed at the ground as you struggle along. You were weaker than you should have been – blood loss leaving you nearly on the ground after the retreat, “He’s my husband!”

Rage was easier than panic. Perhaps that was why John called you Lion for a callsign.

“...And you’re going to get him killed.” The remark makes you freeze. Ghost doesn’t move from behind you as the echo of his words bounces off the trees, but you feel his presence just the same as Gaz clears his throat awkwardly, “You go back, Aarre Virtanen will put a bloody bullet in ‘em. Not a chance he doesn’t.”

Aarre Virtanen. The target that had escaped the Force’s grasp like the weasel he is. Your eyes alight with rage, and cities burn in your iris. 

“You’re just about the most impulsive person I’ve ever met, Love,” John mutters into your hair, running his fingertips over the hospital gown as he lays in the bed with you. Your eyes are closed, feeling your head rise and fall with the steady breathing in the Captain's chest – damn him, the way he touched you was hypnotic; putting you to sleep where the pain meds failed.

“Hm,” You groan, digging your head deeper into his peck and feeling him chuckle velvety.

“I need to teach you how to think plans through before you commit, Yeah? Else you’re going to keep getting hurt…and we can’t have that, eh, can we Sweetheart?”

“...If you’re gonna hold me like this when I get shot, I’ll make sure to take more bullets for you from now until the end of time.”

A puff of breath and a brush of coarse beard hairs over your scalp.

“You’re hopeless, you are. What am I supposed to do with you…?”

“Probably kiss me, Sir, but I’m not picky. You can fuck me too while you’re at it.”

A shuttering of leaves rips everyone out of their arguing, and in an instant three guns are held leveled at a dense bush, shaking in the moonlight. Every moment spent with John was flashing over your eyes like you were dying. Why was your breath getting strained? Why was your grip shaking?

“Friendly! Don’t go poppin’ off shots, it’s jus’ me!” Your stance lessens at the familiar Scottish drawl, air falling from your nose in a terse sigh. 

Soap’s body pops out a second later, and you’re right next to him with a heavy heart, gripping him by the arm and digging. It was hard, holding yourself together with string and fraying cloth, but you had to. You can’t break…not now. The man's vision is locked on your face, and you don’t like the thinness of his lips as his expression is layered with guilt. 

It mirrors against the desperation in yours, leaking into the tone coating your sentence like poison.

“Little Lady, I–”

“Where is my husband, Johnny?” Your face contorts, pulling back. He was supposed to be here, why wasn't he here? He took MacTavish with him because he needed an expert to detonate a bomb in the lower mansion’s tunnel structure. He said he’d be back soon…Where is he? “Johnny, please, he can’t…” Begging has never been implemented in your life. Never.

But for John, you’d do anything. 

The man in question flinches back, the dried blood over his face catching your gaze in the dim light as you stop dead; your eyes slashed the distance between Soap’s visage and the gore over his cheeks. Up his arms. On his hands. Staining his chest like fucking finger-paint. Before you know it you’re backing up, eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings and jumping from place to place as all you can see is red. Your hands are slippery, and you hold them limply ahead of you. 

No, no, no. No, it can’t be.

“Holy shit, Soap,” Gaz whispers, voice horrified, and you feel his hand on your back trying to steady you, “Is that…” 

Ghost’s dead eyes stay locked on the scene, narrowing behind his mask. The Scot’s head flows to the blood, quickly inhaling as his nose scrunches. His lips part in horror as he tries to calm you down, backing up a step. 

But you can’t stop seeing red.

“Hen, now don’t do that – it’s not…I…He,” He stumbles over his words, swallowing thickly as you gape. Soap growls, splaying his hands, “Steamn’ Bloody Jesus! The explosive went off prematurely, fucken’ bastard of a device – whoever made it should get his neck rung – an’ the…the tunnel collapsed with us in it,” You just stare, and you wonder if your heart can hurt any more than it already is. At your side, Gaz blows out a slow breath, and over your back, you feel his grip tighten, “I tried to get him out of the rubble, Hen. But,” He stops, and one of his hands smacks against the top of his helmet, “Virtanen’s men got there first. God,” Johnny gasps your name, “I’m so sorry.” 

But all you do is stare. 

“Love,” Garrick lightly says, his breath on the side of your face, “Love, we have to move.”

But Gaz, You want to say; scream, as your stained fingers twitch when you level them with a heavy glare, Gaz I can’t leave him here

“He’s not dead.”

Ghost grunts, fixing the position of his gun over his chest; resting on hand on the end and looking off into the trees, “They’d keep ‘em alive. Try to get answers – who he is, who sent him…” The man trails. 

Your heart fractures your ribs, ears ring like cicadas under your skin.

He’s not dead, You have to tell yourself so you don’t break down, looking at everyone around with veiled shock, He’s not dead.

The only reason the four of you were still standing around was that, in the absence of John’s leadership, you took point. It hit you suddenly, then, in that instant where the storm that was going on inside of your head was silenced. These men were under your wing – they needed you to take up the mantle; you needed to trust that John was alright. If only to keep the whole of the 141 safe and alive.

Gaz had shrapnel in his back; Soap looked like he was about to either turn around and go on a rampage or slump over with his head in his hands. And Ghost well…he was Ghost, but even so, his clothes were layered with blood and dirt. Not to mention yourself – your thigh has since gone numb.

…And we can’t stay here. 

With your heart falling into a deep hole, you school your expression. 

Don’t think about him. Don’t do it. 

Your job has never been more difficult than at that moment.

“Evac Point is a ten-minute jog. L-Laswell’s expecting us.” The voice that comes out of your mouth isn’t yours, the tone is off and the structure is shaky at best and broken at worst. There was nothing more you could do, even if you knew you could drag your way back to the mansion and start a fight. 

Gaz was right, you would die if you went back. And you can’t get John home safe if you were dead. 

The team needs you to lead them just as your husband would. 

So, avoiding all eye contact and the wide looks, you slip out of Kyle’s hold, feeling your leg sizzle with agony as you put weight on it. Garrick mutters your name, and Soap clears his stuffed throat; coughing into the night. Ghost is the one who loops his arm under your shoulders when he strides up behind you, and you flinch at the contact before closing your eyes and feeling bitter tears drip down your cheeks.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Lion,” The man glances down at you, skeletal face glowing bone white, “I give you my word.” But you don’t answer, just grimace and will away the feelings in your heart and the vomit in the back of your throat. 

This is what John would want you to do, you know that – perhaps that was the only reason you were willing to leave and reevaluate at all – but, somehow, it still felt wrong. 

Akin to betrayal.

The ring around your neck suddenly weighed more than the numb flesh of your leg as tears smack the moss mutely.

—

Laswell is sitting in the meeting room as a nurse wraps your thigh tightly. The sutures underneath pull at your flesh; making it stretch at a touch of a finger as you stand upright. The others had pleaded with you to sit down, but nothing would sway you. Not even the needle that had been going through your skin when you refused pain medication. Being on your feet made you feel better – like you were about to do something which would stop the thinness of your breath and the jump of your heart. Your weight was mostly on your uninjured limb anyhow, shifting as the affected pant’s leg was cut lengthwise and shoved aside as the gauze slowly wrapped around and around.

“When are we going after him,” You ask Kate, rubbing the sleep from your eyes but only succeeding in spreading dirt and blood all over your sockets, “I’ll be ready in five if you need me to be. All of us will.”

“Damn right,” Kyle nods, “Just give the order.” 

The blonde sighs, and the other men in the room move on their feet in unease. No one was content sitting still – one of their own was missing. Soap in particular was taking it badly; almost as broken up as you about it.

“We can’t do anything,” Your rampaging heart clenches. You had been worried about that, “This mission was Black,” Laswell’s chair squeaks as she rises, a tablet in her hands and a scowl on her face, “Legally speaking, no one was ever in Finland in the first place. A blown power box was the cause of the explosion.”

“Kate–” Gaz growls, but Soap cuts him off.

“This is clatty, Laswell!” He crosses his arms, the mohawk on his head pressed down from being in a helmet for so long making him look unhinged. When the helicopter had dropped the Force off at base, a meeting had immediately been called; that was over three hours ago, and still, nothing had been done. It was precious time, “Send out drones, recon forces, anything. Hell, send us back in – we'll take care of this.”

“Sergeant MacTavish,” Kate stares at him, and she spares a quick glance at you as the nurse stands quickly and leaves. You clench your jaw. Without John being here the room felt empty, devoid of a very important figure; you were no leader, but what choice did you have but to take charge, “Price knew the risks, and…Black Op means no take backs. He’s been in this a long time.”

“We all have,” You whisper, grunting as a shiver of fire runs up your leg. 

In the back of your subconscious, you know everyone can see how shaken you are. Your eyes constantly rove to the corners as if shadows will suddenly take form and attack, your fingers twitch as if still around the trigger of a gun; when someone mentions John’s name your hand unconsciously reaches to grasp the ring around your neck. Gaz spares you looks, reaching up to fix the position of his ball cap with tense breaths. 

Inside, the thoughts were running faster than you could catch them. Every moment you spent with your Captain – dinner dates, gifts that you told him not to buy you but he did anyways…the list went on including the moments spent together. They were distracting you. He was distracting you.

Was this how it felt to lose a vital part of you? Like torture? But your person knows what torture was like – it had never felt as painful as this before. You couldn’t recall in your memory a time when your chest had been this wound tight, fingers so shaky and weak. Your brain was what you would consider your best companion in these situations…but this was different. Common sense had abandoned you in the form of a square brown-bearded face and strong arms.

God, John, You press your fingers into your eyes until you see stars, Please be okay. Please. I’ll be there soon. J-just wait for me.

There was another voice as well, telling you that if you just told yourself he was okay you could get through this easier. You could break later – you needed to focus on getting your husband back.

That was all that mattered.

Laswell scratches at the back of her neck, and your hands fall back to your sides.

“We can’t do anything,” Kate repeats, and the subtle change in phonics leads your head to snap up. Her deep blues were already staring at you; boring into your soul. The others perked up as well when your body stills, listening with predatory attention, “Shame. I heard the target was planning on being at a get-together in a week at his property in Poland.”

Your pulse stills, and you find your wavering voice, “...Can’t fault the man, he has a weapon-smuggling business to run…He’ll need more potential clients.”

“Hm,” The boys look back and forth with bright eyes, teeth showing as their lips peel back, “Affirm.” Laswell saunters to leave the room, slipping past you. But before she brushes against your shoulder her face tilts to you. You smell her scent – bark and coarse linen – as she speaks, “You might want to clean up the armory and get your gear repaired. John wouldn’t stand for his team looking like shit it if he was here.”

Kate saunters out the door, and you watch her back as the barrier closes, standing in silence. Sucking down a slow breath, your gaze filters back to the boys only to find them already staring at you. 

“Well,” Clearing your throat, your eyebrows twitch, “You heard her. We can’t do anything…officially.”

“I’d say we better go clean up, then,” Soap grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodding his head to you, “Head off and get a good sleep.”

Gaz and Ghost spare glances, but look about as ready as you are. 

“You sure you’re up for this, Love?” Garrick asks motioning toward your leg with a head nod as he moves closer, “We have no problem doing this by ourselves.”

“I took my vows just the same as he did,” You respond immediately, gripping the younger man by the shoulder and sending a small, weak, smile, “You think he’d stay behind if it was me?”

“I think he’d rather let Soap make him tea again. And we know how that went last time.”

You huff out a sound that resembles a laugh, but the Scot in question refuses to look at you; your eyes catch Ghost sending you glances before he motions with his head to the man. Turning to Gaz you nod.

“You take Simon and get the gear ready. We’re leaving tomorrow first thing.”

“Copy, Ma’am.”

Ghost pats your skull once before disappearing, “Keep your head on, Lion.” 

The door once more closes, and silence overtakes the small room. Taking a deep breath that fills you with a wave of ease – even if for a moment – you focus on the second big problem after a brief second to close your eyes and think. 

Johnny.

He avoids your gaze; fidgets with his hands more than he usually does. The men of the 141 were dear to you and in a way, the entirety of it was a big family of people who really didn’t belong anywhere but with each other. You cared about them more than you cared about yourself – one of them was your husband, but the rest were your brothers. 

“You remember when I took a metal rod right through my lower leg?” You begin, hobbling closer and nearly laughing when the man takes a step forward to help with a grimace set on his lips. You raise a hand to stop him, “In Egypt about two summers ago?”

“You shoved me out of the way and got hurled through a window by a bastard with a knife, Hen. Landed in an industrial yard,” You stop a foot or two from him, attempting to get his attention while he stares at his feet and mutters like a kicked dog, “Yeah. Remember it clear as day. Price nearly had my head – knew right here that he was gonna marry you.”

The comment warms your heart.

“Did I ever blame you for standing near that window, Johnny?” You ask softly, tilting your head and catching his eye as he clenches his jaw in thought. The scar on the pale skin moves, and his stubble bunches.

“Never, Ma’am.”

“Then why would I ever blame you for an explosive that went off spontaneously – one that you didn’t even build in the first place?” 

He stays silent at that, but his head slowly rises to face yours fully. You had never seen him look so guilty before, those blue eyes of his so hopeless.  

“I couldn’t get ‘em out,” Soap whispers and before you know it you’re grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into an embrace, “I left him behind. How could I…?”

There was still blood on him, stuck in the makeup of his flesh like large bruises; dried, yes, but you nonetheless felt it. You found, though, that at that second, it didn’t bother you as much as it should have. The Sergeant’s arms hesitantly wrap around you and when you feel him press forward with his weight, your form loses tension. 

“No one blames you, Johnny,” He's shaking when you tell him, “No one. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. Price,” Your throat tightens, “John knows how to handle himself, you know he would never be mad at you for retreating.”

Soap wetly laughs and places his chin on the top of your head; playing it off with a chuckle as the minutes stretch on, “I’ll just have to believe you then, Lion. Who’s to say I can go against my superior?”

Your arms tighten around him as a snort meets air, “You say that and when we get the real Captain back, I might not want to give up the position. The power’ll go straight to my head.”

“And it hasn’t already? Now that’s surprising, I could have sworn you were telling the others what to do not a second ago.”

There he was. 

—

“I’m just saying, John, Fantasy beat out Nonfiction as a genre,” You shake your head, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips and sipping. Over the rim, you watch the Brit toss his beanied head to the side in disbelief.

“Negative, Dear,” The Café was mostly empty today, considering that it was so late at night you were surprised it was still open and that it was a Tuesday, “I’ll agree to disagree.”

“Name me one Nonfiction book that beats ‘The Hobbit,’ hm?” Your eyebrow raises and you place the cup down, “That’s right – you can’t!” 

“‘The Guns of August’ to name one,” John raises a large brow, “do you want me to continue, Love? I’ve got quite the long list.” 

It was one of the rare moments when the two of you had Leave together – once in a blue moon. These moments were so special it became tradition to spend every moment together despite the wounds or the fatigue. You both had just gotten back from an Op and rushed to change into civilian clothes and clean up together before leaving.

Admittingly, the shower took a bit longer than expected, but who could blame the two of you for taking advantage of a chance to please one another? 

Across the table, your lover smirks, and you see his eyes dip to ogle the hickeys and beard burn on your neck with satisfaction. Under the table, you reel back a foot and kick his shin. Not hard, of course, but the message was received.

“Bloody Hell!” He sputters, looking back to glare comedically at you. His black athletic shirt was tight around his chest, making his muscles writhe under the fabric from where one arm sat over the back of his chair. You could imagine where you left nail marks down those abs of his; how his face had looked as you straddled his waist and used him.

“Don’t look so smug, bastard,” Your lips pull into an imitation of an annoyed frown, “Gaz is gonna make fun of me when we get back. I had a hard enough time trying to hide them when we were leaving!”

“Garrick?” John grunts from across the small table and the warm lights flicker above the two of you. His lips set forth a small smile, pulling his cheeks back and crinkling his eyes. The corner seat was the best in the café – allowing both privacy and a view of the windows and doors. Some things would just never die in the two of you, it seemed, “The Muppet can’t even pin you in drills, Sweetheart. If he teases you, just kick his legs out from under ‘em.”

“Encouraging violence between peers is not Captain behavior, Love. What would Laswell say?”

John grunts, “I couldn’t give a damn, Dear.”

While you roll your eyes and try to hide the adoring smile ripping open your skin at the man’s chuckle, you take notice of the street outside as time moves on. Staring out, your soft gaze dances over the illuminated areas of the street lights, finding old architecture and simply enjoying the scenery for what it was. When you were in the field, it was hard to take in the sights around you through the gun battles and tense situations; being able to take your time and admire was a gift. A calm silence falls over the café, and John hums gingerly from ahead of you as his knee brushes yours under the table.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” Blinking, you connect your eyes with his lovely blues. 

The way he’s looking at you leaves your lungs tight, lashes fluttering over your cheeks as heat alights. His body had moved forward, hands and elbows on the table and leaning forward to gaze at you in reverence. 

“John?” Your eyebrows turn in, lips flicking to a gentle expression of giddy embarrassment.

“Shh, Love,” He mutters, tilting his head to stare at you as your fingers fix the weight of his lent brown leather jacket over your shoulders, “Let me admire my wife, yeah? She gets lovelier every second.”

In your own little world, your head is floating as your eyes stay locked on an ocean with flecks of silver and storms. The air is thick, and around the leather, your fingers twitch with a want to embrace him; pull at the fabric of his shirt and rip him into a kiss over the table. Your heart skips beats.

Where was this coming from? You want to ask, but all that comes out is a huff as you tear your half-lidded eyes away.

“You’re making me all shy,” You grumble cheeks hot and on fire under the flesh. Your lips try to restrain a giggle, but your chest is too tight to hold anymore.

“That’s my job, that is. No use tryin’ to stop me now; you’re stuck with me.”

“I will kick you again,” You emphasize as fire burns down your neck and ears, heart suddenly too big for your body.

“Hm, I’d let you.”

“J-Johnathan Price!”

His chest-shaking laughter is contagious in the best possible way.

—

He remembers the explosion and then nothing more. It was like a ball of fire, carried on the wind before Soap even had the time to call out a detonation time; the device went off in the deep tunnels after the order had already been given to fallback. The fire was too heavy – you had taken a blade to the thigh and that had been it. John had called it off immediately.

Just when he and Soap were about to rush to the exit, the bomb went off without call or meaning. The tunnels were part of an old wine cellar – the target had converted them to be a quick back exit if anything went wrong and he needed to disappear. 

The entire purpose of John taking Soap with him was to collapse the long stretches of rock and wooden support beams; to box Aarre Virtanen in the mansion like a bear in a trap but, of course, these missions could never go simply. 

He remembers the explosion, and then nothing more. 

The pressure of rock on his chest and gripping hands. Was Soap the one yelling at him to wake up? Shoving off the debris and ripping at his gear with grunted breaths? The barked orders were getting closer from all over.

Muppet, he should have just run. 

But then the heavy presence had disappeared, and John knew he had been left behind; his thoughts, before it all left him, were only of you. How would you take it? The fact that he wasn’t coming home with you was sure to induce you into a rampage of gritted teeth and hurled curses. That was, perhaps, the worst thing that could happen. He prayed for one simple thing – that, no matter what, the boys would convince you to hold back. 

And then he woke up in the room.

It was small; barren of anything besides the chair John was tied to. Under his feet was a drain, the silver metal glinting as the chilling overhead light cascaded down and left him blinking rapidly to push back the instinctual tears gathering in his ducts. As John moves his neck, it pops, making his jaw clench even as the bones ache deep under the layers of black and blue flesh.

His whole body hurts.

Blood is dried over his skin, and the world around him pulses as the stab of broken bones moves inside of him. 

Concussion, He assesses, moving his wrists under the tight hold of rope from where they’re restricted behind his back; tied to the back of the metal seat. Still unable to focus his eyes, he continues to go down the list of injuries, broken ribs, John sucks in a sharp breath when he attempts to rotate his left ankle, and broken Fibula and Tibia. Bruises and lacerations everywhere…shit.

But were you alright? Was the knife wound treated, wherever you were? Did Mactavish get out?

Groaning deep in his throat, the Captain shakes his head, noticing immediately the familiar weight of his gear was absent – his bucket hat and night-vision rig are gone as are the combat vest and M13. But under his shirt, one item is still there, pressed into his skin deeply. 

Golden metal. The wedding band. At the very least, that item could bring him a sliver of comfort.

Narrowing his eyelids and scrunching his large nose, a bead of blood travels down a gash above his eyebrow. 

“Fucken’ hell,” John growls, grunting and groaning as he forces his neck to right itself, lower body jerking forward to help relieve the pressure on his midsection. 

Finally, the water over his eyes dissipates like a wave in the ocean and his ears cease ringing. But the buzzing of the light quickly takes its place and his nose twitches at the stench of black mold and gore. Everything was concrete – the walls, floors. Blinking, John’s eyes quickly snap around the room to take it all in; trying to find the weak points that may come in handy later. 

There was only one door and no windows. When the Brit tried the rope around his wrists he found it was bound incredibly tight, even making the skin irritated at the slightest movement.

“Bloody bastard,” The Captain weakly mutters under his breath, shuffling in his seat, “First you stab my wife then you tie me up, is that it?” 

Struggling does nothing but serve to make John angrier, and the pain can easily be thrown to the side when his thoughts run to you. They always did, but now more than ever, considering he didn’t know if you had also gotten captured and were only a concrete barrier away.

While he tries to force down the floating feeling of his brain, a sharp cough works its way from his mouth, jerking his body back and forth raggedly. John is so out of it that he missed the sound of the door opening, the violent squeaking of the metal hinges, and the scrape of concrete. Heavy shoes pound over the floor, and when the air finally returns to his rampaging lungs, blue eyes lock onto the man.

 Aarre Virtanen stands with his hands behind his back, a smug expression staining his perfect, unscathed, face. The Target wasn’t more than thirty, dressed in a nice expensive suit and dress shoes on his feet shining with more polish than Price could begin to wrap his head around. 

Muppet, The characterization was almost instantaneous, Pompous little Muppet. Lion would eat ‘em for bloody breakfast.

John raises a brow slowly as a dribble of blood slides down his nose and gets caught in his beard hairs. The two men stare at one another, eyes clashing. 

“I’d like to imagine,” Aarre smirks down at the Captain, “That whoever sent you planned on my life being forfeit. Unfortunately,” John has to stop himself from laughing in his face, “As you can see, Sir, I am very much alive.”

Narrowing his gaze, Price runs down the length of Aarre’s twig-like form – Not much of a Smuggler, is he? His picture made him look bigger.

But all that meant was that he had others to do the dirty work for him, and John knew that, whatever basement he was cramped into, was guarded heavily just beyond eyesight. 

The chances of escape were drawing up dry, and his tongue ran over his teeth. 

“The real question is, however,” The thin man speaks, coming closer with a careful step. Nose twitching, the Brit can smell the disgusting odor of violent perfume; his head rears back in disgust that the Smuggler takes as fear. Aarre leans closer, “Who might you be? Your little friends managed to slip my grasp, but we got that bitch in the thigh–”

John’s head moves forward so fast all that was seen was a blur, and soon after a cracking of a nose meets damp air. 

A muffled yell echoes off the cracked walls like a satisfactory reward to the Captain’s ears, and the brown-haired individual quickly shakes his head to the side to clear the bouncing of his skull.

Definitely a concussion. He hisses and rips at the bindings behind his back; all that gets him is bloody skin and blisters.

“You,” Aarre is stumbling backward, one hand grasping his broken and bleeding nose. Crimson splatters on the floor and ragged breathing rattle chests from both parties, quivering around the room, “You…p-pathetic little shit. Fuck!”

His tears only serve to make John smile, cheeks pulling back as a humorless chuckle enters the air. Feral satisfaction lives in his flesh.

“You better watch your language there, Mutt. It’s not proper to insult a lady who can’t be here,” John’s tone drops, nearly a growl as the deep rumble leaves a hunched over Aarre flinching back; the Captain’s teeth are bared like an animal. Feet sound off in the hallways – rushing boots booking it down a set of descending stairs, “To knock your fucken’ teeth in herself!” 

Blood spits from John’s lips at the hiss, and his limp feet over the floor slump to the side as his legs fall open, body raging forward as if he could break the restraints. He wanted to – wanted to bash this little bastard's skull against the floor until he was unrecognizable. 

How dare he say that? How dare he call you that?!

Pain could be shoved aside in this case, his anger was so overpowering when it came to you that it simply didn’t bother him. You defended him just as religiously, and John’s mind flies to glimpse a fast memory of you physically getting in the face of a man who had insulted him over some pointless football game at a bar. 

“You better mind your tone,” You had spoken slowly, face calm and the perfect example of hidden rage shimmering under the surface. The Brit watched from the corner of his eye with a smirk on his lips; not at all opposed to letting you pick your battles and feeling his heart skip beats when his title falls, “When speaking to my husband like that.” 

Aarre’s guards rushed through the door, guns held in hands, all immediately leveled on John’s head. 

“Don’t!” The target gasps out, slapping one of the barrels to the floor and straightening himself, “Don’t.”

A deep smirk spreads the still-falling stream of crimson over the sides of his lips; the brown-haired man’s muscles are tense, stringing him up like a wire or a snake ready to strike. Torture was elementary to him, he’d gone through it all before and none of it had ever worked. He could take it, as long as you were far away from here.

“He’s going to have a buyer,” John’s eyes minutely widened in surprise, caught off guard, “Prep him for the flight to Poland. Don’t bother being gentle…the staff won’t mind if he comes in a bit damaged.”

—

Your fingers flinch forward as you shove the sapphire earring into your ear, the sharp point poking out the other end before you shove the backing on. Taking a deep breath, you feel the car under you bounce right as you ask your question.

“Gaz?” Lips thinning, you look through the limo’s glass separator and grimace at the man’s reflection in the mirror, “Are you sure no one knows what we look like? No one at the mansion saw our faces?”

“Lion, I’m promising you – it was too dark, and we were moving too fast for ‘em to get a clear picture.”

“Hm,” You grunt, flattening out the brown fur jacket over your form-fitting gown. The navy blue color was deep, reminding you of a Lapis Lazuli stone with veins of silver reflected in the jewelry around your throat and wrists. 

Poland was cold this time of year, and as the expensive buildings whizzed past just outside the glass, your breath created condensation. 

You were nervous, heeled feet shuffling over the tufted floor of the vehicle and sucking down slow breaths as a way to slow your heart. It had been a week without John at your side, and all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide the bags that had sprouted under your eyes; sleep had come in bouts of quick fatigue but then left just as swiftly. Your body wouldn't relax – couldn’t – until your husband was right beside you once more. 

And if he was already dead…

Your hand goes to itch at your neck, catching on the necklaces, one specifically, before you force it back down with quivering effort. Attempting to shake out your head, your ribs suddenly feel like they’re strangling your organs, and all you want to do is take off this damn dress.

Kyle utters your name from the driver’s seat, and when you blink over to look at him, you find his eyes already staring back.

“When I went missing in the Congo – you raised hell to go and find me,” He tells you, focus flicking back and forth from the road to you, “If anyone can get intel on Price and bring him back, Love, it’s you. He’ll be just fine until then, yeah? Bloke’s probably already out and rushing to get back to you.”

“Think so?” Your lips form a smile, and on your forehead, a brow raises. John was stubborn, there was certainly a chance he was already free.

“Know so, Ma’am. Just you wait and see.” Snorting, you return to looking out the window, breath now noticeably more even. 

There weren't many people who could make you keep a conscience; when you worked alone before 141 it was because no one else could keep up with your spontaneous plans or ideas. You were described in your file as a quick-witted and cunning nuisance for anyone on the opposite end of your weapon – whether that be your tongue or an actual gun just depended on the Op. But John and the other boys were more of a good influence than a bad one; in many ways, they were just the same as you. 

Sometimes it felt nice to have people that understood you. Your actions, the small tics that gave away how you were feeling. No one else could do it like Task Force 141, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of the ride was silent, and soon the city was peeling back to show off more extravagant houses with iron gates and cobblestone walkways. Properties the size of football fields take up your view, and your eyes blink at the extravagance; all you can’t help but wonder about is if the people that live there even know how many rooms they have.

When Gaz makes the final turn onto Aarre Virtanen’s land, you suck down a deep breath. 

There were so many lights that the night sky is nearly re-illuminated with a bath of warmth – the people already inside can be heard out in the air, a chorus of phantoms just beyond eyesight who sing with alcoholic breath and gasp down smoke. You had been to many parties to infiltrate high-level organizations, but never had the stakes been so high. 

Or so illegal. 

When the car in front of you pulls out of the roundabout driveway, Garrick pushes on the gas to take its place. A moment of steel silence rings. 

“Earpiece?” Gaz reminds softly, and you nod in response, tapping the appendage on your right side.

“Earpiece.”

“Alright…The rest of us’ll be listening – I’ll circle ‘round and be inside in an hour and Ghost is already there. He’s the waiter wearing the silver Jackal mask serving champagne near the back window. If anything goes wrong, Soap’s our sniper on the roof of the neighbor's house. Say the word and he starts popping shots to give you an exit.”

“Affirm,” Your hand is already reaching for the door, but the man stops you one last time with your name. You find his creased eyes in the mirror, brown a deep shade of concern.

“...You look beautiful, Love, Yeah? I’m sorry the Cap. isn’t here to see you like this – he’d lose his damn mind. Go all slack-jawed and trip over his own feet; God, I’d pay to see that.”

Lips delicately slide into a smile, and your face heats at the compliment. Letting out a light chuckle, you whisper, “I’ll see you in an hour, Sergeant.” 

“Count on it. Stay out of trouble ‘till then?”

“Trouble? Since when have I ever gotten into trouble?” When you sneak out the door, a light chuckle bounces off the doors before they close, and your heels click against the ground like nails on a desk. 

With a bitter determination entering your blood, your expression eases into a look of smug superiority as you begin to move forward and ascend the steps in front of the mansion. 

Virtanen was inside those doors, and your ears twitch, listening to Gaz peel the car away into the night; plucking out the forged invitation from your jacket pocket, you can’t help but call John forward to memory. Carefully maneuvering your way up the last flight of stairs, you reach the doors and imagine your husband right behind you, clothed in a suit and tie like the one he wore to your wedding, waiting to take you by the arm and lend you strength. 

Keep me aware, You want to ask his phantom, Make me see the hidden details so I can bring you home to me. 

Invitation in hand – which Ghost had to go through quite the killing spree to get accurate – your lips flick into an easy smirk.

Your silver tongue would come in handy tonight, but you hoped you weren’t too tired to miss important social cues. You needed to figure out where John was by tonight, or there was the possibility of losing him forever. Aarre Virtanen was the target yet again, and you would do whatever was necessary to get information to spill from his mouth like prayers; the party was an obvious front to impress buyers. 

And you could play that part quintessentially. 

“Hello, Handsome,” Purring, you move fluidly, body swaying as you come to a stop, letting your fur jacket slip down around your elbows and display a delicious amount of skin around your adorned neck, “So sorry you’re stuck out here in the cold, I can’t imagine what a bore it’s been.”

The man couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, eyes wide as they bore into your form from behind a silver mask depicting a bird of prey. His eyes slip, and a very audible swallowing of saliva makes his throat jerk – the poor individual's face was undoubtedly beet-red, seen extending down his neck and ears. 

“I-It’s really no problem, Ma’am,” He stutters, grabbing the slip of paper from your outstretched hand and barely opening it before he shoves it back into your chest, “You’re all good! Please, enjoy the hospitality of Sir Aarre Virtanen to the fullest of your abilities.”

“Why,” You show an all-teeth smile, “I’m sure I will.” 

Slipping through when he opens the door, a woman in a cat mask offers to take your jacket to the coatroom, which you agree to immediately, and disappears a second later. 

“Did you just flirt with the doorman, Hen?” Soap’s voice nearly startles you, but with a subtle flick of your hair, you play off the flinch as you step through the extensive foyer; slipping past other well-dressed individuals to make it to the ballroom, “Tch, naughty, naughty.”

“You’d be surprised,” You mutter and send a polite smile to a man who ogles your form, his eyes boring into your flesh, “How fast people can look over an invitation if you give them an incentive. Simon’s forger misspelled the street name.”

“Bloody fucken’ bastard,” Ghost growls lowly under the line. 

“So vulgar, Simon,” You smirk, waltzing into the marble-floored ballroom and clearing yourself a path with wide eyes and stares, “We’re at a party. Aren’t you excited?”

“You’re not the one holding a damn plate of champagne, Little Lion. Feelin’ like I might bash someone over the head if they wave me over with a fucken’ finger again. Like I’m some damn mutt.”

Stifling a deep laugh, your fingers splay over your lips, “Easy, boy. Don’t go barking up the wrong tree.”

All you hear in return is a grumble and a muffled giggle from Soap. Gaz is most likely scrambling to get his tux on and tie a bowtie like how you taught him on the far street corner back in the city. Slowly, but surely, it was coming together. 

Soon, You tell yourself and imagine a steady hand splayed over your back; digging into your skin.

“Excuse me?” A presence slips up to your left, and you turn with a slow head and an even slower smile. Already, your cheeks were hurting from the constant fake expression.

“Oh, hello, Love,” It’s a man who wears an all-black outfit, fitted with silver buttons and a red pocket square, “How can I help you?”

“That’s one of the target’s guards,” Soap slithers out over the line, “Saw ‘em scheming not five minutes ago near the snack bar.” 

“I was wondering if such a beautiful woman might not humor me. I’m in desperate need of company for the auction later this evening.” Your smile turns deadly, a glint forming in your eye that should have deterred anyone who saw it – but sometimes people overlook the snake in the grass if it’s pretty, regardless of its fangs. 

Getting close to this man got you close to Aarre. Your hand reaches up to caress the wedding ring on its chain.

“Well, how could I say no to such a dashing man? But you must tell me, where did you purchase your tux? My brother has been looking for one that looks the same; you understand, of course, the kind that hugs the body just right…”

—

“You’re a fucken’ minx, you are,” John moans under you, hips sputtering and jaw clenched. He’s panting as you finally slip off of him, choosing to collapse to the bed just by his side with a breathy sigh. Your legs are still shaking, but the deep-rooted ache of pleasure takes hold in your lower body nonetheless.

Chuckling while sucking down breaths, you smirk and turn your head to the side, finding deep blue already digging into your skin despite the glaze over the orbs. Perspiration leaks down his flushed forehead, getting caught in the hairs of his eyebrow before you reach up, and flick it away with a firm finger.

“And you’re a lousy bottom, Captain, how many times did I have to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” You ask, eyeing the way the brown strands of John’s hair stick up at odd angles with growing amusement. He looked like a porcupine, “You don’t listen very well. I’ll have to fix that.”

“Damn woman,” He groans, turning his head away with a huff escaping his lips. Your ears twitch when he cracks his neck, stifling a chortle behind your fingers as he levels you with an unamused look, “Need to figure out a way to tire you out quicker. Gettin’ too old for this.”

“Hm,” Rolling your eyes, you shift till you’re laying on your stomach, legs sliding over the ruffled sheets, “I like you like this. Just perfect.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my hips, Love.” Now that really gets a laugh out of you, hiding your face down in the covers for a moment and feeling John’s eyes lovingly gracing down the curve of your spine.

Reaching over, your fingers grab onto the bare skin of his toned thigh and pinch.

Grunting in surprise, the Captain’s hand snaps to your wrist and grasps it as your giggles fill the air with softness. You turn your head up and rest your chin on your free hand, looking over and letting your eyes wash down John’s physique; a primal sense of possessiveness leaks into you when you know no one else gets to see him like this. The nail marks track down his pecks, over his abs and deliciously lower atop his navel, and over his neck and collarbone is the fresh array of black and blue hickeys. Just like you, his heart was still racing, seen moving under the skin.

He looked positively, beautifully, wrecked. The Captain’s eyes never left yours, side-eyeing you with a half-open mouth. A small sigh leaves his red lips.

“C’mere,” John mutters, and you squeak when his grip is suddenly pulling you right up next to his chest so that you were more than half lying on top of him. 

Moaning out in contentment when you feel his heat leak into you, your body goes limp against the man; leg thrown over his upper thigh. Eyelashes flutter over your cheek when his large hand keeps you against him, settling on your ass heavily. He squeezes gently in payback for the pinch, and you smile, knowing he can feel it against his chest by the way he purrs like a cat as you press a kiss to his sweat-slick flesh.

The moment of content silence leads long, but just when your eyelids are nearing their final shut is when you hear it, muttered on teeth-bitten lips for the first time, though it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Love you, my Sweet Girl,” John mutters deeply into the air, but you’re already drowned in sleep, satisfied and more at ease than ever before.  

But no matter, he’d just tell you again in the morning; make you say the same as he gripped your hips and used his tongue for more…carnal types of confessions. 

You had no idea at that moment, but two years from that day, you’d both be married. Husband and wife in every sense – bonded and promised to each other until the sun and moon collided; till every city burned and only dust remained. 

There was really no other pair so carefully crafted than the two of you. 

—

“Here you are, Lovely,” The guard, whose name is Mikael, hands you a champagne glass as you both stride forward to the bidding room. It had been two hours of entertaining this man – dancing, flirting, brushing off compliments that made you want to hurl – but none of that mattered. No matter the cost, you would see this done with a smile and a knife through Virtanen’s eye.

“Thank you,” You sing, toasting with him and taking a slow sip. The liquid sits bitterly in your stomach, a rock that bounces around with every clipped step. 

Choosing back-row seats, you sit in what could be described as a theater of sorts and place the glass on the floor. There was a large stage at the front, with rows upon rows of plush chairs.

How many people are here to buy smuggled contraband? You can’t help but wonder silently, eyes wide as more and more people flood through the doors.

“Do you usually get so many buyers?” Asking Mikael sweetly, you keep your gaze moving, filing every face into the back of your mind for later. 

His hand moves to rest on the back of your seat, and you have to hold back a grimace, “This is more than the last times, but, uh…well,” Sensing hesitation, you shift closer and peer up into his eyes, blinking innocently and smiling.

“Well…what?” 

You swore you heard Soap gag over the line and soon after a sharp shushing sound. At your side, Mikael’s expression gets giddy, pupils dilating as his vision darts down to your dress before righting itself. 

“My boss has got something good tonight – a new piece of merchandise that everyone wants to get their hands on. Apparently, some people here have been waiting for a score like this for years.”

“Oh?” Wondering aloud, you lean back out of Mikael’s hold with a furrowed brow and ignore his light huff of annoyance in your ear. 

Narrowing your eyes, you scrunch your nose at the thought.

‘New piece of merchandise?’ What the hell could that mean? The target mostly specializes in weapons – certain ones that are manufactured so that they can’t be traced…what could be so new?

“It’s starting, here,” The guard whispers as the lights dim, and hands you a golden-colored bid paddle designed with lace-like designs. You twirl it in your hands with an unimpressed look.

“How pompous can this guy get?” You mutter under your breath and startle when Ghost’s voice pipes up.

“Get me a new G18, yeah? Johnny lost my last one.” Resisting the sudden urge to cover up your face and hide your smile, you lightly hum in the back of your throat.

“I did not!” Soap starts a ruckus as the Auctioneer comes onto the stage, and you ignore the fast man’s voice as he begins a bid for a stack of RPGs – wheeled out in a crate by three other individuals in animal masks – in favor of the amusing argument, “I told ya’ where you could blood find it.”

“It was in the middle of an active war zone, MacTavish.”

“You’ve never complained about it before, ya’ bawbag. Canny be my fault if you don’t go an’ get it.” The Scots accent gets more prominent as the Auctioneer sells the current merchandise to a couple sitting two rows down, “‘I lost it’...utter shite.”

Gaz groans and you see a shadow near the door, leaning on the wood from the corner of your eye. The badly presented bowtie gives away who it is – you’d have to have John teach him how to do it properly when you got him back.

“Would the two of you shut up? Bloody hell, I’m about to scream.” 

The bickering went on for a while, making your tight chest just a little looser. John would be proud of them. 

“Finally,” The Auctioneer calls out, yelling over the crowd, “The grand attraction for tonight – a product put forward by our esteemed host Mr. Virtanen!” 

Your body straightens, spine tensing, as Mikael tries to get your attention fruitlessly to talk about a product he won. You ignore the guard, watching with a unique type of hatred as the weasel of a man swishes his way on stage from behind the red curtain. Immediately all conversation in your ear is halted, and try as you might, a growl builds in your throat.

“Easy, Lion,” Simon mutters, but all you see is red; red around an expensive tux and a lithe form of the man who had stolen away your husband from you without thinking of the consequences. The bandages over his nose gives you cruel satisfaction that someone, whoever they were, had gotten a hit in.

You had half the mind to tell Soap to take the shot but knew that if you did, John would be lost forever. Your Captain had always said violence and timing were the most important aspects of a mission – you had to politely disagree. 

Ops could be accomplished without violence, though it was rare, it could still happen on occasion and timing was all relative. One person could say it was time to act while a million others disagreed; this was shown in your case. You wanted to rush the stage, tackle the thief, and beat his head in – Gaz, Soap, and Ghost would all disagree, of course, but that was because you were thinking only about John and nothing else. 

What really mattered was cunning and drive. You had the silver tongue, and you, without a doubt, had the drive to see this through. 

But nothing could have prepared you for what came next. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aarre Virtanen called out, his thin face ugly and punchable, “May I present the star of tonight's bidding wars – an esteemed and highly sought-after mystery man! Captain Jonathan Price!” 

The curtain rolled back, and, tied to a chair with a light shining above his head, was John. Beaten. Bloodied. Barely recognizable besides the tufts of his brown locks and the glittering of golden metal under the ragged remains of his clothes. You can see his wedding band around his neck, and you go to grip your own in a flashing second. There was so much blood. Your heart ceased working, body suddenly very numb and stone-still despite the heat in it, as if you had been shot in the throat and all you could do was gasp out in panic. And gasp you did. It was involuntary, instinctual, like you could feel every ounce of pain and agony that he was undoubtedly in deep in your own marrow. 

What?! 

A loud, horrified, sound rips from your throat; the air was hard to suck down as your hand snapped to your mouth, muffling the exclamation of terror. Your eyes are so wide you’re afraid they’ll pop out of their sockets as you lightly hunch into yourself like a bug.

“Now, now!” Aarre Virtanen continues over the muttering of the crowd, oblivious to your panic in the back row. Mikael is giving you strange looks, lightly pulling away from you in confusion at your reaction; you don't register any of it, “I know what you’re thinking, my lovely patrons, but I can say without a doubt that this man–” He points to the limp figure, “Is the one and only Johnathan Price! Do you want to know why?” The crowd cheers, and in that instant you want to torch the entire building and laugh as it burns to the ground, “Because he and his precious 141 tried to attack me on my own property! The idiot’s explosive went off before they could run!”

Over the ruckus of gleeful laughter, Soap on the line is hissing curses under his breath, voice heated and full of hatred. 

What I’m I supposed to do? Your mind’s running. For the first time in your career, you can’t focus clearly. Gaz is saying something in your ear, his shadow slinking closer step-by-step, and Ghost is nowhere to be seen or heard. 

Oh, John, You feel like crying, eyes running from one injury to another as if he were just a punching bag – his body was broken, but still, you knew he hadn’t given anything away. In the chair, you can see the small inhalations of his lungs, jumpy and shaking, but he was still breathing.

“How did they figure out his name?” Simon grunts over the line, and his tone is the only one unaffected by emotion, even if you could feel the anger wafting out and mirroring your own. 

His dog tags, You want to tell them, He keeps them in his vest pocket because he said he wanted to wear his wedding band instead. 

Your hand tightens over your matching piece, one half of a promise to protect one another even in the direst of circumstances. 

Freezing, you snap back into focus as the bidding starts with Aarre Virtanen laughing and clapping on stage like some demented jester. So be it. Your mind halts and a rage-induced calm encompasses you as your eyes stick like glue to John. Tossing the joke of a bid paddle at a startled Mikael’s lap and slipping past him, your heels connect with the floor with muffled thumps, carrying you down the middle of the aisle. 

“Ma’am–!”

“Lion, what in the bloody hell are you doing?!”

“Playing the game,” You growl over the chaos in the comm, “Gaz, find a way to get on stage from behind one of the curtains,” People are starting to turn and look at you now, accusing glances that bounce off you like flies, “Soap, have a line of sight of the target – do not let him stray from it no matter what. And Ghost,” Your heart is speeding when Virtanen’s gaze snaps to yours, expression blanking. John groans weakly from where his head is downturned, and you can’t help but take a shaky breath at the sound, “Go find out where they store the sold items. Find something that’ll come in handy. Take out anyone you need, I give full Execute Authority.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They all say it at once, and the line goes silent not a second after, flipped off so everyone can remain focused. Steeling your body, you put on a cloak of indifference, even as your eyes bug and sweat stains your palms – the stakes had never been this high, and if you messed this up…

The both of you would be going home in body bags. 

If I had known he was going to be here, I would have come more prepared. A knife in a carry bag or a hairpin – Something. But John had stated before that he loved you for your intuition. 

You simply needed to move your pawn piece and hope it wasn’t in the way of a bishop.

Sliding over your husband's slumped body once more, you have to rip your gaze away, else your cover be blown and everything falls apart before it’s begun as a sting forms in the back of your nose.

Just a little longer, Love, just hold out a little bit longer.

The Auctioneer halts when you stand just below the slightly higher plateau of the platform, and Aarre digs into your body with his dead face, body bent to stare down at you. All around you, the world is deathly quiet. A minute…two…

“And who might this be?” Virtanen spits, lips pulling into a sneer as his eyes crinkle, “I don’t have to tell you, Dear, that all purchases are final.”

Don’t look at John. Don’t look at him. 

“You said this is Johnathan Price?” Your voice carries; it's stronger than you would have imagined, even as your legs shake, “Well, I don’t believe you.” You swore then that your Captain’s head moved slightly, his face turning to the side, but you can’t be sure. 

Gasps are hidden behind hands and handkerchiefs.

“...What?” The smug look on the man's face falls in an instant, just as you had hoped it would – Virtanen relied on his power; ego, and unquestioned superiority. What you had to do first was break it down to a point where he was frothing at the mouth, “What is it that you are implying? That I would…lie to my loyal customers?!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Your feet carry you away to the stairs, scaling them up to the stage and shoving past shell-shocked guards who didn’t know what to do, “Where’s the proof, Mr. Virtanen? I believe I would like to see it before I make any definitive financial choices. You could be selling us any stray British man you found on the street and we’d be none the wiser for it.”

There was a pause before a murmur of agreement from the crowd. 

Aarre gapes at you, mouth opening and closing as his face gains a red sheen, blood rushing to his head and making his eyes rapidly flutter from the guests to you. Swallowing down saliva, you saunter up to John, fingers shaking as they reach out to brush his arm. You nearly break when his flesh flinches and becomes tense, muscles writhing as you hook a finger under his chin all too aware of the eyes on you from every angle. It helps that one of them is Soap, though.

Looping the digit under him, John’s beard scratches your skin just like it always did when you ran your hands over his cheeks or around his square face. Moving his head up, your grip vibrates with anxiety when you’re finally able to take a full look at his visage. 

Please be okay, Love.

You can’t help the widening of your eyes when they lock on the bruises, the cuts, and scratches littering his large nose and forehead. His eyelids flutter over sunken cheeks, bags of severe color under his orbs as a rumble echoes in his battered chest.

Did they even feed him?

“I don’t – I don’t like what you’re implying, Miss!” The Target continues to prattle, but already your shoulders have squared, “I would never, in a million years, make such false claims–!”

When John’s eyes shutter open you seem to forget where you are entirely, head completely going silent off all fears or concerns. As the lids slide back, you notice one optic is bathed in red – the veins in the gentle sensory organ having been popped by relentless fists…but the other, oh, oh, the other. A shade so familiar it twists your lips and makes your heart clench. Storm gray; ocean blue, flecks of moonlight trapped just for you. 

John’s focus is blurry, his mind confused and in need of a dark room with a glass of chilled whiskey to put on his forehead, but...that finger under his chin. His gaze narrows, lips pulling tight under his beard hairs as a shadow stands in front of him. Why did it feel so familiar? So…warm? 

“John?” A soft voice graces his ears, leaving them twitching as his arms burn more than a thousand suns, “John, please, look at me.” 

His face scrunches, eyebrows turning in. Blinking, the man only succeeds for a few moments, consciousness so rapidly fading because of the wear on his body, but a few moments was all he needed. 

It was you – looking at him with terrified eyes, mouth slightly parted in awe. John’s heart skips beats. 

She’s here? He questions, weakly moving his arms to try and embrace her before the rope stops his bloodied and shredded hands, Why? How? And…oh hell, is that a dress?

Blinking at the navy gown, his eyes widened at the heavenly sight in front of him. Was he dead? No, he realized, you wouldn’t be here if he was. But that was the only option to see something like this in front of him when he was where he currently was. 

“L-love?” He gasps out, letting his full weight fall into your hold. 

Your hand brushes over his beard, tangling in the bristles and flinching at the open wounds that you find. 

“It’s me,” You whimper, “I’m right here.” 

If possible, he gravitates toward you even more.

“--Are you even listening?!” Aarre Virtanen yells, and people are standing from their seats out in the crowd, calling out in confusion. 

John murmurs out comments from under your grip, but they’re so weak you can’t make them out as he nuzzles your limb. From the corner of your eye, a figure rustles one of the stage curtains, held back in the shadows.

“I’m here,” Gaz says a second before Simon does.

“I found something that might come in handy...When I throw it, get Price out of there and take cover.”

“Soap?” You ask, voice low and gaining a sheen of ice. Slowly, your head tilts to the side, gripping your husband by the back of the head and drawing him to your stomach, caressing his scalp through his hair as he sighs into your dress.

“Yes, Ma’am?” 

“Take it.”

“...With pleasure.” The ear-ringing shot fires off, breaking glass and rustling half-drawn curtains, but it meets its mark with expert precision. 

Aarre Virtanen’s head pops like a balloon, and a moment later a smoke bomb is being chucked from halfway across the room by a Jackal-masked waiter with a strong arm. Before the guards can even get to their pistols around their thighs, Gaz has rushed through the smoke and sliced John’s bonds with a serrated cake knife. Both of you grab your Captain by one of his arms and drag him off to the side, disappearing just as the first screams wail out. 

The 141 works like a well-oiled machine, and not five minutes later everyone is in the limo that Gaz had re-driven and parked down the dark roads of Poland, rushing off as you press table cloths against your husband’s leaking cuts. Tears dribble down your cheeks, with large hiccuped gasps as you lean over John – who could only barely keep his eyes open to look at you as Soap and Ghost watch anxiously from their seats. 

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, y’know that,” You sob out, practically sitting on top of him to stop the crimson leaking over the cushions, “I need to keep a bell on you, my Love.”

Your wedding band sways just above his face, and his own glints below you, bunched on his collarbone.

“Go on,” He says in a low voice, eyes incredibly soft but still distant in a way that told you he was concussed. It was a miracle he was even conscious if you could admit it to yourself.

The man’s shaking hand travels to your cheek, brushing away tear tracks only to leave blood stains behind instead. He pulls away slightly, staring at the mark in disgust as his complexion gets even paler. Snapping your grip up, you bring it back, making him cup your flesh in his big hands and splay his fingers over your ear and weave into your hair. 

John hums under his breath, “Beautiful.”

Then he goes limp, and you start screaming.

—

Stripping your face of makeup, you step into the shower with only your necklace on, letting the water slap against your head as you take a deep breath in. You lean forward, letting your head connect with the porcelain of the hospital’s washroom as your body begins to shake – finally allowed to fall apart and feel the genuine horror that had lived in you for a week straight.

John was just a door away in the hard bed of some random hospital Gaz had driven to. Quite recklessly, you should mention, but it’s not like it mattered. 

Ghost was on the phone with Laswell, getting a protection detail in case anyone attempted to break into the room and stab someone with a scalpel, while Gaz and Soap also got ready for sleep. No one was leaving the hospital tonight. Garrick had explained the situation in broken Polish to the local authorities, and the staff was kind enough to give out a free office room with pillows and blankets. It was a good thing that the room was connected to John’s, otherwise, you might have refused…even if the bags under your eyes threatened to block your line of sight.

Wiping blood and grime from your body, you take less time than you should have in the shower – too occupied with being by your husband's bedside. The new stitches on your recently ripped-open thigh wound were red with irritation, but you had all but forgotten about it entirely. 

They had only just gotten John stable an hour ago. 

“They, uh,” Gaz’s eyelids crease, “I think they said that they had to re-” He halts, face going slack, and sending you a slow look, “restart his heart.”

“They nearly beat him to death,” You whisper, hands coming up to weave over the top of your head as you sob into the wall, “They…God, John. I was nearly too late.” 

Your words trail off in a weak whimper, muffled over the sound of water and the whirring fan in the ceiling. What if you had been five minutes late? Three? Would he have…

Would he have died in your arms?

You spend the rest of the shower wondering, and as you dry yourself off and slip into sweats and a hoodie from the gift shop, your tears splatter the floor. Rubbing your nose, you sniffle; reaching to grab the ring and pull the chain out above the fabric. Your fingers caress the item for a minute or two, and your eyes flutter shut. 

He’s okay, You tell yourself, He’s just a door away. He’s alive.

You open the door and let the steam waft, itching at your neck before you take a steadying breath. John lays still on the hospital bed, body hooked to machines that display screens and vital signs with glitching green lights that pierce your eyes as if a mocking little beast was behind the glass. 

Your husband’s wounds are all stitched and glued back together; wrapped tightly and tucked in by your gentle hands with an extra blanket. He usually complained about how cold it was back at your shared flat in London and around the multiple bases the Force traveled to…you would hate for him to shiver here. 

It was the least you could do.

Drawing your eyebrows in, the red ring around your eyes doesn’t help the sting, but still, you gaze at your husband with all the tender concern in the world. 

If was determined, then, that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was awake; until you saw his eyes soften on your figure. Until he was tracing the very makeup of your genetics like no other being could even have a glimpse of you in their features – like the aspects of your form were holy and utterly unique, never seen besides out of legend and fable. You longed to bathe his flesh in the feeling of your touch. If you believed it hard enough, you could convince yourself that you could make him forget this ordeal, forget the wounds. 

But you were no fool. A cunning nuisance, perhaps, but not a fool. 

All you could do was wait for him to wake up, and so your socked feet carry over the tile and bring you to the chairs beside the bed, grabbing one and pulling it out. Your fingers intertwined with his, weaving the calloused pads and scared flesh that mirrored your own like an echo of history together. 

Bringing his limb to your face, you rest your forehead on it, feeling the pump of his blood like a hymn and letting it calm you. A presence in the room makes your once closed eye crack open, slipping to the side. You had only just noticed him.

I really must be tired.

“Doctors say he’s stable,” Gaz mutters lowly, leaning against the wall in the far corner. It was like he had known you wanted someone to watch John while you couldn’t – even if only for a few minutes, “They came in while you were showering” 

Your lungs inflate, “...Thank you, Kyle.” 

You feel his eyes on you, but as you lay a gentle kiss on your husband's knuckles he speaks once more.

“You sure you don’t want to get some rest, Love? It’s late, y’know – sun’s gonna come up in a few hours around here.” It was a nice concern, and you knew that after Ghost’s call with Laswell that he’d get some sleep as well; Johnny was already snoring away, the sound nearly heard through the walls. 

Gaz, well…

“And am I to expect my Sergeant to get some rest if I do that?” Your voice is hoarse and weighed down, but the message is clear. The man lets out a chuckle, pushing off the wall and coming over to you. He rests a hand on your shoulder and you lean into it.

“I have no problem watching over him for you – he’s my Captain too, Lion. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden more than the rest of us.”

If you could have rolled your eyes, you would have. A teasing tone sneaks into your words as you snort.

“Gaz, and I mean this in the best possible way,” Your lips utter out, still gazing at John’s face as it scrunches and twitches in his sleep, “Respectfully, fuck off, yeah?”

A moment of silence passes before a thick laugh echoes out over the room.

“You act a lot like Cap. when he’s out of commission, Ma’am.”

“Of course I do,” Your grip travels up John’s arm, tracing old blemishes and kissing across bruises, “If he brings all the hard-headedness away with him, none of you lot would get anything done.”

An easy air keeps the both of you in a tight embrace and Garrick’s hand squeezes for a moment; a piece of you breaks open as your gaze slips to the floor.

“I’ll take the night shift. Please, I…,” Your voice borders on unheard, “I can’t sleep until he’s awake.”

He sighs but nods his head.

“Say no more. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just come get me, yeah? Don’t worry if you have to be loud – been trying to get used to waking up abruptly anyways.” His hand disappears, and you huff.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. You better.” Gaz’s feet carry him away and through the side door, slipping into the office. A rustling of thin cotton is heard a moment later before the door completely closes on its own. 

You stay in that chair for another hour and a half before John moves an inch. When you feel his finger twitch you jerk up, drool falling from your chin to the sheets before you wipe it off.

“John?” Breathing out a gasp, you shake your head to focus better, and pause when his hold on your hand suddenly gains strength. Your heart soars.

“...Love,” He grunts out, face scrunched, and tense. 

At that moment you swear your body loses all weight, and you pull the chair closer as you wetly speak.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m right here. D-don’t move too much, just let the painkillers work.”

“Bloody things make my damn head lose,” He groans, head falling to the side on the pillow as his eyes flutter open. 

You place his knuckles to your lips to hide the shuttered breath you take when you see his eyes – even if one was still red. It was still your John. 

He looks at you for a moment, eyes glazed, with his jaw clenching and unclenching to gain bearing. The covers hide his chest, but you hear the way he breathes as his messed-up bedhead leaves you chuckling. But the longer you were chuckling, the more you wanted to cry, and soon nothing could stop the swell of vile sobs falling from your mouth. 

“Oh,” John whispers out, voice weak as his digits twitch under your shaking lips, “C’mere, Love. None of that, now.” 

Your body falls forward, and the man hides the grunt in his chest when you unintentionally hit his ribs as you burrow closer into his side. He doesn’t mind. John’s hand goes to the back of your head, weaving through the strands as the covers catch your tears – he’s looking down at you with such blatant worry it hurts. 

He shouldn’t be worried about me, look what happened. He’s in the fucking hospital.

“Y-You,” You’re gasping for breath, chest tight and vibrating. ‘Take a breath’ it tries to tell you, but getting the words out was more important. John’s hand gets tighter, and he longs to kiss your forehead, “I didn’t know if you were dead, a-and then when they had you on stage I was trying so hard to keep it together, John. But…but then you were bleeding all over the car and I was screaming at you too–”

“Breathe,” Your husband pleads, authority leaking into the comment, “Please, Dear, take a breath for me, Yeah? I’m right here.” 

You weep but do as he says, feeling the muscles under your grip move as he shifts his weight. Taking a deep breath, your nose is shoved into the fabric of the blankets, inhaling John’s scent and letting it encompass you entirely. 

He was there. He was right there. 

Letting out one last whine, your Captain prompts you to lift your head with a muted brush of his finger over your scalp. Pulling yourself up, you scrunch the bedding in your hands around John’s waist, practically leaning all the way over him. It was a good thing the bed wasn’t too high. 

He smiles softly down at you, his grip moving to slip past your eyebrow and swipe away the salty water that itches your chin, “There she is. My beautiful wife”

Your watery chuckle wraps him in more warmth than any blanket ever could. 

“Do you need anything?” You mutter after a minute of staring into each other’s eyes, head tilting to the side as your heart rate finally slows to a pace that copies John’s. 

One of your hands goes to smooth his hair, carefully flattening down the patches and being mindful of the bandages and band aids over his visage. You swear he purrs at you, body rumbling under your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing on mapping out your face – as if for the first time. But when he does speak he brushes off the question entirely.

“I had a dream.”

“A good one?” You ask immediately, voice equally as low and vulnerable as his. In his orbs, you see stars blinking with every movement, deep hues of blue in every shade.

“Hm,” He affirms, a slow smile blossoming on his lips, “You were there.”

“That, my love, could mean many things.”

“No. Only one, Mrs. Price,” Your eyebrows raise, eyes watering as rogue drops tracks fall down your cheeks once more. 

It was all so much. Getting him back; seeing him like this, having him talk to you like that again – with all the love in the world. He was beaten, but alive, and already awake beside the gargantuan odds.

But you didn’t marry him just because you thought he was buff and could give you a good time. You married him because he was John, and no one else could be.

John’s gaze washes over you, narrowed in that expression he always had on his face when he’s thinking. When he’s studying you with more care than anyone has in your entire life. Like he could figure out everything and anything about you in the way your lips curved, or how you looked at him so delicately as if he was made of glass and not stone or metal. 

He could never understand how you loved him so much, how every bit of stardust was reflected into your body and leaked out of you whenever you moved. 

How he managed to get you by his side…well, he’d never know. But the feeling was mutual.

“Oh,” Your thumb caresses his cheek, running over the bristles and skimming over the skin, “And what’s that, Mr. Price?”

“..Means I’ve been blessed to see you not only when I open my eyes…but when I close ‘em too.”

In Poland, two people are finally able to press their lips together for the first time in a long while; they themselves would say it felt like ages. That was expected, naturally, because a match such as the one made between you and Jonathan Price was forged with steel and tempered in rough waters. Nothing could break it.

Their wedding bands clink together as they pull back, glinting gold more vibrant than the sun…but not quite as warm or adoring as the looks in their eyes.

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @antigonusyuki, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @lora21, @330bpm-whiplash, @michirulol, @john-pricee, @cl0wncxre, @jade-jax, @anna-banana27, @lothiriel9, @halfmoth-halfman​

#john price #captain john price #john price x reader #John price x you #captain johnathan price #cod #cod x reader #cod mw22 #cod x you #x female reader #x fem!reader #MW #MW2 #Call Of Duty MW2 #mw2 2022 #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #kate laswell #call of duty

[fuckyeahisawthat]

i rewatched Dune Part Two recently and one of the most striking shots for me was the one of the Fremen attacking the Sardaukar on wormback, while holding the Atreides flag.

Like, we just saw the Sardaukar forming up with their numerous flag bearers, even trying to maintain their flags raised after the nuclear detonation (in a shot that mirrored the famous "Raising the Flag in Iwo Jima" statue to me btw, nice nod to imperialism).

And then the Fremen arrive, but they're not bearing their colors, their flags, not fighting in their own names, instead it's the Atreides colors. The colors of their new, imperially appointed rulers. New pawns in the warfare between Great Houses, soldiers instead of freedom fighters. Urgh. Wish i could make gifsets.

Yeah yeah yeah it's horrifying!! You are watching a national liberation movement get successfully co-opted by a superpower and it's awful!

They did such a good job making it feel creepy and foreboding when the Atreides symbols and motifs start re-appearing in the last hour or so of the movie. The second Gurney shows up he immediately re-introduces the Atreides way of looking at the world, and it's disturbing how easily Paul falls back into thinking like that, seeing the planet and its people as tools to be used in an inter-imperial power play. (It's right after Gurney tells him about the family nukes that Paul has the signet ring out for the first time since the beginning of the second act and we're like OH NO.) This is before he drinks the Water of Life; he is already starting to think like a colonial duke again some time before he declares himself one.

After the opening montage where we see the piles of bodies being burnt, we don't see the stylized Atreides hawk symbol for most of the movie. The next time it appears is on a vault of nuclear weapons, which are never treated as anything but a curse. It's so important that Stilgar and Chani are with Paul and Gurney when they open the vault so we can see their horror at these weapons and the gleeful, casual way Gurney talks about them. Chani is also seeing an aspect of Paul that she hasn't really witnessed before--Paul, the Future of House Atreides--and she does not like it.

And then of course the whole ending battle is making the point over and over again with repeated imagery that Atreides and Harkonnens are exactly the fucking same. All the imagery from the initial Harkonnen attack on Arrakeen in Part One--which at least shows the Atreides as brave in the face of overwhelming odds--gets inverted into something that's supposed to make us shudder. That scene of Gurney hacking his way through the crowd of soldiers with someone carrying the Atreides flag behind him? Nightmarish.

All of this stuff is super important to what the movie is trying to say because it is very very easy for us to buy into the Atreides' propaganda about themselves being the good guys. If we're paying attention to what Chani tells us in the literal first 3 minutes of the first movie, we already know we should be viewing them with a bit of critical distance. And while I think there is plenty in the first movie to make us side-eye their noble image (Leto saying we will bring peace to Arrakis?? fucking yikes dude), it's easy to forget that because Leto generally seems like a good dude to the people close to him, and he dies tragically so we never get to see much of what kind of colonizer he would have become. And I think it's easy to start thinking well if only Leto the more reasonable parent had lived then things wouldn't have turned out this way.

But fucking desert power?? That was Leto's idea. This is Leto's dream being realized. The plan was always to use the Fremen as pawns in the power struggle between the Great Houses. Maybe not quite in the way that Paul does cause he definitely goes off with it, but the end result is just as much a product of Atreides imperialism as it is of Bene Gesserit religious colonialism. The Atreides aren't inherently any more noble or benevolent than the Harkonnens in their intentions, they just have better PR. But the end result is exactly the same: a pile of dead bodies being set on fire.

#dune #dune part two #paul atreides #house atreides #asks answered #thank you so much for this ask cause it gave me a chance to go OFF lol

[crimsntwlip]

scars | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: based on this request!

a/n: so sorry i took awhile to post this req <33 remus art creds to: @/likeafunerall on ig!!

| posted: 4/2/24 | masterlist |

you and remus had been friends for quite some time now, bonding over your shared love for books and late night conversations. however, there was one thing you noticed about him - he never liked talking about his scars.

you, on the other hand, had a few scars yourself, but they were nothing compared to the ones that marred remus's skin. yours were mostly from childhood scrapes and silly accidents, each with its own funny story or memory attached to it. you would often laugh and joke about them, but whenever the topic of scars came up, remus would quickly change the subject.

one night, as the two of you sat in the gryffindor common room, you found yourself recounting the story behind a scar on your knee from falling out of a tree when you were younger. remus listened in awe as you animatedly described the events leading up to the fall and the hilarious aftermath.

“ i can't believe you were that brave as a child,” remus said, his eyes shining with admiration. “i would have been too scared to even climb a tree.”

you chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “well, you never know what you're capable of until you try, right?”

you noticed a shift in remus' demeanor. his eyes seemed to darken slightly, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “is everything alright, remus?” you asked, concerned.

he hesitated for a moment before finally speaking, his voice low and hesitant. “i... i don't really like talking about my scars.”

you nodded understandingly, not wanting to push him further. but to your surprise, remus spoke up again, his voice barely above a whisper. “but... hearing you talk about your scars and the memories behind them, it's... it's nice. It's like... they're not just scars, they're... stories.”

you smiled softly, feeling a warmth in your chest at his words. “yeah, they're like reminders of the adventures and mishaps we've had along the way.”

for a brief moment, there was a comfortable silence between the two of you, before remus spoke up once more, his voice stronger this time. “i... suppose I could share a story or two about my scars, if you're interested.”

you beamed at him, eager to hear the tales behind the mysterious marks that marred his skin. as the conversation shifted to remus, you couldn't help but notice the way his expression softened when he spoke about his scars. he reluctantly shared a few stories behind them, but you could tell it was difficult for him. you made sure to listen attentively, showing him the same patience and understanding he always showed you.

as remus finished telling his story, to which he now regretted telling, he nervously fidgeted with his hands.

noticing his demeanor, you smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand in solidarity. “i think your scars are beautiful, remus,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his with warmth and understanding. “and i wouldn't change a single one of them because they're a part of what makes you who you are.”

remus met your gaze, his eyes shimmering with emotion as he processed your words. a soft smile played on his lips, and he squeezed your hand back gently. in that moment, you both shared a silent understanding, a newfound closeness that transcended words.

“thank you,” remus whispered, his voice filled with gratitude. “you always see the best in people, don't you?”

you shrugged modestly, a hint of blush coloring your cheeks. “i just know a good soul when I see one.”

the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire in the common room providing a soothing background noise as you two continued talking through the night.

#harry potter fanfiction #—crimsntwlipᡣ𐭩 #remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fic #remus lupin x reader #the marauders #marauders x y/n #marauders x reader #the marauders imagine #the marauders fic #marauders x you #the marauders x reader #emsnotion

[mydearesthrry]

book (lovers) - h.s.

a/n: okay i know ive said this about everything ive written but this one takes the cake for being so self indulgent its actually insane. excerpt she reads is from page 425 of ‘kiss the sky’ by kb ritchie :)) enjoy my loves, this is one of my favorite things ive written. oh also this is severely corny LMFAO

Splayed across the couch, she rested her head against the armrest while her feet lay idle in Harry’s lap, chin downturned as she read the book that dangled above her face, fingers softly tapping against the front and back covers. It was Sunday, and a big part of their ‘weekly reset’ as they liked to call it, entailed a full house clean, and while the dishwasher ran and the clothes were in the washer and dryer, they would read a little bit of their respective books.

However, what never failed to make people laugh, including Harry’s fans, was how drastic of a change their books would be in genre. How Harry would carry around an early century poetry book, while his girlfriend would carry around an annotated copy of a romance book, flashy tabs sticking out of the edges and all. It was always a conversation starter when they would go to cafes, and they would even try to switch books— which never failed to make Y/N laugh at the way Harry scrunched up his nose at the vulgar language on the pages. He almost always asked to switch their books when she ended up on a smut scene. Just his luck, he guesses.

“Switch?” Harry murmured, eyes looking up from his Bukowski book, seeing his sweet girlfriend peek her eyes up from hers.

“Um,” She said quietly, almost mouse-like. “Can we… I just, um, I just got to— a good part?”

“A good pa- oh.” Harry hummed, brows scrunched in confusion until he realized what she meant. “Uh… how about 5 more minutes? Give y’a bit of a head start right now if y’speed read?”

“Yes! Okay, going.” She smiled, eyes trailing back toward her book, flipping through the pages every 30-45 seconds, knowing she was now in a time crunch.

Harry watched in admiration as she grasped her book with one hand, fanning out toward the living room, her face now fully visible to him. He admired the way her brows would scrunch every so often, or how she picked up the habit of pinching her bottom lip between her fingers in concentration like he did. Or how her brows would furrow, and how she would blink the slightest bit faster when she found something cute, as if she was trying to paint a picture in her head without closing her eyes, finding the smallest reprieve in the semi-regular darkness.

She was his own personal jar of perfection. Of sunshine, of love, of happiness. She saved him. In every way a person can be saved.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she grinned with finality, sitting up to meet him halfway, knees hitting the side of his thigh as she held her book out, thumb in place of her spot. He smiled as she shook him right out of his thoughts, a serene glimmer in his eyes, heart nearly falling out of his chest in pure awe. Awe that someone could love him this much, and awe that he could love somebody this much.

This feeling almost felt beyond him.

“C’mere, actually. Lemme read t’you.” He smiled, pulling her into his lap, adjusting her so she rested against the crook of his arm and on the armrest. Clearing his throat, he began reading the first line of the new chapter in her book, pulling her closer every time she would swoon quietly, so quietly, it almost sounded like a bubble in her throat.

Eventually, she takes over, giving him a chance to rest his voice. She croons the words softly, the utmost intimacy permeating the room as she reads the words of of the ivory colored page, committing the inked words to memory.

Breathing softly, her voice light and her hand on Harry’s which rested on her stomach, she read, “‘I realize, in this very moment, that love was the only thing missing from my life. And it’s the only thing that matters to me.’”

“Tha’s so me.” Harry states, making Y/N lift her head up from his chest.

“What?” She guffaws, laughs bubbling from her chest. “Oh my god, I’ve turned you into me.”

“Wha’ d’you mean?” He says confused.

“Never in my entire time of knowing you, Harry Styles, have you ever said ‘that’s so me’. I’m literally turning you into a carbon copy of me. Day by day, baby.” She grins, book face down on the couch so she can talk to him and keep her spot.

“Umm,” He giggles. “Well, y’kinda take up… like… 90 percent of my life. So, I was bound t’pick up your silly lingo.”

“Sure, baby. But, yeah- I agree. Love— our love, really, is one of the only things that matter to me. In a different universe, if I didn’t have this… if I didn’t have you? I think I would be so lost right now.”

“And in every single universe,” he whispers, pecking a soft kiss to her lips. “I will always find you. My perfect Sunny girl.”

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry <3 #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles blurb #harry edward styles #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x you #harry styles imagines #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing

[dilatorywriting]

Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 2]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 2: Crewel and Crowley)

ie. Mr. Rogerson has awesome dalmatians and his wife makes even better cookies. Meanwhile, Crewel continues to be an emotionally constipated mess, and Crowley is... himself.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

You were met at the door by a pair of over enthusiastic dalmatians—the chaotically cute duo sending you ass-first to the office floor in a merry greeting that was more of a graceless tackle than anything else.

“You brought Poe and Perdy!” you exclaimed, laughing past the face kisses.

“Well, they’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” Mister Rogerson huffed good naturedly. “Do you know how much this little nutter cried when I came home the other day and he realized you’d been by? Ages, I’m telling you. Thought he was going to pout me into an early grave.”

You squished both of them affectionately and showered the lovely, spotted, beasts with every compliment under the sun.

“Oh! Before I forget…” the professor rustled around in his leather messenger bag and retrieved a neatly packaged pastry box all bundled up in a colorful, twine, bow. You accepted the treats happily and removed yourself from the dog-pile to take your usual place on the well-worn piano bench. “Annie made you some more cookies, seeing as you liked the last ones so much.”

“Did you help?” you asked.

“Hmm? What makes you say that?”

You held up the first treat from the pile—half-singed on one side and squishy with raw dough on the other.

“You caught me!” he laughed, and retrieved a second box. “These are from Annie. Those are my failures.”

“Such horrible lies,” you tutted, dramatic. “Trying to trick an innocent victim into ingesting poison just so that you can keep all the good ones for yourself.”

“Hey, they’re not that bad!” he defended, taking a large chomp out of one of the less charred looking of his creations. Immediately his cheeks went nearly green. “Or… maybe they are.”

You pushed a water bottle in his direction which he accepted gratefully. There was always a stash of them just to the left of his composer’s stand, and another hoard in a conspicuous looking storage cube closer to the piano at which you’d perched yourself. There were more sweets hidden in his desk drawers too, for when something stronger than water was needed to wash away whatever awful thing he’d tried to ingest. You knew where a lot of ‘secret’ things were in this room. It felt nice, to be so privy to all its little treasures.

“You know,” he smiled, finishing the last of his water with a final gulp. “Annie keeps pestering me to have you come by for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” you hesitated, looking around the room where so many of your little odds and ends had already started to accumulate. Empty mugs, the patch that had fallen off your jacket, the thread which you’d intended to use to fix said patch. Just… little footprints showing you’d been by.  “Well, any more at least.”

“Nonsense,” Mister Rogerson laughed. “You’re more than welcome! But we don’t mean to pressure you, of course! Especially if you’re busy! Just something to think about if you’d like. Anyways, how has your day been?”

And thus began your afternoon ritual. You would sit and split Annie’s delicious cookies as you rambled about your various grievances. Mister Rogerson would inevitably come and take a seat beside you on the piano bench and start playing some gentle strains of this or that—‘just little things he was working on,’ he’d said. Occasionally you’d accidentally lean on the keys, throwing the whole thing into a cacophonous mess. But he would just chuckle and replay whatever the piano had just screeched, calling it a ‘fascinating addition’ and merrily jotting bits of it into his notes. It was nice. Better than nice. And you didn’t realize just how comfortable you’d become in your daily chitchats until you’d become perhaps a bit too comfortable.

“It’s just been so exhausting. And on top of all the other ridiculous things, I’m so sick of that fact that it’s like my job to be their personal punching bags or whatever when they’re Overblotting all over the place, and—”

The piano cut off abruptly.

Mister Rogerson’s hazel eyes had gone wide, as if he was spooked. Immediately you realized that you’d said something that you should not have.

“There are students at Night Raven College who have Overblotted?” he asked, slow, like he couldn’t even believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

“What? No. Of course not!” you lied, like a liar.

“Kiddo,” he frowned, stern. “You just said—"

“—I mean, no one’s actually Overblotted, Overblotted,” you spluttered hastily, rifling frantically through your brain for every plausible excuse you could cough up. “It’s more that I’ve heard a lot about Blot, and how it becomes a—you know—Overblot. Which sounds really scary, and like something that I never, ever, want to actually see! And it’s just that everyone there is a mess, so I guess I should I have said that I’m more just worried about Overblotting.” 

A pause.

“Which, again, I’ve never, ever, actually seen.”

More silence.

“…Ever.”

Mister Rogerson sighed, apparently relieved by your bullshitting, and slumped forward over the piano keys.

“That’s… That’s good. You really scared me there for a moment, kiddo. Overblots are no small matter. They have to be reported to the proper authorities and dealt with accordingly. It’s a whole fiasco, and paperwork and legal proceedings aside, it’s dangerous.” He laid a gentle hand across your shoulder. “I’m just glad you haven’t been anywhere near something like that.”

You swallowed a chunk of wayward cookie, hoping you didn’t look horrifically guilty. But then some other part of what he’d just rattled off stuck in your head and that shame was wiped away by panic.

“They’d be taken away?” you whispered, something unpleasant and nervous curling in your gut.

Mister Rogerson looked down at you with a sympathetic wrinkle to his brow. He squeezed your shoulder reassuringly.

“I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can. Does that make sense?”

You thought of Riddle, crying into his hands after years of emotional neglect—and then of the pair of you sitting in the Heartslabyul gardens after all was said and done, eating strawberry tarts with your fingers like little children. You thought of Leona, miserable and bitter as he was, finally breaking after an entire lifetime of feeling like nothing but a failure who slunk about in his brother’s shadow—and then how just last week the beastman had been lounging in the sun with his head in your lap, grouchily demanding your leftovers. You thought of Azul, and his bullies, and his stupid desire to take on the world just to prove he could. You thought of all the friends you’d made, and of just how many of them really needed a goddamn therapist. You thought about them being taken away to who-even-knew-where. Where you’d probably never see any of them again. And where you wouldn’t even know what was happening to them.

General grumpiness with the lot of them aside, your friends were the one, genuine, beacon of warmth in this miserable, cold, new world. Sure, they were all assholes. Mega assholes. But you knew that they’d stand by you through anything—do anything, if you needed the help.

 And the idea of giving up on them? Just like that? Because it was protocol?

Your stomach roiled and you set the cookies off to the side.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Mister Rogerson frowned, taking in whatever unpleasant expression was no doubt twisting your face into knots. “We shouldn’t talk about it anymore. It’s not a fun topic.” He slid a new page of sheet music across the piano’s sleek, black, shelf. “Here. I started writing this the other day. What do you think?”

Strains of upbeat jazz threaded through the room and Perdy and Poe came over to mouth playfully at your ankles—no doubt begging for crumbs. Soon enough you were laughing along, clapping off beat and making jokes at the expense of his nonsense lyrics. You still liked Mister Rogerson. You liked him a lot. And you didn’t doubt that he was a genuinely kind person.

You’d just… maybe have to be a bit more careful about what you let slip.

.

.

“It’s kinda like being in therapy,” you explained to a very frustrated looking Deuce. “Like, how you want to say just enough to get help but not enough for them to throw you into an asylum. You feel?”

“What in the fuck are you on,” Ace gaped.

“See, if any of you actually even knew what therapy was, you’d get it.”

“I still can’t believe that’s where you’ve been every afternoon,” Deuce frowned, poking at his lunch with a consternated sort of look on his face. “Don’t you—I don’t know…”

“What?” you asked.

“Feel horrifically guilty and maybe like you should be burnt at the stake?” Ace complained, reaching over to swipe a fry from your plate. Grim hissed and swatted at his fingers—his little mouth stuffed too full of your half-eaten burger to yell much of anything else. “You’re a traitor, that’s what you are. Prancing around with those goody-two-shoes in their stupid, shiny, building every damn day like a—like a—”

“A frog?” Deuce suggested.

“What, no. Dude—”

“Frogs prance!”

“Frogs fucking jump, you ingrate—”

A heavy box landed on the table with a THUD, sending the quarrelling duo into silence. A mountain of homemade chocolate chip cookies stared back at them, nearly sparkling in their brilliance.

“Yes,” you intoned, stern. “It’s worth it.”

“It’s worth it,” Grim and Ace agreed heartily, already busy swapping their lunches for sweets.

Deuce sighed and reached for his own cookie. “If you’re sure...”

.

.

Being called into the Headmaster’s Office was not something with which you were unfamiliar. In fact, Crowley not having summoned you into his gloomy chamber over the past few weeks was more of an anomaly than not. Normally he was hurling new jobs at you left and right—organize this event, Prefect. Pick up my groceries, Prefect. The main hall is looking a little dirty, Prefect. Go stop my students from committing mass murder, Prefect. Maybe your wave of insults had rattled him enough to leave you alone for that little while. Or maybe he’d just been biding his time until he could think of something equally as nasty to say back.

Of all the things you were expecting upon trudging back into that office, a scowling Professor Crewel was not one of them.

You blinked owlishly, taken aback.

“Good afternoon, Professor.”

His lip curled, sour, and you fought the intense and suicidal urge to ask him just who’d pissed in his cornflakes that morning because damn. You hadn’t even done anything. That you could remember. Maybe. And besides, if either of you had any right to be acting all bitter and pissy it was you. Not Mister ‘I Have No Intention of Playing Parent to Anyone.’ The memory had your eyes stinging and your blood boiling all over again. When neither of the men deigned to greet you, you cleared you throat irritably and crossed your arms.

“Can I help you with something, Professor? Headmaster?”

“It has come to our attention that you’ve been sneaking off campus in the evenings,” Professor Crewel declared, with all the civility of an off-grid hermit. “Which I’m certain that you are fully aware is against school policy.”

Crowley just nodded, stiff lipped and robotic, and his silence immediately had you suspicious.

“Well?” Crewel snipped. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

You took a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Then another.

You smiled, icy. “Then I’m sure this is just another infraction to add to my file. Which I’m very sure totally exists. Right, Headmaster?”

Crewel’s dark glower swiveled in Crowley’s direction, and you watched the Old Crow audibly gulp.

“Because of course, you keep proper records on all your students here,” you continued, happy to push your luck. “Especially the ones in special circumstances, and whose documentation is therefore not automatically forwarded to you by their previous schools. Right, Headmaster?”

You’d never seen a more apt demonstration of the expression ‘sweating bullets.’ It was intensely satisfying. Professor Crewel looked like he was heavily debating turning Crowley into a feather boa. After a too-long moment where you were pretty sure you were about to witness a murder, the two-toned professor sighed and turned back to you with a stiff sneer.

“It’s not safe,” he said, and you gaped at him.

“What?”

“It’s not safe,” he repeated, practically grinding his teeth. “What were you even thinking? Leaving Night Raven when you know full that you have no other connections in this entire world! Running off with a complete stranger on top of that.”

“Mister Rogerson isn’t a stranger!” you defended, resentment bubbling beneath your skin. How dare he? Now he cared? Now you weren’t just a leech, or a brat, or—or—No. It wasn’t fair. “And it’s not like I ran off into the woods or something! I’m at another school!”

Crowley slammed his clawed hands down onto his desk with a metallic BANG!

“AH-HAH! YOU ADMIT IT!” he howled. “YOU’VE BEEN GOING TO THE ROYAL SWORD ACADEMY BEHIND OUR BACKS!”

“I left you a note telling you that was exactly where I was!”

“YOU’VE BEEN CONSORTING WITH OUR ENEMY! AND AFTER I’VE WORKED SO HARD TO RAISE YOU AS MY OWN!” He wailed, inconsolable. “ARE YOU TRADING OFF MY GRIMOIRE TO AMBROSE, TOO? WOULD YOU STOP AT NOTHING TO SHATTER MY POOR HEART?!”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I wish I was!”

“Enough!” Crewel snarled, cracking his pointer across the desktop. “Both of you!”

“But he—!” you defended.

“Detention!” he barked.

“What?! That’s no fair!—”

“Detention!” he snapped again. “Three weeks!”

“Are you joking?! I didn’t even do anything!—”

“Four weeks,” he growled.

You pressed your lips shut, feeling your mouth wobble and your eyes warm with frustrated tears.

“Yes, sir,” you finally managed to grit out, and then turned without another word and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind you.

.

.

.

‘That may have been too much,’ Crowley had the gall to say to him, after Crewel had just watched the man have an entire meltdown in his desk chair and accuse you of outright subterfuge.

‘That may have been too much.’

The alchemist had watched, carefully stone faced, as your eyes had welled and you’d glared him down with a look that was a step or two past betrayed. Something tightened uncomfortably in his chest, and he refused to put a name to it. Naming things gave them power, allowed them to grow and spread. Like a tumor. This was all your own doing, and the subsequent punishment was clearly for your own good. So, what? He steps a bit too far and says something that’s perhaps just a bit too cold, and you go running off to—to Cliff Rogerson of all people? Pettiness is not an excuse for making poor, stupid, unsafe, decisions. And he would have certainly responded to any other student in exactly the same fashion.

‘That may have been too much.’

Crewel grit his teeth and fought the urge to run his hands through his hair in frustration. Normally he could use Badun as a stress ball, but he’d stopped bringing the dogs to campus when you’d continued to refuse to show up to his office. It had stressed them terribly, and it was unfair to force them to sit through the same, dull, solitude that he had to endure just on the off chance that you may change your mind and come wandering in. Jasper hardly acknowledged him at all anymore—only grumbled at him miserably when he returned in the evenings before curling up by the fireplace for the rest of the night.   

‘That may have been too much.’

It… It really, probably, was. And he really should… apologize, shouldn’t he?

Divus Crewel could deny it all he liked, but he knew well and good that he wouldn’t have treated your classmates in such a manner. That unnamed twinge behind his ribs may have influenced his reaction a bit more than it should have, especially when he himself had so clearly relegated your place in his life to ‘by professional association only.’

So he forced himself to straighten his fur coat and start the trek to Ramshackle. It was a grueling walk, with broken pathways and rivers of mud. No wonder you were always running late to things. Perhaps he should bring this up to Crowley, and—

A familiar face stopped him in his tracks, and a wave of red-hot irritation worked its way through his veins as efficiently and viciously as one of the poisons he was so keen to brew.

“Oh,” Cliff Rogerson blinked back at him, “Divus! Good to see you.” It was not. It didn’t sound like Cliff thought it was either.“No need to call campus security or anything. I’m just here to pick up the Prefect for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Crewel repeated. It sounded bitter in his mouth.

“Annie’s making lasagna,” Cliff stage-whispered, like a secret.

“Can we get going?” you called and Crewel startled, noticing you off to the side for the first time. You looked so… small, for some reason. Hunched, maybe. Just, not your usual larger-than-life self—the Otherworldly Hero who showed up swinging to every fight, always armed to the teeth and ready to duel any monster, every horror. It made something in his gut twist unpleasantly. “I’m starving.”

“Of course, kiddo,” Cliff laughed and tossed an arm across your shoulders.

“How lovely,” Crewel interrupted, trying and failing to force the steel from his voice, “But I think that maybe you should reexamine your professional priorities. That hardly seems appropriate.”

“Oh, come now,” Cliff smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “It’s only dinner. And besides,” he chuckled, and gave your arm a fond squeeze, “Annie and I have always wanted kids.”

‘I have no intention of playing parent to anyone.’

A deep, cold, sort of dread rattled through Divus Crewel’s bones and settled all the way in the pit of his stomach. It was similar to the sensation that had been slowly clawing its way through him these past few weeks—the very same unpleasantness that he had refused to name.

‘You know,’ Crowley’s grating voice swam through his head once more. ‘That really may have been too much.’

.

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