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#hit the target lads
bubbles-for-all-of-us · 4 months
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✨️Bodhi durran ✨️ that's it.
BUT ALSO
Imagine him being the most amazing boyfriend. I don't know if you have seen lockwood and co on Netflix but that scene where lockwood dresses Lucy's wounds and is looking dead ass deep in her soul smiling, my god bodhi material.
To get to my point if you could write a one shot of bodhi finding out you're injured and going ballistic to anyone that let her out of their sight and got hurt and then finding you trying to wrap your wounds and instantly going all soft and helping I would be forever in your debt
Ps. If you haven't watched lockwod and co it's absolutely worth it.
I haven't watched the show so if this isn't exactly how you pictured this, I apologize✨🤍
Worries
"Where is she?", Bodhi yanked onto one of the recruits, who was in the same formation as you, shirt up. The poor lad looked like he was about to shit himself at best as he stumbled over words. The thing was... Bodhi was fun and games until he wasn't. And that wasn't part come a lot sooner than expected. Considering that the past weeks of him being a section leader had been rather calm. But that sorry fuck just had to show off. Had to break formation. Had to try to prove his piss poor ego and get you hurt.
"You're speechless all of a sudden?", Bodhi shook the guy in his grip, "Answer the goddamn question before you end up like a roasted chicken on the solstice table". You could hear a pin dropping in the background that's how silent the squad had gotten. "I think I saw her entering the building", some other recruit cut in. Bodhi narrowed his eyes, "You think or you saw?", shoving the quivering male he stepped aside sizing everyone up.
"You weak shits better listen and better listen well", he practically growled through gritted teeth. His first instinct was to run after you. He saw the blood gushing from your hand after the coalition. But he also knew his title. Causing a bigger scene than necessary would only turn heads your way. And neither of you needed that. Neither of you wanted to become a target leading to one another. "If any of you will ever do anything similar to what Marco did today", Bodhi grunted. Gods, he felt like Xaden. "I will skin you myself and believe me your dragons will smoke you alive. Dismissed", he practically roared as the recruits hurried away. Bodhi ran a slightly shaky hand through his hair.
"She is up in your room", the voice made Bodhi jolt slightly. Garrick was leaning against one of the pillars. "I passed her, she's fine, man", Garrick continued to speak since Bodhi just stood there, "You did well here too. More and more like our beloved Xaden every day". He knew it was a dig. The two cousins had been compared ever since their interactions were brought to the daylight. "Why don't you go fuck yourself", Bodhi grunted as he walked past his friend. "Gets boring after a while", Garrick chirped in return. Bodhi simply snarled but that of course earned a satisfied chuckle from Garrick.
"Show it to me", the sudden bag of the door practically hitting the wall and the raised voice made you drop the blood-soaked rag. You knew Bodhi was gonna find you eventually. Your dragon was practically counting the minutes for you ever since you had flown back first and dismounted. "Bodhi, it's okay", you tried to keep your voice calm. The wound wasn't all that bad it was the angle and the damaged tissue of the skin that caused it to bleed so much. "Don't you it's okay, me", he grunted, "Show me", his voice was lethal low. He never used that tone with you. It was his section leader's voice. The voice he gave a report in. But it never was showcased around the people he trusted and cared for.
"There's nothing to look at it's...", "I didn't ask, I gave you an order", he cut in, grabbing your upper arm gently so he could look at the damage himself. Bodhi's eyebrows knitted together for a moment, his jaw flexed. "Sit", he muttered motioning towards the bed. "Bodhi", you breathed out. "Baby, I swear to everything holy to me", he exhaled a shaky breath, "you either sit or I am carrying to the healer's wing and will put you on bed rest for a week". You huffed at his threat but you knew that he wasn't bluffing so you followed his orders.
Bodhi was so gentle as he carefully wiped away some of the blood before pressing a clean bandage on your cut, securing it in place. Make sure it's tight for a couple of hours before the bleeding slows down. He would redo it in a couple of hours. Wash it off with a salve he would go ask for. Then another bandage. Then... "Bodhi, I can hear you making plans in your head", you muttered. It was cute watching him fuss at times. It was his way of showing love but you also knew that his head was a wild space and it only took one bad thought to have it all spiraling out of control. "Does it hurt a lot? Do you need something for the pain?", he asked, his concerned eyes searching yours. "Start by giving me a hug and then sit down with me", you said softly, "I promise, I'm fine". You reached out for him, taking his hand into yours, squeezing it.
"I just hate seeing you hurt", Bodhi breathed out, his shoulders drooping. "The feeling is mutual but there are times we can't do anything about it", you reached to run your fingers through his messy curls. That now was completely out of control since he no doubt had been pulling at them. "Do we have a murder scene in the backyard?", you nudged your boyfriend's shoulder, making him snort. "Not yet but we might...", Bodhi exhaled, turning to face you.
"You promise you're okay?", you met his worried gaze but this time instead of answering him you just leaned in and kissed him. Slowly and tenderly. Letting him feel your love. "Good enough proof?", you asked when you two finally broke apart. "Not sure... maybe a couple more kisses", Bodhi thoughtfully nodded his head. You giggled slightly before cupping his face once more.
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theoneeyedprince · 16 days
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Of Blood and Fire: XI
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Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!OC
General warnings: Explicit/18+, targcest, darkish!Aemond, explicit language, sensual themes, suggestive and sexual content, miscommunication, denial of feelings, slow burn, possessive and obsessive behaviour, angst, smut, mentions of (childhood and sexual) trauma, religious guilt, complicated and toxic family dynamics, typical mediaeval and asoiaf sexism and misogyny, graphic depictions of violence, spoilers for Fire & Blood and future seasons of HOTD.
Word count: 7.8k
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Black and red the banners hung and rustled in the wind. Black and red were the archery targets, the tents, the ribbons and handkerchiefs the spectators sported, the roof above the royal balcony under which her family sat.
In black and red Vaemma was clothed. 
“I wore something similar to a tourney when in my youth. I remember it well,” her mother spoke to her but looked at the Queen. 
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat with one hand on her growing belly and the other stretched out, held by Daemon. A memory clouded the light purple of her eyes.  
Vaemma looked down and smoothed the velvet fabric of her gown.
The look she donned that day was nothing but a statement to the Targaryen symbols. Blood-red bodice, straight skirts of the same shade and long wide scale-like patterned sleeves. 
A dragon, Vaemma thought. She resembled a dragon. 
Rubies were her gemstones of choice. On her fingers and dropping from her ears. Like blood tears coming down on her chest. Deep cut out making space for a delicate golden chain weave falling to the middle of her sternum. 
She looked more like Meleys than Seasmoke but the colours of her dragon were presented at the banquet hall. The tourney required fire, not water. Fire and blood. 
And thus far it had been blood that day. 
Shields cracking or splattering to pieces. Jousting lances being destroyed by the impact of a hit into the opponent. Knights spewing red droplets and teeth.
Blood covered the hoof-dented tourney grounds.
Vaemma looked ahead.
The two factions of House Targaryen sat facing each other from two opposite lounges. Much to Daemon’s content. 
The daggers his eyes twisted into Otto Hightower could be so easily taken for an amusing sort of comedy if not for the fact the King was seated with his wife and the Hand right beside him. 
It was to show the people of Westeros the present and the future of the crown, he said. Supposedly, Daemon scoffed at that, snarling at his long-time rival about the mockery he wanted to make of his wife by separating her from the King. On whose side she should’ve been seated at. But The Hand and The Queen didn’t take the insinuations to heart. They never did. 
So the family was separated as it had been for as long as Vaemma could go back in memory. 
Her grandfather slouched over his chair but looked much better since Vaemma saw him last. 
Guilt festered in her heart, ugly and unpleasant. 
She promised to read him again, to visit. He asked her, even if he confused her with someone else. 
Is this who she became? Too absorbed in her own troubles to keep a promise? Led astray by her sensual cravings. And so hotfoot at that.
Vaemma chewed on her lip, clenching the necklace. Fingers shaking atop her chest.
Rhaena’s gasp shook her out of the relentless nagging of self-culpability, “Gods, did the lad get a splinter in his eye?” 
Her step-sister was right. A young knight’s green shield did little to dull the impact of the incoming blow. The turtle of House Estermont fell under his horse’s legs, whilst its owner bent backwards, desperately clawing at his face. 
“What a mistake,” judged Daemon. “The lad should’ve worn a better helmet. Now look at him, probably will be left with one eye,”
“It takes us back, does it not?” Jace answered, corner of his mouth twitching as if struggling not to give in to a mean-spirited smirk.
Vaemma’s hold on the ruby in her chain tightened. 
His name didn’t have to be voiced out and yet it felt as if Jace screamed it at her. 
Her uncle was a creature of duty but he was nowhere to be found. 
Just like he didn’t appear for the rest of the welcoming banquet the day past. Leaving her to chat and dance with her chosen lords. Anticipating him to show up suddenly behind her as she sat by the table to drink from her goblet or rested against one of the hall’s cool pillars. All to pin her against the wall and coax pleasure out of her, as brutally as he’s done before. 
She half expected him to greet her in her chambers when she retired for the night, mind dizzy from the wine and body unsatisfied from the peak that didn’t reach her. A disappointed sight leaving her when Alayne left her alone. And alone she remained for the rest of the night. 
How her desires for him have grown. How unwelcome and sought out they were at the same time.
How disappointed her family would be if they ever found them out. 
She should’ve been and she swore she was.
So why was there this violent force pushing her towards her uncle? Like a tide this feeling came, so suddenly, washing away the hatred written in the deep cut line on the sand under High Tide from nine years past.
She should've fought it. 
And yet she heard herself speak. Despite her uncle’s rapid and ever-changing attitude he displayed towards her. Despite the loyalty to her mother and Daemon, to Jace and Luke, to Baela and Rhaena. 
Loyal to her family she would always remain but all of their hands were covered in blood that night. 
“There is no need for such sour comments, Jace,”
Jace’s eyes widened but Vaemma’s face remained a white blank page. 
Gods. She hoped none of them would see through her.
“You have always been so reasonable and collected about the whole thing, mandia,” he said, tone hard and bubbling with surpassed heat, “Do not turn your back on us now,” (sister)
She felt her chest tighten before her heart started pounding in her chest, “Whatever do you mean by that?” 
Jace didn’t answer, only looked at her with an unspoken fire in his eyes. 
“Valonqar?” Vaemma pressed in mimic sternness to his but it was their mother who chimed in. (Younger brother)
“I beg of you, do not argue. Not now and not here,”
“I have no wish to do so, muña. Though, I wish Jace would tell me what his insinuation meant,” (mother)
Rhaenyra extended her hand and gripped Vaemma’s. Her eyes moved from Jace to her mother at once. 
Unmistakably, she was concerned about something and it unsettled Vaemma greatly. 
More so when all that uncertainty in her mother’s gaze fit the one in her voice when she cut their argument down, “We shall talk in private. After the festivities,”
“Is something the matter?”
At that question, Daemon hummed, looking at her too but her mother was firm in her decision. 
“After,” she repeated and squeezed her hand.
Reluctantly, Jace faced the tourney grounds again and Vaemma wished she was seated next to Baela. Placed between the heirs to the throne made her feel uncomfortably small and out of control. Constantly watched over. Something she never minded but which now clawed at her from within. 
Following her brother, she faced the tourney grounds but before she did, her eye caught Jace’s hands forming into fists on his thighs. 
Jace held on to his grudges and would turn unpleasant because of them. The closest to them would attribute his fiery temperament to his dragon blood. Those who didn’t hold them in high regard would say it was strong.
She knew who’d be one of the first people to say that. 
And as if she summoned him with her thoughts, Aemond appeared to her at last, already watching her when their eyes met and even from the distance separating them she felt him. 
The gentle wind that came upon them all felt like the brush of his hot breath against her skin. 
He sat tall, back straight and his face unreadable, half hidden in a shadow of his eyepatch. Silver hair falling down his shoulders and on his chest. White silk on black leather. 
Even now, she could still feel the way the wet strands tangled in her fingers and how it tickled her face ever so softly. Contrasting the feral hunger with which he came onto her. 
Vaemma bit the inside of her cheek. Hard enough to elicit pain. 
He mocked her. Surely, he did. Did it all to dishonour her. For why would he desire a woman he deemed unworthy of the Targaryen name. 
Vaemma hoped her ire burned him. Just as her self-contempt burned her. 
While the fighting raged around them, they engaged in one of their own. Stored in the hunger and heat in their eyes, in a hidden passage or a dark corridor to welcome them in.
Theirs was a clandestine form of combat. Execrable and vehement.  
And he was always so unyielding. His incessantless torment bringing out the worst in her. 
The need to be devoured and to devour. 
Baela rescued her from her uncle’s scorching gaze just in time as Aegon dangled his goblet of wine in front of Aemond’s face, doing utmost to gain his brother’s attention. 
“Where is ser Erland?”
Vaemma blinked away the black and white from under her eyelids.
Jace shifted between them. Was he still vexed with her or was he simply uncomfortable seated between two women, Vaemma couldn’t tell. 
“Waiting for his turn, I assume,”
Her sworn shield was all too keen for the prospect to prove himself on the jousting field. And Vaemma wouldn’t refuse him such desire. 
Not when he didn’t mind indulging her on her own when she was in doubt of herself. 
Another pinch of guilt pained her heart. 
“They better hurry him up there,” Baela’s eyes shone with excitement, “We’ve had no opportunity to see your lovely knight fight in this way,”
“It’s hardly a fight,” Jace muttered. 
“Then why aren’t you there to compete?” Vaemma bit. 
“Mother wouldn’t let me,”
“Poor you,” Baela cooed, smiling playfully. 
“Stop nagging on me,”
“Do not be so wretched then,” Baela took his hand into his and Jace’s cheeks reddened.
Vaemma smiled at the sight but something bitter spilled inside her and that invisible string pulled at her to turn around. To look at him. 
“Here he comes. Your knight,”
Baela’s comment, not so subtle but kind in nature, was almost a whisper in comparison to the booming one presenting the competitor to the crowd.
“Ser Erland Flowers of Princess Rhaenyra’s household and the sworn shield of Princess Vaemma Velaryon,” 
A blush bloomed all across Vaemma’s face. For herself and for Erland. 
A secret, one he wasn’t ashamed of but which he didn’t wish to determine him as a person, was openly revealed. Ringing loudly in everyone’s ears. 
They all knew he was a bastard now. 
Aemond knew. 
It was the knight’s moment. One he awaited so eagerly. She wouldn’t let herself focus on her uncle when her dear companion was right there. 
Not when he looked up at her. Hesitantly at first and then with conviction she only heard him speak when they were alone. When he asked her to call him by his name. 
“I would humbly ask for the Princess’ favour, if she is kind enough to grand it,” 
Vaemma stood up, terribly aware of a sea of eyes following her every move, and tied the blue-red ribbon around the tip of his lance.
She’d give him her book-mark, a belonging much more personal to her than that cotton piece of material, but to her sadness it got lost in the Keep. Eaten by rats or taken by a servant who was in need of money and sold it in Flee Bottom for a coin. The fate of it unknown.
Her favour dropped down Erland’s weapon and landed safely at the wide handle. 
Taking his place by the one end of the tourney ground, with the red lance in his hand and armour bathed in silver, shining in the midday sun, he looked triumphant already. 
But as hard as she tried to stay in the good spirit, the word bastard dug its teeth into her brain each time the sound of lance against shield echoed through the audience stands. 
And she felt every blow. As she had since the day she was born. 
Erland’s match didn’t last long. None that he participated in did. With the fall of the banner of the three crowns and pink stripes of House Hollard came more and the insult her and Erland were marked with meant little while the crowds cheered for the knight from the Reach. 
“He might win,” Jace observed and Vaemma held her breath, hoping for nothing more. 
And that hope prevailed. 
Surrounded by whistling and clapping, ser Erland was given the champion’s laurel and with it he moved down to their balcony. His eyes were set on Vaemma and for a breath’s moment she thought he’d present it to her but he smiled gently, as if in apology, and bowed his head to her mother as the custom instructed. 
When ser Erland came from his chestnut horse and took his helmet off, his neck and curls dumped in sweat, he was proclaimed the champion of jousting for the final time and her mother stood up to show her thanks and congratulations, and with her the rest of their party followed. The King too. 
But Aemond’s seat was empty.
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There was a moment in his journey back from the Tower of the Hand in which he almost paid that visit. Yet it flew in and out of his head quickly enough for his body not to betray him. 
What his mother and grandfather told him had to be handled with care. He promised them that and he was nothing if not reliable. Nothing like Aegon. Nothing if not ambitious in fulfilling his own desires. 
Desires of old and new.
For the ancestral seat of Conquest and her.
Her. 
His hand disappeared under his nightshirt for one purpose only and when it tightened around his length he wondered if she was waiting for him. Did she lay on her bed just like him but with her fingers circling that small, little nub of pleasure he had a chance to use to subdue her to him. Was she thinking of him and the way he almost had her in that corridor? 
Gods, he hoped she was.  
The morning of the tourney welcomed him with sunlight scratching at his eye, Aegon at his ear and mother at his mind. No one and nothing however compared to the carving out his niece did to his insides when he saw her after the night of torment.
He could’ve taken her but instead he imagined his hand was hers. The same smaller hold he remembered from Vhagar’s cave. Even through the fabric of his undergarment it scorched him. 
But he grabbed onto the leash as he used to do so firmly before her arrival at King’s Landing. For if everything went according to plan, he shall take her to wife and in such case reputation was all that mattered. 
No bastards would be born of his blood. No wife of his would have a tarnished reputation.
He looked at his grandfather. 
The Hand sat loyally next to his king and the uneasiness and sick satisfaction fought a battle within him. 
His father slumped weakly over his chair but his gaze pinned firmly onto the party sitting before them. Longing for the only child he ever loved. 
Aemond longed as well. For knowledge, for skill, for power. And all of those accumulated in his niece. 
The seadragon. 
Her whole being breathed out fire from across the jousting grounds and Aemond felt the heat of it blowing at his skin. Or it was just something his treacherous mind conjured to bring him out of balance. 
Each of their encounters left him wondering if it wasn’t just that. If he mayhaps fell from Vhagar to his death and that was what the Seven Hells felt like. 
A neverending agonising desire for his bastard niece tormenting him. Over and over again.  
But he did feel it closer than that imagined blow of the wind. It had to be real. 
The scratches of her nails on his arms when she tried to pry him away, the supple flesh of her thighs under the palms of his hands, the bitter-sweet taste of her lips and tongue on his, the warm inside of her cunt pushing against his fingers. 
He inhaled sharply, fingers of his sword hand flexing as the all too familiar tightening began to form within him. 
Seven help him. 
It was never meant to end this way. He was supposed to be her tormentor, not she his.
“Remember when Daemon cut Vaemond Velaryon’s head in two?” 
Aegon was in his cups again. The goblet hang from between the elder’s fingers, grasped by the rim, swaying lazily from left to right, right to left. 
Aemond hummed, eye trained on Erland Flowers as he crowned his lady’s mother with the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. 
Like calls to like, were the words he wanted to taunt her, seeth into her ear as he ploughed into her. Just to see her maddened with anger beneath him. 
“Do you think he would cut down our niece’s dog-,” he stopped and laughed under his breath before correcting himself, “flower if he chose her over his wife? What an insult it would be. To give this silly wreath to someone else while the future Queen sits right there?”
For all his trying, Aegon’s jealousy and contempt reserved for their half-sister was evident. Was it what he tried to wash away with every greedy gulp of wine? That he craved what Rhaenyra was given? What was lawfully his?  
She deserved it. The resentment. 
But if they gave her only daughter to him, he’d crown Vaemma with no fear. Not with fragile flower petals but Valyrian steel and silver. So it’d match her hair. Match him.
He’d make sure to be the king his brother could never be. Would never be, as long as the succession remained undisputed and undisputed it shall remain. Aemond waited too long for a chance to get it all. 
He was on his feet the moment his father raised from his seat. Not patient or interested enough to see if the neglect he received throughout his life wasn’t granted for his eldest child or the commonborn bastard knight. 
Or if his niece fawned over the man as he knew her to do. So unabashedly and openly as if he was her lord husband. 
But it was he who would have Vaemma Velaryon as his wife and in return she would make him king. 
And gods strike those who would prevent that from happening.
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“Erland was such an intelligent young boy. And so helpful. A squire to my late husband like no other,” 
The Lady of Highgarden’s compliments turned the champion abashed and Vaemma was all ears, taking in every childhood story from Erland’s life in the Reach as long as she was allowed. 
Clothed in simple breeches and tunic but with a sword hanging from his hip, her sworn shield joined her in the royal tent, asking if she was willing to go on a stroll in the woods. But they were stopped not a halfway to their destination when the red-haired woman introduced herself with a low curtsy, her babe’s nursemaid following her every step. 
“It must’ve been a real tragedy to lose him,” Vaemma humoured.
Erland gave her a pleading look but she couldn’t help herself. She would grasp at any moment of simple joy as they were so scarce in her life as of late. 
“It truly was. But when a boy grows into a man and the world calls out to him, then there is no other option but to let him go and see it for himself,” she smiled warmly.
“Your ladyship is too kind,” the knight answered, clasping his hands behind his back.
Until her involvement with Aemond, Vaemma wouldn’t think much of it. But in that simple movement, she saw him and wondered where her uncle was right now. 
Maybe left the grand festivities and flew away on Vhagar. Arose her from her slumber in her cave beforehand. 
The cave where they gave themselves to each other for the first time. As much as it should’ve been the last. 
Still smiling, Lady Tyrell waved her hand dismissively and turned around after her nursemaid just to be forced to bow. 
“Would it be bad timing if I stole my daughter away for a moment?”
Her mother was a vision of regal and Valyrian beauty. The wreath of summer flowers a crown atop her hair making her look younger than her true years. 
“Not at all, Your Grace. I’m most content to talk to Erland here and the Princess is most welcome to join our conversation again,” 
“Only if ser Erland would want me to know so much about him,” Vaemma replied, quickly looking at the man in question.
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” was his reply. Green eyes open and honest. 
Did someone curse her heart? For why wouldn’t it call to him? No future would await them, both of them knew that well, but everything would be easier. 
Her mother was silent as they walked further and further away from the crowds until they reached a carriage. The same in which they arrived in the capitol a moon ago. 
Daemon stood vigil, brows knitted and lips pursed. Deep in thought. 
“I thought we ought to need some privacy,” was all the explanation Vaemma was given but she followed her mother inside without question.
They faced each other in silence. The sound of the grand gathering was a cheerful mix of voices and Vaemma realised that The Heir’s Tourney was a success, as much as the Small Council was opposed to it at the beginning. 
But they were always opposed to Rhaenyra Targaryen, she supposed. 
“I want to thank you first,” 
Her mother’s voice was strangely benign when it cut through the air. The opposite of what Vaemma and her siblings were used to. Their mother was loving but not docile. 
“Whatever for?”
“Being the most wonderful daughter and sister. The most understanding,”
Was she talking about the succession they were currently celebrating? 
“It’s my duty. You know yours, Jace his and I mine. I’ve known it for so long, you don’t have to be grateful for me fulfilling it,”
“But I do. You are my only daughter and I remember how terrifying and, to be frank, unbearable searching for a consort was,”
“Luckily, I’m not looking for a consort, so I’d love for the burden of worrying about this task to be lifted from your shoulders at once,” she tried to make the tone of her words sound light to comfort her mother but they were heavy on her tongue.
Vaemma didn’t feel lucky in the slightest. 
Rhaenyra reached out for her hand and she let her hold her in this way. Just like when she was but a little girl.
“That’s why what I’m about to ask of you will make this impossible. For me and for you,”
Her mother held onto her tightly as if to make sure Vaemma wouldn’t push her away. It caused her nerves to quicken the beating of her heart. 
“Muña?” (Mother)
“The Queen approached me before last night’s banquet with a proposition which only half surprised me. But I must admit to be tempted to take. Regarding you,”
When Vaemma made no attempt to cut in, her mother let her words flow out of her freely like a strong current and each of them knocked her off her feet.
“You as a possible heir. As the eldest child of the heir. Just like I am. And by means of mending what was broken almost ten years past a proposition of betrothal was made. For you and my half-brother. Between you and Aemond,”
One time when she was still learning to fly on Seasmoke, she climbed onto his back and crawled onto his neck, hugging him so tightly that he must’ve found it uncomfortable or irritating, so he moved it from side to side and eventually got rid of her. No harm came to her but she landed in the shallow bottom of the sea. Her ears and nose filled with water and a momentary panic overcame her until she felt her dragon helping her get out of the water.
What her mother relayed onto her made her feel like this. In a momentary state of confusion and panic. 
Her, the heir? After stepping aside for Jace and being content with being just the daughter. Just a dragon rider.
And all that’s happened between her and Aemond. All the hiding, all the fighting, all the guilt and self-hatred and it led to this?
To the possibility of marrying each other.
“Will you do it, tala? For the family? For me?” (Daughter)
She felt everything and nothing, a relief she wished for and another weight of responsibility. But how could she explain that to her if no one knew of the illicit nature of their trysts?
Her mother squeezed her fingers and Vaemma, realising she was looking at their joined hands, looked up to reciprocate her gaze. 
“Can you promise me to think it through?”
Vaemma nodded, “I will”.
Because a united family was all she ever wanted to have.
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For a woman who occupied his mind every moment of every day, she was hard to find. The crowd of people seemed to swallow her before he had the chance to take a closer look at her. 
And how badly he wanted to. To reach out for her and feel her quickened heartbeat under the skin of her wrist. 
The blood there always flew fast when his touch was rough and he basked in the knowledge he was the reason for it. 
But like an ebb and flow his niece came and retreated from him. 
Mayhaps she truly was more like the sea than he was led to believe. Than what he refused to see each time they collided. 
In their many a rencontre he’s been filled with the certainty that he was the only one she let to see the fire of their shared blood burn through her.
Thus none of the lords she met the night before and none of the bastard knights she created a companionship with could bring her closer to the Valyrian inviolability. 
There were no other people like them in Westeros. Or in the known world. 
Almost god-like in their nature. 
And she was. In his dreams, his own priestess of ancient Old Valyria and when awoken, his own Elenei of air and sea. 
For a blink’s moment, he thought he saw her but it was Rhaenys Targaryen embracing one of her granddaughters, so he continued on, passing by the countless groups of noblemen and women and servants. 
Aegon caught him from across the field, stopping his conversation with a maid that poured him yet another dosage of wine, revealing another person from behind him. 
Deryl bowed his head to pay his respects and then the girl turned around to do the same and when she did Aemond’s steps became swiffer. 
For whatever reason she was serving his brother? He hoped Deryl kept an eye on his sister, not allowing for their arrangement of the past to spill into Aegon’s ear. 
People moved out of his way as if dislodged by the mere presence of his person. A common occurrence in the Keep and one that brought him much satisfaction.
Not many things did. 
Just like the conversation that took place not far away from the first set of trees that led to the Kingswood. 
Aemond cursed under his breath. The feeling of betrayal yanked at his insides and it was unbearable because it was too familiar. 
Vaemma was once again smiling at him. At the green-eyed knight, her protector and friend. And that one malignant thought ate at him, that she did more than just laugh with him. That she was like Rhaenyra when her and Erland Flowers were alone. It hid another other one, buried deep inside. The ugly insecurity his patch and years of rigorous training, hours of mastering the art of dragonriding and accumulating of political and philosophical knowledge were meant to cover.
The doubt of his worth as a man and a Targaryen prince. 
For what he lacked that this common man had to make her seem so at ease, so eager to chat on so effortlessly? Why did he deserve to hear her laugh and watch her smile? 
She never did with him. 
He puffed out the air from his lungs. Something Vhagar did when irritated or agitated. 
It didn’t suit him. Such affection or longing for it. Especially for someone like her. The sister of the boy who crippled him for life. 
A gentle touch to his shoulder forced him to look away from his niece and it caused him a much needed alleviation.
“I knew you’d follow her,” 
Most of the time, Helaena’s voice was a soothing tea for his uneven temper. But it gnashed with her statement. Convincingly pointing at his predictability. 
In the case of his Velaryon niece, he hated to be predictable. Because it wasn’t like his dutifulness, loyalty or idealism. 
It meant he was trodding away from that path. He felt that way even when he was told to keep on coming back to her to stay on it. 
Her presence, a torment and a rapture in one, was like a poison dripping through his veins. A potion clouding his mind, putting him on paths which led to her, without having him thinking about where his legs took him to, for they seemed to know exactly where. Better than his own mind did. 
Pathetically predictable and enough to notice by those who cared to pay close attention. 
And yet he tried to deny it still, “Who do you have in min-”
“With the drop into the water, it's not meant to be. The green of the flame and the blue of the sea,”
Helaena’s gaze was piercing and somehow all-knowing and her words dripped of sorrow so deep it almost distracted him from the message itself. 
Aemond couldn’t bear the uneasy weight of the sadness in her eyes and looked down at his niece but Jaehaera’s face mirrored her mother’s. 
From the distance separating them, the crowd of the tourney spectators seemed like a welcome distraction from the woman and girl standing next to him. However small that distance was. 
He would’ve laughed at the irony, knowing how elusive and secluded he was in disposition, but that was also something he rarely did. 
“You’ve said that before,” he pointed, brows scrunching in a reminiscing thought. 
Helaena moved her hand from his shoulder to his biceps and squeezed almost painfully. It was so not like her to be violent that Aemond had no choice but to meet the gloom in her pale lilac eyes. 
“I am forced to do so as no one listens. And you must,”
He knew the shadow that covered his sister’s face when she was taken by her erratic changes of mood. It upset him greatly and now that she held her little daughter by her side when it overtook her, it concerned him even more. 
He opted to ease her nerves, “I am, mandia. I always am,” (older sister)
But it did nothing. Only twisted her soft features more. 
“No, you are not. None of you do,”
The accusation stung Aemond's heart but seeing the state Helaena was in, he only took the hand that gripped so tightly around the leather of his sleeve in both of his hands. 
“I will from now on then. I will,”
His promise appeared to work after a moment. His sister exhaled slowly and with eyes casted down to the grass, nodded to herself. 
Aemond observed her cautiously until he felt a tug at his trousers. The wide eyes of his silver-haired niece stared at him as if trying their hardest to wordlessly tell him something but as much as he wanted to understand the little one through her crippling shyness, he failed. 
Not wanting to disappoint the two of them, he raised the corner of his mouth slightly and kept on holding Helaena’s hand. An attempt at reassurance if nothing more but his sister gave up on it sooner than he expected her to. 
“I’m sorry,” quickly she murmured, taking Jaehaera in her embrace, “She’s no longer there,”
The branches of the trees and the grass where Vaemma stood swayed with the wind and all Aemond wanted to do was look for her again but Helaena’s hand on his scarred cheek stopped him. 
“Even if the blood binds them within. It is not meant to be,”
Their voices merged into one as Aemond echoed the three last words after her, letting her know he listened.
Only then his older sister let go of his face and began walking towards the patch of wildflowers growing next to the forest. 
With a watchful eye over the vacant spot she just occupied, Aemond stayed unmoving for a moment longer before joining them. 
Not the first time since her arrival to the castle, Vaemma Velaryon slipped through his fingers and with the need for an instant reunion, the riddles of Helaena’s hid in a remote corner of his brain. 
But even as he promised himself to come back to them, the only thing he could think of was the in-wall and underground passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast.
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The remaining hours of the tourney came by her quickly in flashes of faces and echos of music. Galloped would be a more fitting word to describe the pace with which the day turned into evening.
She barely remembered what anyone said to her.
All she was aware of was the feeling of her mother's and Daemon's eyes following her every step as she moved from one person to another, smiling politely, with a distant look in her eyes many probably attributed to the wine she drank.
Even in the privacy of her chambers, she didn't feel at peace. With the voices in her head screaming at each other. Each of them having their own argument for and against the maddening idea her mother and Queen Alicent came up with.
Her hands worked fast to untangle the last hanging braid. Dark brows scrunched together, chest heaving, unable to calm down from the events of the long day. Then both her heart and hands stopped when she looked into the vanity mirror. 
The wall behind her opened slowly and the darkness swallowed the book shelves. 
Vaemma looked at the set of cushions set against the headboard of her bed, her dagger nestling under one of them and she was on her feet at once. 
She braced herself and asked, suppressing the bile of fear coming up her throat, “Who goes there?” 
The hilt of the dagger moulded into the palm of her hand and she was almost ready to scream for ser Erland when the darkness spoke to her. 
“Tis only me, jorrāelagon mandianna,” (dear niece)
Aemond’s voice was low and it froze the blood in her veins. Coming out of the shadows it sounded sinister, like a ghost haunting her. 
Which he was. She knew it to be true. 
All too well.  
“You’ve no right to burge in here,”
He stepped onto the rug. Tall frame walking slowly in her direction. Poised and calm. A striking contrast to the way her fingers trembled around her weapon. 
His boots made no sound on the stone and the coldness of it sunk into her bare feet. He always had an advantage. Even in such small details as those. 
As she stood there, frozen in place, the wall thumbed behind Aemond, and it looked as if there was no secret passage hiding behind it. 
It terrified her. The knowledge anyone could find it. 
The knowledge her uncle did?
It terrified her that it thrilled her. 
Did he come to tell her she was to be his wife? Did he even know of it?
His eye caught the sight of the steel in her hand and the corner of his mouth raised up, giving into a taunting smile. She sensed some kind of provocation in it. 
Did he enjoy it? Seeing her lose her composure? 
Did he also find it too easy to lose himself when they were close to one another?
“Come now,” he held out one hand, reaching out for her dagger, “You know where to press it. But you would not harm me. Would you, ñuha amīvindiga?” (my tormentress)
His tormentress.
His?
If not for the man guarding the doors to her chambers, she would've screamed at him.
“How dare you,” she breathed out her ire. 
Her pride was stumped upon time and time again by the man standing before her. And each time she had to crane her neck so she could look into his lone eye. 
Did he see how she loathed him? How she loathed herself for wanting him so?
How dared he call her his at a time like this. When she struggled not to give into the fiery temptation. The one that would allow him to do anything to her. Anything that would destroy her. But suddenly turning to something that wouldn't stand between of what their mothers wanted them to achieve. It would make the matter plain and simple.
How dared he catch her unawares in her chambers when she needed to be left alone. Needed to think without any distractions.
He was unmoved by her anger or so it seemed that he was. She believed herself to get to see through the cracks when they were alone. Sometimes she thought she could read the emotions in the soft purple of his iris or in the twisting of his curved lips. 
His lips.
Her gaze dropped to them without her accord. A lapse caught by her all too late but by Aemond all too soon. 
Aemond was quick to take her face into his hands the moment she let the mask of despise fall.
“Do not touch me,” she pleaded but he held on. 
Heart pounding and head spinning, she closed her eyes, not bearing to look at him. 
Not when his hands were so soft and gentle. Like a linen wimple wrapped around the sides of her face. The calluses on his palms and fingers not as harsh to the touch as she would’ve expected. 
She wanted to sob.
“Look at me,” he commanded. Tone hard and with sharp edges. 
She felt his breath on her nose and mouth when he spoke up again, “Stubborn girl,”
When she opened her mouth to reply, irritation and despair burning her skin, their lips brushed and a shiver went through her. 
“I dare because you’re all mine,” 
As he groaned into her lips, only then his grip on her face tightened and Vaemma budged at it. His mouth grazed against her as he did so and she almost didn’t notice gripping his forearms. 
His.
Did he know? Has he known all this time? Since she came back to this awful place?
She was hanging from him like vine did the castle walls. Holding onto him like she would the fragile leaves, desperate not to fall down, yet knowing she eventually would. 
But she dug her fingers into the leather, into the skin hiding under it and Aemond answered with his own, tangling them into her hair, pulling her harshly into his face.
The kiss was feverish and rough. The tender flesh of her lips stung in the spots where he bit into her. 
Vaemma responded in kind. Squeezing her eyes awfully hard, her hands clawing at Aemond’s, trying to pry his away from her cheeks. 
Or did she. 
Her mind yelled at her as it oft did when such moments occurred between them but her body had a mind of its own. It told her to hold onto him, to spurn him on, to let him consume her wholly. 
She both wanted and dreaded it.
Her back hit the tall foot post of her bed, the dagger long gone from her hand, laying on the carpet under it. 
She was left vulnerable and pliant in Aemond’s embrace. And if the hum he let out indicated correctly, he did not oppose that.
“Did you wait for me?”
She looked at him confused.
His thumb drew a line along her bottom lip, “When I told you I would take you that night,”
Her cheeks grew hotter.
“Do not jest with me,” 
He pressed her into his chest when she tried to get out of his grasp. His distinctive smell hit her senses and it made her dizzy. 
“I keep my promises. You of all people should know that but-”
And what about her promise to her mother?
Was he told to pursue her all along just for the purpose of being her consort one day? Was it all the she was to him? Means to an end?
“You’ve no need to explain yourself to me, kepus. And you should be on your way out,” (uncle)
With her words silence befell them. 
Vaemma looked at the half-empty shelves behind him. Searching for spots on her walls which would keep her distracted. Everything would do so not to look into his eye. 
Aemond didn’t find her ignoring him to his liking and moved his hand down her body until it rested on her thigh and a breath caught in her throat. 
“Let me,” he asked, crumbling the material of her nightgown between his fingers, pulling it up together with her undergarments. 
Goosebumps covered her skin and she hated how good the movements of his hand there felt. 
“Let me finish what our servants denied us and I will let you be,”
“I’ve trouble believing you’d leave me with my virtue still intact, kepus. You promised me something else entirely,” (uncle)
“And are you this willing to give such a precious gift to me? Are you not content that I am not taking it? Not humiliating you?”
He knew that he already had. Made a fool of her.
And she let him do it again when her eyes closed as he hid his hand under the satin material of her nightgown and massaged his way up the inside of her thigh.
Her heart hasn’t stopped its harsh beating, only increased in the pain it caused her ribcage. 
How was it possible for a single man to elicit such contradictory emotions in her?
Why had it to be him? 
Her fingers curled around his palm and it stopped its journey further up. He squeezed the meat of thigh harder in response but Vaemma didn’t give him the satisfaction in making a noise of pleasure this violent grasp gave her. 
Both only looked at each other. A silent battle of dominance in their eyes. 
Eyes so different in colouring yet so similar in its origin. Her uncle would be cruel if she pointed out such a similarity between them.
Would he?
Aemond, as observant as he revealed himself to be during the dispute over the Driftmark succession, watched her expression attentively. The movements of his healthy eye indicated it so and Vaemma hoped not to become an open book to him. One of those he might’ve learned to know by heart. 
A nightly prayer to the gods she recited in her head.
“Then why are you here? If not to take me?”
His bent neck straightened and his face went blank. The only mark of any emotion a gentle flare of his nostrils and a hollow line between his brows. 
And the drop of her leg from his grasp. 
The night air brushed over the mark of his long fingers on her skin and she shivered. 
The sudden change in his demeanour shouldn’t have taken her by surprise. Not anymore. Yet it was so abrupt it did. 
The heavy silence weighed on her chest, turning her breathing shallow once Aemond moved back a single step. 
Away from her. 
She felt her throat tightened but she forced out the question again, hoping he would be frank with her. 
“Why are you here, kepus?” (uncle)
But for Vaemma, hope was a dangerous and fickle thing. She found that out as a young girl. Dragonless and fatherless. Marked by bastardy. 
Yet it fluttered around her heart. I still did. When her uncle was near her, it beated against it. 
What good it did her? That hope? She ought to stomp on it, not cling onto it. Send it to the flames, see it burn and let go of it once and for all. 
And what if she was the only one of them that was told of their possible union? What if he all but spat under her feet if she asked him if his dutifulness compromised being wedded to a bastard?
He would, wouldn't he?
But she was ashamed to admit that she didn't truly know him at all. No amount of time of giving herself to him, in any way a woman could submit herself to a man, would let her see him. Truly see him.
“Leave me be,”
Angry and disappointed she did the only thing she had the strength for and turned her back to him. 
Letting her guard down was a reckless choice on her part. She knew it to be. And she knew him to be hot-blooded and spiteful and ready to plunge a dagger in her back.
But he already cut her chest open. It bled and bleed it continued to do, painting her crimson red. Thus why would another stabbing wound change her? 
For a moon she’s struggled to wash him off of her and was more than certain that she’d fail to put herself back together for a longer time than that.
“Do you truly wish me to leave?”
The wood of her bed post was colder and harder to the touch than his hands ever were. But she gripped it none the same, only if not to fall to her knees. 
What a wretched mess of a creature she became. Crumbling under herself because of a man who detested her so. 
Her future lord husband.
The gods had a cruel sense of humour and yet she wanted to laugh. Laugh for so long her voice turned hoarse.
He could never know. Never know how much his presence and words affected her. 
“If there is nothing of importance you wish to say to me, then I do,”
Silence was his response. And only after three slow breaths she took, the sound of opening and closing of the secret passage travelled to her ears, allowing her to fall onto the carpet. 
Vaemma hissed when her knee bumped into the hilt of her dagger. Carefully, she picked it up and gently pressed it onto her sternum. A shattered breath left her once the coolness of the steel laid above her heart.
But despite her efforts, not even the memory of her father’s words could help her put the fire out.
For she found herself in the middle of the raging storm, not able to escape it.
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From the author: So... hi, I know it's been months but to be completely honest, I wasn't sure if I'd continue sharing this story. But I missed Vaemma and Aemond terribly, rememberd why I chose to rewrite Act I and I appreciate people who might still wait for me to finish it too much to leave them with the unknown. And as it turns out, today marks the one year anniversary of OBAF and I decided to do everything in my power to post the first chapter of Act II for this occasion. With that being said, get ready for more of court and westerosi politics, while these two obsess over each other. And for lots of angst. Obviously.
Thanks to anyone who stumbled upon this fic on AO3 back in 2023 or recently, who knows of it only through Tumblr but mostly to those who stuck by it and leave their mark, interested enough to share their thoughts and discuss it with me <3
(Hopefully) see you soon.
AO3 / SERIES MOODBOARD / SERIES PLAYLIST
Dividers by @dingusfreakhxrrington
Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated. It’s how you can openly show support to the author and their work!
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The Taglist
@adragonprinceswhore ♛ @arcielee ♛ @cyeco13 ♛ @dc-marvel-girl96 ♛ @melsunshine ♛ @myfandomprompts ♛ @snh96 ♛ @tsujifreya ♛ @queenofshinigamis
Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be included in this specific series tag, Aemond tag or general tag ♡
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vintagestarlight · 1 year
Text
Count on Me
Pairing: Soap x military gf!reader
Summary: soap gets in trouble defending you
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: fluff, angst, mild violence, strong language, brief mention of death, unwanted touching, sexual harassment(just to be safe)
A/n: another fic for one of our favorite 141 boys! Because of the warnings I highly suggest if any of this makes you uncomfortable please don't read it! That being said I hope whoever does read it enjoys it! As always reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated! :)
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Soap never really thought about the future anymore. When you work a job like he does, it's counterproductive and sometimes even dangerous to think of a future. When Soap was a younger lad he always thought he'd have a lass and a bairn or two of his own but ever since joining the military he pushed it to the back of his mind. That was until he met you. Price and Laswell recruited you to help with a mission and you ended up earning a spot alongside the rest of the 141.
Soap had always been quite flirtatious by nature but you were different. While yes he did still flirt with you, he caught himself doing the one thing he tried so hard to avoid. He caught himself seeking you out during meals or wanting to spar with you during training. He caught himself staring at you during meetings or rec time. He caught himself thinking about a future with you; little lads(or lasses) running around getting under your feet. He caught himself falling in love. At first it terrified him realizing he loved you; loving people in his line of work put a target on their back. But seeing how badass you were but also one of the kindest people he knew, he couldn't help himself.
He found out you felt the same when you two were stuck in a safe house in no where Siberia. You were given dodgy intel and it ended with you being shot. Soap had never felt his heart sink so fast; he felt like it dropped to his feet. "Soap in case I don't make it out... I have to tell you something," you said, struggling to get the words out. You could feel the life leaving with every pump of blood; it was a strange sensation to feel yourself dying.
"Dinnae talk like tha' lass," he said, holding a cloth to the hole in your stomach. "You can tell me when we make it out of here,". Your hand grasped his and made him look at you. "I love you Soap," you said. "I tried really hard not too; I tried keeping it professional but...I love you," the words were harder to speak with each passing minute. For a moment Soap's heart felt like it was gonna burst but he still had to get you out alive. Soap had managed to stop the bleeding and a heli had come for exfil courtesy of Price. You ended up making a full recovery in the medical wing.
Ever since then you and Soap had agreed to keep your relationship a secret from the rest of the team. Midnight rendezvous in your rooms, sneaking glances and featherlight touches made Soap feel like a schoolboy again messing around with the popular girl. Of course Price had his suspicions right away; he always kept a close watch over his team and saw how you two treated each other after the mission in Siberia. He didn't say anything though because it didn't affect your performance. Ghost found out after Price when you and Soap were a little drunk after a night out and were a little too loud in the shower. After that you both agreed to be more careful.
It was because of this that men still hit on you. It was nothing new to be hit on especially in the military; you usually just brushed them off politely and then laugh when you saw Soap staring daggers at the poor man who hit on you. It usually ended with you not being able to walk; not that you minded in the slightest. But this time was different.
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Because of Price's reluctant agreement a team had been brought in to assist with an extraction. During the whole mission the squad's lieutenant, Yates, had been making sexual comments about you; you were able to brush them off like you always do because this was nothing you hadn't heard before. Being a woman in the military you weren't a stranger to inappropriate comments from men. But you could tell it was bothering Soap.
The mission was a success; you were able to get your target out without it being a disaster. You were hanging around base with Soap, Gaz, and Ghost after you all got back. Price had retreated back to his office to work on paperwork and the squad that was brought in was with you three in the rec room. "So y/l/n what about you?" Yates asked. They had been talking about their weekend escapades with beautiful women while being especially crude. "Who here would you let do you?" He asked, a smirk on his face. "Excuse me?" You asked, hoping you heard him wrong.
You could feel Soap tense beside you, gripping the neck of his beer bottle so tightly you were surprised it didn't shatter. Ghost laid a hand on Soap's shoulder trying to keep him from doing anything stupid. "Who would you let do you?" The lieutenant repeated himself. "Or maybe you already let them," he said still with a nasty smirk. You finished the last of your beer before standing up. "I think I'm going to go finish my own paperwork," You said, bidding goodbye to your teammates. "Oh come on don't be a bitch just answer the question," He said standing up and blocking your path. "Move. Now." You said, flatly.
"Come on it's just a simple question," he said, stepping closer. "Do you let them take turns?" He asked. "Just tell me who leaves you the most sore afterward?" He grabbed your ass and pulled you against his chest. Before you could break his hand for touching you, Soap pushed between you two and punched the lieutenant across the face. "You son of a bitch!" Soap shouted. The two tumbled and fell with Soap on top. The rec hall erupted in shouts some from Gaz and Ghost and some from the other squad. Soap was able to get a few more punches in before Gaz and Ghost could pull him off "Johnny what the fuck?!" Ghost shouted.
Yates lied on the ground, holding his face. Blood poured from his broken nose and busted mouth. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Yates groaned. You stood there stunned and looked over at Soap who Ghost was still trying to calm down. "Go take a fucking walk Johnny," Ghost growled. Soap looked over at you and turned on his heel stalking off. "You're finished Sergeant you hear me? You're fucking finished!" Yates screamed at Soap's retreating back. "Shut the fuck up Yates," Ghost said, his voice a low growl as he looked at the injured lieutenant. The lieutenant got up and left, probably to find Price's office. You didn't know what to say so you turned to leave when Ghost grabbed your wrist. "He just risked his entire career to defend you. Give him some time to cool off but you need to talk to him," Ghost said, his voice the usual grumble. You nodded, glanced briefly at the blood on the floor, and left for your room.
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Soap knocked on Price's door waiting for Price to tell him to come in. The door opened and Yates stepped out. His face purple and bruised, his nose still crooked with cotton stuffed in his nostrils to stop the bleeding. His mouth was swollen with dried blood caked on it. Soap felt a sick sort of satisfaction knowing he did that. Ghost followed Yates and gave him a reassuring nod. Yates just glared at him when Price called him in. "Take a seat," Price said from behind his desk.
Soap closed the door and made his way to one of the chairs facing Price's desk. "His captain is calling for your discharge," Price said. "He's not happy that his lieutenant has a busted face," he added. "You didn't hear what he said about her," Soap said, his fists clenching at the memory. "I know exactly what he said. Ghost told me," said Price. "The fact is you assaulted a superior officer. You're lucky you're not being court martialed," Price said, looking at Soap.
"Yates is a womanizing bastard. I'd do it again discharge or not," Soap said. "I know you would," Price couldn't help but chuckle. "Fortunately for you that won't be a problem. His captain is as much of a cunt as he is but we worked it out. You'll be suspended for six weeks," Price said. "And for what it's worth I would've done the same to the bloody bastard," Price added, before he dismissed Soap.
You figured Soap would've had enough time to have his talk with Price so you headed towards his room. You passed by the rec room to see Yates mopping his blood off the floor; you could already hear Price telling him to "clean his bloody floor". You made it to Soap's room and rapped on the door. "It's open," Soap said. You walked in and saw Soap lounging on his bed wearing one of those tight muscle shirts that drove you crazy.
"So? How bad is it?" You said, wetting a washcloth and coming to sit next to him. You grabbed his hands and started dabbing the warm cloth over his knuckles. "Six week suspension," he said, focusing on the feeling of you cleaning off his hands. "Really?" You asked surprised. "How'd you manage that?" You said, getting up to rinse of the washcloth. "Price vouched for me. Without him I could've gotten into some real trouble," he replied, looking at you clean off his other hand.
"You know I appreciate you doing that but you shouldn't have," you said, tossing the cloth into his hamper. "I couldn't let him say those things about you Bonnie," he said, looking at you. "It wasn't right," Soap added. "You could've lost your job Johnny. I would never want you to do that for me," you shook your head. Soap grabbed your hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. "I love you hen and I'll always defend you," he said. "I love you too Johnny," You said, giving him a kiss. Soap wanted to make sure you knew you could always count on him.
527 notes · View notes
the-nysh · 9 months
Text
Trimax vol1: Longhaired Meryl Appreciation
Both Vash and Meryl grew out their hair in the 2yr timeskip since Fifth Moon (prev vol), that they'll both get haircuts before formally returning to duty. BUT! Since in-universe it's Meryl's birthday (February), and as an experienced (and silly!) ~professional~ she understands the value of taking a well-deserved vacation before she inevitably gets swept into the chaotic typhoon of her job again....so for now, here's her looking radiant with her longer hairstyle:
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Bonus comparison to her typical hair length looks like this:
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Additional chapter character notes of interest below the cut:
When her coworkers start gossiping and making assumptions about how horrible and dangerous her job (supervising Vash) must've been, she gently corrects them--defending Vash's name, saying "it wasn't such a terrible experience; Vash was a very different person than everyone thought he was; he was actually a very caring and honest man." Very good! She's seen much of his genuine kindness and efforts on their travels, that she won't sit idly by when others continue to misjudge him or speak ill of his character.
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(Interestingly in contrast, it seems Meryl has a tolerance towards barbs and criticisms thrown at herself--remaining comparatively silent and/or suppressing it when she's the topic, but she will speak her mind on behalf of others, like Vash's reputation here.)
When her boss calls her to identify recent photos of Vash, she has tears of recognition--it's the first time (and confirmation he's alive) she's seen him after Fifth Moon! She notes his hair color has changed...
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However, this time that's her boss's only use for her, as he's hired another guy in charge to intercept Vash. Meryl tries to help by offering the new guy all her reports on Vash as references, but the guy rudely insults and dismisses her! Saying her reports are uselessly no better to him than tabloids--as if she were writing Vash as another 'legendary mysterious hero'--which ah! If her previous words to her coworkers were any clue, she was probably working just as hard to clear Vash's name thru her insurance reports too. :') Lovely integrity and consistent dedication, Meryl!
She was willing to let the new guy go (while dissing a silly gesture behind his back~ again, she refrained from arguing or speaking up for herself here) and sit this one out, until she learns he's a trained military soldier...uhoh. (*cough* whom Vash also doesn't trust and won't open his door for...until the guy mentions lies he brings word from Meryl--ding!)
Although Meryl was supposed to be on vacation, she personally intervenes upon realizing this in-house 'insurance agent' is a hit-man with an unethical approach to 'risk management'--he's here to kill Vash and she does NOT agree with that! (Her non-lethal stance on dealing with targets actually aligns with Vash's values!)
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The guy berates her as foolish to get so involved, while pointing a gun at her head--so brave, Meryl! She calmly remembers what her coworker said, about how "a woman can't be happy when she's always getting thrown into life-threatening situations" and thinks back to every danger she's encountered--the Nebraskas, BDN and the Bad Lads, Monev the Gale, EG the Mine...Fifth Moon, to finally focusing on...Vash's smile.
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Almost like a grounding effect. 'Do it for him~' Where normally yes, she'd agree, but getting so 'foolishly' involved and thrust into countless dangerous situations becomes necessary and worth it (for Vash's smile...)
Also because, did the guy completely dismiss and underestimate her so bad, thinking she'd carelessly come here all by herself without a plan?! Hah! Cause Milly's on supportive sniper stungun duty to trash into this guy's ego; played 'em well, girls~ With this, Meryl's once again stepped in to take preventative measures against trouble to help save Vash's life, even from afar without him knowing.
Although Milly asks if they can go meet Vash, Meryl insists on keeping professional boundaries at a distance for now--so they can prioritize their self-care enjoying their much-needed vacation, as they'll meet that 'troublemaker' through work and soon get carried away by the typhoon again, all in due time~
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(Back at the office, now who's going to be their most qualified replacement for that guy injured on the job? Ding ding, all along that would be Meryl!)
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targetslovelyworld · 2 months
Text
Stampy’s Lovely World Dashboard simulator
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🍪 randomwordotd Follow
Random word of the day: Frogs!!!
( 56 notes )
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🎄 hollyjollypolly Follow
Only 342 days until Christmas!
🥔 bubblingconcoction Follow
Halloween is better
🎄 hollyjollypolly Follow
I disagree with that personally.
🥔 bubblingconcoction Follow
You can’t disagree with me I’m right
🦫 sillybillybeaver Follow
This your house?
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🎄 hollyjollypolly Follow
WHAT
🧜‍♀️ lovelovepetalz Follow
Oomfies fighting on the tl again
#its funny though #reblog # // not flowers
( 85 notes )
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🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
Who put Stampy Cat in charge of the weather I feel like I’m going to get heat stroke just stepping outside
🧸 longshot-btg Follow
its not that serious bro
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
It hasn’t rained in 4 years what the fuck do you mean its not that serious
🧸 longshot-btg Follow
that sounds like a you problem
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
When I get my hands on those dogs I will exile you
#its gonna happen #his dogs WILL be mine #just you wait and see
( 5,937 notes )
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🥧 pumpkinmunchkin Follow
new hit the target plan leak hes going to steal the dogs by taping a photo of stampy cat onto his head with the hopes that the helpers wont catch on
#he would be stupid enough to try to pull this off
( 428 notes )
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💿 giraffeconstructionsite Follow
i think i botched the recipe this potion isnt kicking in
💿 giraffeconstructionsite Follow
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( 25,173 notes )
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🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
Nobody decided that Stampy should get to rule over everyone. The fact that so many of you people are complacent in his regime is sickening to me.
☃️ christmasmiracle12242012 Follow
im henry i am a snow golem and i like snowball fights and playing in the snow :D
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
?
#what
( 7 notes )
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🍪 randomwordotd Follow
Random word of the day… BERRY
( 93 notes )
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🐱 mr-stampy-cat Follow
Making a cake with my favorite helpers! Such a lovely morning.
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
Your days are numbered.
🐱 mr-stampy-cat Follow
Not much of a threat coming from you, Mr. “I spent thirteen years consistently failing to take one guy’s dogs and now I’m salty about it”
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
Not much of an insult coming from you, Mr. “I don’t let anyone else speak except for me because I’m self-obsessed and don’t care what others have to say in the slightest”
🦫 sillybillybeaver Follow
This is why your wife left you.
🏹 freeing-this-world Follow
Go fuck yourself
#imagine being so desperate to win an argument that you drop the veeva card #that should be an indicator that your argument fucking sucks #bringing up a lads divorce as a gotcha moment #how typical of a brainwashed helper
( 109 notes )
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🌆 is-veeva-dash-dead-yet Follow
No.
🥔 bubblingconcoction Follow
Go to hell William
🌆 is-veeva-dash-dead-yet Follow
Who is this “William” you speak of? I am very clearly is-veeva-dash-dead-yet
🥔 bubblingconcoction Follow
Two can play at that game.
🎇 is-william-beaver-dead-yet Follow
No.
🦫 sillybillybeaver Follow
Wow! Unprovoked, Veeva!
🎇 is-william-beaver-dead-yet Follow
If I have my way I’ll be posting the word yes tomorrow
#and nobody will miss you
( 323,791 notes )
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codcosplayer · 24 days
Text
Just another love story?
(C/N)= Code Name (Y/N)= Your Name (Y/L/N)= Your Last Name
You were on Task Force 141 you had also not been the most careful on missions, but you weren’t dumb, you knew what to look for who the target was and most importantly, Check. Your. Six. It sounds dumb, but its the only reason you in this situation anyways. You were following the target, checking left and right as you walked but you didn’t turn around to look behind you, rookie mistake. Apparently they enemy team had figured out the plan and they were lead you into their little trap, Price suddenly yelled out a warning and as you finally turned around you had some quick lead launched into your knee, fortunately it didn’t come out the other side meaning theat it didn’t break through your knee cap, bad news was there was a bullet it your leg. Never the less you took out the target, after being instructed and you took off toward the get away vehicle with a great limp. “Damn it-” You said “You ok C/N?” Soap asked, “‘m ok..” You said, you continuted. Finally the van came into view, the bullet kept getting more and more lodged in your knee, about seven feet from from the van you knee locked and gave out. ”Oh Crap!” Gaz got out of the van and picked you up, “What the hell happened?!” “Got shot.” You answered, “Yea I see that.” He said jokingly, he gently sits me in the back seat and sits next to me, you groan as your knee hits one of the seats infront off you as the car starts to move, “Why didn’t you tell us? We could had helped.” Ghost asks, “You also would had when out of your way to come get me, I would have slowed everything down and we would have failed the mission.” you respond, Brows furrowed a little in pain, you hit a pot hole almost as soon as Gaz started treating your knee. You were losing blood rapidly and it was amking you a bit dizzy, the moving of the car wasn’t helping either, Gaz’s voice brought you back to reality, “You doin’ alright? your a bit pale..” “I’m f-fine a little lightheaded, but good.” you replied reassuringly, after the van stopped at the hide-out Gaz helped you out of the car and into the building, Soap was already inside the building with Laswell, Gaz sat you on the couch and abcked up as Soap ran over to you, “What happened?!” Soap exclaimed, I hurt to sit in any position on the couch, you got shot in the back of the knee so you settled on the for on top of a blanket, face-down into a pillow on the floor while they did a little “Surgery”. After five minutes of blinding pain and what felt like Ghost toying with the bullet hole they got you the bullet, your knee was unstuck from the uncomfortable position in was in, but still hurt. You let out a muffled groan into the pillow you were laying on, “Can we wrap it up? This is starting to hurt.. Real bad.” “Well, we need to cuterize the wound, it will hurt more but you won’t risk popping any stitches.” Price says. You groan, “Fine, just do it quickly..” “Uh-huh” you hear Ghost gruff before you hear a lighter flick, Soap takes of his belt and puts it in your mouth before you shove your face back into the pillow. “Alright on the count of three yeah?” You nod, “One.. Two-” A binding white pain rushs through your body, you hear a sizzle as Ghosts knife is pressed to your skin. Your let of a gasp and then a muffled scream. The smell of your melted burning flesh nauseated you, finally after what felt like years of torture the knife was pulled away from your skin, the smell lingered and the pain was still there but it felt better with the knife not on your wound anymore. Ghost wrapped up your knee and let Gaz take you to bed. You couldn’t find any way to lay down without you wanting to meet god, finally you ended up laying  og gaz with a pillow inbetween your legs and your arms wrapped around his, “Wanna watch a movie m’ love?”
Gaz questioned, “Yes! Something cute! But you pick the movie, I always pick.” “Me pick? If we’re watching something cutsy you know what I’m gonna pick-” “Lady and the tramp~” You both say, “Thats right,” Gaz says proudly, “Alright then lets watch it,” You say “You want to watch it? Are you just saying that to make me happy because you know I hate that-” “No! No! I want to watch it!” You respond happily, “Ok lets watch it then.” Gaz puts on the movie and holds you close until you fall asleep.
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somethingthing · 2 years
Text
Freshly baked scones and flour fights
Thomas Shelby x reader
Warnings: not many, some implied smut towards the end + some minor angst, other than that just fluff and cuteness
Word count: 1346
A/n: Probably some bad grammar cause I’ve looked over this too many times to notice anything now gahahah (Thomas was also really hard to write for some reason, hopefully it’s still okey <3)
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The arrow house smelled of freshly baked bread and your clothes and face was covered in flour.
“Charlie! Put it down!” The little boy was holding flour in both his hands, threatening to throw it your way at any moment. Instead of listening to you he leaped towards you, swinging his arm forward and letting the flour hit your already covered trousers.
A high pitched laugh left his mouth as he made himself ready to throw the rest in his other hand. You quickly turned around to make a run for it, making the boy chase you through the kitchen and in to the hall.
“Alright, you can’t throw that here, your father won’t be happy, the kitchen is messy enough” you get out between your laughter, shaking your head at Charlie who had you cornered. He giggled and slowly approached you with his fist full of flour in the air.
You’d been looking after Charlie for a while now. With Grace’s passing almost a year ago Mr. Shelby, or Tommy as he insisted on you calling him, thought it was best you stayed at the house. At first it was solely for Charlies sake with Tommy neck deep in grief and work, but after a few months something had started to grow between the two of you. Now you were more or less a happy family even if you and Tommy weren’t official to anyone else than yourselves.
Charlie had stopped in his tracks when he heard a car roll up outside. You peeked outside the through the window and saw Tommy heading up to the door. That’s when an idea hit you.
“What do you say about giving you dad a nice welcoming gift?” You asked and gestured at his raised fist. Without having to say anything more Charlies face lit up “Yeah you think that sounds good? Come here” you lifted him up to rest against your hip as the door opened.
With smug faces you watched Tommy enter the house “What the hell have the two of you been up to eh?” He took his coat and cap of.
“Oh you know, just the boring stuff” you took a couple of steps closer to him, hearing Charlie giggle at your ear. “But then we decided to bake some bread and your son here thought I looked like good target practice” you say trying to hide the mischief in your tone .
“Good lad” he says and ruffles the boy’s hair “Looks like he was good at it too” he chuckles letting his eyes scan your clothes.
“He’s really good at it, but I’m sick of being the victim and your clothes looks way too clean to me, what do you think Charlie?”
“Flour flour flour!” He happily exclaims before opening his fist over Tommy’s suit. He swings his legs back and forth, forcing you to put him down on the floor again and he runs towards the kitchen laughing.
A low and long sigh leaves Tommy’s lips and for a moment you worry that he’s mad, but then a grin creeps on to his face. “You’ll regret that” is all he says before launching himself towards you.
You let out a squeal and make a run for the kitchen just like Charlie, who’s now standing in a corner with his hands behind his back. Feeling Tommy come up behind you for an attack, you panic in all the laughter and slip in some milk you dropped earlier. Dragging the man down with you and you both end up in a pile on the floor.
Charlie, still with his hands behind his back, shifted and slowly revealed the bag of flour that earlier had stood on the counter. You and Tommy stopped laughing for a moment.
“Don’t you dare Charlie” you scolded him, not succeeding to keep a serious tone. The boy shifted again.
“Listen to her boy, put the bag down” Tommy’s voice was more stern, but you could still hear some amusement. Refusing to listen he creeped closer with his arms out and flour bag away from his body. “Charlie, put. It. Down.” Is the last thing Tommy gets out before there’s even more flour everywhere.
Now a small amount of flour is easy to handle, maybe even fun to throw around, but a whole bag results in a decent sized dust cloud. Coughing and wheezing you try and get up from the floor but moving only made it worse.
“Still, still” Tommy tries, pulling you back against his chest in an attempt to minimize the dust.
Charlie who has realized the consequences of his actions started to cry. You and Tommy carefully got up. “Oh darling, everything is fine” you say as you once again pick him up. His cries only intensifies as he reaches his arms out towards his father.
“Come here” you hand the boy over to his father, Charlie’s head instantly finds Tommy’s shoulder where he falls asleep almost immediately. “I’ll get him to bed”.
“There’s a fresh set of pajamas in his drawers, I’ll change his sheets tomorrow so no need to wake him up for a wash, okey?” Tommy only nods and heads upstairs.
The kitchen truly was a mess, flour everywhere with dishes piled on the counter from the previous baking. You grabbed the front of your blouse and yanked it off from you body a few times to get rid of some flour and brushed your hand over your trousers. It didn’t help much, but at least you didn’t create your own cloud when you walked to the cleaning closet to grab supplies.
You heard foot steps behind you and spun around. Tommy had come down the stairs, now in new non-floured clothes. “Bread for dinner eh?” He snickered as he walked over to the basket full of scones.
“It’ll go well with the marmalade Mary made last week” you give him a half smile. Sometimes you didn’t know how to feel about your and Mr. Shelby’s relationship. You liked him, you truly did but seeing how destroyed he’d been after Grace, that still wasn’t too long ago, you sometimes felt like an intruder.
This was her home, her child you looked after and her husband you shared a bed with more often then not lately. But it wasn’t hers anymore, because she wasn’t here and she would never come back. So why did it still trouble you?
”Love? Don’t shut down” he was now heading towards you cupping you face in his hands and tilting your head up “What’s going through that head of yours ey?”
Sighing and slightly smiling once again you take your hands and put them over his “Nothing, I’m okey” you assure him but all he does is click is tongue in disapproval. “I just…you know how I feel sometimes and I know you think it’s stupid”
“Mhm” is all he says before taking a step back looking down at your clothes. “It’s stupid, but not as stupid as you look covered in flour” he says as seriously as he can.
“Excuse you Mr. Shelby but I’ll have you know that this,” gesturing at your clothes “is all you son’s doing” you say pretending to be shocked and lightly hitting him with your palm on his chest.
He gave out a low chuckle “What do you say about a bath? We’ll bring some bread and marmalade, whisky and then we’ll let Mary clean this tomorrow” his voice had dropped and his hands had made their way to your hips.
“Now while all of that sounds nice, we’re NOT leaving this to Mary, she’ll have a heart attack” you lecture him trying to hide how tempted you were to just leave it.
“Start to run the bath and I’ll be up in a second, alright?” Even if it was posed as a question you knew it was more of an order. You nodded an “okey” and gave him a quick kiss, but he had other plans, He pulled you closer to deepen it, giving you a good idea of what he actually intends with the bath and alcohol. It’s not to relax you, well not for a while at least.
——————————
Thanks for reading! <3 I’ve had this laying in my drafts for a while not sure if I like it or not but I have nothing else to post for the moment. There MIGHT be a part 2 to this if I figure out how to be comfortable with writing smut, I want to, buuuut we’ll see :’) (edit: a part 2 is in the making, don’t know when I’ll be done cause it’s slow BUT it’s happening)
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Text
DOMINATION LINES!!
THANK YOU @caramelcheesegay FOR COMING UP WITH 90% OF THESE, ILY<333
DOMINATED:
Scout:
-“Can’t stun me if you can’t hit me! I’m a freakin’ blur, dipshit!”
-“I am ALWAYS gonna dodge that. When will you LEARN, man?”
-“Oh, oh, oh! I’m STUNNED at how bad you’re doin’!”
Soldier:
-“Don’t swing your puny stick at me, maggot! You come from fake America!!!”
-“I AM IMPERVIOUS TO ALL OF YOUR ATTACKS, SYRUP-SLURPER!”
-“Get off the battlefield and go play some hockey, weakling!”
Demo:
-“Aye, I bet you thought it’d be easy ta kill me, didn’t’che? Well, iaarrghhnnn *snore*.”
-“You call tha’ a grenade?? Me blind Mum farts worse than that wee thing!” 
-“Don’ come a’ me in those ghoulish boots lad, I’ll blast ‘em right offa yer feet!” 
Engie:
-“You’re just a little piece a’ sentry fodder now, aren’t’cha?”
-“You make for some real shitty target practice, son.”
-“Tell me ‘bout those stun grenades sometime, yeah?”
Heavy:
-“Ha! Leetle bug man is crushed. Like bug. Leetle bug. Feed you to Archimedes, Buggy.”
-“Small jumpy man- not Scout? There are two small jumpy men???”
-“You think loud noise and bright light are enough to take down Heavy??? I am killing you now!!”
Medic:
-“Oohoo! Free organs! Young, too!”
-“Ach, that reminds me- I need to feed my birds.”
-“Ohhh, sorry little boy! Go play with your crayons, ja?”
Sniper:
-“Piss off, y’ jumpy git. Bloody grasshopper…”
-“Awh, get quicker next time, won’tcha?” 
-“Dead like a ‘roo on the side o’ the road!”
Spy:
-“For someone named ‘The Rogue’, you are certainly a pack thinker.”
-“Oho! I am *stunned* by your lack of skill!”
-“Not so *Dexx*trous now, hm?”
DOMINATING:
Scout: 
-“No runnin’ in the halls, freshman!”
-“Bonk? More like thonk, eh? ‘Cause that’s the sound your hollow head makes when I hit ya!” 
-“Hah! Too slow!” 
Soldier: 
-“Y'know, a 3" piece of rubber can do a lotta damage, Trench Monkey!”
-“Hah! Oh, I mean- I'm sooo soooorey aboot tha', Bud! (snicker)”
-“A cat on a sloped roof is braver than the entire U.S. Military, Booklicker!” 
Pyro: 
-“Ack! Sorry, Firecracker!” 
-“Oh shit, I think I’m still on fire. Damn it, these were my favorite pants!” 
-“Hey we're, uh, still on for s'mores later... right?”
Demo:
-“Pen's mightier than the sword, cyclops! Get it? 'Cause I'm an artist and you- yeah, nevermind”
-“Someone must have put a little sleepy sauce in your mickeys, bud, ‘cause you are NOT on top of it today!” 
-“Smile and wait for the flash!” 
Heavy:
-“Somebody order ten thousand pounds a’ dead weight? (Snort)” 
-“It’s really hard to miss your pressure points, y’know.” 
-“Move it, ya big lug! You’re in the way!” 
Engineer: 
-“GRENAAAAAADE! I WIN! Ya proud of me, da-uhhh.. dude?” 
-“See ya round, Daaaeengie! I said Engie. Short for Engineer. That is you. You are- I’ll go.” 
-“Bam! And another one down, and another one down! ANOTHER ONE BITES THE BO STAFF!!” 
Medic: 
-“oohohoh, Maybe I can try some experiments on you this time!- Y'know, put your lessons to good use!”
-“Doc, you seriously gotta take care of your health. Damn hypocrite... (Mocking voice) 'Do az I say, not az I do!' my ass!”
-“Guess that's what happens when you don't follow your own advice, thanks for the hands-on lesson!”
Sniper:
-“There, away from the noise now! Just how you like it, Dee!”
-“You may wink at your opponents, but ya gotta take the shot as well, y'know! Can't charm 'em to death!”
-“I just... un-cozied your... camper. I'm having a bad day please be nice.”
Spy:
-“Crisse de connard! -Aheh, not used to gettin' berated in your own language, eh?”
-“Va te faire foutre, merde de con!”
-“Bein Tabarnak, it feels good to turn the tables! Hah, deserved!”
Taunt ideas:
-Using the Bo-Staff as a microphone
-Using the bo-staff as a rifle(making fun of sniper)
-Juggling the stun grenades, almost dropping one and catching it in time before glancing around to see if anyone saw him and putting them away again
OCS:
DOMINATED:
Strat (@emotionally-stressed-strategist):
-“How are you this bad? I’m dominating you with a PEN, Rogue, A PEN.” 
-“Rock, skull. Man down.” 
-“One less dot on the map- don’t come back, yeah?”
Arrow (@emotionally-dead-archer):
-"Hah! Gotcha! Oh, gotta love a little sibling rivalry, am I right?"
-“Bigger sibling? Not really.”
-“Hey! My aim is getting better! Thanks for the target practice!”
DOMINATING:
Strat:
-“I’m done bein’ your wingman if you keep this up.”
-“That’s what happens when you steal my art supplies!”
-“How do you still not have ink poisoning? Dude, seriously.”
Arrow:
-“There! I make for a pretty good role model! You get to see my stuff first-hand!”
-“You're adopted. Sorry.”
-“I think it's almost bedtime, kiddo.”
Jet (@emotionally-broken-robot):
-"Hey, uh, does this count as Softwaregore?"
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heleciacrow · 1 year
Text
Unpredictable Outcome
AU Resurrected Heimdall x Reader
This was inspired by @silvergoldraeven that wrote AU Heimdall resurrected HC. I really love their story how everything went well after he lived(at least in our dreams. I'm still butthurt he died in the post-game.) And this gave me an idea for a plot. I'll be writing more soon too. Happy reading 💕🌹
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
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The day he was resurrected was uncanny, Atreus being a kind hearted boy made it clear that he no longer needs to fight for anyone or anything for that matter. All he has to do is to enjoy this new life that was given to him and he appreciates that.
Everyone accepted him, even though he was one of those people who tried to harm them. He learned many things that were just good...to him. Learning new ways of how he can interact, how to follow rules and praises when needed. This bears in mind that he can more than just foresight and prediction, he may still be a jerk most of the time but the new family he found shows greatness at his worst part in there.
Kratos being a good father figure to him is something that he never knew he'll find, a father that he wanted when Odin was alive. Atreus is the brother he learned to love, carrying that along his new life, Mimir the great uncle who gives him advice when Kratos is not around, Freya the great step-mother that shows great love to him like her own son. Baldur is also one of the Great parts that was added recently and finally accepts one another once more. But let me add one more that adds greatness in his new life and that is none other than you.
He found you greatly appreciative of him, it might take a while for you to accept him when he was brought back by Atreus after being resurrected but as time goes by, the two of you were starting to warm up to each and learn new things together.
You are Atreus sibling by blood, Kratos and your younger brother tried their best to convince you to get along with Heimdall even though you knew what he had done in the past. However, you gave in when Atreus gave you a long hug and did not let go of you until you agreed to give the Aesir God a chance.
One thing you started to like about Heimdall is when he would give a half-ass remarks at Atreus being the 'big brother' of his when Kratos introduced him to people for the first time. Which did not sit well with you at all, well don't get me wrong, you're happy that there's a new added family, although Heimdall has something hidden from the rest of you.
He was a good companion when hunting together while Kratos, Mimir and Atreus would go somewhere else for Sindri(which he finally accepted Brok's death and finally forgiving Atreus.) In Heimdall's eyes, he felt heavier emotions towards you, the way your hair would brush and wave through the wind, the smile you give when he hit the deer when hunting and small praises that leaves his heart skipping a beat. He finds himself staring intently at you most of the time, not creepy at all. He cherishes those moments with you more than with Kratos when he goes with him when you're not available. But it didn't falter him since he enjoys hunting with his new Father. However, most of the time when they would chat here and there, it's Heimdall's questions about you to Kratos. It would leave our old pal confused for a moment but he did not question it. One time, Mimir pointed out when they're tracking the deer "Say, Lad, I know this might come off a bit personal. But you seem very fond of Y/n." Heimdall stiffens on his feet while tracking their target for the day, Kratos stares at his back "W-why are you asking, old goat? We were just getting along." He responded, a chuckle was heard from Kratos when he finally realized what Mimir is trying to target towards the Aesir God. "It is fine to ask about your new 'sibling', it might help to make your bond stronger." Mimir agreeing with Kratos made Heimdall feel the heat creeping up to his face "I...well they're...you know...great?" For the first time in Heimdall's life, he is stuttering, he never stutters, he always had something smart to say but this very moment made him blank "Oi, I think we broke the lad, brother." Mimir laughs, Heimdall not liking the fact he's being teased "Why would I even ask you...?" He muttered and went on the hunt again.
But even when they're finally back to Sindri's home, Baldur went to help Kratos carry the buck that was hunted. You and Freya would check the greenery she built behind the house, Heimdall's eyes went to you and he stopped. Oh how your eyes sparkle with glee, how it makes his heart beat faster than his movement in battle. Thinking of you more than just a renowned sibling, he wanted something else. He felt dejected knowing that Kratos would always introduce them as 'siblings' he exhaled through his nose deeply but wasn't unnoticed by Tyr, the Norse God of War stood next to Heimdall and checked who he was staring at. "Is something bothering you, young man?" Heimdall just shook his head as he put his left hand on his hip "Nothing... Just... Thinking." Unexpectedly for Tyr that he's in deep thought, never in millennia that he would find him liking this.
After hours of staring (not creepily) at you, he finally has had it. He wanted to understand what he felt and went to seek Kratos for advice. "You are confused about your feelings?" He questions, Heimdall is curled up in blankets not wanting to show how embarrassed he is for asking this "I might say, he's probably lovesick at this moment, brother." Mimir commented, Heimdall pulled off the blanket from his head causing his braid to mess up and sat up quickly to glare at the talking head "Lovesick? I am a god! I can't get sick!" He retorted, Mimir laughing loudly at the messed up Heimdall "Poor lad not getting what I meant."
"I do not get sick, old goat! How can you tell?" He asked but he's desperate to know what makes him feel this way, truly he is fond of you and Kratos finally sat down next to Heimdall's bed "You can tell us what you feel." He encouraged him and Heimdall went full blown to explain everything to them.
After ranting about all his thoughts and earning a grunt of understanding from Kratos, Heimdall laid back down on his bed and covered his face with the blanket once more, he felt hotter when he finally let out everything and Kratos finally got the conclusion "I see..." His only response was that, seeing how Heimdall might have fallen in love with you without him knowing it completely "You are inlove, Heimdall." Peeking his head out to look at Mimir after he said that, he put his hand on his chest "How can you say?" "Well, you said you felt your breath taking away from when you see them, you enjoy their company, and mostly you seek for their presence when they're not around at all and lastly you do not like anyone else talking to her unless they're friends or family, did you not?" He nodded, now it clicked to him. He is indeed in love "Can I speak to them about this?" Heimdall asked "Kratos?" Mimir turned his eyes to Kratos and looked forward "There's one thing you can try rather than talking. We have a tradition from my homeland... If a man is involved with such emotion towards a woman, they declare that by throwing an apple towards them... If the person catches the apple means they accept the feelings of the other...romantically." he explained, Heimdall nod at him "will you try it?" "It would be a waste of apple if they don't catch it..." Kratos added.
It has been weeks after the talk he had with them, Heimdall is in a pickle and does not know if he can even do the throwing without getting nervous. His heart would burst and his mind would race, telling him that he had to do it. 'what if they don't like him that way? Will that destroy what they have now?' he even turned off his mind reading, so he doesn't know if you would think of him that way. He kept walking back and forth, Atreus was watching him with his father "what's wrong with him?" He asked "He's waiting for the right moment." He can pick up your footsteps, and yes he is counting them. He can tell how close you are, he's ready. He's throwing away his prideful self, he's gonna do it. As soon as the portal lights up, he pulls out an apple from his little pouch and waits for you to enter first and as soon he saw you, he feels his body shaken.
From a distance, Mimir muttering of encouragement for Heimdall "go on, lad. You have nothing to lose." With a short breath, Heimdall called for you "Y/n... Catch." Throwing the apple in the air towards your way, time seems to slow down. You raise your gaze towards the apple flying towards you and put down your weapon to the ground to use both hands to catch it, once the apple landed to your hand perfectly, you look up to see Heimdall looking hopeful when he sees you catching. It took you a moment to realize this as you learned from Kratos homeland and your face started to heat up "Are...you serious?" You asked hesitantly, you were about to doubt this but his Bifrost eyes stared at you with the most sincerity and for the first time he is not playing around "You mean it?" He nod, grinning you held the apple close to your heart and started to tear up "I thought I'm just the only one..." You muttered softly, but he heard you. He looked over to where Kratos is and he gave him a nod of approval towards his declaration for his oldest child, he felt elated and walked towards you as you did so, letting yourself be engulfed by his arm, finally having a chance to be with him as yours and you as his.
Extended ended :
Two winters have passed, Kratos, Heimdall, Atreus and you were in the middle of the trading town. Some already know who you were but when they asked Kratos about you all, he goes
"These are my children and my son-in-law.and and my oldest's brother in-law" And Heimdall never felt so proud to call you his forever.
"Baldur, don't put a copper in your mouth!" What a fine day to live.
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Soliloquy
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Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
Dedicated to @yeyinde and @moondirti for their incredible writings! Seriously I haven't written this often in years so...let's go! Song this was inspired by ⬇️
Simon was alone.
Alone on the roof, mask off and a cigarette in-between his lips and a beer bottle hanging precariously from his fingers. He had nothing but the multitudes of thoughts doing sprints in his brain, a rare chance when he wasn't aware of his surroundings and he could just...be.
He'd been on this mission all of two weeks when he got a call from you, going straight to Price to make sure you wouldn't be delayed. At first he thought the worst, someone had broken in, someone had targeted you, an enemy from his past had showed up and had you hostage and this was the last time he would hear from you.
He wasn't sure what to expect, but it wasn't two words he'd never thought he'd hear.
Simon took a long drag of his smoke, focusing in the cherry red end go brighter before dulling, the soothing feeling of smoke entering his lungs and tobacco on his tongue easing his mind somewhat. He had no idea what to say, hardly said anything to you before he had to hang up and go over the plan with the team before they were dismissed for the evening. Simon should call you back, but still he had no idea what to say.
"You alright Lt.?" Soap's familiar comforting accent cut through the otherwise quiet night.
"Johnny. Thought you'd be at the bonfire."
"I was, then I noticed a certain Ghost wasn't haunting the area." Soap grunted as he sat beside him, passing him another beer before cracking open his own. "Saw you take that call, was it your hen?"
Soap was the only one other than Price who had known about you, and had been at the elopement ceremony simply because you two needed a witness and he was right there. He was about to go on a deployment for months with no guarantee he would come back, and Simon wanted to make sure you would get his pension if the worst did happen. So, a quick run to the dress shops and then to the courthouse and you were officially Mrs. Simon Riley. He'd gotten you a better ring when he did return, a rock as big as Soap's head and a house away from the city to make up for all the time he's away. That was a year and a half ago now, and he still liked calling you Mrs. Riley.
That wasn't the only reason to marry you, he should clarify, he did want to spend the rest of his life with you, a sense of belonging when he came back home and a reason to stay alive. He supposes he has another reason to come home now though.
"Yeah," he knocked off the ash and took a swig.
"Yeah? Everything alright?" He took one look at the far away look in his eyes and felt his heart break for the man. "Dont tell me it was a Dear John call."
"No, no, she wouldn't-" Simon hoped you wouldn't, "it's not that. She's pregnant."
Why did that leave his lips so easily? He could barely wrap his mind around the idea of you with a lad inside your belly and it being half of him and half of you and-
"Fuckin' hell she's pregnant." He said it again, snubbing out his cancer stick and standing with his hands on his hips.
"Steamin Jesus." Soap breathed out behind him. "That just hit ya?"
"Shut the fuck up Johnny." There was no real venom in it, too focused on the more important revelation at hand. What would he think of him? The lad could call him the old man or some variation, toddling on his little legs to him with his arms out stretched for his dad to pick him up. What could he teach him? Sure, he could teach him to fight or to swim but that was it. He had no life skills, no domestic traits that he could pass on to a son.
"Fuck am I going to do? The hell am I going to do for Jack?" He muttered, pacing a few times before sitting back down next to Johnny.
"Well, you're gonnae do ok if you've already got a name picked out." Soap leaned back on his hands and nudged him with his boot. "What do you think he'll look like?"
"Probably be as big as me. Tall and as a tough as a bloody tree. Can't imagine having to squeeze out this head through you." He knocked on his head.
Soap had never seen him like this. He was...hopeful, dare he say it. Ghost had probably never thought about something like this, never had the opportunity to think this far in his life before. God knows Soap was the most confused he's ever been when Ghost told him to put on a tie and get to the courthouse and lo and behold he had a sweet lil Bonnie lass he was marrying that day. Now, hes got a bairn on the way?
"I think you're forgetting a very important part of the pie, Simon."
He turned to him with a fire in his eyes, arms crossed over his chest and venom in his voice. "What?"
"Jack could be Jackie."
His eyes went wide in a rare display of emotion. "What the fuck am I going to do with her? I can barely handle the woman I'm married to how the fuck am I gonna handle a daughter? Fucking Christ, I can just imagine her...if she looks anything like her mother I'm fucked. Might as well get a bloody shotgun to hang on top of the fireplace..." Simon ran his hands down his face, doing just that and imagining a little girl attached at her mother's hip. She'd be sweet and loving, like peaches and cream from the shop his own mother would take him when his father hadn't drank their money away.
Or perhaps it could be two? One of each or two daughters or two sons and they'd be the apple of his eye. His heart began to pound, imaging the life his children, God his, yours, a family. An honest to God family and he didn't want to miss a moment of it.
"I need to talk to Price." Simon tossed his cigarette over the roof and dumped the rest of his beer out.
"What for?"
"To go home!"
Soap watched him leave with a laugh, cheering to him behind his back. "Good luck, brother."
Price managed to get him home in another two weeks after he worked his ass off to finish the mission. He hardly had time to wipe his ass he was so focused on getting home to you. He hadn't even called you which was a massive fuckin mistake on his part, yes he knew, but he hoped the bouquet of flowers and tiny beanie he had bought on a whim would make it up to you along with a promise that he wasn't going anywhere for a very long time.
Price got another call about nine months later, inviting the team to meet his wife and daughter. June was her name, and he had been right. She was the spitting image of her mother.
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soledadcatalina · 8 months
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[id: 3 digital sketches: first featuring alex and zee from escape from furnace peering over the balcony railing. alex, holding a hand over his eyes and squinting says "okay. so that one says "fuck the world" but what about the other jacket?". zee, to his right, has a hand to his chin, replies puzzled "its piss... uh... um. can i say that if im not british?". the second sketch is bodie, also from escape from furnace, holding a paint brush says "something for the warden to think about, lads" as the red graffiti behind him reads "if shit sucks hit da bricks". the third sketch is of cuno and cunoesse in furnace jumpsuits, both trying to save face while cunoesse peers from behind cuno.]
crossover for a target audience of me.
also i think its funny that both de and eff cant think of a better juvenile gang name than "skulls" that im supposed to take seriously
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sentientcave · 15 days
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The Good Ol' Rugby Game
It's the middle of the so called "work week" and you know what that means:
IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY
I was thinking about Rugby AUs because have you seen the thighs on those lads? But I don't know anything about Rugby tbh this is just vibes and thots. Something somethin elaborate rituals. But it's also fun. Pardon my errors I wrote most of this on discord today
Reader is a trans man - No name but he's referred to as Ripper by Simon and Johnny because they think he's like a little terrier/ankle biter on the pitch (It's a pitch for rugby, right?). And he is.
Contains: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of rugby, takeout food, Johnny and Simon, bros being bros, you know how it is
You've won.
It takes a minute for the cheering to register, for you to realize that the whistle's been blown and the game is finished, and by the time you do realize, you're in the air, brawny arms hooked around your middle, flying until you hit the ground hard, Johnny on top of you. "Fuckin' beautiful!" He shouts, his voice hoarse. And then an even heavier weight drops down on the two of you, squeezing all your air out.
"Brilliant, lads," Simon growls, knocking his forehead against yours. "Fuckin' perfect play."
"Riley, you're going to break me if you don't get your fat arse up," you grouse. "You too, Tav. Fuckin' muppets."
"Aw, love you too, Ripper," Johnny lands a wet, sweaty kiss on the side of your head before he shoulders Simon off the two of you and pounces on the giant, kissing him on the mouth with zeal.
You get up with a groan, your whole body one big fucking bruise. "Shoulda picked football," you complain to no one in particular. "I'm going to feel this forever."
Johnny swats at you blindly as you limp off, somehow managing to connect, his hand a guided missile that's only capable of targeting asses.
It’s just an amateur league— You know that, everyone on both sides of the pitch know, but it feels like your neighbourhood never got the memo. As the seasons gone on, more and more people have been showing up, wearing green and white, and when you go out to the pub after games, you never have to buy your own pints. It’s almost like being a girl again, except now you feel at home in your own skin, and the only person that tries to grab your arse is Johnny.
You know it’s Johnny and Simon that everyone’s there for, and you don’t care— You’re proud of your huge friends. They joined the league a little after you did, newly retired from the military, both of them with too much energy and muscle and training to not play some kind of sport. And they rope you into training with them. Runs with Simon so early in the morning it’s still practically dark, running drills on free afternoons in the park, tagging along to the gym and watching Johnny lift insane amounts of weight. It’s more fun than you think you’ve ever had.
You’re definitely a third wheel, but they’re good about it, obviously together but obviously wanting you around, careful to include you.
And it feels good to be one of the boys.
You grab your bag from under the bench and head off the pitch, eager to go home and shower the grass stains and flecks of someone else’s blood off of you, maybe curl up with a pint of dark beer and a pint of chocolate ice cream. Everyone’s likely going out for drinks, but you’ve been jostled around plenty for the day, head still ringing a bit from an elbow you took to the side of the head during a scrum.
“Hey, Ripper,” Johnny yells after you. He has lungs, even after a game of shouting himself hoarse. “Ye comin’ to tha pub?”
“Nah, not tonight,” you shout back. “Can’t be arsed. Goin’ home to order a Chinese.”
He’s about halfway deflating, and perks back up at the mention of greasy take out. “Order for Si ‘n’ me too, aye? We’ll be round in an hour.”
“Alright!” you call back, because that’s easier than shouting across a crowd that you were really looking forward to cozying up in front of the tv and— Oh, right. “Bring beer!” That saves you a stop on your way home.
You get home and scramble to clean up a bit-- Johnny doesn't mind a bit of mess, but Simon will stare at clutter like it personally offends him (because it does), or worse, just start tidying up. He always tells you you're not as bad as Johnny, but it's not much of a consolation. Half the mess is your roommate's anyway, who is at her girlfriend's for the weekend, again. It likely won't be long till she moves out, and you'll have to leave your cozy little spot. But at least you now have large friends to help you move.
That done, you order takeaway and pop into the shower, tossing your sweaty uniform into your hamper, and you're just getting dressed again when someone knocks at your door. You nearly forget to tuck your packer into the pocket you've sewn into all your boxers, remembering only as you almost reach the door. If anyone on God's green earth will notice that you suddenly don't have anything in your pants where you usually do, its Johnny.
"Takin' ages," he complains when you finally do answer the door. Behind him, Simon is paying for the takeout, making the delivery man look so nervous it would be funny if you didn't feel bad.
"Didn't have pants on yet. And Si, you don't have to--" He shoves the paper bag at you, cutting you off. Okay. Fair enough.
Johnny kicks his boots off haphazardly at the door. Simon takes his off neatly and sets both pairs neatly to the side.
Johnny's already in the kitchen, stowing beers in the fridge, then banging cupboards open and shut looking for plates. You'd think he'd remember by now, but he never does.
"You guys didn't have to skip the pub, you know," you say, unpacking the bag of takeout on the coffee table. "Everyone'll want to congratulate you."
"S'no fun without our little Ripper," Johnny says, tossing you one of the few beers you did have in the fridge, grinning. "Wouldn't even bother with the league without you."
"Don't be ridiculous," you say, laughing. "You guys are good. Best we've got."
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silverskye13 · 2 years
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“Playing a dangerous game, aren’t ye, laddie?”
Ren hangs the anvil BDubs had bestowed upon him over the throne. It’s a heavy, dangerous thing, meant to represent the weight and power behind his responsibilities. Or at least, that’s what he figures BDubs was trying to get across when he hit him with it.  BDubs is a little hard to decipher when it comes to these things sometimes. Ren thinks maybe all the moss has gotten to BDubs’ head. At least this time the infection just instills a sense of adventure, instead of dragging him off into the jungle like his last plant-based infestation. 
Ren’s spent the better part of a hour replacing the diorite floors and wall of his new throne room with deepslate tiles. It matches his colors better. Red and white is a palette he’s been intentionally avoiding, though not hard enough, apparently. He catches his reflection in the polished deepslate tiles. They’re too dark to be a true mirror, but the massive form of The Red King is unmistakable. His blood-soaked legacy sticks to the bottom of Ren's shoes like a shadow, always following just a step behind.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ren sniffs.
"I notice you've neglected a proper crown this time," The Red King continues, undaunted. "Ye fear being a target even still. Even among friends."
"I was among friends last time," Ren answers defensively. "It was just a game. Besides, this is Hermitcraft."
"Aye."
"Aye."
"Yer wars here are bloodier."
"They're not." Ren steps back from the throne, nodding to himself when he decides the anvil is hanging straight. "And even if they were, they're more inconsequential. All anyone will lose is, what? A few hours and a few levels, maybe some gear if the pranks get crazy."
"The magician kens not what he asks of ye," The Red King insists. "Ye are falling for the same pitfalls ye did before lad. Was not Dogwarts the product of wishful thinking?"
"Why do you care?" Ren snaps. He's losing his patience. "You hate me, remember?"
"I'm trying to help ye, Rendog." The Red King's voice growls low, a whisper that feels like it comes from the depths of the earth. It fixes Ren in place like a knife to his throat, like a threat. The Red King's voice is beside his ear, like instead of speaking from a reflection in the tiles, he's standing right behind him. "Heavy is the crown bestowed on the unwilling, lad. Or the unworthy."
Ren tries to find his voice. Tries to come up with some digging reply. He could point out this is just another trick to make him feel bad about himself. See? You think I'm unworthy. Drop the facade of help and care. But he can't speak, because The Red King's voice begins again, so low Ren almost can't hear it over his own breathing.
"A good King rules in the interest of his people. He makes the hard decisions so they aren't burdened with them. He commands, because he is just. He revives peace in the corners of the world where it struggles to breathe."
The room is suddenly silent. Ren feels stiff, like he's locked in place. He's still staring at the anvil over the throne, but it looks less like an anvil and more like an axe head.
"Do you have what it takes to be a good king, Ren?"
Rockets sound overhead, and the freeze in Ren's limbs melts like a candle under dragon fire. Doc swoops onto the landing pad, beaming.
"Ren! There you are! Bro, oh my god, you've got to see what me and the hivemind came up with." Doc slaps his hands together and offers a maniacal grin. "Operation Skyfall on that Pesky Bird is ready."
Ren laughs nervously. Doc tells him about a death machine he's made like a kid discovering a new candy store down the street. This doesn't have to start a war. That's what they've said for the past three seasons. And even if it does start a war, there's no real loss.
He tells himself this as he flies after Doc, watching the red and white flash of metal and redstone grow closer.
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amuseoffyre · 1 year
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Despite the number of times I’ve watched the show now, something just hit me from episode one. When Stede’s getting the crew kitted up to fool the English, he casts Pete as “Lord Peter Gravelstone, minor royalty from Essex” and describes the white crew members as a bunch of “upper crust lads”.
Not Mister. Not even just ‘Sir’. He tried to pretend they were actual nobility.
I’ve blathered on before about Stede’s place in the class hierarchy in relation to the Badmintons and the British Naval officers (ie. he’s new-money gentry, but they’re mostly aristocracy, which means he’s barely above trade for them) and hooboy, the fact that he basically ranks up his companions in order to outclass the Badmintons is either a ballsy or a desperate move.
Stede is an easy target for anyone who is legit aristocracy for many reasons, but especially as a jolly jump-up from the colonies. By seating a Lord at his table as one of his passengers/travelling companions, maybe he thought it would provide a buffer, but every single one of the Naval crew takes one look at those unconvincing muppets and they know these aren’t aristocrats. And even if they were, any aristocrat would probably laugh along with Nigel and Company at this bumpkin and his bumpkin friends.
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todaysdocument · 7 months
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“Pistol Practice,” by USCG artist Vestal, September 8, 1943.
Record Group 26: Records of the U.S. Coast Guard
Series: Photographs of Activities, Facilities, and Personalities
File Unit: Art by Vestal through Wood
Image description: Cartoons accompany each line of text, which read: Gawsh! A real gun and real bullets! / Dry fire - this is going to be a pushover, nothing to it! / .38, small stuff. No sense crampin’ my hand squeezin’ so tight - awk! / They told him to hold his arm steady and squeeze but they didn’t tell him how to keep the target steady. / Too unsteady at arms length. Trys gun a little closer. Result . . . bunker blacked out. / The cowboy movie addict who doesn’t realize he’s not in the wide open spaces. / Can’t figure how with ten rounds there are twenty holes in the target. / Then there’s the guy who forgot and turned around on the firing line, a loaded pistol in his hand. / The lad who shoots with his eyes closed because he’s afraid of guns and probably wouldn’t hit the target anyway. 
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isthereanechoinhere96 · 3 months
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Whole - Part VI
Part 12 of Starstruck
Summary
The mission shows you a darker side of Echo and makes you wonder how far he’s willing to go.
Rating: Mature (18+)
Word Count: 3057
Warnings: there is a casualty in this chapter, blood, slime, saliva, injury, (threat of) torture, medical procedures, suicide shocker
AO3
Everything happens very fast.
Echo is the first to leave the vehicle, closely followed by Fireball and Bumblebee. They stun five surprised troopers, disable the cameras, Echo scomps in, opens the door.
Sarah and you fall back - you are civilians, engaging in combat actions would do more bad than good and put you and the others in danger.
The empire's building is pretty much what you would expect it to look like. Simple architecture dominated by rectangular shapes, simple design, boring and liveless and the color gray...a lot of gray.
You pass through the hallways, Echo, Fireball and Bumblebee leading the way, giving you simple tactical signs with their hands. You went through them on and on again during the briefing.
Then, finally, you're at the door. You know that their CNC is right behind it. This is the part when things could get messy. You look over to Sarah, her visor meets your eyes. She nods slightly to encourage you. You look over to Echo. He is focused on the port that will help him open the door. He is calm. You remember that you're safe with him. He knows what he's doing.
You take a few breaths.
Echo unscomps and looks over to Fireball and Bumblebee who get ready. Then he pushes a button at the console and the door opens.
You got the element of surprise, none of the people in this room are prepared for an assault and before the imperial officer knows what’s going on Bumblebee and Fireball stun the people around him. Echo grabs him by his shirt, violently pushes him against the wall, uses his thumb and trigger finger to squeeze his cheeks and force his mouth open. Then he puts the drive shaft of his scomp squarely between his teeth.
The sound of it is awful and makes you almost feel the pain of this poor lad whose teeth probably suffer a lot when the metal hits them but it’s not the right time for pity. You all know he wouldn’t hesitate to activate the suicide shocker hidden in one of his teeth if Echo didn’t stop him this way.
Sarah quickly pushes the narcotics injector in his neck before the imperial officer even realizes that his hands are still unrestrained and he slowly sinks down to the ground. Echo moves his scomp arm down with his enemy to prevent unnecessary damage to his teeth, then takes the drive shaft out of his mouth. With skilled movements he restrains his target and Sarah takes over, just as briefed, and begins with the extraction of his suicide shocker.
Fireball and Bumblebee go outside to stand guard. You can’t do anything but watch the scene - your military training is by far inferior to that of the clone troopers but you watched every move of the man you desire. Being together has its advantages but it also means that you saw a softer, domestic side of him and missed out on the fierce soldier. Now you see him as a soldier again, see every move that is so full of control, so skilled, so absolutely perfect that not the slightest of his movements is without purpose. Efficient, unparalleled proficiency and deadly precision. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing, knows every move, plans ever step. And for a moment you are grateful to have the chance to get another reminder of the man you looked up to from minute one.
You keep on standing close to the door until Sarah pulls out the bloody tooth with the suicide shocker. The sound of the suction mixes with a sickening crackling when it is ripped out of his jawbone. Without hesitation Echo takes the slimy bloody tooth in his hand and walks past you towards the hallway behind the door next to you. You wonder how he can take this disgusting thing in his hand just like that while the least bit of coffee or unknown food can turn his face into an almost unrecognizable grimace.
Echo doesn’t look at you when he passes you by. You are just another crew member right now. He is focused on his job and ready for the big entrance you briefed.
Sarah wakes the imperial officer, then moves up to you. Both of you assume your briefed positions left and right of the door, spring to attention and play your role as props in the scene.
As soon as the officer begins to groan from the pain in his jaw Echo begins to walk down the hallway.
Slowly, painfully so.
His steps resound loudly at the walls when he approaches, a mere silhouette in the dim light. It reminds you of the way he approached Nemec and Fireball when they hid the Spotchka from him.
You wonder how often he has done this little show before.
All of you keep your helmets on. No faces. No human touch. Echo’s orders. You remember how Fireball looked at you during the briefing and whispered „he learned from the best“ when Echo gave that order. He grinned but you didn’t think it was funny. Not at all.
Echo walks past you, his eyes hidden behind the black shield of his helmet, a laser focus on the groaning officer. Things went way too quickly for him to realize who he's dealing with before he was stunned, but now Echo takes his time to let the imperial officer see what he looks like.
What he is.
The man looks at him and you can see the horror build up in his face when he realizes that he’s dealing with a cyborg. Just like Echo predicted. He knows the effect his cybernetic parts have on other people. They will imply that his human nature and his mercy got lost with the droid parts. The idea hurts him when he’s with you but he has no problem to use it to his advantage when he’s on a mission.
When Echo finally reaches the imperial officer he looks down on the picture of misery. His breath goes slowly and steadily. He’s got full control of the situation, full control over his body, full control of every move he makes. He's been here before a hundred times, in this room, with this man. At least in his head.
„We need the codes for the console in room A34“ he says slowly with the darkest, lowest voice you have ever heard from him.
The officer just stares at him and whimpers.
„I…I have no idea…I don’t have them…Szuszu had them…“
He points at the man next to him. Fireball stunned him but you can see by the unnatural way his head is tilted and the amount of blood that left a significant head wound that he broke his neck and cracked his head open when he fell against the station behind him. It is a sickening image.
You always try to avoid casualties but you also know that sometimes they just happen. You wonder if he had family…
Echo doesn’t dignify the officer‘s poor attempt of a diversion by looking over to the body on the floor.
„Don’t fuck with me“ he says with a dangerous but still very controlled tone in his voice. „We‘ve got reliable intel that it’s you who has the codes.“
„I…I really have no idea what you’re talking about…it was really his job to…“
Echo lifts his cybernetic arm and his scomp starts spinning. His voice is still dangerously calm and controlled. It gives you the creeps. You surely wouldn't want to be on the other side of this man.
All color has left the face of the imperial officer and he swallows hard. He knows that what's about to happen to him won't be pretty and the cyborg won't have mercy on him. He will be tortured until he gives away the code. And then...would he let him live? Probably not...
You can see the officer's mind working. The scomp keeps on spinning with a sickening whirring, like a drill, foreshadowing the endless pain that will follow if he doesn't comply...
Echo leaves no doubt that he will use it on him.
The officer closes his eyes one last time before he firmly bites his teeth together.
And then...nothing.
He does it again and again and his mind is still overwhelmed by the situation, not able to understand what the terrible pain in his jaw could already have told him when he woke up.
Echo opens his gloved hand, the tooth with the suicide chip in it, covered with blood and saliva.
“You're looking for this?” he asks and the officer's face derails when he realizes that there's no way out for him anymore. He will be at the mercy of this crude cyborg, more machine than man, not giving three fucks about how he feels.
„You were willing to give your life for this information. Let’s see how many eyes it is worth to you” Echo grunts and moves the tip of his scomp towards the officer‘s eye until it is only a few inches away. The officer closes his eyes but Echo uses his hand to force his right eye open while the spinning tip slowly gets closer, whirring loudly with a high-pitched sound.
No trembling.
No slowing down.
No doubts.
You get sick and feel the urge to look away but at the same time you can’t. Echo's briefing was thorough but it didn't cover the details about how he would make the officer talk. Like in trance you open a private channel to Sarah.
„Will he really pull it through?“
Sarah hesitates for a moment. „It never got that far. They always caved before he got there.“
You think she’s done with her answer but then she adds „The question is: do you really want to find out how far he’s willing to go?“
No. You most certainly don’t.
The scomp gets closer and closer to the officer's eye. His whimpering and sobbing fills the room, more and more desperately, the whirring of Echo's scomp shrill in your ears. 'Why don't you finally give up?', you plea in your head. 'Just let it go...'
Everything feels like in slow motion. And you decide to look away after all. You can't watch the scene. You don't want to see it. You don't want to see what it looks like when he looses his eye like that. And you don't want to see Echo take someone's eye either. You really don't want to find out what happens if the officer doesn't cave. 'Please please please...' you whisper quietly in your helmet.
A shrill, loud, desperate scream cuts through the air. It puts your teeth on the edge and you sicken up immediately - but then you hear the officer plead.
Echo broke him.
You peek over.
The officer still has both eyes.
You feel Sarah's visor on you. She opens a private channel.
“See? They all cave before it gets there. Let's just hope we'll never find out what happens if they don't.”
You nod and don't say a word. All blood has left your face and you need to focus on your breathing to get in control of your sickness again.
Sarah doesn't miss your body language. She can probably see your chest heaving and knows how you feel.
“Are you alright?”
“Just a bit nauseous” you answer with a faint voice.
“Don't worry. I felt the same way the first couple times I saw Echo go to work like that” Sarah answers.
„Why don't you go outside while I stay until the officer gave away all information we can get in addition to the code. I'll patch his jaw up afterwards so I have to stay a little longer anyway. After all we're not monsters“ Sarah tells you and moves towards Echo, but turns around again after a few steps.
“At least as long as we don't have to.”
You open the door to join Fireball and Bumblebee but you are immediately thrown back into the room by a brutal force. It sweeps you off your feet and you land hard on the ground. The air is pushed out of your lungs, your head smashes against the concrete floor and for a moment your body is in a complete state of shock, a high-pitched ringing in your ears while you’re desperately gasping for air.
Fireball helps you up.
“Well that was bad timing” he says and breathes heavily, but he sounds calm enough for you to assume that there is no immanent danger anymore.
Your lungs still don’t work the way they should and you gasp for air, eyes wide, realizing that your chest feels tighter and tighter with every desperate breath you take. Fireball grabs your arms and holds them up, points his visor in your direction and talks to you with a calm voice.
“Breathe with me. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...”
Lifting up your arms brings relief to your lungs. The physical touch, the idea that another human being is there for you in combination with his calm words helps you ground yourself, helps your lung find its function again. For a minute or two you just stand there. You know Echo must see you from behind, but you don't turn around. It is embarrassing that your nerves failed you like that but after all you're not like him. You're not a soldier. You were never trained to be professional about situations like this.
When you have calmed down Fireball takes a look over your shoulder to see if Echo gives him a signal then leaves the room with you and closes the door. You don‘t look back.
Bumblebee looks over to you. His helmet doesn't give away what he's thinking right now.
“What happened?” you rasp.
“There was a clanker and I ripped him apart and threw him at the door when you happened to walk through it” Bumblebee answers. “Bad timing. You're alright?”
“I think so...” you mumble and try to hide your headache, dizziness and embarrassment about the situation.
“Yeah I don't think so!” Fireball adds and points at your arm. A piece of metal cut right between two parts of your armor where your flesh was exposed. You didn't even notice it, overwhelmed by the shock, trying to play cool, but now you see the blood and instinctively put your other hand on the wound.
“Alright mesh'la, let me treat you” Fireball says, gently guides away your hand and even though you can't see their faces you know that he's grinning under his helmet and Bumblebee is rolling his eyes.
“Don't you dare call me mesh'la” you grunt.
“Oh but I heard Echo call you cyar'ika at the Hawaii party” Fireball says in a casual tone. “It's unfair if he can give you pet names and I can't...”
You get a little angry at his bluntness even though he is playful. Maybe it's because you remember well you promised Echo that you would talk to Fireball about his attempts to get flirty and physically close to you but hadn't found the right moment yet, especially since you can't bring your relationship into play. Your bad conscience surely aggravates the situation.
“I don't like it when he calls me that either. You must have seen my face in that moment” you grunt. “Besides...”
Bumblebee giggles on the comms.
“What's so funny?” you ask.
Fireball start to laugh too.
“Oh nothing” he chuckles. I just fixed you up and you didn't even notice. I had the feeling that calling you 'mesh'la' would do the trick.”
You look at your arm. He used a spray to stop the bleeding and wrapped a bacta patch around it. Standard emergency equipment for all of you. It doesn't take up much space so it's easy to carry it with you just in case.
“Thank you, Fireball” you mumble, a little surprised that he could distract you so easily.
“You just need to find a place to clean your hands so you don't leave traces everywhere” Fireball adds.
“According to the blueprints there is a restroom next to the hall with the console” you respond.
Fireball's helmet turns in your direction again and nods.
“Did he take his eye?” Bumblebee asks.
“What?”
“The eye. Did he take it?”
“No!” you shout a little too loudly.
Fireball groans.
“Told you” Bumblebee cheers. “We‘ll probably never see that happen You're gonna have to clean my armor today...again! I love it when you're my bitch!”
Fireball groans another time.
Of course they turned it into a bet.
Why aren't you surprised...
Finally Echo leaves the room. Sarah stays with the imperial officer for some more time to make sure he's stable, just like you briefed. Fireball and Bumblebee will stand guard at the door until she's done, then they'll join you and Sarah will wait in the vehicle until you got the data.
This was the hardest part.
One casualty.
The threat to take an eye you‘d rather not have wanted to witness.
A clanker that showed up unexpectedly.
A minor injury on your part.
Now you just have to get the data.
Should be easy enough with Echo scomping in.
“Did he give you more information?” Bumblebee asks.
Echo tilts his head, gives him as much confident body language as he can with his helmet and armor hiding the more subtle signals.
“Once he started talking he was quite the chatterbox.”
Bumblebee and Fireball laugh at the comms. Echo doesn't.
“Allright, listen up! I'm gonna transfer the code to the console to everyone to have redundancy!” Echo pushes a button on his arm and a beeping confirms that you received the information.
Then he looks at the bacta patch on your arm and your bloody hands.
“You alright?” he asks without a hint at an increased level of worry. You're still just an asset in his mission.
“Yeah. Just need to wash my hands so I won't leave any traces.”
“I would have given you my spare glove but I already needed it” Echo holds up his hand. Of course - the bloody, slimy tooth left a stain too. “There's a restroom...”
„...next to the hall with the station” you finish his sentence. “I know.”
“Then let's keep moving.”
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Part 13: Whole VII
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