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peroxiddeprincess · 1 year

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How The Call Of Duty : MWII Characters Would Act With a Bimbo Girlfriend (Fem!Reader)

Characters included — Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John Price, Phillip Graves, König

No descriptive NSFW — Just headcannons / imagines. NSFW implied for some characters.

NOT PROOFREAD!!!

Bimbo definition (in case you arent aware) — an attractive but unintelligent or frivolous young woman.

✭ Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

— Oh my god, would he be absolutely infatuated with you.

— You didn’t even have to do anything but stand there and he’d have hearts in his eyes.

— Maybe it was the outfits you wore, or the makeup you caked on your face, but nonetheless, everything you did was just so appealing to him.

— He’d always compliment your outfits, and he’d always notice the little things.

“Did you get new lipstick?” “Is that skirt new?”

— He made sure to take note of the things you wore aswell. Why? So he could buy you new stuff of course.

— He likes to do your makeup sometimes. Even if it looks like shit, you’ll wear it for the rest of the day anyway to let him know your appreciation.

— Colored hair isnt his thing, but you convinced him once to get blue hair with you. No regrets. You told him it made him sexier. Simon told him you two looked alike. Johnny felt weird about the way he worded that and didn’t talk to Simon for a few days after..

— You are his Facebook banner. Facebook because he’s such a dad, and you’re his banner because he likes showing you off to the 3 friends he has added. Gaz, Rudy, and Alejandro.

— As for the.. Slow part of being a bimbo, he’d have no problems attempting to explain or break down something you didnt quite understand.

— He isn’t the kind of guy to get frustrated when you dont understand something immediately either. He’ll try his best.

— You aren’t completely dumb though. You’ve taught him many things! And one of the most important things,

You taught him to love himself.

Bonus:

“Wow, babe. I love that outfit on you.” He sneaks behind you, making you jump. “Awe — Thank you, JoJo!” You clapped your hands together, the biggest smile on your face.

“I could compliment you for hours.” He says. “Could stare for hours.”

You spit your bubblegum out in the trashcan near you. “Go ahead.” You say, making his cheeks heat up.

He goes on and on with some of the weirdest — but cutest — compliments you’ve ever heard in your life. You didn’t even realize you were going to be late to your nail appointment.

No worries, though. You continued to let him compliment you. When he finally finished his rant, you smile big again.

“I wasn’t listening to a thing you were saying.” You giggle nervously. “Gimme more!” You beg. “You gonna listen this time?” He asks, smiling. “Probably not.” You admit.

“Oh, well. Thats okay. I’ve got many, many more things to say to you, love.” He continues on and on, knowing your attention span is short, but he doesn’t mind, not one bit.

What matters to him right now is that you’re so close, and he feels secure in your touch.

✭ Simon “Ghost” Riley

— He never usually thinks much about your appearance unless he catches someone eyeing you.

— “Wear whatever you want, i can fight.” Energy.

— Hes just gotten used to how you dress and present yourself. It’s not that he doesnt care, but he doesnt mind it anymore. You used to capture his attention with every move. You still do, but not because of your appearance, but because hes taken a liking (meaning, he somewhat tolerates you.) to you.

— He isnt one to feed into your presentation. He doesnt buy you clothes, but he’ll sometimes express his attraction to a certain outfit you’ve thrown together.

— Also, he gets very frustrated when you don’t understand what he’s trying to tell you. He won’t break it down for you, and wont apologize if he makes you cry out of frustration or pure sensitivity from how mad he gets.

— He isnt a yeller, but he makes it obvious that he cant keep the conversation going. He’ll ignore you and simply walk away.

— Not to mention, he doesn’t apologize. He’s never wrong in his mind. You’re just sensitive and take his words the wrong way.

— But anyway, of course he cares about you. He has a horrible way of showing it. He wouldnt be able to “love” you properly due the narcissistic way his mind works, but even then, he still wants to protect you somewhat.

— Also, he wont go out of his way to let anyone know you two are dating, either. You’ll have to spill the beans. He’ll just nod, and most likely walk away to avoid questions.

Bonus:

“What is that?” You ask, pointing to the big gun in his hand. “..A gun? Are you stupid, or something?”

You pouted at the mean words. “I know its a gun, what kind of gun? Why is it so big?”

He doesnt say anything, choosing to ignore you as he walks away. “Simonnn.” You call. Silence. Other than the heavy footsteps from his boots.

You sit there on the couch, blinking back tears to avoid your fake lashes from falling off and your mascara running down your cheeks.

Soon enough, he’s standing in front of you, holding out a pamphlet. You’re confused. “What?” You ask, looking up at him. “It’s a book.” He says, stating the obvious. “..About guns. The big ones.” He cringes saying it, feeling like a complete loser at how he needs to speak to you for you to understand.

His awkwardness quickly fades as you enthusiastically take the book from him, flipping through the pages. He sits down next to you and watches you analyze the page you were on.

“Ooh! Tell me more about this one.” He looks at you like you’re crazy, but gives in with a heavy huff and starts pointing out parts of the gun, explaining what they do and what they’re called.

You couldn’t focus on what he was saying, his deep voice thick and sultry in your ears.

“…Could you repeat that?” You ask, and his eyebrow cocks up. “What part?”

“…All of it.” You say nervously, avoiding eye contact. He sighs and gives in, repeating everything he just told you.

You weren’t focused this time either, but you felt like this was quality time, so you pretended to understand what he was saying.

You thought you had convinced him, but he knew you weren’t paying attention. He didn’t care much anymore, continuing to talk, not wanting to admit that maybe he didnt mind having you this close to him. Even if having to repeat himself alot was getting annoying.

✭ Alejandro Vargas

— He would absolutely love your style. Would eat it up every single time.

— Would show you off. Loves how you two are complete opposites. He’d brag about you to anyone willing to listen.

— When you two got the chance to be alone, he’d hold your waist and feel your body through the thin fabric.

— He was always very expressive about how much he adores the way you pamper yourself. You always giggle and tell him its just for him. He smiles.

— Once he almost broke a bone trying on a pair of your platforms. Never again.

— You also managed to get fake lashes and lipstick on him. You took so many pictures. He was very embarrassed.

— He understands that you need time to learn things. He gets frustrated of course, but we cant blame him, he’s only human.

— He tries to make you feel like the most brilliant person on earth, even if sometimes it’s a bit.. hard.

— Once you asked him, “Why do you wear so much gear?” And he replied, “Well, it’s important.” And tried to explain it to you. You couldn��t quite grasp the fact that he needed it, and kept telling him he should show off his body because he was sexy. He took the compliment ans dropped the conversation, you were too cute to argue with.

— You guys do have your arguments of course. He’s more patient than you’d think, though. He’ll give you space.

— After that, you two are all over eachother again. He loves you. Even if you don’t quite understand his job. or many things, for that matter.

Bonus:

“I tried to cook you something,” You started, “But it didn’t end very well.”

He pinched his nose at the foul smell of something burning. “I cleaned it up..” You smile awkwardly. “..For the most part.”

“For the most part?” He questions, walking into the kitchen. It became obvious what you meant. The bottom of the skillet had thick, black burnt material all over it. You tried to scrub it off but gave up. There was also some splatter on the stove.

He smiles a bit, looking back at you. “You know what?” He asks, and you hum. “I’ll clean this up.. You go do whatever else you need to do, as long as it doesnt involve household chores.” You frowned. “But.. I wanna help!”

He tried to get you to go elsewhere, but you werent budging. He sighs, accepting his fate…

He ended up letting you help. But he was standing so close you could hear his breathing, and his heart pumping, guiding you through how to properly scrub a burnt pan. You were focused on his hands the whole time.

✭ Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

— He was very open about his attraction to you and your style. Not often open to others, but open to you for sure.

— He often made jokes, which sometimes you’d end up taking too serious, and he’d have to comfort you and reassure you that he didn’t mean it.

— He knew he didn’t mean it, but sometimes, you just didn’t quite understand…

— He’s always boasting about how beautiful you look to him when he comes home to you, or when you send him a picture of yourself.

— It became habit to show him your makeup and outfit everyday, and he’d devour you completely with his eyes.

— Sometimes, if you forget, you’ll stay up until 4 a.m. perfecting your appearance just to show him.

— Usually he’s concerned you’re up so late, but your pretty face is worth it.

— Your face is his lock screen. And wallpaper.. And everything else he could put your face on…

— He gets questions about you all the time but brushes it off. Nobody needs to know about you but him, after all.

— Occasionally, if he’s feeling talkative, he’ll talk about you and sometimes even show you off.

— Alejandro overheard a phone call between you two, and was very confused when he had to repeat himself, just word his sentences differently.

— He loves you dearly and doesnt mind explaining things to you. He likes listening to you talk, and he likes your face when a light bulb moment goes off in your head. He thinks it’s the cutest thing ever.

— Also, he’s a very attentive lover, and will make sure you’re safe and know what you’re doing. Definitely texts you every chance he gets when he knows you’re out.

Bonus:

He was driving, and Alejandro pointed out his lock screen as a notification came through.

“Who’s that?” He asks. Rudy hesitates. “..My girlfriend.”

Alejandro pretends to be stabbed in the chest. “My heart! For you have wounded me!”

Rudy chuckles nervously. Alejandro straightens up. “So.. Girlfriend, huh?” He asks. Rudy’s phone starts ringing.

Speak of the devil… He thinks. He picks up the phone, and your sweet voice comes through. “Hey babyyy!” He could tell you were smiling.

“What’s up?” He says, speaking quietly in the presence of Alejandro. “I sent you a picture of my new nails.. But i figured you were driving. Can you atleast look..?” He could tell your smile faded into a pout.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

“Yay! Thank you! I love youu.” You say, before hanging up. He pulls up your messages, looking at the picture of your nails and sighing before typing, ‘Beautiful, just like you.’

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger, aye?”

Rudy quickly slams his phone down, looking through the windsheild.

“Sí”

✭ Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

— You are definitely his type. He can’t imagine himself with anyone else.

— He likes to pick you up and twirl you around, mostly because of the skirts you wear. You’ve told him it makes you feel like a ballerina.

— He definitely feeds into your perfume collection. You bring home a big bag of perfumes and body sprays and make him smell them and pick out his favorites.

— He’s also the guy to jokingly tell you to get his tip color on your nails because he saw someone else say it and thought it was the funniest thing ever, but then is surprised when you actually do it.

— It started with a, “Hey baby, like my nails?” And you gracefully wiggling your fingers in his face. Of course he says yes, but when it finally processes what exactly it’s depicting, his eyes are wide. He’s giddy.

— It’s definitely taken him time to adjust to your humor. You find some of the dumbest things funny. He doesnt quite understand, but when you laugh, he laughs aswell. You’re adorable, how could he not?

— He’s definitely very supportive of you dying your hair crazy colors. Sometimes you get bored and wanna put some pink in there! If you wear wig installs, he will buy them for you. He’s actually quite good at installing them aswell. 40 youtube tutorials later…

— If you have piercings, he’s totally into that too! He even encourages you to get new ones.

— He doesnt mind your processing speed or lack of basic knowledge either. He finds it enticing that he has to help you out. Maybe he just likes the excuse to spend more time with you.

Bonus:

You two were watching TV on the couch together, he was stuffing popcorn in his face and you were very interested in the dramatic romance going on in the film.

Suddenly, a kissing scene comes on. His first instinct is to cover your eyes, and you start laughing. “What was that for?” You ask through your giggles.

He starts to laugh with you. “Instincts kicked in. My bad, my bad. Continue on.”

He shovels the popcorn in his mouth again and you cant stop laughing at how stupid but funny the interaction was.

“What’s funny?” He asks, grin on his face as the grease from the popcorn surrounds his lips. “You. You’re funny.” He rolls his eyes at your response.

“Just continue watching those two tongue eachother and leave me be.” He says, crunching resuming. You laugh again, and he laughs with you so hard that popcorn almost came out of his nose. You shove him away when he chokes a bit, still laughing. “Ew! Stop laughing, you’re gonna barf!” He pushes you back against the couch and starts tickling your sides.

You kick at him, thrashing a bit at the sensation. Your laughter only grew. “Stop it, now i’m gonna barf!” You giggle.

“Didn’t wanna barf alone.” He says, placing a buttery kiss to your cheek. You wipe it off and wipe it on his face.

He doesnt even care, staring into your eyes with the biggest smile on his face.

✭ John Price

— Definitely an old soul. Wasn’t into the way you displayed your body, but he eased into it as he fell deep into loves trap.

— His more traditional ways slowly died down after dating you. He couldn’t help his past mindset, it’s just how he was raised.

— He’s definitely all about paying for your hair, nails, clothes, makeup, and anything else you want.

— He taught you how to cook. It was definitely tough, but he’s a decent cook and had no problem passing it down to you.

— Admittedly, however, he does get very, very frustrated with you.

— Sometimes he has to walk away to calm himself down after a particularly rough interaction. He’s talked to you about this, and you’ve gotten used to it. You don’t have many problems with it now. Just hurts your heart a bit.

— But-! He always makes sure to comfort you afterward. He’s reassuring, telling you he’s sorry and he just needed a moment. He also is sure to ask you if you’d like to continue the conversation or move on.

— Sometimes you say you’d like to continue so you could push his buttons a bit more, but only if you’re extra frustrated with him.

— He also loves when you explain stuff to him he doesn’t understand! Ramble about makeup and clothes for hours! He takes good mental notes.

— He definitely loves you. Alot. He even describes you as his soulmate to his peers. He always manages to push past the frustration, and continues loving you no matter what.

Bonus:

You were applying your lipstick, lips parted and face shoved in the mirror.

“Darlin’?” Your boyfriend says, coming up behind you and examining what you’re doing. You turn around, smile painting your face. “Ah! Hii!” You exclaim. He smiles.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” He questions, head cocking. “Just finishing up my makeup. You like?” You ask. He gives an affirming nod. “You look absolutely ravishing.” You blush at the compliment.

“What’s this do?” He asks, picking up your mascara. You beam. “Mascara! Makes my eyelashes long and full.” You bat your eyes up at him prettily.

Your reaction urkes him to press further. “Oh yeah? What’s this?” He picks up one of your favorite eyeshadow pallets.

“Eyeshadow.” Your eyes close, allowing him to examine the masterpiece that painted your eyes. “Very nice.. Whats this?” He picks up your concealer. “Concealer! Hides all my flaws.” You giggle.

He cocks his head. “Impossible.” “Hm?” He smiles. “You have no flaws. Nothing to cover.” You blush, looking away nervously before looking back up to him with a heartfelt smile. “I love you.” You muse. “I love you more.”

This quickly turned into a battle of who loves eachother more, but he ended up letting you win just to see you get really happy.

✭ Phillip Graves

— Is absolutely obsessed with you and the way you look. Always has something to say about it.

— This man can never shut up about you!! You’re too perfect. Unfortunately for the other fellas’, you’re all his, and he makes that point very clear.

— You once mentioned matching tattoos and he was beaming with excitement. Absolutely ecstatic. He said yes about a hundred times.

— He helps you with everything. Money? Clothes? Food? Makeup? Bills? All the above, baby.

— You’re so special to him. He feels like his job is to talke care of all of your needs and wants, no matter how outrageous. He doesn’t want you to lift a finger. No job for you! Live in your lush lavish provided by your dear boyfriend.

— Once you had him take a look at the Adam & Eve website, and he bought you everything you clicked on to look at, whether it was lingerie or a toy.

— Definitely one of the most surprising packages to show up on your doorstep. Did you put all of the lingerie on and take a mini photo shoot for him? Oh, without a doubt.

— He does tend to get frustrated with you sometimes, though. Your relationship is 99% happy stars and rainbows and kittens, but the remaining 1% is how crazy you drive him sometimes.

— You don’t get something? Okay, he’ll send you an article about it. Don’t wanna read all that? He’ll break it down. Don’t understand how to do something? No more questions asked, he’s already doing it for you.

— There have been a few times where he’s let a few dull insults slip past his lips during arguments, telling you he does everything because you can’t. Later though, he realizes that was definitely wrong to say and it’s his fault for doing everything for you. You’re just his spoiled princess.

— That’s how he wants it to be, though. You’ll be his pampered little lover for the rest of eternity. Whether you like it or not. He’s never letting you go.

Bonus:

You’re lugging a box full of new shoes and accessories into your house, when all of a sudden your boyfriend comes from behind you and lifts it without a struggle.

“Oh, thank you!” You bat your pretty eyes at him as he sets the box down. “Of course, pretty.” He walks over to you, engulfing you in a hug.

“You’re gonna mess up my makeupppp!” You protest. “Awe, i’m sorry baby.” He pulls away, giving a fake pout.

You hesitate. “..W-wait. Come back.” You say. “And why should i?” He interrogates. “Because you love me.”

He smiles, and you reciprocate. “Can’t argue with that, can i?” His arms make their way around your waist again. “What about your makeup, hmm? Wouldnt wanna mess all your hard work up.” He teases, hands resting on your hips.

“I’ll just fix it later. Hug me. Please?” You beg, and of course, he gives in. He squeezes you tight. “Don’t bother. I’ll just end up ruining it later too.” He says, and your eyes blow wide.

“Phillip Graves! Not until marriage!” You joke, laughing and pushing him away. He laughs aswell. “I mean, i can already consider you as my wife. Been together forever, and you aren’t going anywhere.” He promises. Your cheeks heat up. “..Yeah?” “Yeah, princess. Mine.”

He starts to place little teasing kisses on your neck, and you giggle.

✭ König

— You make him so nervous. Your appearance just adds to it.

— Truly believes he doesn’t deserve someone as beautiful as you. You’re also complete opposites. You’re very outgoing where he tends to be timid and shy.

— Very bad self esteem, but believes everyone seeing him with such a babe will make people think higher of him.

— Of course this isn’t the only reason he’s with you!! He really, really likes you. And he hopes you feel the same way, he’s quite the overthinker.

— You’re entire world may revolve around your appearance for the most part, but you’re very good at comforting him. He greatly appreciates it.

— When you two are alone, he eases up and starts to become quite the chatterbox. Complimenting you, holding you in his arms while chatting up a storm, telling you anything and everything on his mind.

— He expresses that you’re perfect in his eyes. He loves you, which also means he absolutely adores everything about you. If you’re insecure, he throws in more compliments on the specific thing you’re insecure about.

“You’re beautiful. All of you.” “I love the way your body looks in that outfit.. Frames your perfect figure so well.”

— Random thing he likes - he loves giving you piggyback rides. Seeing the world from is point of view is so flabbergasting to you, no matter what! You always point out how tall he is. Makes him blush everytime.

— He’s never gotten frustrated with you. He understands how it feels to be bullied for being slow or “stupid”. He’s sure to reassure you that you’re none of those things, and everyone learns stuff differently!

— He’s very excited everytime you ask him to help you. He’ll do whatever he can to the best of his ability! Always assures you that you can count on him.

— He loves everything about you. I’ve said this before, but he truly does. Everything. You’re perfect.

— Eventually the insecurities fade, and he opens up. He’s so happy around you. He loves you so, so much. He still refuses to believe you’re his.

Bonus:

It finally snowed! You were super excited. You threw on one of your boyfriends way too big sweaters and some thermal tights with a pretty little skirt and some boots and made your way outside.

König follows behind once he realizes where you’ve gone. He’s worried you might get cold, but you’re quick to tell him you feel fine!

You throw a snowball at him, and he picks you up, twirling you around. “Oh no you don’t.” He says, holding you close. You giggle and squirm. “Nooo! Let me throw snowballs at you!!” You smile.

“How about instead of being violent with me, we build a snowman together?” He suggests, and you nod enthusiastically. You both begin to build the snowman, and he runs inside to grab a carrot for the nose and some chocolate for the buttons and eyes. (He couldn’t find coal.)

You both quickly decorate your snowman, and then you lean against him in content. “I may not be the smartest sometimes, but i can build a damn good snowman.”

“Hey! You’re smart. Intelligent, even.” He argues, making you laugh. “Thank you, baby.” You beam. His face flushes deeper than it already was.

“I love you so much.” He instantly curls in on himself after saying that, but quickly looking down at you as you reciprocate. “I love you more.” He picks you up and carries you inside, hugging you for “extra warmth”

C.C. - peroxiddeprincess 2022. NO REPOSTS. reblogs appreciated!

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that-blue-vault-dweller · 2 months

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Companions favorite Disney movie?

A/N: Howdy, howdy, folks! I know it's been a while, but I hope y'all enjoy these! 🥰💙💛 I've been extremely busy and have sort of lost motivation for this fandom, but I'm going to try to play Fo4 soon and see if I can muster up some more motivation 😊 I still have some fanfic to write and some reactions to do and I've got to get my butt in gear!

Cait - Brave. It might seem like the obvious choice because, well... ginger twinsies.... But she loves it because of the constant action and the fact that Merida wields a sword and a bow while also riding a horse often at the same time. She also secretly sort of finds herself vicariously living through Merida and wishing she would have had a family like hers with parents that actually loved her.

Curie - Inside Out. It's sciency and presents a fun, creative way of examining the brain's functions. She would prefer that Disney be more realistic, but despite her slight disappointment, she also understands that it has to be presented in a child-friendly way that would keep a kid's attention. A close second for her would be Big Hero 6. Honey Lemon is her hero.

Piper - Zootopia. She finds herself very much relating to Judy Hopps most days. Just a girl in a big city and a big world with the chips stacked against her and hardly anyone on her side as she fights the good fight. She also enjoys Judy's optimistic, sarcastic, energetic spirit that she upkeeps in the face of adversity. It's something that Piper herself has done her best to maintain.

MacCready - Finding Nemo. As a concerned dad with a struggling young son of his own, he can relate to this movie greatly. Plus, a bonus is that he likes to mess with F!Sole about being Dory, which she never seems to appreciate nearly as much as he does most days.

Deacon - The Emperor's New Groove. All of the jokes and the lightheartedness of the overall movie is totally Deacon's style. He always quotes the movie afterward and drives everyone at HQ crazy with his rather awful impression of Yzma.

Codsworth - Flubber. He sort of is crushing on Weebo the robot assistant. Granted, he says he has no sort of manner in which to facilitate such feelings since he is not programmed to feel things like that, but he raves over her enough that everyone can see he clearly has some manner of feelings.

Hancock - A Bug's Life. He doesn't really know why, but it cracks him up every time he turns it on. Of course, he's usually high when he's watched it, but that's not the important part. The important thing is that it's anti-grasshoppers and after the stuff he saw at Nuka-World, that suits him just fine.

Danse - Toy Story. He would rather die than admit it, but he likes the movie for the odd reason that he heavily relates to the spaceman. His perspective on life and his soldier-like dedication to his mission is truly outstanding. He also strangely relates to him in many ways, but he's not quite sure why.

Preston - Brother Bear. He enjoys the deep feelings and meaning behind the film. It's such an underrated yet good film and it has a really great sound track as well. He also has a strange affinity for Toy Story because of Woody and his steady dependability.

Valentine - Old Yeller. It's traditional and it has that sense of old-timey living that Nick can appreciate. He also enjoys the deep emotional quality of the film and the fact that it's about a good, loyal, brave dog. Kind of like Dogmeat.

X6-88 - Maleficent. He enjoys her sense of humor and her sense of taking care of business and revenge when people do her wrong. However, his favorite non-Disney movie is The Matrix. He firmly believes the coursers' design is based on Morpheus and he secretly thinks he looks like him most out of the courser models.

Dogmeat - The Fox and the Hound. He loves nothing more than to howl along with the dog on there. Finally a movie that actually has a character that speaks his language! The dog also actually successfully befriends other animals in a way that Dogmeat never seems to do too well since they're always trying to stomp on him or kill him. He also is a fan of Bolt.

Strong - Monster's Inc. Firstly, Strong doesn't like movies. They're confusing and make no sense because what do you mean those things are not really there? They're standing right in front of him! But he likes Monster's Inc more than most because Mike Wazowski looks like a super-mutant. An ugly, one-eyed freak super-mutant, but nevertheless one of his kind.

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the-technicolor-whiscash · 26 days

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I love John Young man was watching a failed test of the Gemini ejector seats (whoever thought that was a good idea should be taken out back and put down like Ol Yeller) where the hatches didn’t blow so the seats slammed directly into the inside of the spacecraft and he goes “A hell of a headache, but a short one”

#the whiscash administration

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freetheshit-outofyou · 5 months

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Little known fact about me, I hate to kill. I was a life long hunter, did it from a very young age. I did it to put food on the families table, I did it for the hunt. But, after hunting the most dangerous predictor on the planet my bottle was filled up with all the killing I ever needed to see. The last time I hunted was in 2011, I took a 230 pound, 4 point (8 point Easter count) Mule deer and I hated every second of it. It's not that I don't know how to do it, it's not like I can't do it but after seeing so much loss of life, I just hate to do it. This poor Quail had a broken wing, I hat to either put it down like Old Yeller of clean up the remains when the local stray cats tore it a part. Fuck! I hate killing. Maybe if people had as much remorse about killing a each other as I did shooting a bird that needed to be put down the world would be a better place. Some of you might think me a pussy for my feelings, I said I hated the killing not that I'm not trained and capable of doing the hard work when it needs to be done.

#me #poor damned quail

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

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Reflective

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader

Summary: His management style is effective AND refreshing. And as his executive assistant, you're partially to thank. But as your professional relationship blurs, are you getting too close to the middle manager monster of nightmares?

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, horror elements and themes, graphic descriptions of blood including drinking, background character un-death, violence, fingering (f-receiving), vomiting (not descriptive), descriptions of a panic attack, a dabble of sleazy coworkers, playing fast and loose with vampire lore.

Notes: Heeeeeeere's LJ! I'm back from my October hiatus just in time for a Halloween fic! Thank you again to @harriedandharassed for the prompt "How does Max Phillips handle not being able to see himself in the mirror?" I was grasping at something to write for Halloween and this prompt came at the perfect time.

This story will include horror elements such as violence, descriptions of blood and some graphic scenes. If that's not your cup of tea, scroll on friend! It was fun to go back to some of my horror writing roots, especially mixing it with the dry comedy of Bloodsucking Bastards. It's Max season babes, and I could not resist writing for this smarmy boy.

There is a part 2, which will post tomorrow. The Discord besties made an excellent suggestion right after I finished the story, and it was so good I needed an addendum. So without further ado, enjoy lovelies and Happy Halloween!

Cross-posted on AO3

If anyone asked Max Phillips what the worst part about becoming a vampire is, he’d probably tell them things like “not getting a tan” or “swearing off Italian food” or “always getting complaints about cold feet”. The last one was often followed by a lewd comment to get a pretty young thing in bed with him to prove it. It’s all farce, of course, clever little quips you’re sure he practiced just like you’d rehearse for a job interview. It gives you a funny little trill when you catch one of those lines again, because you know the truth.

He hates that he can’t see himself in mirrors.

Being Max’s executive assistant, you’re trusted with more than some of your colleagues. Well, that’s debatable, you’ve heard horror stories. But your friend Carla’s stories about her boss’ wife choosing his Peloton instructors for minimum hotness pales in comparison to your early morning runs to blood banks and private contracts with hospital cleanup crews. Max might not be a centuries old vampire, but he’s planning on getting there. You can’t live several lifetimes with a messy trail anymore.

Enter you.

The job listing had been normal enough: Executive assistant. Five years experience. Good references. Not squeamish. Discreet. It was the last three words that piqued your interest the most. You wouldn’t call yourself delicate, at least not for the things Max needed you to do. Your stomach turned when men wanted to stay the night, or your parents begged you to come home for Thanksgiving. Not so much when you had to bag a severed hand.

When it came to the interview you almost walked straight back out of his office before saying a word. The moment you saw him you knew his type. Arrogant, self-centered, prideful, smooth with a customer and cruel in the next breath if you were in his way. You’d seen too many people like him, avoided working with them at all cost. He was young enough that boomer sexism probably wouldn’t be an issue, but you could smell the demand coming off of him. He’d be a yeller, a paperweight thrower, or worse require you to be on call 24/7. You clocked him in a glance and felt the claw of escape behind your ribcage.

And then Max Phillips did something that convinced you to reconsider just as quickly. He stood from his desk, ushered you in, looked you and your resume over for a moment, and spoke.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Max Phillips, Director of Sales, and I’m a vampire.”

The quick introduction, complete with another curious word at the end, made you bark out a laugh.

“What kind are we talking about? Emotionally, mentally…” you rattle off, tight posture relaxing just a fraction. If he was joking with you, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Oh you know, the usual kind. With the blood,” he says nonchalantly, baring his teeth dramatically when your eyebrows raise.

“You don’t say.”

“I do, actually. And you want to be my assistant.”

The conversation flows, with some fits and starts as you realize he’s not kidding. He is indeed a vampire, tossed out like his zodiac sign. The questions he peppers off range from highly professional (tell me a time when you performed well under pressure) to unsettlingly irregular (do you know how to remove blood stains from silk?). You shoot the answers back just as quickly, waiting for the moment when either the charade will drop…or you’ll get the job. Because you want it now. It’s easily the most interesting thing you’ll do in your whole life.

“I think that’s all I need,” Max ends abruptly, shuffling your resume into a pile with some others. Panic grips you, and you rush into your next sentence without breathing.

“Are there any concerns you have about my qualifications?”

Max raises an eyebrow and smiles, one that is much too charming to be in its path too long. Casting your eyes down, you glance at the worn-out toes of your nice interview heels, bemoaning getting them out of the closet for another failed interview.

“On paper you’re perfect,” Max says, and being in the same sentence as perfect skitters up your spine for a moment. You bat it away peevishly. “I only worry that you don’t have the constitution for what I’m looking for.” You shift on your feet, pull one corner of your lip between your teeth while you think. It makes you miss Max’s too-long glance at your mouth.

“I’ve watched all of the Saw movies,” you finally say, meeting Max’s eyes with determination. It makes him bleat out a laugh.

“Okay, not squeamish. Those are movies, though, and this is the real deal,” he teases. “Favorite vampire movie?”

“Let the Right One In,” you answer quickly, your face scrunching with regret seconds after. “Or Only Lovers Left Alive. I watched Queen of the Damned three times at a sleepover once. Have you ever seen Vampire’s Kiss? The one with Nic…” Max’s chuckle lets you trail off into silence.

“And you didn’t even say Twilight.”

You were signing employment paperwork the next day.

Most executive assistants put up with a certain layer of bullshit on a daily basis. Booking flights, picking up paperwork, schedule maintenance. You’d stood in line for four hours to pick up a previous employer’s new iPhone once.

Max had very different needs.

You were briefed on your duties in the privacy of his office. While he did reveal to you how many of his sales force were turned by his hand (or fang, you thought with a giggle), discretion was still a priority. He needed someone to go to his blood bank hookup a few times a week, take care of daytime activities when the sun beat down too hard. Body disposal on very rare occasions (so far only the one time) among all of the normal activities you thought you were signing up for.

The one duty that gave you pause, made you tap your nail on the printed line, was close to the bottom of your orientation packet.

“You need me to ‘maintain your appearance’?” you asked, looking up at Max from across the shiny acrylic tabletop. He was lounging back in his chair, knee pressed against the edge of the desk and spread out with boredom. He rolled his head to his shoulder as you flipped the page around to show him.

“Oh that. Yeah, I need you to check me over, make sure everything looks sharp, especially if I’m going to a big meeting.” You quirked a brow at him.

“Can’t you just look in…a…oh,” you said, slowing to a molasses vowel by the end.

“Yeah, mirrors and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Romania,” he sighed, one heavy thumb tracing the crest of his full lower lip. You tried not to notice the subconscious stroke.

“So you need me to…be your mirror. Make sure your hair isn’t a mess and you don’t have spinach in your teeth.” You were rewarded with a sheepish nod from Max. “Huh.”

“Huh what?”

“What else is true about vampires? Or fake, I’ll take either,” you asked, crossing your legs and settling into the wildly uncomfortable modern chair. Max’s smile turned secretive, and that was the first moment you felt him brand you his confidant.

“The sunlight thing is a bummer. I miss the beach, and swimming in the ocean. Garlic just makes my mouth go numb. Inviting someone into your home has a lot more loopholes than you think. And the sign of the cross does jack shit.” You nodded, making a mental list of even more questions to pepper into everyday conversation.

“Why do you think that all is? Because you’re essentially…undead?” you prodded, getting another bark of a laugh from Max and a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, undead is a little harsh. It’s more like…a virulent vitamin deficiency. If I don’t get what I need, everything starts to shut down.” Max pondered on this analogy for a long moment, looking at a dull mass-produced corporate painting.

“But all the superstitions…like why are those true?”

Max shrugged, running his thumb along the inseam of his dress slacks in a way that pulled your eyes to his thick thighs.

“It’s not like there’s a manual for this. Half the stuff is supposed to be because I ‘have no soul’,” Max made finger quotes as he says this. “But mirrors stopped being silver backed ages ago and I still have to be careful when I go into the men’s room.” He shrugged, taking an exaggerated sip from his iced coffee straw. “I just know what works and what doesn’t, and you just need to help with those gaps, pretty girl.”

You almost choke on your tongue, shooting Max a warning look. He raises his hands in deference, but keeps a raised brow.

"Sorry, I call it like I see it. Can't have someone with poor taste in charge of my appearance."

"Yeah and if you don't want to walk in to a meeting with HQ with a Kick Me post-it on your back, you'll be mindful of that mouth of yours."

The crinkles around Max's eyes deepen, something knowing passing by, but he nods in acquiescence.

It’s honestly not as bad as you thought it might be. You could even call it boring. Max thankfully isn’t a paperweight thrower, though he does speak to most of his subordinates like they’re idiots. Never you, thankfully, he’s all smiles and winks and traded comments during your daily interactions. You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Routine is your master, and you follow its pattern to the letter. It’s what makes you a great assistant. First thing in the morning is Max’s coffee order, set on his desk atop a coaster you provided when you saw the coffee cup stains. He whirls in, all noise and breeze, and you help him get ready for his morning meetings. A straightened tie - you can practically knot one blindfolded now - a quick sweep of fingers through his short hair, a pantomimed smile so he shows you his teeth. It’s all utilitarian, fast, not thrilling or intimate in a way you’d rarely been with a man. Of course not. That would be…unprofessional.

Lunch involves a teakettle, a blood bag, and a deep bowl that you use to warm his meal. All done in the safety and privacy of the kitchenette in his office. You pour the contents - a balmy 98.6 degrees by the time you’re finished - into a silver to-go cup, which he takes with appreciation when he bursts in. The first few weeks you left right after, but once you were more settled he asked you to stay while he sipped on his “lunch”. The conversation was always interesting, if not a little one-sided.

“You really don’t want to eat like, a salad or something? It’s just O-Positive Capri Suns for the rest of your life?” you asked, stabbing at some lettuce in your tupperware. Max laughed, a braying short one, and put his chin in his hand.

“You can technically eat cardboard and not be hungry, but it’s not food, pretty girl,” he replied, a shit-eating grin stretched across his broad face. You'd scolded him enough about the nickname that it's almost a joke now, except for how those words made you feel. His lips were a deeper red, and the sight plucked at something forbidden in your chest. Not disgust, more like morbid fascination. The sight pulled something primal to the surface, his tongue several shades darker when he licked an errant drop back into the lush cavern of his mouth.

You are not allowed to be lusting after your vampire boss is your mantra when thoughts run rampant.

The afternoons tend to be boring, filled with schedule juggling or email management. Max is often occupied through to the end of day, so you’re left to your own devices. You have a lot of “guys” now, as Max calls them. A blood guy, a disposal guy, a law enforcement guy. It makes you feel important in a way other jobs have lacked. You spend your afternoons making arrangements, both professional and personal, for your boss. It’s when you get the bulk of your work done, but it’s also when you have to be most on guard.

You see, Max has a few other “hungry” employees, and as the day grows long they tend to saunter by and watch you with barely veiled appetites. Brad in sales is the boldest, leaning over your desk and making a show out of smelling you with half-lidded eyes. Creepy. You’d told him off several times, but as he likes to say with just the right amount of douche, “I’m a closer baby, I always get the deal.”

In the metaphor you’re not sure what part of the “deal” you are, but you have no intention of finding out. Enough polite excuses and faked phone calls have kept him at bay, but you worry what might happen if he gets bolder, or gathers a few more vamps to sway your opinion. Is there a clause in your contract about not getting turned into a creature of the night? You should have checked.

The end of the day is often a quick affair. Max gets a debrief of anything important that came up, and what’s on the docket for tomorrow. Normally he packs up his suitcase with a little small talk, bids you a good night, and is off to do…whatever a vampire does when he’s off work.

Today, however, the script has a few additions.

“What’s wrong?” Max says, movements slowing as he takes in your shaking hand placing an itinerary on his desk. You tighten, smile forced.

“Nothing! Just fine,” you spit out, which only increases Max’s suspicion.

“Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” he asks, voice dropping to a low fuck-that’s-hot register. You swallow hard and will something, anything to come to mind.

“Just Brad being Brad. I don’t think he’s turned anyone in a while and he’s getting desperate,” you try to chuckle lightly, but Max’s eyes darken. He stands to his full height, shoulders straining against his jacket. Planting his hands on his hips, he pins you in his sight.

“Did he touch you?” This is a true growl now, and Max’s face changes into a terrifying mask, perfect teeth suddenly lengthening to points as he fights against the rush. Your mouth drops open, but only monosyllabic words come out.

“No. Safe,” you gasp, and the simple admission sobers Max. His jaw ticks, rolling his shoulders and jaw until the transformation recedes. You wish your heartbeat could slow that quickly. After a few steadying breaths, Max finally turns back to you.

If his gaze was electric before, it’s damn close to lightning when your eyes meet. The jolt pulses in your veins, and his nostrils flare briefly.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, all smooth professionalism like you haven’t just watched him vamp out because a coworker was a sleaze. You nod once, grateful, trying to ignore the sweet friction taking a step back gives to your core.

“Will there be anything else?” you ask, the customary end to your daily exchanges. Max gathers his briefcase, movements purposeful but fast.

“Nothing more, enjoy your night,” he answers, slipping past you with a wave of copper and musk that can’t be hidden by his Hermès cologne. You echo the sentiment but wait to take a full breath until you hear the elevator ding.

The next day Max walks in like a goddamn gladiator, powerful strides and testosterone rolling off his wool jacket. You can sense him before you see him, sometimes wondering if that’s part of the power he wields.

“Good morning!” he booms out, coming to a stop in front of your desk. You type out the end of your sentence and turn to him, smile at the ready, when your eyes drop to a box in his hand. The smile twists to confused amusement.

“What’s that?” you ask as he places the box in front of you with a pat to the silk bow neatly wrapping it.

“Happy six months of working here,” he says with more pomp than necessary. You narrow your eyes; it’s only been four, but his face is eager so you shrug it off. The bow is buttery soft under your fingers, and your heart rate ticks up rapidly. The box hinges open, and nestled inside is a women’s Rolex watch.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s stunning, the perfect mix of feminine and authoritative. Gleaming oystersteel and everose gold, diamonds circling the watch face laser etched with delicate leaves. It’s easily worth four months of your pay. Your mouth drops open in disbelief.

“Max, I can’t…” you start, but he places his palms on your desk and leans close, tilting his head to one side to favor your cheek with his spearmint breath.

“Wear it. No one will dare touch you, pretty girl. I promise.” His eyes are darkly confident, and the reassurance does ease the shock of the gift.

“Okay,” you manage to squeak out. “Thank you, Max.” He nods once with a lopsided smile before returning to the usual routine of your day. While he settles in, you slide the ungodly expensive timepiece out of the box and onto your wrist. It snaps shut in a perfect fit, and the thought of Max demonstrating your wrist size to the sales person makes heat radiate in your cheeks.

Miraculously, he was right. Brad spies you in the afternoon but one look at the watch has him about-face and leaving twice as quick as he came. At lunch the next day you ask Max about it. He smiles conspiratorially, leaning up against his desk to look down at you seated with your sandwich. You might have thought he was trying to cop a peek at your cleavage, but you had a turtleneck on today, and his eyes didn’t roam from your face.

“The sign of the cross doesn’t do shit…for me. I wasn’t a church-going kid, never got into anything organized. For a talisman to work, the belief has to be twofold. You have to believe it will protect you, and they have to believe it too. So if you want real protection against something out to get you, you have to know them intimately.” He pauses, thumb absently rubbing along the line of his bicep where he’s folded his arms. “If you both believe, anything can work.”

“Like this?” you ask, lifting your wrist with a twist. A flash of something passes over Max’s face before he gives you a lopsided smile.

“You believe it protects you?” he asks, his voice dropping into a softer lilt. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“You told me it did.”

“And they all believe it does, because I gave it to you.” An unspoken phrase hangs between you.

I’ll protect you.

“Could have chosen something less flashy,” you joke, needing to cut through the heaviness in the air. Max’s smile cracks his face, shaking his head as he moves to his side of the desk.

“Where’s the fun in that? You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

"And you're on thin ice, Max."

"My favorite place to be."

When it’s actually your six month anniversary, Max schedules a dinner for you. Private chef, live music, a beautiful venue. He told you to bring whoever you wanted, and his name dances on the bow of your lips for a moment. You thought hope might be in his eyes that you’d let it spill. But cowardice struck, and instead you brought your two sisters. They gush over the decadence.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want to fuck you?” One says, forking another mouthful of the best chocolate cake you’ve ever tasted into her mouth. “This is like, fourth date level extravagance.”

“He’s my boss, god. Just shut up and eat.”

“I’m just saying, my husband takes me to the Cheesecake Factory, and while I will never say no to another round of Bang Bang Shrimp, this is above and beyond what anyone would expect from your boss.”

Your other sister doesn’t say anything until you’re alone.

“Just…be careful. This could get really messy.”

Oh you have no idea.

You nod, folding your hands under your chin and looking out at the glittering skyline.

“I will, I promise. We just have a…different working relationship than anyone’s used to. But he’s never made me feel uncomfortable.”

Quite the opposite, really. You’ve never been so comfortable with another person in your life. You’d given him floss picks and wiped shaving cream from behind his ear, smoothed flyaways and cupped his chin to inspect an uneven sideburn. He’d let you touch every part of him without comment, brushing lint from his broad shoulders and tucking inside-out pockets back into their rightful homes.

In return, he treated you with respect. Apart from the nickname, which you won't admit you've come to enjoy, he treated you kindly and professionally. He was a womanizer, but not with you. You weren’t naive, he was definitely fucking plenty of women in the last few months you’d been working for him. Sometimes you saw the ghosts of them in his suitcase, or crumpled in pockets. Once you’d been ready to knock on his closed door but high, breathy moans held your hand at bay. Janet from Web Design left an hour later (impressive, though you’d never say it) and Max called you in shortly after, hands freshly washed and the heavy musk of sex combating faux floral notes of air freshener. Neither of you addressed it.

The difference, you assumed, was professional. He lauded your work, told you how much he appreciated how smooth you made everything for him. He wouldn’t want to fuck that up for a quickie over his desk. Or against the mahogany door. Or on the kitchenette floor, his reddened lips leaving sticky trails on your breasts.

The blast of chill outside the restaurant sobers your thoughts. You send a text to Max, thanking him for the dinner and sending a couple selfies of you and your sisters. His return text is swift.

You deserve it, pretty girl. Looking gorgeous.

The wine loosens your inhibitions just enough to send a text back.

What?

Instant response.

Guess.

Your hands start shaking too hard to respond, suddenly feeling much tipsier than you thought. Typing a hasty, “Thanks again, good night,” you get into the cab and spend the ride home regulating your breathing. Max doesn’t respond.

Minor issues aside - a rowdy employee or two, some tense negotiations, a race to the finish one month for sales - you like your work. You’re considering settling in, maybe not looking for the next big thing for a little while. The pay is good, the benefits are better than most, and you’re happy. For the first time in years, you actually look forward to coming to the office. And a tiny part of you that you hide away knows why.

The start of October is always a favorite time of year for you. Scary movies in abundance on TV, fall decor, and the excitement of heading into the darker months. Thanksgiving and Christmas are fine in their own rights, but Halloween is your personal favorite. You don’t add frivolity to your desk beyond a tiny pumpkin next to your pen cup, which Max eyes with a wry little smile, and a bucket of Halloween candy that anyone is welcome to dip into. It twists the mood just a fraction away from corporate dullness to corporate-appropriate holiday spirit. You even catch Max with his hand in the candy jar once or twice, waving a snack-size Twix or KitKat as he comes and goes.

You do wonder if the childishness of the holiday is something Max dislikes.

“It’s a little naive,” he bemoans, swallowing the dregs of blood from his insulated mug as you wash your tupperware in his kitchenette sink. Wordlessly you hold a hand out for the empty cup to clean. “Seeing everyone gallivanting around, pantomiming monsters, when they’re all too real.”

“More than vamps? Friends with any werewolves?” you tease, soaping up the sponge designated for Max’s lunches and scrubbing the congealed mess out of the lid threads.

“Would you like to meet one?” he answers, a sing-song mockery of your own joke.

“God no, I have enough supernatural shenanigans with you,” you laugh, washing your hands clean so you don’t smell of copper. You’re careful to slide the gifted Rolex back around your wrist when you’re finished, a ritual Max watches closely every time. Clearing your throat, you gather up your lunch bag and move to leave.

“Maybe a Halloween party would be good for morale,” Max says nonchalantly, voice stopping you in the door. You wrestle the smile off your face before turning back to him.

“Would you like me to arrange something?” you ask, failing to keep your expression breezy. Max flashes that conspirator’s grin that drums up excitement in your chest.

“Please.”

The office latches onto the party date, only a couple days before Halloween proper. There will be food, drinks, a few small prizes for best costume and raffles. You count down the days with mounting excitement, the spirit of the season making you bouncier, lighter in and out of work. Max teases you about it.

“So you’re not going to tell me what you’re going as?” he wheedles, watching you lay piles of paperwork in neat folders on his desk. You shake your head, clucking your tongue when you notice you’re one short.

“Half the fun is the surprise,” you call over your shoulder as you speed back to your desk and return with the final folder. Max doesn’t even pretend he’s interested in the documents. “What are you going to be?” His eyebrow cocks, shaking his head with derision.

“I’m a vampire, honey, I am my own costume,” he drawls, making you roll your eyes.

“So I should expect a cape with a high collar? Some dollar store plastic fangs? Hair gel?” you tease, making your hands into claws over the desk. “I vant to suck your blooooood!” you mime in your best Dracula impression, getting your own eye roll in return.

“If you’re not telling, I’m not,” he throws back, finally scooting forward in his chair and opening one of the folders. You straighten up, triumphant, and leave him to his work.

The day of the party greets you with excitement. You made the decision to go subtle, since you’ll be sitting in costume all day. Your coworkers would have time to change before the party, but you were organizing and didn’t have that luxury. So on went a sensible white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and sheer black nylons. Slipping them up your legs, you grind your lip between your teeth. The back seam of the nylons, paired with the black stiletto heels you found in your closet, turn the dress from something mundane to possibly recognizable. When you turn your back to the mirror, crossing your ankles prettily, one of the most recognizable movie posters in history pulls to the forefront.

You could give Maggie Gyllenhaal a run for her money.

The last piece - an addition that turns the costume from seductive to silly - you tuck into the chest pocket of your blouse before leaving.

The day passes quickly, Max calling to tell you he’s meeting with HQ through lunch and to get the festivities started without him. You usher in the caterers, laughing with your coworkers when they ask what your costume is. So far the cover story works, and they all enjoy the clever play on words.

The party is in full swing, raffle tickets being handed out and drinks starting to flow, when Max enters. His voice precedes him, and it’s a good thing it does because if you didn’t have that brief moment to gather yourself your mouth would have dropped open.

It’s a perfect recreation of Gary Oldman’s Dracula costume. It’s so on the nose a laugh almost bubbles out if you weren’t breathless. He’s swathed head to toe in dove gray, save for the sharp shock of black around his neck, the shine of his shoes, the rich dark leather of his gloves. The waistcoat pulls tantalizingly against his stomach, a bright silver pin at the base of his throat. He’s slicked his hair into a side part, small blue-tinted glasses perched halfway down his curved nose. Leaning on the walking stick and crossing his ankles, he makes a sweeping “ta-da!” motion with his hand. Applause erupts, giving you cover to gasp in some much-needed air.

“To All Hallows' Eve,” he croons, sharing secret looks with the team members you know are his brethren. By the time he catches your eye across the room you’ve finally comported yourself, smiling brightly at his nod.

It takes him some time to get to you, fighting through the crowd of people wanting to rub elbows and make an impression. He gives them all their five minutes of fame in his presence, annoyance slowly ticking up with each stop. You keep busy organizing the raffle, handing out voting sheets (Max will certainly win best costume) and watching him out of the corner of your eye.

It’s at the first lull in your duties that Max slides up next to you, a warm hand on your lower back. It makes you jump, but settle quickly when his impressed smile comes into view.

“I think I know what you’re supposed to be,” he murmurs, coming to stand in front of you to get a better look. His brow furrows when his gaze lands on your breast pocket. “Hmmm, maybe not. So spill, what’s your costume?” he says, leaning on the cane and dragging his gaze up and down your body. Aiming for a carefree smile, you tap on the little calculator peeking out of your pocket.

“I’m someone you can count on,” you enunciate, the confusion and realization swirling in his eyes until a laugh bubbles out, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you came to the party as a pun,” he chokes out, both of you now giggling next to the bags of chips and finger sandwiches. When he finally gets control of himself he nods approvingly.

“Well, you might not win best costume with that…” You shrug, conceding, “but I’d give you the prize if you admit what you actually came as, pretty girl.”

Time slows to sticky seconds as Max inches closer to you, eyes sliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your neck, lighting for much too long on your lips. He knows, knows you wore the outfit from Secretary and for no one else but him. You keep your stare trained on his face. It’s not the first time you’ve considered throwing out professionalism in favor of hunger. It’s not like anyone else has been upholding your rigorous standards. Would it be so bad to let Max chase his desires with your body? To bloom underneath him, above him, around him? Would you like the taste of his mouth, coppery and thick?

He’s close enough to be more than professional but not so close to be indecent, hot fingers tracing the band of the Rolex circling your wrist. Your mind blearily wonders if that’s when you let down the wall that kept him out. His eyes finally meet yours, a question in their depth, before his face contorts and he steps back quickly, a grimace painting his features.

“Are…” You swallow, mouth torturously dry. “Are you okay?”

He nods, fighting on a smile and straightening with effort.

“Yes, sorry, I was…busy this afternoon, haven’t eaten yet.” He raises his hands in defense at your scolding glance, the tension back to a bare simmer.

“Well go get a drink, I won’t announce the winners until you get back,” you say breathlessly, giving him a dazzling smile that he returns shyly. The tables are turned for once in your favor, and you savor watching Max on unsure footing. “Do you need me to heat something up for you?”

“No, I’ve got it taken care of,” he assures you, making his way to his office. A wave back at you is the last you see before he closes the door.

Finally able to make sense of what’s going on, you get back to the party, mingling with the girls you like from marketing and keeping tabs on the liveliness of the party. Max doesn’t return, the time to announce the costume winner closing in. You worry at your cuticles, his absence starting to toll on your mind. What if he was passed out in his office, weakening by the second? While you were out here with coworkers that had never given you a second glance?

Your resolve snaps, mother henning be damned, as you move to Max’s office. The din of the party muffles your voice, stepping close to listen at the door.

“Max?” you call, with no answer. Heart thumping, you test the handle. Locked. A quick trip to your desk has the spare key in your hand, ready to slot into the lock.

“Max, it’s time for the announcement, I didn’t think you wanted to miss it,” you say, and this time you hear something. A low, pained groan.

The key slams into the lock, turning frantically as you whip the door open, two steps in with it shutting heavily behind you before you register what’s happening.

Max is not alone. And he’s…

He’s…

Oh fuck.

It’s easy not to see the monster when it looks like a middle manager. It’s easy to pretend the blood is a beetroot smoothie, or that the stains on his shirt are red wine. When Max makes it seem so dull, so boring, you sometimes forget he’s something strange and powerful.

But when you’re face to face with the truth, it all comes rushing to the forefront.

Max has Janet, the pretty thing from Web Design, spread out on his lap, her hands gripping the armrests of his chair. One hand is covering her mouth, leaning her head back to loll against his shoulder. The other is buried under her skirt, and from here you can see wetness shimmering inside her thighs. The lewd flexing of his forearm working her with those fingers you covet day in and day out almost distracts you from what’s actually happening. Almost.

Dragging your eyes up, you take in the true horror of the situation. You recognize the change, his face contorted with lines of deepening purple and red streaking his skin. The same that you saw when you told him about Brad. His mouth is latched onto Janet’s neck, red oozing around the seal of his lips. He’s groaning, swallowing thickly as you imagine mouthful after mouthful of her blood pouring down his throat.

The slam of the door drags Max’s eyes up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline when he sees you. Mouth popping off Janet’s skin, he growls your name, deep and drunken. The loss allows blood to spurt from Janet’s neck, thick droplets spraying across her bare legs, the carpet, his desk, staining papers you laid there just this morning. Your stomach churns violently, legs weakening as Janet thrashes against Max’s hold. He tears his eyes from you to look down at the mess, a rough, “shit,” falling from his blood-stained lips before he fits his mouth back to the ring of teeth.

There is nothing darkly romantic about this now, no suave vampire lover sipping delicately from a young debutante’s neck. Blood sluices down to stain Janet’s pink top a deeper red, her face painted with rusty smears that gather between his fingers. Max pounds his fingers inside her, the telltale spasm of her orgasm accompanied by the liquid squeak of her flats slipping in her own blood. He withdraws, a sticky string of her cum trailing across her thighs. Pressing her flush to his chest, he sucks and growls and hums until Janet goes still, fingers falling away and body slumping. The pop of his mouth off the wound lets a dribble slip between the swell of her cleavage, more still smeared and dripping from his mouth. He sighs with relief, thick tongue lazily licking at the mess around his lips. He bands his arms around Janet and lifts, folding her face-down on his desk, legs dangling limply over the edge. Her eyes are sightless, blood smearing onto the Meyer report.

A maddening thought - you’d have to reprint that - spikes through your consciousness.

Max stands, swaying slightly as he rolls his shoulders, finally looking at you trembling in his office. His eyes are blood red, human only in that he sees you with them. Realization flits across the face you barely recognize, smile going predatory. As if a body isn’t lying mere inches from him, he places his hands on his desk, leaning over to give you a sultry look.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he purrs, a sound that vibrates in two tones. It makes your fight or flight instinct claw up your spine. Specifically the flight part. The fight part is warring against the fiery arousal burning in your belly at Max’s slick mouth, the generous tenting in those gray pants, and the rabid desire in his eyes. Fear sharpens your pulse, and you know it would take barely anything to make you cum with a wail if he’d only touch you.

“Can smell you from here, little secretary. Know you want me to devour that juicy pussy.” Max lengthens his neck, closing his eyes and inhaling with a satisfied moan. Flecks of blood dot the gray waistcoat, jacket abandoned in a heap on the floor. The black shirt hides the color but not the wetness of what Max could not eat. “I would, you know. I would eat you even if I was full to bursting. Let me taste you, pretty little thing. I want you on my tongue. I’ll make you cum so hard you’ll wash me clean.”

He’s prowling around the table now, steps soft and light, and you’re a frozen gazelle with a tiger approaching. No, that’s too grounded, too finite. You’re a candle flame in the middle of an ocean, a moment away from being swallowed up. Your face is wet; you’re crying. You’re scared. You’re so aroused it hurts. You’re so in over your head you’re drowning.

You can’t breathe.

Realization flickers over Max’s face and you watch him change. The veining and depth of his features recedes, eyes clearing back to soft brown as he slows his advances even further.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you.” He turns his palms up, keeping his distance as you struggle to let air back into your lungs. The first whoosh makes you so lightheaded you stumble back, falling to your knees. Max goes down to his knees with you, one hand outstretched but still too far to touch. You can’t stop shaking, taking in big gulping breaths. Max waits, a drip of blood from his chin shocking him into scrubbing his sleeve over his face. Most of the gore vanishes, but the pink hue remains.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I would never hurt you,” he tries again, scooting another pace forward. “I’m sorry, you were never supposed to see that. I fucked up, please…”

His hand brushes your ankle and you know you’re going to be sick. Bile rushes up your throat and you scramble blindly for the trash bin. You make it just in time, emptying your stomach with retching sobs. A warm palm strokes your shoulder and you snap your arm out, head still hanging.

“Don’t touch me!” you rasp, and the hand is gone, letting you finish shuddering and coughing into the bin. When your stomach stops cramping you crawl away, ignoring Max’s concerned face in your periphery. You lost one of your shoes, picking it up from its topple onto the floor and holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Please, look at me,” Max begs, and you finally take him in. He’s much more the Max you know, but so different now. Same hair you arrange for him, same soft-shaved face you touch more than you actually need to. Same brown eyes that look to you for guidance. But when you look closer you can see the film of blood on his teeth, droplets clinging to his eyebrows, and a never ending hunger in the depths of his eyes.

You scramble to your feet, hobbling in one shoe. Max stumbles back up to your height.

“Pretty…?” he begs again, but you’re opening the door, striding out into the ruckus of the party. A couple people turn, eyes expectant until they see you. Confusion, or realization, turns them back around to ignore you. Heart thumping in your throat, fear pangs through your chest. Is there any blood on you? A quick inspection finds none, so it must be your haunted expression and disheveled appearance that inspires discretion.

Unable to spend another moment in this building, copper still strong in your nose, you stuff your shoes in your bag and try to hurry out the back door. You need to get home, behind a locked door, maybe several. Somewhere you can think, get a level head, figure out what to do.

Then Brad steps into your path, and your stomach plummets again.

“Hey, where are you going? You haven’t announced the costume contest winner yet!” he laughs, blocking your path. Stepping to the side, you watch in dismay as he does the same. Again, but the other way, and he follows. Tutting, he nods at your Rolex.

“Seems like this is just an expensive gift now,” he bemoans, dunking you in clarity.

You have to believe it will protect you.

Nothing can save you now.

Only yourself.

Another step-dodge hides your hand diving into your bag, and when Brad grabs your wrist you swing your arm back and drive your stiletto into the side of his neck.

“What the fuck?!” he shouts, hands coming up to staunch the dark blood seeping around the wound. Faintly you hear Max’s door open and the party drop to silence, but you leave the noise as you burst into the stairwell, racing to your car and away from the hell behind you.

Max stumbles out of his office as the door slams behind you, clothes sticking to his skin and mouth full of metallic tang.

“Bitch put her heel in my goddamn neck!” Brad shouts, stomping up to Max. “Your assistant needs some fucking discipline Phillips.” He must have more to rant about, but two swift hands snap Brad’s head clean around and off, letting his body crumple to the floor. Max watches with disinterest, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling long and deep before tossing the head to join.

“Okay people, cleanup protocol,” he calls out, and the vampires in the crowd all look at each other.

“Boss?” one of them says, making Max snap his attention to them in frustration.

“You heard me, we’ll start relocation tomorrow.”

Max ignores the screams of his turned subordinates feeding on the human ones, his eye catching the glint of something on the ground. He kneels, heart sinking at what he finds. The Rolex, her talisman. Picking it up, he turns it grimly in his hands. Brad shouldn’t have been able to touch her, not with this. As long as she still believed it worked.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the face, an errant smear of blood clouding the crystal.

You get the call on Sunday afternoon, a whole weekend spent locked up in your apartment and stressed over what Monday would bring. The unknown number is the district manager letting you know that your office is being outsourced, effective immediately. Do not return to the building, please ship company property back to HQ, on and on. Part of you is relieved to not have to step foot back there. The morbid voice in the back of your mind whispers that there’s more to it than cheaper labor. You let that voice fade in favor of relief.

With enough savings for a few months out of a job, you begin the search anew. HQ gave you a generic recommendation letter, which should be enough for your new employer. It would have been preferable to have one from Max, but thinking about what it might say gives you hysterical giggles.

Can warm blood up to body temp perfectly.

Handles high stress situations such as scheduling a body dump.

Looks into my eyes like she’s known me forever.

You force yourself out of this line of thought.

Three weeks after you ran out of that building for the last time, you get an email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Can we talk?

Your fingers hover over the keys, throat tightening. The hysteria died down after the first week, your trips outside cautious over the second, and finally a sense of calm had settled back into your life. Did you want to invite chaos back in?

To: [email protected]

Subject: When?

Your reply sends and moments later your inbox pings again.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Now?

Your face scrunches in confusion before the sharp buzz of your front door bell jars you out of your chair.

“Fucking…Max, give a girl a minute,” you curse, smoothing a hand through your hair and shrugging at your loungewear attire. Padding to your intercom, you click the button to activate the video screen. No one is standing on the stoop of your apartment. Confused, you press the talk button.

“Hello?”

“It’s Max.”

You’re stunned into silence before a smile creeps onto your face.

“You’re not visible on cameras too?”

“Ha ha, yeah I know, it’s great for a life of crime,” he drones out sarcastically, and even though you can’t see him you can imagine that mocking face.

A ball appears in the back of your throat. You missed him.

Buzzing him up, you wait at your door, leaning in the entryway. You don’t think he’s here to violently tie up a loose end, but you could be wrong. Your good judge of character has been suspiciously absent in the last eight months.

Three swift knocks and Max is standing in your doorway, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. You’d assumed he’d be in a suit, but this one is more casual, no necktie and his collar open. He’s wearing a cocky I-knew-you-missed-me face, but underneath there’s a current of worry, concern, and care that warms you.

“Oh, you never told me,” you say, holding the door open thoughtfully, “what are the loopholes for entering someone’s home without being invited in?”

Max’s eyes crinkle up as he rolls his eyes. There’s the man you’d been falling for.

Oh.

Oh wow.

Shit, that’s the first time you’d thought that.

“So in the movies it sounds so formal. Like ‘may I enter your home?’ and the other person has to say ‘yes, you may,’ but nobody talks like that anymore. You can just say come in, and that’s it. Or I can ask if I can come in and if you say yeah, that’s good enough. I’ve even had people tell me to come get a hug, or get out of the cold, and that worked too. Human language has evolved so much and…I am absolutely babbling like an idiot right now.” Max trails off and you stifle a smile behind your hand. It pulls a relieved one onto his face.

“I missed you,” you say, the words coming easier than you expected. Max’s eyes soften.

“I missed you too.”

You look at each other in silence before you snap back to the previous conversation.

“Oh, shit, right, yeah come in,” you stutter, Max crossing the threshold and handing you the sunny bouquet. The plastic wrap crinkles around your fingers, making for a good distraction as you move to put them in water while Max hangs his coat.

It takes you a few minutes to snip the stalks and place them in a vase, and then a few moments more to ask Max if he’d like something (“whatever you’re having”) and brew two cups of black tea. Entering your little living room, you find Max sitting at one end of your couch, thumbing through a travel book. He puts it down to accept the tea, setting it to cool on the coffee table. Placing yours beside, you settle into the couch and try to think of where to begin. Thankfully, Max starts.

“I’m sorry you had to see any of that after all that you’ve done for me. It was inappropriate for me to feed at work, even more so to scare you. It was wildly unprofessional and I completely understand if you don’t want to be associated with me after that.”

You blink slowly at him, absorbing this carefully rehearsed apology. He waits for your response, damnation or salvation.

“Is Janet okay?”

You watch his face cooly as he struggles through a few different emotions. Confusion, incredulity, amusement, relief.

“Yeah, Janet’s fine, I turned her. She’s moving to England, not as much sun.”

Silence slips between you before you break into giggles, Max following along as the tension unwinds. When your breath stops hitching you give Max a warm smile, picking up your mug to take a sip.

“Sounds like HQ just wanted to sweep all this under the rug. Would it always have ended up this way, or was the party to blame?” Max shrugs, arm slung over the back of the couch and ankle resting on his knee.

“It’s different every place I go. Sometimes it’s longer, other times it’s only a few weeks. You made it easier,” he says, a blanket of fondness warming your lap. Tracing the lip of the mug with your fingernail, you sort through what you want to say next.

“Before the party…was something going on between us? Or is that some weird vampire thing to make humans easy to manipulate?” Peering through your lashes, you think you see Max blush.

“I can assure you I did not use my supernatural powers of suggestion on you. Only on difficult clients,” he laughs, tilting his head lazily onto one shoulder. “Yeah,” he adds quieter, face turning to his lap. “Yeah, there was something going on between us.” Slowly, giving you time to shy away, he reaches out to brush his fingers along the inside of your knee. A trill of excitement flutters through you. “I hope it’s still there.”

Just as cautiously, you reach out and let the tips of your fingers meet, his hand turning over to cup them in his palm. The softness of his skin entices you to stroke along his broad palm, the undersides of his fingers, until he moves to lace them with yours, joints stretching pleasantly around his larger ones. When you get the courage to look up he’s regarding you with quiet wonder, lips parted. You smile at him, eliciting one in response.

“I have something for you,” he says, voice tight as he digs into his pants pocket. It’s a smaller box than the first gift he got you, and you release his hand to take it. Sliding the top off, you’re treated to a delicate silver chain.

“I don’t think the Rolex quite expresses what I’d like us to be now,” Max says, lifting the chain out of the box. It’s even more dainty in his hands, thick fingers struggling briefly with the clasp.

“So you’re not asking me to keep being your assistant?” you say, pulse pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Put this on and I’ll show you what I’d like us to be,” he says, a soft challenge but no fire in his eyes. Instead there’s a question, one that you’d struggled with in the weeks following the party.

Could you handle this?

Pushing up on your knees, you gently lift one leg over Max’s lap, settling on his thighs. His eyes widen, then that bratty smile comes back to grace his face.

“I’m waiting Max,” you tease in a sing-song lilt. He lifts the chain to loop around your neck, fastening the ends together. It hangs cooly against you, sensation slowly disappearing as it warms to your skin.

“This will protect you, if you believe in it,” he says, and as he breathes the words he leans up to place a soft kiss to your collarbone, pressing the chain between his lips and your skin. “It will protect you from those with ill intent,” he continues, trailing his lips along the necklace as he places another kiss at the base of your throat, “because I will never let another creature, living or undead, bring harm to you.” Here he places an open-mouthed kiss on your sternum, a tentative lick pebbling your skin. “And it will protect you from me,” His mouth moves up the other side of your neck, peppering kisses along the way, “because I will never lay a hand on you that you’re not begging for.”

You bury your hands in his short locks, scratching your nails along his scalp. The groan he lets out makes him circle you in his arms, sliding you down his thighs to sit tight against him. His breathing becomes erratic, and he rolls his hips below you.

“I’ll never…fuck, I’ll never drink from you. I’ll never bite you, I promise,” he growls, and now his mouth is hot and possessive on your neck, sucking and scraping teeth up to worry behind your ear.

“I like biting,” you whisper back, grinding lightly on him. “Only these teeth, though, not the sharp ones.”

The dark chuckle he makes precedes him pulling you back, looking up at you with wide eyes and a damp mouth.

“I still want you to be my assistant, though, I’m a mess without you,” he pants, eyes glittering with mirth. Shaking your head with a sigh, you dip down to capture the mouth you’d been coveting. He tastes like bitter tea leaves, coffee, and the primal coppery heat of blood on the back of his tongue.

It’s a taste you could get used to.

#max phillips x f!reader #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #bloodsucking bastards fanfiction #prolix fics

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risingshards · 3 months

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Sting's final match was so so SO perfect. For the guy who'd always lose when asked and got booked to be such a goober over his career and got such a shitshow wwe run...to see that guy get such a triumphant good defeats evil close to his career, to see him get an undefeated streak in aew....ugh. It's wondeful.

Sting is a wrestler that's really important to me. I didn't watch in like peak 90s wrestling times, but I remember when my brother made a CAW of Sting in HCTP that my 10 year old self was like "that is the coolest wrestler ever." and it took until TNA in january 2006 when he debuted on final resolution, the first wrestling ppv I ever convinced my family to order teaming with my all time #1 wrestler Christian Cage (ty to christian for being genuinely such a nice person to me) for me to be like "oh my god stings fucking awesome?!?!"

In 2014 I had a really shitty life situation. and it fucked me up and I was rocked completely and lost. And I retreated to my partner's house at the time and wrapped myself up in blankets and put on survivor series and sting showed up in wwe. and in all the maelstrom of my life i got to escape for a second and be like. "ok. sting is here. things will be okay. justice will be served." and that was incredibly comforting to me. sting's wwe run endied up being fucking terrible and like my thirtieth "oh god wwe sucks and is horrific for my mental wellbeing" thing. but that debut pulled me away from the bad times.

flash forward to 2020. and the shitty life situation repeated itself like shot for shot. i was lost again. and wouldn't you know it, sting debuts in aew like a day after it happened. and i got to escape again. justice would be served. the good guys win in the end. thankfully, sting's aew run would be so much better than the wwe one and was so so perfect.

so today's very emotional for me. a maybe childish (?) part of me is like "if that thing happens again what do we do if sting doesnt show up and make it feel alright?" but the way sting got to defeat the bad guys one more time, to fight against evil (against the young bucks who were deliciously perfect villains for sting and darby) and to WIN, to not go out like old yeller like every other wrestler retirement angle, is so important to me. sting go to be a fucking real life superhero fighting against evil in the wacky unreal world of wrestling, and helped me through the bullshit, and makes me want to keep fighting in spite of everything. wrestling is silly and weird and seen as fucking stupid bullshit to many who don't watch, but fucking hell I dunno if i'd be here without it, and without people like sting being those kinds of heroes who make the fight worth it. so thank you sting, for everything.

#aew #sting #aew revolution #god this is so tmi but sting is one of those fuckin heroes for me that i gotta say this #wrestling #thank you sting #this is probably nonsensical but i needed to write this out #darby allin #young bucks

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fantasyandromancelover · 10 months

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When Blitzo and Stolas find out their daughters went to a drive in movie.

Blitzo and Stolas arrive at the drive in, it is loaded with huge, elaborate cars.

Blitzo: Oh great, now how are we going to find them?

Stolas: Via told me she was taking one of the limos.

Blitzo: Which one? The red or the white?

Stolas: I don’t know, she didn’t say.

Blitzo: Alright we’ll split up. You go right, I’ll go left, and I swear if I catch that mutt fondling my Loony- (Angrily cocks his gun)

The two over-protective fathers take off searching.

Stolas: (Panicked) Octavia, where are you?!

He spots a white limousine and through the windows, he can make out a tall man laying on top of a petite young woman as they passionately kiss in the back seat.

Stolas: Oh my God! My baby! (Furiously tears off the limousine doors) Get your hands off my daughter you animal! She’s a minor!

But it’s not Octavia and her boyfriend that he finds in that limo. It’s Charlie wearing lipstick and Alastor who has kiss-marks all over his face.

Charlie: (Horrified) What the hell is wrong with you?!

Alastor: (Clinging to Charlie) Good Golly! Can’t a fellow go to a picture show and cuddle with his sweetheart in peace?!

Stolas: Oh dear. (Embarrassed) Sorry, wrong limo. Just pretend you never saw me. Heh, heh. (Reattaches door to limo)

Meanwhile Blitzo finds a red limousine with the windows steamed up.

Blitzo: They better be making soup in there.

But then he hears a female moaning inside.

Blitzo: That’s it! Time for doggy to go the way of Old Yeller! (He fires a shot through the window and sticks his arm through to unlock the door) Alright you two, the party’s over come on out!

He prepares to take another shot but quickly stops upon seeing that the couple inside is not Loona and her boyfriend. It’s Vaggie sitting on top of Angel, both of them wearing just their underwear.

Angel: Hey! (Shields Vaggie from being seen) This ain’t no threesome pal!

Blitzo: Oh shit. (Humiliated) Okay do not be alarmed, I can explain. You see I-

Vaggie: (Mortified and angry) Get out of here you F*in pervert! (She flings her harpoon at Blitzo which goes right through him)

Blitzo: (In great pain) AHHHHHHHHHHH!

As for Octavia and Loona? They’re just casually enjoying the movie with their boyfriends.

Loona: You know that guy who just got killed in this scene screams exactly like Blitzo.

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isthenapoleoncute · 6 months

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What movies about Napoleon should I show to my Napoleon?

Napoleons love watching movies about others of their species! Unlike some animals, Napoleons seem to comprehend that the image on the screen is representative of a Napoleon like them! They can really love the flashing colors and sometimes it seems like they can even follow the plot along. ((Some people say that they just like the sound of gunfire and aren't understanding anything, but I disagree! 'Cuz some Napoleon movies are silent, no gunfire! So explain that, hmm! Explain that!!!!))

That being said, Napoleons can become distressed if you show them a Napoleon movie where the Napoleon gets Waterlooed (so stay away from the movie Waterloo) or Imprisoned (stay away from Monsieur N) or if someone is really, really mean to the Napoleon for no reason (any! Adaption of a certain Sherlock Holmes story!!!!!!)

Because of that, I recommend these two nature documentaries:

1.) Abel Glance's 1927 Napoleon! This mongo film is four hours long of a Napoleon who comes out of his coccoon and goes to play! He just wins and wins and wins and there's No Waterloo or Leipzig or Saint Helena at all to make him sad!

2.) Abel Glance's 1960 Auserlitz! This mongo film is all about a Napoleon who is a super special boy, who helps invent the submarine, and he has sassy adventures with a Constant, and then he wins a battle of Austerlitz and nothing bad happens to him!

3.) Josephine, our la comedie de la ambitions can be fun! All the parts available on YouTube are just a Napoleon being a young, happy good boy and nothing bad happens to him!

If you do accidentally show it a movie where a Leipzig or a Waterloo or a Russian invaseion is about to happen, just do what parents did in ye olden times during Old Yeller: just turn the movie off and tell him that the Napoleon lived happily ever after!

Hope this helps!

#how to care for your napoleon #napoleon

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l3irdl3rain · 1 year

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How did you teach Dunkin to not bite constantly? I have a cat who was a stray and she is so bitey, even with a lot of play time. Her name is Refrigerator and she is crazy

First and foremost I am not a cat trainer. I think this may have been the first time I’ve actually successfully trained a cat to stop a behavior. Other ppl may do things differently than me and every cat is different blah blah blah.

Consistency and patience was the main thing. I never let him get away with it and I also said “no bite” every single time. I’d try to redirect him and if he was being really naughty I’d even lock him in his room for a few minutes to cool down.

I also was always mostly kind. I’m not a yeller and I’m definitely not a hitter. Hitting is wrong for obvious reasons but also it’s just likely to escalate the situation, same with yelling.

I’m not gonna lie though, Duncan got scruffed on numerous occasions. There were times that he was so out of control that I grabbed a handful of his scruff, told him no, and then put him on lockdown for a few minutes.

I get that a lot of people aren’t comfortable with that and I don’t think people should be grabbing any naughty cat by the scruff and they definitely shouldn’t be really rough or anything crazy like that. Duncan’s mom died when he was far too young for her to instill any manners in him. Had she been around and he been acting like that she would have grabbed him in a similar way and been much less nice about it than I was.

#idk how controversial scruffing cats is on here so hopefully I don’t get myself in trouble #ask #Duncan

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sillypikmin · 9 months

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Working on a better one but this quick little doodle of Cowboymin turned out cute so have this in the meantime! (I vote for Young Yeller or Banjo)

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

YESSSS omg ..... he is rootin he is tootin .... and other cowboy activities

#submission #fan made sillies #the cowboy pikmin

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firefly-sky · 5 months

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i feel like sheila would be really good at handling kyle as a baby whenever he would cry and such. gerald couldn’t handle it as well because kyle up until he was 2 or so, wouldn’t go to anyone but his mom. sheila wasn’t a pushover though and he learned from a young age to respect his parents. she wouldn’t do it violently like some of you think, but healthy ways.

rewards for example. if kyle was crying over something he wanted sheila would probably tell him no once, but that prolly wouldn’t go over well with a two year old, so she would bring him outside and actually talk to him calmly and tell him that’s ‘not how you get anything in life’ and so eventually when the crying lowered and he learned to ask nicely she would buy him small things every once in a while.

sheila is not a yeller. she is a communicator. if anything i feel like gerald would be the ‘bad cop’ in this situation. that’s not to say gerald is abusive by any means but he was probably a ‘stop crying before i give you a reason to’ dad. nothing would come of it other than taking a toy or something but in the good cop bad cop situation sheila is good cop and gerald is bad cop. i dunno-

#south park #kyle broflovski #sheila broflovski #gerald broflovski

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whump-me · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 19: Psychological

This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: brainwashing, emotional whump, minor whumpee

Words: 2400

---

This is what you were made for, the instructors always told them. They told them that when they cried. When they missed their old life, their family and friends. When they remembered what they had lost when the men came in their unmarked vans and stole them away with their syringes full of liquid that put them to sleep. When they remembered everything they would never have again.

The lives they had left behind were fine for ordinary people, the instructors told them. But they weren’t ordinary. They had gifts most people could only dream of, and it was their responsibility to use those gifts for the greater good. They had purpose, and purpose required sacrifice. They had to sacrifice their families, their friends, their dreams for the future, in order to be who they were born to be.

The instructors said it as a comfort, wrapping crying bodies in blankets and pressing mugs of warm chamomile tea into their hands. They said it as an admonition, as they locked them in the punishment room for a day or two or three. They said it when anyone cried, when anyone questioned, when anyone’s face showed a flicker of doubt.

It was tempting to believe. They had all lost everything when PERI had come for them. Some of them hadn’t even known they had powers. Almost none of them had known about the Enhanced gene that gave some people supernatural abilities, or about PERI, the government-funded program that hunted for children with the gene and trained them as operatives. None of them had seen this coming.

Almost none of them.

They had lost their previous lives all at once, with no warning. Now they spent their nights in bare cell-like rooms, and their days in an exhausting training regimen. Physical training. Mental training. Ability training, which varied depending on whether they were telepaths or pyrokinetics or could heal with a touch—there were almost as many unique powers in the cohort as there were people.

There was no time for fun. Friendship wasn’t allowed—any members of their cohort who spoke too to each other, or in whispers like they had something to hide, were quickly separated by the instructors.

It was tempting to think there was a reason for it. At least once they all came to realize, one by one, that they were never going home again.

Yasmina watched it change the others. She watched them all start to reluctantly settle into their new life. The criers stopped crying as much. The yellers stopped yelling as much. The ones who had sworn they wouldn’t cooperate started getting invested in the competitions the instructors set for them.

From the outside, she was sure she looked the same. She had faked being a yeller, because it was easier than faking tears. The downside to that was that it meant fewer warm mugs of tea pressed into her hands, and more days in the punishment room.

But she had been prepared, and she had endured. She had let her defiance fade, little by little, until she was the obedient drone the instructors wanted.

But she didn’t believe any of it. Not like the others. She didn’t need to believe it. Unlike them, she was getting out.

She had let herself be taken on purpose. Tasha, her legal guardian for two more years, had taken her for a routine blood test at a clinic that her parents’ Enhanced resistance team knew PERI monitored for abnormal genetic results. The plan had been her idea; it had taken months to persuade the others. Only once she had threatened to make it happen on her own, without their help, had they agreed to let her do it.

Her parents would have said she was too young. But her age was the only reason she could do this at all—even at sixteen, she was almost too old for PERI training. Some of the kids in her cohort were seven or eight. And her Enhanced ability was perfect memory—she could learn everything about the facility and the training process, and deliver it back to the team in every perfect detail.

And her parents, killed on a mission last year, were no longer around to object.

She lay on the top bunk in her cohort’s dorm, staring up at the ceiling. Now that almost everyone had given up on their defiance, most of them had earned enough trust to sleep in the group dorm instead of the individual cells. There wasn’t as much difference between the two as she had expected. The dorm was quiet—there was no whispering between beds, no sound at all aside from light snores and the occasional suppressed tears.

The constant competitions, with harsh consequences for failure, were successfully driving wedges between them all. When that didn’t do the trick, having to practice their abilities on each other did it. Also, the dorm was bugged, and everyone knew it. If anyone talked for too long, an instructor would come and take the offenders away to spend the night in the punishment room.

Yasmina lay awake, listening to one person’s sleep-talk and another’s quiet sobs. She listened until the familiar mental tickle brushed the back of her mind. She relaxed into the hard mattress, a smile coming to her face. She stayed awake as long as she could every night, waiting for contact, but it had been weeks since the last time Tasha had reached out to her.

She hadn’t been afraid—she knew her parents’ team wouldn’t abandon her here. But, well, she had wondered. There was always the risk that something had happened to Tasha. As a fairly weak telepath, Tasha had to get close to the facility to make contact, which was dangerous.

Can you talk? Tasha asked.

Yasmina sent a burst of wordless affirmation in response. She wasn’t a telepath herself, but all she had to do for Tasha to hear her was think strongly enough and clearly enough.

How are you holding up? Tasha’s voice was thick with concern, like an instructor pressing a mug of tea into a crying trainee’s hand.

In answer, she downloaded image after image into Tasha’s mind. The two of them had practiced the technique together in the weeks before Yasmina had gotten herself captured. She had practiced focusing on her memories until Tasha could see them as clearly as she could. Tasha had practiced memorizing the details. They had found, through trial and error, that still images worked the best. That meant it took a long time to transmit the information, but it was worth it.

When she was done, Tasha sent her a wave of wordless thanks. Yasmina responded with a burst of acknowledgment. She curled on her side, ready to go to sleep.

Wait, said Tasha.

Yasmina opened her eyes again. Is something wrong?

The opposite, said Tasha. It’s been a year. It’s finally time to get you home.

Yasmina sent a burst of confusion along their telepathic connection. A year? It couldn’t have been that long. She tried to count up the days, and then the weeks. But they all blended together. Every day of training was much the same as last. And they didn’t have calendars in here.

Not yet, said Yasmina. I’m not done here.

We agreed on a year, said Tasha, sharp concern leaking through the connection. We’re not leaving you in that place a day longer than necessary.

There are still parts of the facility I haven’t seen yet, Yasmina protested. And I’m doing fine. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Sometimes the training was even fun. She hadn’t known her body was capable of this kind of strength, or that her memory could get even better than it had been when she had started.

And while she was here, she had a purpose.

Yes, it was a sacrifice. But she could make that sacrifice. It was her responsibility to make that sacrifice, to use her ability for something worthwhile.

We’re getting you out, said Tasha, her mental voice too firm to allow any disagreement. Be at the south perimeter gate at the start of your evening free-training period.

Her voice cut off before Yasmina could offer any more protests.

Yasmina stared up at the ceiling again, no longer the least bit sleepy. All of a sudden, she wanted to yell—the way she had when she had first come here, when she’d had to fake defiance to make her ruse believable. She wanted to let out a good scream, loud enough to tear her throat, loud enough to get her thrown in the punishment room.

Why, though? It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to go home. She had clung to that secret like a worn-out teddy bear for her entire time here. The others wouldn’t get to go home. The others had to find a way to cope with that. The others had to swallow the instructors’ propaganda because it was the only way to make their fate tolerable. But not her. Her time here was temporary.

But home felt like a flickering image on a distant TV screen. Home was her room at Tasha’s house, which used to be a walk-in pantry—Tasha hadn’t really had room for her when she has taken her in. Home was faking a smile for Tasha and trying to pretend her grief was fading. Home was trudging through her classes and trying to pretend any of it meant anything with her parents gone.

Tasha’s house might have been home, but it wasn’t where her life was, not anymore. Her life was her mission, the adrenaline rush of collecting information for the enemy under PERI’s noses. Her life was pushing herself to excel at her training while holding her secret close to her chest. Her life was using her ability for a purpose, the way her parents had, instead of sitting in Tasha’s old pantry with nothing to do but try not to cry too loudly.

What had she even done with herself all day when she hadn’t had a mission?

The next evening, she considered not going to the gate. But of course she went, because that was her mission, and those were her orders. Her training hadn’t just shown her how strong she could be; it had taught her the importance of following orders, of sticking to the mission.

When she reached the gate, it was open. Johan and Marissa were waiting for her, their bodies tense, their eyes darting warily back and forth. Marissa hustled her out, while Johan checked her over with concerned eyes.

This training facility was surrounded by twenty miles of forest. Johan and Marissa hustled her down a narrow path through the trees, which became an unpaved road. Marissa’s Jeep was waiting there, the engine idling.

Yasmina climbed into the backseat. Tasha was waiting for her there. When she saw Yasmina, a grin of pure relief spread across her face.

“You’re out!” Tasha boomed. “You made it!”

Yasmina cringed against the car door. Tasha’s voice probably wasn’t that loud, but Yasmina was used to furtive whispers.

“It’s so good to see you,” Tasha continued. “God, you’re so tall. I didn’t think you had another growth spurt left in you, but I guess you proved me wrong. And those muscles.” Tasha flexed one of her own bony arms. “You could bench-press two of me.”

Had Yasmina ever lived in a world with this much idle conversation in it? She stared out the window at the passing trees.

I’m really proud of you, you know, Tasha said, her voice blessedly softening. “We all are.”

“It was the mission,” Yasmina said with a small shrug. She shot a look over her shoulder. The facility had already disappeared into the distance. A sharp pang tugged at her heart.

She would never miss the facility itself. She couldn’t think of a thing she liked about that horrible place, except maybe the training itself. She had never had the chance to make friends—the instructors had made sure of that. But she already missed the mission.

“So,” said Tasha. “Now that you’re free, what’s the first thing you want to do?”

Yasmina turned away from the window to stare at Tasha blankly. “What do you mean?”

“There’s got to be something you’ve been missing,” Tasha said. “You want to go shopping? With how much you’ve grown, I’m sure none of your old clothes will fit you. Or we could splurge on a fancy dinner at that Italian place you like so much.”

Yasmina remembered shopping. But the memory was distant and hazy. She couldn’t remember what she had liked about it, or whether she had liked it at all. Mostly, what she remembered was all the colors, and all the choices. The thought made her head hurt. In the training facility, she had worn the same plain gray trainee’s uniform every day. She had hated it at first, but soon enough, she had stopped thinking about it. Now it was just one more decision she didn’t have to make. One less thing to distract her from the mission.

“We could dig out your old roller skates and go to the rink,” Tasha suggested. “I remember how much you used to like doing that with your parents…” Her voice trailed off as she frowned at Yasmina in concern. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Yasmina nodded. “I’m okay.”

Of course she was. She had completed the mission. She had done what she was made for. She had made all the sacrifices she’d had to make.

And now it was over. The absence of her mission left a hollow place inside her. It was her responsibility to use her gift for the greater good. It was her purpose. If she didn’t have a mission, then what was the point of her life?

Tasha said something else. Yasmina turned back toward the window and stopped listening.

It would be okay. She would be okay. She had followed her orders to the best of her ability, and she had completed her mission.

And now that she had proved she could handle a mission, soon they would give her another.

That thought finally let her relax. She leaned against the door and let the rhythmic hum of the engine lull her to sleep.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981

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