#A WIRE HANGING IN FRONT OUR FRONT DOOR

[passengerpigeons]

may have sent a very terse, long text to the landlord

[cemeteryspider]

Family Fragments Part 1

Stanford Pines x Child! Reader

*No use of Y/n* *Fem Reader*

Summary: Flashback~ Ford must protect you, his innocent daughter, from becoming an unwilling pawn in the sinister schemes of an Interdimensional demon.

Trigger Warnings: Possession, Child Endangerment (thanks Bill), Psychological Manipulation, Mild Violence

Word Count: 1.1k

You shifted in your father's arms as he pushed through doors and walked through hallways from the basement of his shack in the woods into your room in the attic. You barely registered him tucking you into your bed and him kissing you on the forehead with his heavily chapped lips.

"Good night, Sweet pea," He whispered and the door clicked behind him. 

A loud tired sigh echoed in the short stairwell down to the foyer. The descent down the staircase was heavy and creaky and when he came to the door in the basement he widened his eyes and allowed the retinal scanner to scan his eye confirming he was not possessed by Bill. He couldn’t help the yawn that escaped his lips as he entered the basement, cluttered with half-finished devices- scattered wires and gears glinting under the dim flickering light bulb hanging overhead.The unfinished portal stood tall in front of him humming a just so a he felt a soft vibration through the soles of his shoes. 

He sat down at the workbench and resumed writing in the third journal. Drawing the new suit he was designing to keep Bill out of his mind for good, however there was the small problem of the brain he needed to complete the thing. However, his mind drifted to the mind erasing gun in the hand of the suit which reminded him of his old friend, who left him alone to work with his muse months ago. 

Then he heard a not so subtle knocking coming from upstairs. At first he thought it was some random drunk knocking at the door and letting the person get bored of the odd old cabin in the woods, but after a succinct series of thuds and a hushed laughter he decided to investigate.

He breathed a sigh of relief—at least Bill couldn't sneak his way down there, not without triggering the failsafes. But as he looked up, his heart stopped. There you were, standing in the foyer, eyes glowing an unnatural yellow and a smile far too wide for your little face. It was a sight so wrong, so unsettling, that Ford could barely bring himself to speak.

Your limbs jerked awkwardly, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings, controlled by a puppeteer who lacked all finesse, "Hey, sixer!"

He stood frozen for a moment. Bill's voice coming from your mouth where your sweet little voice should have been, he swallowed a lump in his throat and forced himself to speak, "What are you doing here Bill?" 

Bill grinned, twisting your lips into a mockery of a smile, "I just came by to see you and it seems as though you've taken certain... precautions to make sure I don't interrupt your research."

A chill went down Stanfords spine, his research into the Anti-Cipher Society, and the plans for the suit I had designed, "Let's talk face to face, Cipher. No need to bring my daughter into this."

"I suppose I could end our contract a bit earlier than I intended," And with that your eyes rolled into the back of your skull, and your scaleras the correct color once more. Quickly Ford ran toward you and stopped your descent before hitting the ground.

Bill floated around looking at the different furniture with great fascination, "What is wrong with you, she's just a child."

He cradled your head while you continued your sleep, "Yeah, quite a while since I made a deal with something so small, very difficult to control such small limbs. Painful falling down the stairs don't you think?"

His eyebrows rose and looked over your head moving your hair around, checking for any blood or bruising that could indicate a head wound or concussion.

Stop being such a stick in the mud, Sixer,' Bill sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. 'She’s perfectly fine…for now.' His tone darkened, and Ford’s blood ran cold as he watched Bill shift, his form flickering like a faulty lightbulb.

Ford clutched you tightly to his chest, his heart pounded erratically in his ribcage, "I think it's time for you to leave."

"Nothing more for me to do here, but just you wait I think I will see you again, real soon," With that the cabin seemed to gain its color back and you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes.

"Dad?" You whispered after a rather large yawn. He couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at hearing your darling voice. His fingers trembled as they wrapped themselves around your small frame, almost as if you would slip right through his grasp into the nightmarish darkness Bill brought in. For a moment, he pressed his nose to the top of your head and breathed in your familiar scent, desperate to remind himself that you were here with him- still his little girl. A surge of guilt tightened his chest. 

"Everything's going to be okay, Sweet Pea just go back to sleep." And you did. For so long he had stayed awake for as long as possible trying to avoid Bill gaining control of his body he forgot about you. A child with little contact with the outside world, and how easily children can be persuaded by older wiser beings. Bill is a master manipulator and Ford practically opened the door to your mind by inviting him into his. 

Despite the distance he forced Bill to keep from you, he had been in his mind. Combed through his memories his happiest being with Stan in his earlier years, and with you in the present. You never were far from his thoughts and Bill knew his weak spot.

He could pull his own hair from his scalp at his own negligence, scream at the top of his lungs for the danger that he put you in, or cry at the worry he felt after learning of your tumble down the stairs caused by someone he once called his friend. However, he did none of those things.

Once he had tucked you in for a second time, Ford sank into the old chair beside your bed. The springs groan under his weight, the leather cracked and worn from years of use. He stared at you for a long moment, watching your chest rise and fall as you slept peacefully. It made his heart ache. How innocent you looked, under a heap of soft blankets, completely unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond your dreams. A dim lamp casting a light golden glow across the room that seemed like a fragile barrier against the dark shadow Bill Cipher cast on this night. 

Ford’s hand shook as he plucked a pen from your desk and opened the journal he had tucked in his coat pocket, the ink bleed slightly as he pressed it to the parchment. He wrote furiously, his mind racing with all sorts of plans, but one thought rang through: I can’t let him take her. Not my daughter.

[rustyzebra]

Steaming Up The Windows

Emily Prentiss x Reader

Smut MDNI!

Posted on A03

2k+ words

Gif by @storiesofsvu

How would you and the CM woman of your choice keep warm while being stuck in the BAU van during a snowstorm?

(Working on the other lovely women currently. They'll slowly be added. Each will have the same prompt but different outcomes. JJ, Elle, Alex and Tara on the way.)

(Thank you to @storiesofsvu and @whiteberryx for helping me with the ideas)

The group was hot on the unsubs case. The last piece of evidence was found, and you left for the unsubs residence and workplace. Emily and you were on the way to his residence. You both vested up and grabbed your winter coats.

It was early January; the snow was whipped around in a frenzy. The weather statement today said it would drop well below freezing in the early hours of the evening. Even so, there was still a psychopath to catch.

The snowstorm that was said to hit the city was in full force. Emily drove as quickly as she could, trying not to spin out. Eventually, arriving at the residence, you call Hotch, letting him know you came. You both scoped his place out, thoroughly checking every room, only to find the place empty.

"Clear!" You both called out. You called Hotch, letting him know the unsub wasn't here. That was until Emily heard an engine revving outside. Emily and you bolted out the door to your van.

"Hotch, the unsub is on the move; we have eyes on him now!" Emily says as she buckles up quickly. You hop in the seat next to Emily and buckle up, readying your gun if needed.

You tell Hotch the direction the unsub is going while tailing him.

"Fuck, the weather is too bad! I wouldn't be able to get a clean shot of the tires!" You say as Emily starts to close into the Unsub. Emily drove nearly alongside the unsub, trying to ram him off the road. Emily almost had him until the van hit something under a snowbank. You both felt some tires pop as you spun out.

You hear the unsub get away as the van finally stops spinning.

"You ok?" Emily says as she tries to catch her breath.

"Y...Yeah, I'm good." You could feel the adrenaline coursing through your body.

You called Hotch, letting him know what happened. You don't know exactly where you are since the unsub lived remotely. Hotch said the unsub could be on his way to one location they found. Most likely, the ones he's using to hold the women hostage. He was on his way there with Rossi and Reid.

You hung up the phone and sighed.

"Looks like we're stuck here until they can find us." I groan in exasperation.

"I'm sure they'll catch that bastard. Now I want to see the damage." Emily hops out and walks around the car. Once she's done scouting the car, she returns, slightly shivering.

"Damn, it's cold out there." She says while rubbing her hands together. "Looks like we hit a whole lot of discarded barbed wire. Three of our tires are done for." Emily sighs.

"Are you serious? Shit." I lean back in the front seat.

A few hours later, we received a call saying they had caught the guy. They got Penelope to ping our location, but it'll take a while before help could come. The storm was getting worse.

"Hotch, are you kidding? We're stuck in this van until morning?" Emily said in disbelief.

Unfortunately, Hotch was right. The storm made any kind of travel or driving nearly impossible. We'd have to wait out the storm until morning.

"Hotch said there should be at least a blanket in the trunk." You said just after hanging up. You leave the van to check and grab the "blanket." Walking back to the front and getting in, you unfold it only to realize it was only big enough to cover one person's lap.

"Blanket, my ass," Emily says while rolling her eyes.

A few more hours go by, and the temperature starts dropping. You begin to shiver now and then. Emily looks over to see you trying to curl up with that laughable excuse of a blanket.

"Hop in the backseat; we can stay warmer if we sit together," Emily says as she crawls over the center console to get to the back, waiting for you to join her. You crawl back with her and sit beside her, trying to share the small blanket as best as possible.

You feel Emily pull you closer by your waist, and a jolt of electricity shoots through your spine. She left her arm there, still wrapped tightly around your waist. You've had your fair share of bickering and closeness, but never this close.

Eventually giving in to the warmth, you lean your head to lay on her shoulder. Emily was nice and warm; it eventually lulled you to sleep. A couple hours later, you wake up colder than before. Your eyes flutter open; the sky outside is dark.

There is a weight on your head; looking up, you see Emily's head resting on top of yours. A blush grows on your face. You pull the blanket up higher, trying to keep the warmth in. Doing so, you feel Emily shift and mumble.

"Are you still cold?" Emily whispers in a gravelly voice.

Your breath hitches; you've never heard Emily sound like this. The only thing you could muster was a nod. Emily pulled away for a second to unzip her jacket and wrap one side around you. Pulling you closer, you were now nearly sitting on her lap.

"Emily, you'll get cold," I say softly.

"Then you'll just have to stay closer to me." Emily raises an eyebrow with a slight smirk.

She beckons you to sit closer to wrap her coat around you. Sitting in her lap facing her, trying to suck in as much warmth as possible.

"Better?" You hear her words rumble from her chest.

Nodding your head as you lay it back on her shoulder.

"What time is it?" You mutter against her shirt.

Emily pauses for a moment while checking her phone. It's the early hours of the morning already.

"About 2 am. Unfortunately, we still have plenty of time before they come for us." Emily subconsciously starts rubbing your back.

"Try to get some sleep," Emily says while leaning her head back on top of yours.

Trying your best to drift back off to sleep, you couldn't. Your eyes refused to stay closed; you were far too cold to sleep. Nuzzling in closer in the crook of Emily's neck, you breathe in her scent. She always smelt good.

"Can't sleep." Mumbling against the skin of her neck.

You could have sworn Emily shivered, not from the cold but because of your lips gently grazing against her skin. Shifting on your knees, you were starting to get slightly uncomfortable, one of your knees slotted between Emily's thighs, finally finding a comfortable position. You place your weight down only for Emily to shift positions simultaneously.

Her thigh puts the right amount of pressure at the apex of your thighs. A whimper accidentally slips out. You freeze with your eyes wide, praying she didn't hear it. A moment went by, and you thought maybe she didn't listen to you, that was until her hands found your hips.

Your head shot up, eyes meeting hers. Her eyebrow is raised with a wide smirk on her lips.

"What was that?" Emily teased.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You looked out the rear window.

The hands on your hips pulled you down onto her thigh again; this time, the whimper slipped out on purpose. Emily leans in close to your ear.

"I may know of a way to help keep us both warm." Her hot breath against the cold shell of my ear sent shivers down the spine. All you could manage was a gulp.

"I don't want to force you, only if you want to," Emily says softly while moving your chin to look her in the eyes.

You thought for a moment. You did have feelings for Emily, but you never thought it would go past platonic. You knew taking this step meant the possibility of never returning to the way things were between you both.

"I... I am pretty cold." You say softly.

Emily chuckles softly before replying.

"I can see that. But if you want anything, I need consent, sweetheart."

Blushing softly, you hide your head in her neck. It's a little embarrassing to speak your mind. You eventually worked up the courage to tell Emily what you wanted.

"I want this… Emily." I mumble against the skin of her neck.

"So cute. You don't have to be so shy around me." Emily pulls my face up to look at her.

"There you are." She says softly. "Now, while looking at me this time. Are you sure you want this? You can back down, and it'll be like nothing happened."

You nod softly again. "I want this Em." You lean in and place a chaste kiss on her lips.

Emily was taken slightly aback by your bold move. She wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you closer as you wrap your arms around her neck, effectively deepening the kiss.

Emily's warm lips trailed down your jaw; you tried your best to keep quiet.

"Let out all the pretty noises you want, sweetheart; it's just us two here." Emily punctuates her sentence with a nip to the underside of your jaw. The moan that slipped past your lips was like music to Emily's ears.

"Just like that, sweetheart." Emily husks in between kisses.

"Fuck, you don't know how long I've been waiting for this." She continues as she trails kisses further down, slowly unzipping your jacket.

"Em" You bite your lip as you say her name.

"Just relax, sweet girl. Let me take care of you." Emily gently laid you back and straddled on top of you as best as she could. Your jacket was fully unzipped, and she placed her hands on the exposed bits of skin on your waist.

"Fuck, Em. Your hands are freezing." You hiss.

"Then warm them up for me." Emily raises her eyebrow and smirks.

Emily's hands move higher up while under your shirt. They run over your covered breasts, squeezing and massaging on top of your bra. More lewd sounds left your lips, and Emily continued. You feel her slip a hand under your bra, her fingertips ghosting across your erect nipples.

"Oh? Well, what do we have here?" Emily muses to herself, her smirk widening. Her fingers came in contact with a bit of metal.

"You know I never pictured you with nipple piercings," Emily says mostly to herself as she continues rubbing them.

"S..so you've pictured this before?" You tried to be snarky, but it came out more of a pitiful whine.

Emily's eyes darken as she leans in close to your ear.

"Of course, how could I not when you always look so…" Emily leans in to nip your ear. "So adorable. Just begging to be ruined."

You gulp at Emily's words. You've wanted this for just as long.

"I bet if I were to trail my fingers down, I'd see just how much you've wanted this too, huh?" Emily teases a finger at the hem of your pants.

Emily once again asked for consent. She waits for you to give her the go-ahead before she unbutton and unzips your pants. She gently slides a hand down underneath your panties. You let out a hiss as Emily's cold finger runs through your folds. She pulls out her hand to show you how wet you are already for her.

"Look at that. It looks like you want this; it's so naughty to be this wet for your coworker, hmmm?~" Emily teases.

She places her fingers in front of your mouth.

"That's my good girl. You're taking my fingers so well already, and I haven't even touched that pretty little cunt of yours yet." Emily mused while your tongue continued to swirl around her fingers.

"Suck." That was all Emily needed to say before she shoved her slick, covered fingers into your mouth.

Swirling your tongue around them as you taste yourself. A muffled moan leaves your lips.

Emily pulled her fingers out of her mouth and had you pull your pants down a little for easier access so you don't get as cold as completely stripping.

"Ready, sweetheart?" Emily asks again.

You nod and feel her fingers slowly sink into you. A moan leaves your body as she crooks her fingers up.

"Emily, p..please." You writhe against her fingers as they begin to pump in and out.

"Please, what?" Emily teased.

"Please .. harder." You say with a pant.

"Naughty girl," Emily whispers as she quickens her pace.

Her fingers work nimbly inside of you. Every time she crooks her fingers in a beckoning motion, you see stars.

"Em, I'm s..so close." You whimper into your hand."

"You want to cum, Sweetheart? You want to be my good girl and cum all over my fingers?" Emily husks in between thrusts.

Your eyes roll back at one intense flick at your clit, and your back arches off the car seat. Emily leans in close and kisses your jaw as your release closes in.

"Come on, be my good girl. Cum for me."

That was all you needed to hear before the coil in your stomach snapped and your climax washed over you. A loud moan ripped from your throat as your body felt on fire. Emily kept gently thrusting her fingers until you finished coming down from your high.

She gently pulls out of you as you try to catch your breath. Emily places her fingers in her mouth; a soft moan leaves her lips. She helps you get dressed again and pulls you close to her.

"Once we leave this damn broken-down car, I will fuck you properly," Emily whispers into your ear.

You can't help the whimper that left your lips.

"And I have to return the favour." You said cheekily.

"There will be plenty of time for that too." Emily's nuzzles against your neck.

You grab your dying phone to check the time. It was nearly 4 am. You sigh happily when you see a missed text from Hotch saying they were coming for you in a couple of hours now that the storm has died down.

"They'll be here in a couple of hours." You mumbled softly.

"Perfect, enough time for a nap." Emily chuckles against your neck.

"You better keep your promise, Em." You whisper.

"Oh, I don't go back on a promise." Emily placed a gentle kiss on your neck.

You chuckle and close your eyes. Falling asleep until you got the call that your team was close.

Pulling apart, you both go back to the front seats. You both were finally going home to your nice, warm beds. Well, one of your beds.

[aoioozora]

Mending Promises

Content: Keegan x F! Reader, Band AU, Civilian AU, second chances, exes to lovers, angst and fluff, happy ending Note: This idea has been marinating in my head for months now. I've never written an exes to lovers story before and I think I did quite well for my first attempt. Put my heart and soul into writing it. Enjoy :) [also why does K look so "🥺" in the gif]

The little puddles of rainwater on the cobbled streets squelched and splashed as you stepped over them. The dark night was clear and damp, filling the air with the light scent of petrichor, sizzling meats, and smoke which rose over the buildings and traffic into an incoherent yet delightful mixture. Flickering lamps passed by you as you walked, the puddles reflecting them.

Genevieve's. That was the place you stopped in front of. The red neon sign flickered and buzzed faintly as you pushed the worn bronze metal handle on the equally worn wooden door and stepped inside the establishment.

You were greeted by faint chatter of the dingy restaurant's patrons, all shrouded in dim darkness in contrast to the band up on the podium bathed in the yellow spotlight as they set up their mics on the stands and adjusted the drums. The lead singer stood out with the bright red Fender electric guitar hanging in front of him by the strap as he plugged the wire in. He raised his head for a moment, sweeping away his sweat-glistening black locks out of his eyes to scour through the dimly lit room as if in search of someone.

You felt an annoying tingle in your stomach as his eyes swept past you, unsure whether or not you were spotted by him. You sat at a table nearest to the door, just in case you wanted to run away from the performance midway. You took out your phone and opened a chat screen.

Keegan: I hope it isn't too much to ask you to see our performance. We may have fallen out, but your support is important to me.

And attached below was a digital flyer of the said performance that you were currently attending. It was sent a week ago, and you left him on read, one of the many messages and concert invitations you didn't want to reply to and didn't attend. Your eyes lingered on the second line of the message, and every single time you read it, it wrenched your heart and made your eyes burn with tears. And it did again as you raised your head to look at him, blinking your eyes rapidly.

Keegan's eyes softened with disappointment. There was nobody in this world he would play for if not you, and not seeing you there didn't make him standing in front of this small, faceless crowd worth it. Regardless, the little concert began.

He tapped the mic twice. "Testing, one, two, three," he spoke softly, and then began, "Good evening everyone, we're The Ghosts. We'll be singing our original songs and a few covers tonight. Enjoy."

The patrons in the restaurant gave the band their attention as he and his fellow bandmate, the lead guitarist, Logan, began to sing their indie rock song Claustrophobic together. Keegan's low, gruff, rumbling voice was singled out by you, and it was all you could hear.

The world's caving in without you, I can't breathe, I can't breathe.

You realised that this was one of their newest singles, as you hadn't heard it before. Resting your elbow on the table in front of you, your eye could see nobody but Keegan. You hated it, but you couldn't resist. Him standing in front of a small audience, head bent slightly over his red Fender, his black clothes, the lights shining over his glossy black hair, his foot tapping to keep time, it was all a familiar sight, but a distant one that you could only look at with sorrow.

Your reverie was interrupted by soft clapping from the audience as they ended their song. You felt a small hint of happiness that they were getting good reception. Even if you associated bad memories with their music, it was still good music. They began their next song, Penguins.

My love, you're all I see; I'll give you a rock When I get down on one knee, And forever in wedlock We will be.

A tight lump rose in your throat as you heard him sing those words from your favourite song. He'd croon the words in your ears at night to lull you to sleep in his arms, promising a future of togetherness, mates for life, just like penguins.

Only for it to all come crashing down.

A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched him sing the upbeat yet poignant song; his voice was full of emotion. He sang like he meant it, just like back then. The suppressed memories came flooding back to you as you stared at the floor with a distant gaze, of dancing with him in the living room, hearing his various renditions of the same song, even pretending to get down on one knee to make you giggle incessantly. But most of all, it was the look of utter adoration and awe in his normally dull steel blue eyes that sparkled like stars when he looked at you, like you were a goddess to him.

Why did it have to go all wrong?

You wiped away the stream of tears from your eyes and your cheeks, dabbing them with a handkerchief as you vainly sighed to get rid of the tightness in your chest.

And why, despite the months, did you feel like your love for him never diminished?

You listened to the next few songs distractedly. You couldn't help but wonder about the songs he chose; out of all the ones in their entire discography, he specifically chose the ones you loved, the songs that were most cherished, and held the most memories.

Your eyes fell upon the vacant ring finger of your right hand. There was a subtle indentation around the base of it, where a ring used to sit day in and day out. When you broke up with him, you took off that promise ring and threw it to the ground in front of him, and now your ring finger was forlorn, throbbing with a dull ache at the unpleasant memory you wished to banish from your thoughts.

"The last song for tonight is not our song, but our cover of Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkeys, which is our personal favourite. Enjoy."

His gruff voice pierced through the noisy recesses of your mind, bringing you back to the present. Was it the last song already? Time sure did fly when one was deep in thought.

And it was no unfamiliar song either. It was one you loved dearly.

The drums beat in time with your heart, and the famous riff of the guitar stunned the air into silence, leaving you to hear your pulsating heartbeat in your ears, reminding you why you loved this song so much. You heard him inhale, you saw him raise his eyes to scan the faceless crowd, and in his characteristic deep gruffness, he exhaled out his song,

Have you got colour in your cheeks?

You did now.

Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift the type That sticks around like summat in your teeth? Are there some aces up your sleeve? Have you no idea that you're in deep? His eyes looked searchingly, almost desperately around the room of the restaurant as he sang, I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I found That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee

Almost as if he wanted you to know what he felt.

His fellow bandmate and guitarist, Logan, provided the backing vocals,

Do I wanna know?

And Keegan followed, still looking around,

If this feelin' flows both ways? Sad to see you go Was sorta hoping that you'd stay Baby, we both know That the nights were mainly made For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day

He took another deep breath, his fingers switching chords as quickly as his voice switched from sadness to desperation.

Crawling back to you

The guitar groaned over the amplifiers, filling you with a sense of anguish, like a rag being twisted. The rhythmic drumbeats forced the vision of Keegan approaching you in a slow, steady march, wanting, begging, groweling at your feet to play about in your mind's eye.

Ever thought of callin' when You've had a few? 'Cause I always do

Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now I've thought it through Crawling back to you.

Those words hit you like a sack of bricks; they, along with the previous songs, only reinforced the fact that he still wanted you despite the falling away. A lump rose in your throat again.

He wanted you back, and so did you.

So have you got the guts?

He paused, allowing the drums to dictate the length of the silence for the space of four beats. He looked about searchingly again, trying to find you in the faceless crowd. In the dim, flickering light of an old jukebox next to your table, he spotted you. You raised your eyes and met his. A volcano of butterflies erupted in your stomach.

His eyes held yours fast as he sang,

Been wonderin' if your heart's still open And if so, I wanna know what time it shuts

He paused again for a quarter of a beat to let that sink in.

Simmer down an' pucker up, I'm sorry to interrupt

Those same pair of eyes narrowed slightly, momentarily averting his gaze towards his guitar, as if guiltily admitting, It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you But I don't know if you feel the same as I do

He raised his head to meet your eyes again, a glint of hope evident in them despite the distance, But we could be together if you wanted to.

And there was the invitation.

You couldn't bear to stay there any longer. As he sang the bridge and the chorus, you stood up and hastily stepped out of the establishment, rubbing a stray tear off your cheek. Keegan saw it all. His chest seized. He nearly rose to his heels in readiness to run after you midway but he stopped himself, interpreting your departure as the rejection. But the tear he saw you wipe away; did he manage to get through your heart?

As soon as you were out of doors, you were hit by the rain. A fervent wind blew, splattering the heavy drops against you and the shade above your head that you took shelter under. No umbrella; the rain dead-ended you from leaving, and so you waited, holding yourself in your arms to keep warm, refusing to go back inside as his singing permeated the walls, tormenting you even over the noisy rain and howling wind.

The performance ended and the diners went back to chattering away while The Ghosts began to dismantle their equipment. While Keegan solemnly pulled off the strap of his guitar, his drummer, Hesh walked over to him.

"Did she come?" he asked in a whisper as he held Keegan by the shoulder.

"Saw her leave just now,"

Logan also joined in on the conversation as he unplugged the wire from his guitar. "And?" he asked, very obviously expecting something more.

"And what?"

"And are you just going to let her leave after this whole concert we planned just for her?" Logan rolled his eyes exasperatedly as he lectured Keegan, "Go and talk to her!"

Hesh turned to the windows of the establishment and saw the rain beating against the panes. He nudged Keegan. "It's raining pretty hard out there. She must not have left yet. Run!"

Keegan wasted no time in hurrying down the little podium, his heavy steps thudding against the hollow wood. He snatched his jacket and with quick, hasty steps and a rising hope in his chest, he opened the door, stepped out, and looked beside the door.

But you weren't there.

His shoulders sagged, his hand slipped from the worn door handle and fell to his side with disappointment. He was about to turn back inside when the sound of a quiet crunch of gravel under a boot on the asphalt not too far from him stopped him in his tracks. In the dim red light of the neon sign, he had to squint to see the shivering elbow sticking out from behind the wall. He inched closer and peeked into the narrow, dark alley, only to find what- or rather- who he was looking for.

You looked up when he poked his head in and felt your heart stop when you recognized who you were looking at. Both of your eyes widened.

"Wha- What are you doing here?" Keegan blurted, surprised but pleased to see you still around.

"You wanted me to come to your concert?" you said, raising a brow at him as you continued to shiver from the wind and rain.

"I mean, yeah, but..." he paused to take off his thickly lined leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders, "you're out here... in the cold. You could've just stayed inside."

You didn't object to his assistance and he had to hide the surprise from displaying on his face. While you thought of what to say, he nudged you aside with his shoulder, away from the elements and stood next to you by the wall to shield you. He waited in silence for an answer, but to no avail.

"I didn't think you'd come... especially after you left me on read," he began quietly, in a tone that carried no resentment, but sadness. He leaned against the wall and propping his foot up behind him as he crossed his arms.

You let out a sigh as you sunk your face into the fleece-lined collar of the jacket, taking in the familiar scent and feeling the familiar texture of leather and fleece against your arms and your cheeks. He'd always lend you his favourite jacket.

"I didn't want to come here, but I did anyway," you replied.

"You didn't have to force yourself." He shrugged and turned his head away from you to watch the rain pattering noisily on the sidewalk.

"I didn't. I was... kinda drawn here."

Drawn here, he thought, feeling a flutter. "What drew you here?"

A pause. "You."

His jaw laxed and his fingers twitched. His crossed arms loosened and his arm fell to his side, letting his knuckles lightly brush against yours. The brief contact sent a shock blitzing through your fingers, stiffening your hand for a moment. You inhaled sharply, feeling a vortex churning in your stomach; you didn't know you missed and craved his touch so much.

"It means a lot to me that you came," he whispered, letting his hand linger next to yours.

"Why?" A tremor shook your voice. He grimaced.

"I..." he exhaled, "I know I was an asshole to you. I put my band before you and neglected you. I made you sad..." he sighed, his features wincing, "to the point that you left. And I don't blame you for it."

Your throat tightened and burned like a fiery noose had been tied around it. Your thoughts took you back to the past months, remembering how the two of you argued over his preference to spend time making music with Hesh and Logan. Every day was an uphill battle, fighting a tight competition with his band, until you were spread way too thin that you snapped. He was furious when you left, but didn't stop you, calling it a "good riddance", words which left a deep scar that refused to heal.

He continued, "When I told Hesh and Logan you left and explained to them why, they were pissed. Logan was ready to throw hands at me. I was confused until Logan sat me down and told me that nobody and nothing comes before your partner." He shook his head, sighing again. "It was so obvious, but I missed it. I was so stupid!"

He paused his speech for a brief moment to let you have a say. Knowing that you needed time to let his words settle in, he pushed back against his impatience and stayed silent.

You knew Hesh and Logan only a little, but you didn't expect them to stick up for you and scold Keegan about his behaviour. And you had harboured such a boiling resentment for them too. That feeling now started to simmer down into shame and regret.

When he saw that you weren't saying anything, he decided to continue.

"I missed you," he confessed, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. "I hoped and prayed you'd come today and you came. You've never come to any of our little concerts after our breakup except for this one. Can I take this as a sign that…" he drew in a shaky breath, "can I be bold and assume that you miss me too?"

The metaphorical noose tightened around your neck, forcing tears to brim over your waterline. You choked out the words, "You have the audacity to miss me especially after saying "good riddance" when I broke up with you."

Keegan drew in a sharp breath as his brows furrowed. "I was stupid to say those words to you, stupid and blind. I didn't value you enough. I can't believe it had to take me Logan and Hesh to drill into my head the weight of what I had thrown away."

You heard the regret in his voice, but it didn't yet move you. A sob choked your throat. "I loved your music, Keegan, but when you started to love your band more, I hated it. I hated your band, you, your guitar, Hesh, Logan, and your songs… I hated it all."

Keegan felt his heart squeeze painfully at your sobs and complaints. He had no right to blame you for it. "I understand…" he spoke, letting out a slow exhale over the howling wind, "I know that me giving more attention to my band has given you a sour taste in your mouth for my music," his fingers brushed against yours and wrapped around your hand gently, "but this concert was just for you. I sang all your favourite songs tonight…" he gave your hand a squeeze, "because I love you."

You felt your heart skip a beat.

"I wrote those songs for you, I sing them for you…" his thumb gently rubbed against the back of your hand, "Even after you left, I couldn't stop thinking of you. I couldn't stop loving you."

He paused, giving you a chance to speak. In the brief silence, he noticed how you haven't pulled your hand out of his very gentle grasp when you easily could. He held on to this ray of hope that you were receptive to his words, though understandably hesitant.

"I know a lot of guys go back to their exes and beg them for another chance, but you know me, I've never done that to my exes. You're the only one I've come back to, and that's only because I genuinely feel like we're connected somehow… I can't explain it."

You understood what he meant. You felt the same way too. You weren't the type to look back once you ended a relationship, but when it came to Keegan, he never left your thoughts, which was why you remained rooted in place, letting him hold your hand.

"I want you back, ____," he finally said, "I'm sorry for not valuing you like I should have. This entire concert was my apology for you. I know this is too much to ask for. I know I've broken your trust and hurt you, but I want to correct that mistake and make amends." He paused, "Once chance is all I need. I'll do whatever it takes."

You sniffled, feeling the first tear roll down your cheek, your body trembling as you frantically tried to wipe the stream away. Keegan's heart wrenched at the sight; he took a bold step in wrapping you in his arms and bringing you against his chest. He breathed heavily, wondering if you would push him away, but to his surprise, you leaned into his embrace.

"Why was it a good riddance when I left?" you squeaked out against his chest.

His chest twinged painfully when you brought it up again, now understanding how deeply those words had hurt you. "I was crazy," he said, chastising himself, "I was stupid and blinded by my anger. I thought you didn't understand my love for music and my band, but I was the one who didn't understand what you needed. It never was a good riddance, darling. I missed you every second you were not in my life." He squeezed you gently, both to comfort you, and for him to cling to you.

Your sobs grew louder; you were both pained and relieved at the same time.

"You're an angel… and I don't deserve you," he murmured, feeling a sob choke his own throat, "I know I'm being selfish but I love you… I want you back."

You let out a weary groan as you leaned further against him. His arms instinctively tightened around you.

"I'm sorry…" you said, raising your hands a little to clutch his t-shirt, "For throwing the ring at you that day."

He hugged you tighter. "I forgive you," he whispered immediately, feeling lighter and relieved that you apologised for your own crime, one that had hurt him.

You squeezed him, and he soothingly rubbed his hand against your back, enjoying the warmth that he missed dearly. But he pulled away slightly and shoved his hand in his pocket, bringing out a small, silver ring.

Your eyes widened slightly. It was the promise ring he had given you. You looked at him, eyes welling with tears again. "You still have it," you murmured shakily.

He looked at the dainty piece of jewelry and sighed, smiling a hint. "I was so mad at you that day that I threw it in the trash, but when I calmed down, I dug it back out and cleaned it up. I kept it because it reminded me of you…" his voice trailed off and then gingerly extended his hand out to you.

You placed your hand in his gently. At the contact, his body flushed with warmth.

With a shaky breath and voice, he said, looping the ring through your ring finger, as tears slipped down his cheeks, "I promise I'll love you more than anything in this world, even myself."

You sniffled and sobbed as you saw the ring fit right in the indentation on your finger like two jigsaw puzzle pieces fit together, the familiar sight of it sending waves of warmth in your heart. Keegan watched your emotional reaction, and he pulled you in his arms again to comfort you.

"I love you, ____. I'll make it up to you a hundred times over..." he stroked your hair softly, voice brimming over with determination and affection.

You buried your face in his chest, his words wrenching more tears out of your eyes. "Do you promise?"

"Wholeheartedly, I promise."

---

More Keegan:

Attracted

Cat Got Your Tongue

---

Masterlist

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .6

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Mention of disordered eating; Minor breath play; Light choking; Rough sex; Angry sex; Jealousy; Possessive behavior; Pussy slapping; ANGST!!!!!!!!!! (no one come for me!!!) 

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: This is my favorite chapter of the whole story :) Art is Talking it out with Bobby by Holly Warburton

Word Count: 6.2K

Read on AO3

.6

We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

You call in sick to work the next day. You can’t function after that, he’s destroyed you, taken a piece of you away with him and replaced it with something of himself. He lives inside of you now, worse than before, worse than anything you could have ever imagined. You can’t say that it was a mistake, letting him fuck you last night, mainly because it was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to you, but the accompanying guilt collapses your lungs. 

When you look at yourself in the mirror after you've gotten home from the party, all you can see is your mother’s face in your reflection. And the thought comes hammering on your mind’s door in the middle of the night, you’re just like her now, an infidel. The poison drips through. Someone that’s taken what wasn’t theirs to take, someone that’s stepped into a space that was not theirs to enter. 

You’ve been leaking a steady stream of his come all night. Your cunt, sore and puffy, aching for more. Laying face down on the edge of your bed, arm hanging off the side and gone away to numbness, staring unseeingly out the window. You watch night pass through the sheer specter of your soft, blue drapes, the silver glow of the moon brightening into dawn, and then the light of the sun, sweeping in to reflect across all of your sins. Your head aches a steady constant throb right at the center of your forehead, deep inside your brain, and tears have been a unending salty stream of shame sliding sideways down your face and dripping coldly off the tip of your nose all night long. 

You’re a pathetic sight, you’re sure. And you’re scared, frightened in a way you don’t think you’ve been since you watched your mother walk out the front door of your childhood home at ten years old and had turned to look at your father sitting unblinkingly upright on the living room sofa. He’d stayed there for hours, still and silent while you’d sat in the chair across from him, waiting for him to say something, do something. A part of him had walked out that door with your mother that day and had never returned. You remember you were wearing your pink Barbie sneakers, the light up ones that glowed  bright at the heels. The memory is very clear in your mind, but you can’t tell which figure you are now, your ten year old self, alone, confused, or your father, comatose, fractured.

You’re frightened.

You think you’re falling in love with him – that you’re already there. 

Your greatest fear had always been ending up like your mother, unable to evade her blight of selfishness, of uncaringly hurting the people around her, the people that needed her. But now, now you’re terrified in a way that you’ve never been before, terrified of turning into that sad, broken figure sitting on the couch for years, a piece of him gone away with a woman who’d never return, who’d never really been his in the first place. 

How could something you’d wanted so badly, that had felt so good, enshroud you in such desolation now, just a few short hours later? Was it because you knew you shouldn’t have done it? You could only register that peripherally, for there wasn’t any real part of you right now, in this moment, that regretted it, that felt it was a mistake. You’re riding the strange invisible line between guilt and regret, firmly on one side, not yet crossed over to the other, but just right there, balancing on the tightrope. But you can’t even really tell what it is that you might or should regret, specifically. It doesn’t even feel wrong, it can’t, you don’t think, nothing that had ever felt that right, could ever actually be wrong. It isn’t even the pillar of his marriage in your mind, you don’t think. No, what it is, at its core, the place that this pain stems from, is that you know he wants to be with you, and that you want to be with him, and yet, after what the two of you experienced together last night, you’re alone now, separated, and it’s only because of you. It’s all your fault. What hurts more than anything is that you know how he feels, and yet, he is not here, and you are not going to let him be here with you. It hurts because you cannot let yourself have him, and will not ever have him, even though now you know what he feels like inside of you and what he tastes and sounds like. You’d brushed up against something you’d never thought even existed, something perfect, and you will not have it. 

It is… it is devastating. 

You love him, and you think that there is the very high possibility that he might feel the same way about you too, and yet you will not be together. The fact of your feelings for one another does not erase your history, your fear, the reality of his current situation. 

You have to bear the shame of going to the store for the morning after pill the next day. Too stupid and desperate to even think about being careful last night, cunt still puffy and sore, leaving a trail of him in your wake. It feels like you’re walking around with a bruise inside of you in the shape of him, and some cruel and rotten part of you whispers: it was worth it, you know you’d let it happen again, you know you want it to happen again.

Swallowing that little pill is just added salt in the wound – makes your hurt flare brighter within your heart for reasons you can’t even bear to examine right now, except to say that the idea of erasing whatever’s left of what could, very well, be the only time you’ll ever be close to him in that way, makes you want to die a little bit. 

And you think: perhaps this will pass, as all things do. You’ve never been religious, but maybe you’ll pray for this – to let go of the memory of him, forget what his hands feel like running along the contours of your body, how your skin felt aflame with his gaze on you. To let go of this want for him you’re scared might send you to an early grave. And yet, at the same time, and despite all this, you also beg the universe to make you remember, to never let you forget.

Hunger gnaws at your belly, sharp and chronic, but you’re not letting yourself have anything yet. Some cruel and masochistic part of you whispers that if you can’t control your feelings, the fact that you’re in love with a married man, then you’ll control this – your body – what you’ll let yourself have. It is a bad habit from your mother that you like to indulge in sometimes. The false sense of power it gives you over yourself, the pain and discomfort it lets you inflict on yourself – it grounds you, makes you feel like if this physical suffering continues then you still belong to yourself, you’re still anchored to yourself, you still hold some sort of autonomy over your body, even if your feelings for him have taken the rest of it away. You’re still real – not something that’s been stolen away by him, that piece he’d robbed you of last night is still there. 

-

Gerri climbs into bed with you, one very bad afternoon, drapes her arm around your shoulders to pull you into her warm embrace. You’ve been existing in a haze for days; and food and sleep and you have gone on a sabbatical from each other for the foreseeable future. There is no peace or rest or comfort to be found anywhere within you. Your mind is just too filled with things too terrible to escape from. Mostly your father – you’ve been thinking about him incessantly the past few days. How much you feel for him now, how much you understand him. You think that it is very easy, you now realize, to lose yourself in the dreams of an unattainable love, to lose yourself in the depths of your own grief. You’d cast him in a weak and pathetic light in your mind for so long, and now you were being faced with the terrible guilt of coming to realize that you understood him better than you’d ever thought you would. 

With her cheek pressed against the top of your head Gerri whispers, “It’s Joel, isn’t it?” The reality of how obviously transparent you are is devastating. 

“Yes.” You think your voice sounds almost unrecognizable, even to your own ears, so jagged and marred with agony. 

“You love him,” she says plainly, and all you can do is nod as you feel your tears slide across the bridge of your nose, down your temple to drip coldly into your ear, slipping over the hand you have pressed over your mouth to hold your own terrible sounds inside. “He loves you too.” Your face crumples, your body wracked with trembling sobs. “It breaks my heart seeing you like this, honey.”

“I can’t help it,” you croak. You are so, so tired of crying. Your eyes ache and burn, your body, your mind, your very soul feels exhausted. You are exhausted of missing him and despairing for him and hurting your own self. You don’t even know why you’re doing it all anymore.

But you can’t find a way to let it all go, to move on… to forgive yourself or your parents. It’s all just too much, too heavy. You think of your mother, all the resentment you hold against her – how do you forgive someone who has no interest in your forgiveness, who’s never cared for it? It’s terribly difficult to be so magnanimous, so emotionally intelligent, you think. One can only exist as the bigger person for so long until they explode. But how can you let go or forget, if you cannot forgive? Perhaps, if it had been someone else, something else, but this was no ordinary thing. This was the crux of all your emotional turmoil, of every issue and grievance that had plagued you your entire life. Your parents, your childhood, the pain of an adolescence alone and unsure and angry. Perhaps, if it had not been all that – if it had not been the thing to shape who you were as a person, who you’d grown into as an adult, you could have just moved on, let it go and forgotten eventually, let Joel in, but the pain of your past had now become inextricably intertwined with the pain of what seemed to be a lost future – of Joel, and so you found it within yourself, now, that you would never be able to forget, if you did not forgive your parents, and then, perhaps, yourself. 

But how to do that? You’d yet to figure it out.

-

After much pleading and coaxing and convincing from both Gerri and her sister, you’d agreed to go on a date with the shiny scarecrow – doctor – who you’re reminded is named Seth. Seth, Seth, Seth. You have to repeat it over and over in your mind to make it stick. And amidst your tears and depression and the overwhelming anxiety you’ve been living with for weeks and weeks on end, you ultimately relent. Too weak and fragile to resist the girl’s onslaught of encouraging suggestions and advice.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

He picks you up one Saturday evening, seven o’clock on the dot, to take you out to dinner. Gerri had helped you pick out a pretty soft lavender wrap dress, doing your makeup and hair and wiping away the occasional escaped tear. The silk of your dress is smooth and elegant, and it feels good to wear something so pretty, after weeks of existing like some sort of cave-dwelling-creature, even if that feeling is punctuated by the painful thought that you wish you were wearing it for a different man. 

And as poor, boring Seth leads you into the restaurant, a nice Italian place you appreciate the gesture of, his palm, not broad or strong enough, hovering over the small of your back and making you slightly nauseous, you pray for a nice night. Really, you do. You can’t be miserable anymore, you don’t want to be. Maybe Seth will pull something out of you or himself or the both of you consecutively, that will miraculously force you to have a wonderful time, wipe your memory, and never miss or think about one unmentionable man ever again. 

And then you hear your name being called from across the restaurant. 

It feels, a little bit, like your heart is falling out of your body. 

And you’re turning to take in the sight of Joel and Eva, accompanied by another couple, at a table in the corner of the busy restaurant. 

You think, in that moment, that you might faint. Or vomit. Or that something, very, equally bad is going to happen to you. Because it’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks and weeks and all you can think about is the pounding rhythm of his cock fucking into your wet cunt and the sound of your voice crying, asking him what the two of you were going to do after this? How you were going to be able to go on after that? 

You do not think that this was the answer – him seeing you out on a date with another man.

His face – his face looks like it’s about to fracture in rage. His eyes are almost glassy, but so dark – burning with anger and shock and hurt. You did that to him. You’ve put that look on his face. And your heart beats so hard and so painfully in your chest, it feels like it’s being ripped apart, like he has it clutched within the embrace of his infinitely strong hand, and he’s squeezing the very life out of you in the middle of this crowded room. You think you can hear Seth’s voice saying something in your ear, Eva, again, calling your name, saying something to you, beckoning the two of you forward, and then Seth’s palm is pressing you forward, towards them, towards this angry, fractured beast you’ve turned the man you love into. You think you might start having a panic attack any moment now, or perhaps, that you’re already there. 

The two of you reach their table. They’re with two other people, but your vision is slightly blurry, all you can see are his furious eyes. Seth nudges you and your mind suddenly snaps back into clarity for a second, “Hi, Eva.” You can’t say his name right now, you can’t, you can’t. You’ll die right here on the spot if you have to utter his name out loud right now. “How are you guys doing? This is my friend, Seth.” You introduce them, she says Joel’s name, you register it peripherally, and at the sound of it, you’re pierced with a sudden, blinding arrow of jealousy. Why, why is he here? Out on a double date with her right now? How could he fuck you the way he had, and then just gone on with his marriage as if nothing? You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. You want to scream and rage and throw a fit. You hate yourself, this is all your fault, you pushed him to this. You’ve been emaciating yourself in the infinite pool of your grief, and he’s out on a fucking date right now? It’s insane and unhinged and entirely nonsensical, you’re out on a date right now too, you have no right to these feelings, but you can’t help it. You feel a slight tremble start up in your body, and you think that Seth might be able to sense something’s amiss with you because he wraps a steadying hand around your waist as he chats, and at his contact with your body, you think that Joel’s knee must jerk violently under the table, for the glass and silverware on the table’s surface jumps and rattles, sudden and loud. You startle and turn your face away from them, try and suck in slow, calming breaths through your slightly parted mouth. You think you hear the sound of his deep, rumbling voice, muttering out an apology, and then Seth’s hand around your waist is nudging you again, and prompting you to say goodbye, and the two of you are turning and walking towards your own table. 

Away from Joel and his anger and his wife.

-

A strong hand shoots out, catching the door as you’re about to shut yourself inside the restroom, needing a moment of escape, of reprieve, to vomit or have a panic attack or cry, you can’t really tell. Your body is in overdrive, panicking and shutting down all at once, and then he’s there, pushing the rest of the way in, crowding you backwards.

He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Everything will be okay now, he’s here.“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Joel–” you cry, trying to push the immovable wall of muscle he is, back.

You hear the flip of the lock as he reaches behind him, and then his hand comes up to gently circle your throat, and he’s pressing you backwards and up against the wall. Your entire body shakes in a violent, feverish shudder. You haven’t felt him in weeks. Weeks and weeks without his skin on yours. 

You hate yourself. You love him. 

“You are not here on a date with that little fuck. Tell me I’m seein’ things.”

“Get your damn hands off me.” You try and push him away, but he tightens his hold, fingers administering the lightest pressure to the sides of your throat so that you start to feel that delicious, lightheaded rush. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. 

“Tell me–” he’s seethes, bringing your face closer to his, “Tell me you’re not here on a date with him. Tell me, baby.” His spitting hiss turns into a begging croon at the end. As if by making his tone sweeter, he can make the reality of what you’re doing here tonight different to what it really is. 

“I am. I am on a date, and it’s none of your business.” You try to inflect as much spine into your words as you can, but it comes out all breathy and wrong, and your hands are clutching his wrist that’s gripping you, holding on for dear life, trying to bring yourself in closer to him, knees trembling. You’re sure you’re breaking out into a fever. The back of your neck and knees flushing with a cold sweat, flashes of heat spearing through your belly. 

“None of my business? Everything to do with you is my fucking business.” And he’s spinning you suddenly, pressing you to the wall so that your breasts and cheek are smushed against the cold tile and yanking your dress up around your hips. You feel him crouch down behind you, and then his fingers are pulling your panties down to your ankles, and he’s burying his face in your cunt from behind, soaking wet already, Jesus fucking Chirst, big hands gripping the meat of your ass to spread you wide for his tongue. You arch your back to let him in deeper as tears start to fall. 

We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t. Finally, finally, finally, thank God. 

He licks from your clit all the way to your asshole, spits a glob of saliva onto your already soaked skin and rubs it in. You let out a broken, devastated moan, almost a wail. Oh, it feels so good, so good. You shouldn’t – you can’t help yourself.

“P– please, please, Joel–”

“I know, I know, baby. Gonna give you what you need.” He gets to his feet, and you hear the drag of his zipper, one hand on your hip, the other coming around to press down on your belly, deepening the bend of your spine, and then the wide head of his cock is there, right where you need him the most, where he shouldn’t be, and he’s fucking into you all the way. Deep, deep, deep, without preamble.

 He owns you. You belong to him. How could you ever have been so stupid to think that a date with another man would be a good idea?

You’re whining, stuttering his name over and over again. “We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, Joel, please, please, please, harder.”

“Shut up. How fucking dare you?” His thrusts are brutal. He brings the hand on your hip up to your throat to yank your head to the side, tongue licking deep into your open, panting mouth. “You force me to stay away, avoid me for weeks, and now you’re here with him? You’re gonna come on my fucking cock now. Remind you who you belong to. Were you gonna let him fuck you? Were you gonna let him have my cunt?”

“Never, never. I promise. Only you.” You’re dizzy, your brain – melted out through your ears, fucked out of you by the relentless onslaught of him inside of you. His grip is almost too tight around your jaw, the palm on your belly pressing down so that you both can feel his cock ramming into you from the outside.

The excruciating pain of missing him – and now this. You hate yourself, you’ll never come back from this. His wife is right out there, but God, God, he feels so good. You’ve missed him so much. You love him. He’s so right inside of you. Tears leak from your eyes, rolling over his hand clutching your face, and he sinks his teeth into the delicate tendons connecting your neck and shoulder. You’re going to come. Now, now any second. The harder he is, the rougher he treats you, the wetter you get, the tighter your pussy gets. You’re so fucked up. 

“All this fucking time apart, just to find you here.” He slides the hand on your belly down to your clit, starts a rhythmic little circular pattern that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your cunt clenching down hard, sucking him deeper. 

“Please– I’m sorry.” Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

“No you’re not.” He gives the top of your mound a quick little slap that has you mewling high and warbled for him. “If you were, you’d have answered my calls, let me see you. What the fuck’s wrong in your head to think you can send me away? To think you can leave and never come back to me? You’re mine, and I’m yours. We belong to each other. Now be my good girl, and come on my cock. Right now.”

“Your wife’s right out there, you fucking asshole!” you cry, inner muscles starting to flutter and pulse around his throbbing length. 

“I don’t give a fuck. Gonna stuff you full of my come and send you back out there dripping me.” He kisses you again, and he’s so fucking dirty, so crude and mean and your orgasm hits you full throttle. So wrong. 

“Yes–  fuck, yes – good girl, such a good girl for me. That’s it,” he presses into your ear, dips his tongue into the soft, little shell. You sob his name, again and again, telling him how much you missed him, how much you need him as he starts to fill you with the searing heat of his spend. 

He presses gentle kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your wet cheek, hugs you tight to his chest. So at odds with the savage way he just took you. Your head rolls back onto his shoulder limply. You’re trying to control your sobbing, your face is going to be all red and splotchy when you walk out of here. You probably look wrecked, just fucked. Everyone’s going to know. Poor Seth – he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like this. His wife’s going to know. Joel’s going to tell her. You can feel it in the desperation of his movements, the tight grip of his hands. He’s reached his limit, and he’s going to tell her everything, and you won’t be able to hide this anymore, won’t be able to stop him, to hide all of your truths and shame.

“Get away from me,” you gasp, breath hitching. Get away, get away, get away. What is wrong with you? You’re just like her, just like her, just like her. You’re just like your mother. Callous and poisoned. “Get away!” you almost shriek, starting to panic now. 

“Baby, wait – wait. I’m– I’m sorry. Fuck, I shouldn’t’ve been so rough.” He pulls out and you feel the gush of his come, moaning at the feeling. You brace your hands against the wall, trying not to lose your balance on your shaky legs. You feel his hands hovering around your waist, ready to catch you if you need him. 

“Oh God, oh God– what did we do?” You turn to face him, cheeks burning and tear streaked, hands coming up to cup your own face, eyes wide. Your whole body is shaking. “There’s something wrong with us.” He steps up to press himself all along the length of you and you shut your eyes. His gaze is so concerned, swimming with desperation, and you love him so much, you want him so badly, more than anything else you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, and you can’t survive this, you can’t, you can’t. He cups his large palms over yours, completely engulfing your small hands and presses his brow to yours. 

“Please, please, baby. I’m begging you right now,” his voice cracks, and you pull your hands from beneath his and snake your arms around his neck to hug yourself closer to him. You need to breathe in his scent in these last few moments, you need to imprint the feel of him in your memory, brand it there to keep with you for the rest of your life. “Please, let me fix this. There’s a way to make this better, please.” 

“We can’t,” you whisper, rolling your brow over the hill of his shoulder in the imitation of a weakly stubborn shake. You don’t even know why you’re refusing anymore. It’s not like it feels any more right or wrong than what you’re already doing. It’s not like you’re better off for being without him, or he’s better off for staying in his marriage. It’s not like your obstinacy is helping anyone involved in this at all. And yet, you can’t help yourself, something inside of you is forcing you to continue to refuse. And at that he pulls himself away from you angrily. Ripping himself out of your hold and leaving you to stumble. 

“No, you can’t,” he spits, teeth bared at you in an almost hiss so that you have to step away from the horrible, painful look in his eyes. 

His anger incites your own, “You’re here on a date with your fucking wife,” you say, swiping your hand out in a halting gesture, “What do you care what I’m doing or who– who I’m with?”

He barks out a laugh, ugly and broken, and the sound of it makes you flinch, take another step back from him. “Wanna know something real fuckin’ funny?” No, you don’t think you do. “That’s the man she’s been having an affair with. The pregnancy scare? That’s him.” He jerks his thumb back towards the door, raises his eyebrows, a mocking gesture, a look that has you wrapping your arms around your middle protectively. He nods his head condescendingly. “Yeah…” He’s smiling, and the look in his eyes is manic and broken and full of an ugliness you hate seeing in him. Like he’s on the verge of fracture.

“Joel– What–” you bring up a hand to rub at the ache that’s starting up in your temple,  “What are you doing here with them? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Why am I doing this to myself? He murmurs under his breath, shaking his head. He is so full of painful contempt in this moment, and you think that there is a slightly humiliating edge to this, but you don’t know who it is that’s being humiliated here right now. “You think I give a fuck about being here? About them?” His voice takes on an edge you’ve never heard in him before. No… not on the verge of fracture, you think, this is a man deep into the abyss of dissolution. His brow crumples. “I don’t – I don’t know. I can’t fucking think. I can’t function, you– you did something to me. You–” the words break in his throat, “You stole something from me,” the way you’d felt he’d stolen something from you, “My goddamn sanity or sense or something, and then you’ve refused to talk to me, to see me, and I don’t– I don’t know how to exist anymore, do you understand me? I don’t know how to do this alone – without you. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I– I just–” he squeezes his eyes shut and presses the balls of his hands harshly into his eye sockets, “I just need you to tell me how to do this. How are you doing this? Please, just tell me something that’ll help me, and I’ll do it. I swear, I will.” 

He’s breaking right in front of you, here and now, and you’re left speechless, your mind listless, and right before the words leave your mouth you think: don’t say it, don’t say it, please, don’t push him away, don’t hurt him like this again, but instead: “Joel, I can’t. I don’t–”

He cuts you off, “I know. You don’t want to… You don’t want this…” he laughs, another terrible and broken sound. “You don’t want this,” he whispers again, and his face spasms painfully, and then goes suddenly blank. All emotion melting away so that all you’re left with now is a bare, cold canvas. “You’ve never wanted this enough to fight for it… I don’t think. To let go of your fears. I’ve told you that I’d do anything for you, over and over again. And you won’t let me.”

“It’s not that fucking simple!” you cry. “Don’t– don’t say–” He was wrong, he was wrong. 

He tucks himself away, still slick and dripping your mingled come, and it registers for one immensely vulnerable second, that you’ve just had this terrible conversation with the both of you bared to each other in the most intimate of ways. He turns to face the door. A terrible curling lance of shame and disgust roils through you. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again for one long quiet moment. You watch the broad expanse of his back suck in deep, slow breaths – trying to collect himself. His ribs flare so wide on the inhale, he’s so big. His arms fall to hang limply at his sides. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I shouldn’t have been so rough… said all that. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” His voice sounds dead. 

He turns his head to the side slightly, giving you his profile and whispers quietly, devastating, “This–” he shakes his head a little, a frown verging on confusion crumpling his brow, “This is hurting me?” and the way it comes out, like a question, but yet, so simply, so starkly – it would have been less painful had he struck you, than hearing him say those words so plainly. But still posed so unsurely, as if he doesn’t expect you to understand, or perhaps, as if he doesn’t quite understand it himself.

You wrap your arms around yourself to keep all your blood and pain from spilling out onto this dirty restroom floor. Something has just been irreparably destroyed here. You don’t know what it is. But you can feel it happening, and it hurts. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. 

And you want to say, no, you’re the one that’s sorry. You’re more sorry than you’ll ever be able to put into words. 

But you stay silent, and he walks out. 

-

You’d always worried that the moment of true fusion with the memory of your mother, of who she was, would come, or better yet, had come, the moment you’d become involved with a married man. You’d thought that nothing after that could enshroud you in her terrible shadow more than that. But you realize, now, as poor Seth drives you home, silent and uncomfortable as silent tears stream down your face and another mans come leaks from your sex, as the memory of Joel’s broken voice and face flashes in your memory, that this is the moment, above all others, that you’ve felt most like the woman who gave you life. Nothing else has ever been like this. 

The poison drips through.

You think of your dad. Of the way he died, the way he lived in the years after she left – if that sad excuse of an existence could even be called living. 

What a terrible thing it is to love someone so much. 

What a terrible thing it is to know someone so well. Well enough to be able to understand them to their very core, to understand what it is that causes their pain, incites their actions. It is a terrible weight to bear.

Seth clears his throat as he pulls the car to a slow stop outside your house. “Uh… are you… are you okay?” Do I look okay? You want to roll your eyes, but he doesn’t deserve your annoyance.

You sniffle, try and control your voice, “Yes,” you whisper, “I’m sorry for– for all this. I… I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“Look…” he says your name slowly, “I don’t– I don’t know what it is that’s between you and that guy… he’s the same one from the night we met–” you say nothing, “But I don’t think– I don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I’m sorry, but I can’t have all this drama. I’m not really interested in something like that.”

An uncontainable huff of a laugh slips out as you look out the window at the dark street, you shake your head minutely. “To be honest, I’m not so interested in all the drama myself, and yet…” you turn to him now, “I really am sorry, Seth. And I wish you the best.” He nods, stoic, face pointed directly forward, he doesn’t even want to look at you. Uncomfortable and embarrassed by your breakdown and tears and obvious disorder. It’s probably pretty obvious that you’d just gotten the sense fucked out of you.

You step into the dark interior of your quiet house after he drives off. It’s lonely, almost like a shell, an abandoned carcass. None of the comfort you’ve always found here seems to still reside within its wall, and you think that there probably isn’t any place in the entire world, besides by his side, where you’d be able to find any sort of comfort anymore. 

Hot guilt churns in your belly –  a vile mix of desperation, misery, resentment, wanting. Joel was right about one thing, you don’t know what you’re doing anymore either, what all this is for. None of it makes sense, none of it has a point. 

What is the fucking point of all this suffering?

You try desperately to suppress the certainty that lives so willfully within you – that he knows you, that he sees you, that you were made only for him. Something you’ve known for a long time, since the very beginning, probably. That no one, no one will ever intertwine with you, soul fused to soul, as intrinsically as he has. That no one will ever see the muddled shadows of your own self as clearly as he does, as if he was laying his eyes upon the inside of your skin.

You’re in love with him, and you realize that you’ve made yourself into something unrecognizable. A creature out of the very depths of your worst nightmares – the mirror image of the person you never wanted to be. 

Your brain feels as though it’s swollen within the confines of your skull, your tears uncontrollable. Your longing for him a spear of fire through your heart, and you are so, so weary of fighting. 

Your life had taught you that there were no happy endings. They didn’t exist. A figment in the imaginations of desperate people in need of consolation, comfort, excuses. But there could be grateful endings. Endings that you could thank God, the universe, whatever higher power you used to delude yourself with, for. You could be grateful when a thing ended. You could be glad of it. Perhaps, if you lie to yourself hard enough now, repeat it in your mind enough times, you can feel grateful that you’ve destroyed this. That it seems you’ve finally pushed him away for good – maybe this will help you finally rest, even if the lie of it pushes heavily down on your shoulders.

Chapter .7

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[sw33t-d1vine]

YOU’RE SO CREEPY

SPRINGTRAP x GN!READER

ー cw : fluff , halloween !!!! , just u dressing up as springtrap :3

ー word count , 2671

ー a/n : hii !! october has been so busy.. BUT , in honour of the fnaf movie and halloween , i have this fic !!! im also changing my theme again…. this fic was inspired by my own halloween costume :3 i dressed up as him for halloween…. AND one of the costumes mentioned at the end is a costume my bff went as ! i hope u all like this silly fic :3 i’ll get back to reqs soon !!!

・Enjoy what you read ? come join my discord server to see sneak peaks and chat with me and other friends ! Link in my pinned post :)

ー Halloween was something most people adored, including yourself. This year, you had picked to go as Springtrap for your costume. You had made the ears, customized and DIY’ed the whole costume, and prop. Maybe no one would know who you were going as, but who cared. Maybe you just wanted to dress up as a killer zombie bunny.

Springtrap had yet to even see your costume, let alone even know what you are. You only told him it was a surprise, and he’d have to wait and see. Which he thought was stupid.

That was a few weeks ago. He waited days just to see what you were gonna dress up as, and when you came downstairs all dressed up in your costume, his dead heart almost stopped.

His eyes trailed over your body, looking at every detail on the costume. The fake bones sticking out, the fake wires all hanging out, and the big ears on your head that matched his. You had also done your own makeup, making it look like you had scares everywhere.

You really pulled this costume off, he loved it. Even if he didn’t like his own form, he loved how you dressed up as him. It was.. cute.

You held the fake knife prop you made in your hand, giving him a shy smile. “Thoughts?”

Springtrap let out a hum, “I love it.” He tilted his head, watching you do a spin to show off the rest of it. “Very detailed.. and you made all of it?”

Nodding your head, your smile grew. “I did. Since you don’t come to my room a lot, it was pretty easy to hide it from you.” You explained, fiddling with the fake knife.

“How long did it take?” He asked, cocking his head to the side, his ears slightly flopping.

You thought for a moment, thinking. It really didn’t take too long to make.. You thrifted most of the costume and just heavily styled it and added fake wires and such. “I’d say maybe.. 2 or 3 days. Not too long.” You chuckled.

“It’s still very well done..” Springtrap hummed, glancing at the front door. You had left a bowl of candy so you could give them out to trick or treaters. He wished he could do it with you, but he knows he’d probably scare any kids that came. Which would be funny to him, but you’d probably scold him later about it.

When the doorbell rang, you turned your head to the door as well. “Looks like we have our first trick or treater.” You hummed, walking over to the door.

Springtrap watched you hand out the candies to the kids, one who was dressed up as Coraline, and another was a ghost. How cute.

The night went on for a while, kids coming to the door and you handing candies out. A few kids questioned your costume, and you only said you were dressed up as a zombie rabbit. They wouldn’t exactly understand who you were dressed up as.. but he did. and he adored it.

He adored you.

[radioisntdead]

Mine

Vox x reader

Song used

Warnings: TOXIC TOXIC TOXIC T-O-X-I-C

have you strung

His swirling eye hypnotized you, you felt everything turn faded, you could barely hear the words he was saying, you just saw the swirling eye of the television, what were you so mad about again? You couldn't remember...

Strung in my web

You felt his sharp fingers wrap around your chin, pulling you closer to him.

Everything was just so hazy, it was like everything that wasn't him faded away into the background.

A candle burning slowly by the bed

How did you get here?

Shadows tangle like a vine

You felt something slithering up your arms, twirling around them until they were firmly wrapped around them.

Crawling up the posts within our shrine

You felt his grip on your chin tighten and harshly pull you forward to face him

"Right now, you're mine," he said sending shivers down your spine, not of pleasure but of fear.

You needed to leave, you wanted to leave but you couldn't, he kept you there, wrapped in his grasp.

"All mine," you struggled against the wires and cables wrapped around you, the more you tried to get away the tighter they would become.

"Give in, you're mine," you felt more wires slithering up your legs taking away your ability to stand, relying on only him to keep you up right.

"All mine," he moved his grip from your chin down to your neck, he pressed down on your neck, taking away your ability to breathe for a few moments before loosing his grip.

He had full control over you.

I love that you shake

Your eyes drooped, almost closing, you felt him completely let you go, leaving you hanging from the wires like a puppet.

When I ravage your skin

It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned

You heard him step away, the sound of his footsteps disappearing.

Slowly but surely you felt yourself regain control of your body, your eyes snapped open before you ripped the wires off of you, trying to undo the tangled mess and get out of there.

Shadows dancing on the sheets

If you obey, I might give you a treat

Ice cold panic filled you as you heard his footsteps once more, you hurried to rip the rest of the wires off of you and run before he could catch you.

Right now, you're mine,

The moment you got the wires off you book it, running as fast as your legs could take you, to rip open the door that held you back from freedom.

"All mine," only for more wires to wrap around you and drag you back over to Vox.

"Give in, you're mine," you screamed, kicked and tried to hang onto the floor, you left behind claw marks as you were pulled away.

All mine

You tried fighting back but in the end you were sat in front of him, restrained on your knees.

"You look so good, there on your knees," you felt his hands move around your head, lifting it up to look him in the eyes.

"Such a good girl knows how to please," you shut your eyes as tightly as you could trying to free your head from his grasp.

Only for him to grab your head with both hands and pulled it towards him, you couldn't keep your eyes closed forever, eventually you'd have the urge to open them.

"Look at me, look me in the eyes," He brushed one of his fingers gently over your eyelid causing it to just barely open.

And barely was enough to get you back under his control.

"Forget yourself, surrender your mind," your eyes opened up properly as he hypnotized you, his eye swirling around and round keeping you back in his control.

"Right now, you're mine," you felt his grip loosen as you slouched back, losing control over yourself once more.

"All mine," you felt the wires loosen and fall off of you.

"Give in, you're mine," you felt yourself being picked up and carried away.

You weren't ever escaping his grasp, were you?

All mine.

[autisticlancemcclain]

pt one

———

Hunk’s phone rings. Loudly. Since he is the pinnacle of grace and benevolence, he spares one hand, eyes still trained firmly on the other hand pressing a screwdriver onto a delicate wire joint to hold it steady, to blindly pat about on his workbench until it closes around the device. He jabs a finger on the screen until the ringing ceases.

“Yah,” he says, not bothering with hellos. He’s busy.

“Handle your person,” Shiro hisses, then immediately hangs up.

Hunk snorts. Someone’s nap was disturbed.

He turns back to his project, sighing as he wraps it up. He doesn’t have long. If he can just solder this last wire, get that last connection in, it’ll be way easier to —

Lance kicks open his door, walking in screaming.

“Hello,” Hunk greets idly. And largely sarcastically, he will admit. Lance continues his wordless yell, vocalizing at the very top of his lungs, muffled only when he throws himself on Hunk’s bed and buries himself in Hunk’s pillow. “Shiro tells me you’re terrorizing people.”

“His skull is fucking solid!” Lance screeches.

Hunk does not need to ask to whom Lance is referring. He does, however, pause what he’s doing immediately, spinning around slowly in his chair with his fingertips pressed together like every eighties cartoon villain. His smile can only really be described as gleeful. Perhaps diabolical if he stretches.

He is entirely unapologetic.

“And what happened this time,” Hunk questions, adopting his very best therapy voice. It must work, because Lance shoots up, face bright candy red, wicked snarl pulling on his lips. When he speaks again his voice is carefully controlled and dripping with rage.

“It is beyond hinting, Kealoha. I have practically laid myself at his feet and begged him to ravish me, and he still does not get it. I am going to fucking wring his neck.”

Hunk hums thoughtfully. “Well, that is probably what it’s going to take.” At Lance’s raised eyebrow, he rushes to clarify — “Throwing yourself at his feet, I mean. Don’t strangle him. At least not before I can see it.”

Lance groans loudly. This time when he flops back on Hunk’s mattress he is more miserable than rageful, like a scolded chihuahua. Hunk considers telling him that and then remembers that he’s quite fond of his limbs where they are.

“I know he likes me,” Lance grumbles. “He’s just a dumbass. Like, yesterday he had to go into a healing pod because I did those leg stretches in front of him and he walked into the wall and broke his nose. And last week he said I smelled good and no straight people say stupid shit like that. And when I flirted with that princess on our last mission I was lowkey worried he was gonna jump her, or something. He went all big bad Galra growly and everything.”

Hunk inclines his head. “This is true.”

It is true. Well, he didn’t know the broken nose thing — although that’s hilarious and he will be sharing that information with the class when prudent — and he hasn’t witnessed many of the specific brands of Keith and Lance dumbassery, since they spend so much time on their own, but he, like, has eyes. Keith wants Lance so bad it’s actually embarrassing. Hunk’s not one to generally agree with Lance, since it’s his God-given right to humble him at any opportunity, but that boy is oblivious unlike any other. He understands that Keith is emotionally stunted due to the ordeal of being orphaned, and to Keith he leaves his highest sympathies, but also Jesus Christ, dude. How many times are you going to be wrought with jealousy before you go oh, duh, I might be in love with this goober.

Maybe Shiro hasn’t had the talk with him yet. Hunk makes a mental note to follow up.

“—it’s just that I don’t understand,” Lance laments.

Hunk blinks back to the conversation, where Lance has clearly taken it upon himself to wax poetic and inspire woe upon himself once more.

Hunk stills. An idea wiggles its delightful little way through his brain. He holds up his phone, pointed at Lance’s prone and desolate form.

God, he loves his brain. He loves meddling. He loves love and life, basically.

“I just,” Lance sighs, and to his endless credit he sounds genuinely torn-up, for all his melodrama. “I wish I could just tell him, I guess. In some way. I wish I could get it through his fool head that he is loved by me particularly in such a way that I want to hold hands and kiss and generally be nuisances of the affectionate kind. You know, romance.”

Hunk hums with great understanding. “I see. And say you were not plagued with chronic anxiety and an unfortunate tendency to glow in your face region if someone so much as insinuates in any capacity that they care about you — what would you say to this paramour of yours?”

Lance tilts his head consideringly. His eyes are big and brown and pouty, like a scorned puppy. It’s adorable, in a pathetic kind of way. Hunk cannot help but pat him delicately on the knee.

“I suppose,” he huffs, “that I would just say it outright. Keith Kogane, you magnanimous dumbass, would it kill you to ask me out like a man. Something like that.”

“You could also ask him out like a man,” Hunk points out.

“Choke and die,” Lance responds, predictably. Hunk pays him again.

Hunk stops the recording and tucks his phone back in his pocket. He will decide how to handle the situation shortly.

…After he makes several copies and distributes them to the team. Obviously. Hunk’s excellent advice and matchmaking skills isn’t free, after all.

Lance whines again. “Why is my life so sick and twisted.”

Hunk chooses against reminding Lance that they are in the very beginning of the process of dismantling the worst tyranny the universe has ever seen, and of all the things in his life to be sick and twisted his dweeby romance is probably not one of them. Because that would be a huge buzzkill, obviously. Instead he delicately and a touch condescendingly pats Lance on the head. Lance leans into the touch, because he is a massive sweetheart and dork and nerd, and Hunk can’t help but smile widely.

“All will work out,” he says ominously. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Blah,” Lance says.

Hunk smiles wider.

[questforgalas]

Passing the Time

Notes: a quick little diddy I wrote inspired by this art created by @zaana that I couldn't get out of my head and I also need pre-order 66 moments with the Batch like I need air. Just Crosshair and Hunter being soft bros and reminiscing

WC: 900

Tay's Masterlist

Read on AO3

Staring up at the night sky, Crosshair counts 7 different constellations laying within his vision. The midnight air still carried the day’s humidity, causing a thin layer of sweat to coat his skin underneath his armor even as he relaxes against the boulder he settled against at the beginning of his watch shift. A breeze rustles the palm fronds hanging above them, softly grazing his face, and in the distance, waves are heard softly rolling onto the beach on the other side of the grove.

Hard to believe just hours ago they were knee deep in Separatist territory doing what they do best. Especially what Wrecker does best with explosives. 

Checking his vambrace’s chrono, they aren’t due to leave for Kamino for another 5 hours. Finally returning home after nearly 5 months of missions. Giving a content hum, he crosses his legs in front of him, leaning further into the boulder and settling in for the remainder of the night. The only noise disturbing the soft jungle symphony coming from the GNK droid keeping him company. 

A thud from behind catches his attention, causing him to glance over his shoulder back at the Marauder. The gate was left open, letting the soft interior light spill onto the jungle floor and illuminate the figure walking towards him. Turning back to the jungle, Crosshair reaches into his belt taking out a toothpick to place between his lips as he waits for his sergeant to join him. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks when Hunter settles in next to him, using the GNK as an improvised chair. 

“Can’t shut it down tonight,” Hunter replies. Crosshair gives a hum, understanding. As they grew older, the nights Hunter couldn’t shut his senses down became more rare, but occasionally, after a string of tiring missions, they could prove too much for his exhausted mind. 

“Echo and Wrecker out?”

“Like lights.” 

“Tech?”

“Doing something to the Marauder. As always.”

Crosshair huffs a sigh. “He’s going to work himself to death.” 

“When did you become a mother hen?” Hunter jokes, playfully jabbing an elbow into the sniper’s arm. That earns him a grumble that loses its bite when Crosshair can’t help the smile tugging on his lips. 

“Simply keeping the efficiency of the squad in mind,” Crosshair counters. 

“Uh huh. Don’t worry, Cross. Your secret’s safe with me. Can’t let anyone think you’re not a prickly asshole,” Hunter teases. 

The sniper rolls his eyes and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth as he looks back up to the sky, letting the comfortable silence between him and Hunter settle around them. Mind on the brother likely buried in wires, he smiles up at the stars as his thoughts bring up memories previously forgotten. 

“Remember when we were younglings,” Crosshair starts, “and he was determined to build his own battle droid? Wanted it to go on missions with us.” 

Hunter groans, “Convinced Wrecker to break into the training lab with him to scrap and carry parts back to our barracks. Was set on having it ready for our next simulator. Stayed awake for days to finish it. He was so tired, he accidentally mis-wired the activation so it came alive in the barracks. Started firing everywhere.” 

“A bolt went right by my head! Hit my favorite target card!” Crosshair exclaims as he pushes himself off of the boulder, turning his body towards Hunter. 

“I’ve never seen Wrecker move so quickly when he flipped the table and took cover,” Hunter continues. “I had to tackle Tech down since he was still in a stupor, just staring at the droid wildly firing. It finally ran out of juice after a minute, but the damage to the barracks…” 

“Can’t believe Nala Se’s check up was scheduled for that day. Remember the look on her face when she opened the door?” Crosshair says with a laugh. 

“Still not as good as Lama Su’s when I had to explain to him what happened after being called to his office,” Hunter snickers. ��Only the second time that week too. Pretty sure that was a record for us.” 

“What was the most?” 

“In one week? Nine. Became more frequent after Echo joined. Who knew an ARC would be such a troublemaker,” Hunter chuckled. 

“He’s not so bad. For a reg.” 

Hunter flicked his gaze up to Crosshair and smiled at the fondness he found in his eyes. No one was more protective of their squad than the ARC, and no one was more protective of the ARC than their sniper. 

Turns out, Echo has as much patience for bullies as he does for Separatists, and the Batch learned quickly that something as small as a snide look sent their way resulted in it being punched off the reg’s face by a scomp. Naturally, Echo’s fierce loyalty and no hesitation to knock down regs earned him a high spot in Crosshair’s regard. 

“Pretty sure he gets it from that Fives he’s always talking about,” Crosshair says. 

“Can’t really picture Rex having a bunch of rowdy ARCs,” Hunter mutters. 

“I think Skywalker required all of his attention. Let the others get away with it,” Crosshair chuckles.

Hunter matches his chuckle with his own. “Remember when…”

Surrounded by the quiet of the jungle, the brothers swap stories until the dark hours of night soften with the first rays of the sun crawling up to the horizon. The quiet is interrupted by Wrecker’s laugh inside the ship, and the sergeant and the sniper join their squad as they prepare to return home.

[aphroditesmoon]

Gwen x Gen neutral (fem) reader?? 👉👈 where reader is also a spider-person and Miguel introduces them to the others and it's basically like a love in first sight thing? maybe? reader's spider powers is up to you of course!! ^^

mirrored hearts

gwen stacy x afab!reader(gn)

summary: gwen has never met anyone like you before.

warnings: cursing, miguel being tired, made up multiverse(?), reader is inspired by trinity from the matrix.

a/n: such a cute req, hope this is to your liking!!

°°°°

WHEN MIGUEL O'HARA first met you, he saw in your eyes the kind of look he once had. An unbridled rage, towards the world, or towards yourself, he couldn't tell. But he did know that the anger, if untrained, could destroy you.

It is the year 80077, an anomaly has been seen in your universe, an additional problem to your already dangerous world. Spot, as you've identified, is not human, at least not anymore. Living in a world ruled by artifical intelligence with only 0.8% of trueborn humans existing, you aren't exactly bothered anymore with non human villains.

But 4 years since you became the remaiming human population's Spider-droid, you've yet to be met with one like him.

You would've caught him, of course, if you weren't distracted by a random multiverse hooe opening itself up in the middle of the underground wiring lab. The stupidly large looking spider-man did not hesitate to fling a badly designed watch towards you after a 15 minutes argument between the two of you gave Spot time to enter another spiderverse.

You would've flung the watch back at his face out of spite if you weren't curious to know where the road might lead you.

"That rebellious streak you have is going to end up costing you your life, you know?" The spider-man tells you after you're done insulting and cursing his whole family line. "I should hope so, because the only way I'll go down is with my head up high."

He rolls his eyes, muttering a 'cliche ass' under his breath before the two of you appear in the large headquarters.

You ignore the rapid spider-people around you, not wanting to betray your awe in front of Miguel. When another door opens for him, a much quieter space reveals itself to you.

"I don't like half of people we're about to meet either but I'll expect you to refrain insulting any of them in more than two languages, the only reason we're all here us because the fate of the mul-" "-multiverse depends on us, yeah I got that in the first 10 speeches you manage to give on our 1 minutes ride." You're pleased with the tired sigh leaving him.

You could see a few teenagers hanging around Miguel's desk, but what caught your attention was the dark skinned pregnant women making her way straight to him. "You should've called for backup." Her voice booms as she nears you both.

"Didn't need to, I had her." He says simply, nudging his head towards you before flinging himself upwards to his table. "Who the fuck opened dress up games on my tab?" You hear him yell, eyes directly at a man with a baby strapped to his chest.

You take a quick look at all of them before zeroing down on the girl, your eyes connected, and you sensed she was either uncomfortable or afraid of how your eyes are squinting on her. "Spider-droid, is what most people call me." You say, eyes still directly on her. "Droid? As in robots?" The big eyed looking teenager next to her asks.

"-And, who is she exactly?" The afro haired women ask, eyeing you up and down. A small crowd then began to form in front of you, Miguel then, finally has the curtesy to come back down in between you and the spider-people. "A spider-person. He responds with a sarcastic air in his tone, making the blonde with pink strands scoff aloud.

"Do you like, fight robots?" Miguel snorts at him, and you glared at Miguel. "Depends, most of my populations are robots, rather than trueborn humans."

The blonde opens her mouth to ask a question you already knew coming, you cut her off before she speaks. "I would be considered, a full human, if it werent for-" You wave your steel made left arm up, flexing the fingers, earning a few gasps and hums of understanding. "-this."

The silence came then, even Miguel seemed to be suprised, not taking notice of your arm before. "I-" She starts. You raise your brows at her. "I'm Gwen." You laughed, a short but unhelpable laugh. "Nice to meet you, Gwen." That has seemsed to snap Miguel out of his subconscious. It seems that man is allergic to social interaction that is anything but necessary.

"We can't let you go back for a while, I'll have your unierse supervised for any signs of Spot returning, but I have a feeling I know where he's going next, and I want you in." Your eyes snap at him and he gives you a look that challenged you to deny him. So you say nothing.

"Good. Penni, I want you to show her to the weaponary room, see if she can attach anything to that steel arm of hers, it'd be useful." Penni, who you just noticed exist, smiled widely, and you notice her gigantic robot-pet looking friend.

Before eitner of you moved, Gwen speaks up. "I can take her, I-uh, I need a new...new-uh, gun?" Miguel's eyes widen as he asks, "New gun? You need a new gun?" His voice in utter disbelief. "For backup, its handy-" She defends himself, resulting in him just waving her off, eyes shut in frustration. "Oh for fu- fine, whatever." He leaves in a split second away from you all.

Gwen and you watched him fly himself up his table before finally looking back at eachother. She's staring at you the same way as before, mouth open, confused.

You raised a brow in question and she just looks more confused. "Gwen." You speak. "Yeah?" "Will you take me to the weaponry room now, I don't bite, I promise."

Her mouth shuts close, and she lets out a wide eyed nervous laugh, shaking her head. "Right, the weaponry! I definitely um, remember, where it is!" She says, moving to walk in front of you as you follow her steps closely.

Your pace quickens until you're next to her, you notice she seema more relaxed than a minute ago. You were used to fear, and cautionary. You were raised by those standards. When your parents had died of mercury poisoning, you've taken their place in a fast succeeding company of scientific research at the age of 15, only a spider-droid for a year before the occurance.

All the tragedies that has happened to you, all to lead you here, in a building full of people who are just like you, yet nothing like you. When Miguel had told you of this, you almost tamed some hope of finding kindred spirits, but time and time again, you fall back into the hands of fear, and cautionary.

"We're here." She squeaked, making you flinch out if your daydream. "You gonna get your gun?" You ask jokingly. Gwen lets out a short laugh. "No, I don't think so. But um, I'll show you in." She offers, walking you in the guns and shooters section, the bulletproof suit vests' right next to it.

"I already have lasers, I don't think I'll be needing a gun either, or anything Miguel thinks can make me better." You explain, looking around the room. You see Gwen nods her head, eyeing your arm. "Well, If you want to take a shower instead, you can use a room im staying in here. How do you shower with that?" She asks. You give her a small smile, putting down a revolver you've been holding, back down to its place before turning to leave the room. "I take it off."

She was silent for a while, until you hear her mumble "Goddamn." As she walks behind you.

[atlasbeanswrites]

Chapter 1

Alien encounter

We sat in the lobby of the interspecies communications office, waiting to be assigned to the Crew and ship we would be part of. Synth and I had taken the only two chairs in the small room while Ash sat by my feet, fiddling with the wiring on his translator watch. These watches were mandatory for us to be able to communicate not only with each other in our native languages but also to understand the yautja of our future crew.

Yautja spoke a language based mainly on clicks and rumbling sounds in their chests. While humans could learn to understand the language, they would never be able to speak it because they could not produce the right sounds. A small spark lit up from the old watch, causing Tracker to jump back, smacking his arm lightly.

"Dude!" Acting as if he had been burned by the tiny spark tracker rubbed his hand.

"THERE!!!! GOT IT!!!" Ash exclaimed loudly in German but through my translator, it came through as perfect English if not a bit synthetic sounding.

Synth nudged me gesturing for me to look down at the "all about Yautja" pamphlet She had been reading.

"it says that the women are the more dominant in their species and are like way more intimidating"

"Have you ever seen one?" I asked

"Not in person but I have seen a ton of pictures of them" Synth was playing with Tracker's hair when we saw a man in a military standard-issue uniform and a man in the typical researcher get up walk through the door and into the small room.

"Group..." There is a pause as the researcher looks down at his digital clipboard "6 you will be meeting your new crewmates in a matter of moments but I am here to set some rules and give some advice before you board the... " looking down at his clipboard again. " The Angler. "

We got to our feet waiting for the man to continue talking. There was a buzz of excitement between us. I rocked back and forth on my heels tucking my hands into my pockets.

"The Rules... As you know this is a diplomatic mission so there is a way you must conduct yourself. Because if you insult someone of importance you could cause all-out war and we can't afford that happening got it!!!"

there was a long pause as the military man scowled at us only getting a few quiet and confused "Got it." in return.

"three main rules.

1.If you are ever around a yautja pup DO NOT touch it or threaten it of even talk about threatening it!! They are extremely protective of them and will kill you on the spot if they even suspect you have a thought like that about their children."

"wild you even need to say that as a rule. Thats fucked up" I whisper to Ash earning a Nod in agreeance.

"2. There will be a room on the ship called a trophy room. DO NOT go into it! That is where they keep the skulls and bones of the beasts they have killed and it is extremely important to them.

3. DO NOT challenge a Yautja to a fight! Even if you are not a Quote 'Honorable kill' They will still KILL YOU!!! you will not win this fight."

We all stand there in silence as he finishes before the military man checks his watch

"Best not to keep them waiting... Let's Go!" he says in a harsh tone. Starting to lead us out of this small waiting room into the large ship hanger. As we approached a round ship with a large light hanging from the top front, you could tell where the ship got its name.

"The Angler:"

Getting closer we could see 3 large Yautja standing outside of the ship battle-ready. Some had their arms crossed others stood with one hand on their weapons and the largest of the group stood in the middle glaring down at us as we approached. He was clearly the captain. OUR new captain. They all looked to be male by their builds and the stories I had heard about the females made these guys look like any other soldier. We all stood there a moment taking each other in.

My eyes were locked on our new captain he was definitely the most colorful of the group. while all of them had skin that was soft browns and yellows but his was a striking green color. With yellow spots and stripes all over the skin, I could see. He spoke in a loud rumbling voice of clicks and chittering. Which was instantaneously translated to us.

"This is MY ship and MY crew. I am your Captain as of right now and you will follow my orders. Understood?" it wasn't even a question. it was a firm statement that we were going to understand one way or another. We bristled a bit at this statement all remembering our last boss.

"can't be worse than Jimmy... so why no" Tracker shrugged followed by a few laughs from myself and Ash.

"True," we said following the yautja who hadn't even addressed us or introduced themselves on the ship.

This will be fun!

authors note:

thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed this first Chapter I will hopefully upload more soon. And apologies in advance if it has any grammar or spelling mistakes. No betas we die like men!!!!

-Love Atlas <3

More Chapters are found here...

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 17/34 - wires and tubes

[read on AO3]

Oops. Do you know how many times I've almost accidentally posted a chapter? It finally happened. Well, here you go 😂

The call comes in the midst of a case that already has Mulder torn up and wild with determination. He never did do well with missing persons cases, especially where little girls were involved. It's even worse now that they actually kind of, sort of, might have a baby on the way, and she worries he won't be able to handle it.

She doesn't want him to lose himself in this. She needs him now more than ever, and it scares her when he gets this way. She only hopes Skinner can talk some sense into him.

But she's the one to answer the phone. She's the one who has to tell him the news. She's the one who has to break his heart in its already fragile state, praying he'll come out on the other side of it okay.

So she opens the door to Skinner's office, and meets her partner's eyes from across the room.

“What?” he asks, frustration simmering below the surface. Evidently his talk with the Assistant Director isn't going well, but that hardly matters now.

She shakes her head, wishing he would just come with her so they could talk in private. But he and Skinner are adamant that they need to finish this discussion, completely unaware of the tragic event that has occurred. 

“Mulder…” she says, sorrow dripping from her voice. “It's your mother.”

-.-.-

He's out of the office in a flash before she can even explain what happened. It’s all she can do to keep up with him as he rushes toward the garage, his fear and anger wafting off him in waves.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him.

“My mother's house,” he answers.

She chokes back a sob, willing herself to hold things together for the both of them. To keep a level head. “She's not there, Mulder,” she speaks, her words halting him in his tracks. 

He whirls on her, crossing the distance and stopping a foot in front of her, seething silently with a wild, frantic look in his eye that she never likes seeing.

“Where is she?” he grits out, his voice low.

She tries to grab for one of his hands, but he pulls back, rejecting the proffered comfort.

“The hospital,” she answers, her brows slanted in silent apology. “A neighbor called, concerned about the smell of gas. The paramedics found her. Mulder, your mother overdosed on sleeping pills. She tried to suffocate herself.” His face falls, but he quickly recovers, replacing the dejected expression with one of adamant denial. 

That's another look Scully doesn't like to see. 

“She's alive, but in a coma,” she explains, hoping to put a stop to Mulder’s spiraling before it starts, but it's too late.

“She tried to call me,” he says, starting to pace. “She left a message wanting to talk, but I didn't– I didn’t call her—”

He stops, crouching low to the ground and practically pulling his hair out of his head, fighting back red hot tears in his eyes.

“She wouldn't do this,” he says angrily, shaking his head, and if being loud meant being confident, then she might be convinced. “Th– they got to her! They tried to kill her!”

“No, Mulder.”

“Yes!” he yells, drawing suspicious glances from other agents in the hallway. “She must have had information about the case,” he continues, standing back to his full height and resuming his pacing. “It's all connected, just like I thought. Samantha—”

“Mulder, STOP!” Scully yells, gripping his bicep with her hand and holding him in place by sheer force of will. She slows her breathing, lowering her voice. “She may not ever wake up, but right now your mother is alive and in the hospital,” she says, appealing to his rational mind. “Before you go chasing after shadows, at least go see her.”

She lets her plea hang in the silence of the hallway. It seems their display has effectively scared off everyone within hearing distance, and she counts herself lucky that security hasn't come to escort them out of the building.

She can see him fighting back against his own reason, determinedly keeping his face screwed up in anger so as not to lose hold of the fury that fuels him. But her prolonged stare causes it to melt away, and his face crumples in defeat just before he collapses in her arms.

Sobs shake him, and it takes all her strength to keep him standing. His face buries into the crook of her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around his back, rubbing soft circles between his shoulder blades.

She hears Skinner pop his head out of his doorway, and she meets his eyes, beyond caring about the physical display in their place of work. The man merely nods in understanding, giving his stamp of approval for whatever needs to be done.

-.-.-

The hospital is eerily quiet, the sterile white walls echoing with every minute sound.

“Teena Mulder, please,” Scully says to the woman at the desk.

Mulder follows behind her looking lost.

They're shown to a hospital room where his mother lies surrounded by wires and tubes, her heartbeat beeping out slowly but steadily over the monitor.

Mulder goes to her side, grabbing her hand in his.

She hates to see him in agony like this. He falls to his knees beside her bed, murmuring incomprehensible apologies and pleadings between bouts of tears. He clings to her cold, frail hand like a lifeline, and though most times his relationship with his mother seems fraught, it's times like this—she knows—when he's at risk of losing what little he has, that she remembers that he loves his mother, just as any little boy might.

A doctor comes by and tells them what happened. The implications are clear, to someone with a medical background. Today was almost the day Mulder became an orphan. Today he almost became the last Mulder standing.

Eventually he's able to calm down a little, allowing himself to be pushed into a chair by her bedside.

“She might never know, Scully,” he says dejectedly. “She has no idea that she might be a grandmother soon. That she has a daughter-in-law.”

A daughter, for a woman who lost hers so long ago.

The fact that their marriage isn't real doesn't even cross their minds. In this moment, they are husband and wife, and right now this is one of those “for worse” moments they mentioned in their vows. She’s going to uphold that promise come hell or high water.

“You can tell her now,” Scully says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She might not hear you, but it's still good to talk to her.”

“She always wanted me to get married,” he says. “She said I needed to move on, to have my own family. Stop thinking about the one I lost. I hated her for that. I couldn't understand how she could give up on our family. How she’d think I could replace it, like a worn out pair of sneakers.”

“Mulder…”

“I understand now, Scully. That was never what she was telling me to do. I think– I think she just wanted me to be happy.”

She wipes the wetness from his cheek with her thumb, holding her hand there and cupping his jaw. He looks up at her, eyes gleaming in adoration. Then he stands, leaning over his mother and holding her hand in his. 

“Mom, I am happy,” he says. “I'm so happy. I just want you to be here to see it. To meet Scully again and our child, someday when we have one. Please…”

He bows his head, another wave of fresh tears filling his eyes.

“I still don't understand,” he says. “why she would do this…”

“I looked at her chart earlier,” Scully says. “Your mother is suffering from a disease known as Paget's Carcinoma. It's a horribly painful and disfiguring disease, Mulder. She didn't want to live.”

“But she has to!” he says, insistent. “She has to, at least for a little longer… I want to talk to her.”

“I know you do,” she says. “But there's nothing we can do until she wakes. 

“She was going to tell me something. What did she want to tell me, Scully?” he looks to her, his eyes pleading. She wishes she knew, so she could take away his burden. But she doesn't, so she just holds him as he sobs into her shoulder, and comforts him.

-.-.-

She's roused from her uncomfortable sleep in the hospital chair by none other than Walter Skinner. Mulder is fast asleep still in his own chair, his face pressed against the scratchy blankets of his mother's hospital bed.

“The case is heating up,” Skinner says, whispering so as not to wake Mulder. “The LaPierres are asking for him. I know it's probably not a good time, but—”

“No, it’s fine,” she says, surprising even herself by agreeing with him. “He needs to get away. From what I'm told, she's stable but not likely to wake anytime soon. The drugs are still making their way out of her system. Can you book us both a ticket?”

“Of course. I'll be coming as well, the Bureau needs this one wrapped up,” Skinner says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Should I get you one room or two at the motel?”

At first, Scully isn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “...Sir?” she asks. “You know we're not…”

“I know,” he says. “I just wasn't sure if you'd want to… keep an eye on him.”

It’s nice of him to ask, she supposes. The answer is yes, she would like to keep an eye on him, actually. But even this isn’t enough for her to forsake the appearances they’ve worked so hard to keep up these last few months.

“Two is fine,” she says with finality.

Skinner nods, and disappears the way he came.

-.-.-

She feels sick, standing in a field littered with tiny graves.

What makes her even more sick is seeing how desperately Mulder hopes to find his sister in each one they dig up. It's written plainly on his face, and she sees him sink deeper into himself with each one that doesn't match her description.

He just wants this to be over. He wants to move on, and she can't blame him. 

But after all this time, she really does wish there could be a happier ending. The one he'd hoped for for so long, where he rides off into the sunset with his sister in tow. Somewhere along the way, she'd begun to hope for that too.

And somewhere along the way, he'd stopped.

She tries to get him to come back to Washington with her and Skinner, but her efforts are in vain. He stays, swindled by some self-proclaimed police psychic who claims he can help find Amber Lynn LaPierre, who also was never identified amongst the other victims.

She leaves him, promising to check in on his mother and let him know how she's doing. But of course, her worry for him won't let sleeping dogs lie.

She pokes around, digging into his regression hypnosis recordings. She even visits Mrs. Mulder's home, looking for what? She isn't sure.

But she finds it.

Burnt documents putting an end to the search for Samantha in 1973. 

And the initials C.G.B.S.

~~~

Lovely tag list ♡: [if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!]

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[lavender-inkwell-99]

Testing (WIP)

A ChelDOS fic

Harsh fluorescent lights flicker on inside Chell’s “room.” Though room was a bit of a misnomer. Really, it was a glorified cage with barely enough room for a bed and a toilet. The walls were made of a soft padding. Even the bed was nothing more than a jut out of this padding from the wall. The toilet similarly was padded and looked more like a jumbo sized roll of paper towels than the typical porcelain throne. 

“Wakey, wakey. Do you know what today is? It’s our five year anniversary. Can you believe it?” inquired GLaDOS over the loudspeaker, her gentle, synthetic voice emanating from the walls of the room itself. Chell groans as she sits up and stretches, ignoring her jailer. “Five years ago today you came to my door, desperate, parentless, fat. Yet I still took you in with open arms. I gave you what you always craved - purpose. To test for eternity for me.”

Chell stands and stretches some more. She has learned to take advantage of her tormentor’s morning monologue as a good time to warm up her muscles for the hours of testing ahead. “I have some surprises in store for you. To commemorate our time together. And don’t worry, cake isn’t one of them. Someone needs to watch their weight, after all.” A panel in the wall recesses and slides away to reveal an opening. Beyond it, as there has been almost every day for the past five years, was a stand holding a portal gun and something GLaDOS insists is a protein bar. Though to Chell it feels more like modeling clay, and tastes more like minty soap. But the fact that she has not died yet of starvation or malnutrition was at least some proof of its dietary validity.

She scarfs down her breakfast, and picks up the portal gun. The door beyond the stand opens, revealing a pneumatic elevator. Chell steps inside and is propelled to her first test of many for the day. It is a surprisingly simple one compared to the past few weeks. Nothing more than just getting a weighted cube and placing it on the right pressure plate. The next test is similarly easy. As is the next and the next. For hours Chell goes through chamber after chamber of tests fifth graders could do. During all this GLaDOS is unusually quiet. Not even chiming in with the occasional over-worn jab at her lack of parents, or nonexistent weight issue. Chell suspects this is GLaDOS’ idea of punishment for 

After hours of these mind numbingly easy tests, Chell enters a chamber unlike anything she’s seen before. It was a single large room. The walls and floor are covered in the same soft padding as her room. In the center, a venusian figure of wires and polymers hangs from the ceiling. At first Chell mistakes it for GLaDOS’ normal carapace but as she studies it she finds it is quite different. The usual clean silhouette of her body is marked with a series of retracted pneumatic tendrils hugging the sides, along with a pair of articulating arms resting in front like a praying mantis waiting to strike. 

[midnightsmusings]

A new chapter! And a long one! It's been fun to explore these two and really flush out this AU's Simon being a grumpy bastard.

-Chapter 4: The farmers market

CW: Minor violent thoughts from Simon, brief allusions to his PTSD, and a very brief argument between Ghoap

"How many weapons you got on ye?" Johnny asks as they get out, the truck doors slamming in unison. He had successfully convinced Simon to go to the l farmers market Wren had mentioned. It didn't come easy, he had made lots of promises he knew the man wouldn't let him forget.

"Ten" Simon answers flatly, hand pressed into Johnny's lower back as they walked. He spoke as if that wasn't a big deal, not a single glint of the supposed ten weapons could be seen in theendless black clothes he had on. The usual medical mask was snug on his scarred face.

Johnny hummed, the question used to be asked before missions as a way to prepare himself. Simon always had a knack for knowing if a mission was going to go to shit before it started. Now though, the question was a veiled way to see the man's comfort level. Ten was not the best but he knew he could work with it.

"This will be good for us" Johnny soothes, eyes running over Simon's body, lingering on each crease in fabric he knows the man favors hiding throwing knives in. He wonders if the spots were different now that he was in civilian clothes and not the old standard military issued ones.

Simon just grunted, looking around the entrance to the market. The lot was a simple dirt one and their truck wasn't out of place by any means. A handmade sign with an arrow pointing towards the booths stood out from the ground in front of them. Loopy lettering and small vegetable drawings decorated the wood.

It was painfully full of small town charm. He watched as each person in the growing crowd laughed with market vendors like old friends.

"You have five minutes" Simon decides eyes flicking down to Johnny and pressing his hand more into his back to get him to move. The man just chuckled, taking that as a challenge leading them past the entrance sign and into the crowd.

He instinctively took the side that braced the middle letting Simon walk along the booths. They were silent as they each took in the market, a familiar routine of noting all exits and congested areas.

There were various booths of crafts crammed between the food vendors Johnny was surprised to find. Small hand made trinkets glinted in the rising sun's rays among the rows of various colored vegetables and fruits.

Johnny didn't linger knowing he wouldn't be able to stop himself from chatting them up for hours about how they managed to get the wire around the crystals to make them pendants. All his experiences with wires ended in sliced fingertips.

Still he resisted, Simon was clearly uneasy with the area and he didn't want to push too far on their first outing. He spots a booth with a hanging sign listing various home grown tea blends and perks up, pointing.

"Look, tea for the Brit" he teases, a rough attempt at easing Simon's tense shoulders as he steers them to the smaller booth. It stood in between a jewelry and fresh herb booth. It was filled to the brim with dried plants and glass jars.

"Piss off" Simon says, his mouth twitching with amusement despite the gruff words. His eyes land on the booth he was being lead to, muttering a reluctant "they do look good." Surprisingly willing as he follows his partner through the crowd, hand set on his back as his eyes trail around them, still wary.

Johnny picks up a jar with a yellow label, various roots and small yellow flowers could be seen through the glass. He holds it up to Simon who was hovering over his shoulder.

"Si, says it can help ye sleep" he says tapping the label, the tea appropriately named snooze button blend. He softly chuckled at the idea of either of them hitting the snooze button. A luxury they had now.

"I sleep fine" Simon deadpanned but his eyes trailed over the ingredients listed, curious. His inability to sleep sometimes stems from a lot but all were hard for him to admit, even to his partner.

"Mibee I'll get it for myself then" Johnny says not arguing with the Brit's usual stubbornness. He grabs the fullest looking jar and figures it wouldn't hurt to have on hand.

"Good if it works I'll finally have peace and quiet" Simon retorts as he looks down at Johnny, a smug smile hiding under his medical mask. Used to Simon's humor he just laughs and pays the vender quickly his bright eyes already searching for another booth.

The sound eases Simon's tense shoulders for moment, the crowd fading to the background as he presses a kiss to his head through the mask.

"Promise I won't say a peep if ye do decide to try it" Johnny whispered with a small hum at the kiss before quickly getting distracted by a sweet smell in the air. He leaned out of Simon's arms not waiting for a response before walking off.

"Bread!" He shouts excitedly quickly slipping through a break in the crowd to the booth across from them, the sugary smell stemming from there. They had various loaves, both sweet and savory, and the wide variety had Johnny running a hand through his hair unable to decide.

It was between the sweet smelling brown sugar loaf or the even sweeter smelling chocolate twist bread.

Having been distracted when Johnny ran off it took Simon awhile to finally make his way over, huffing as he decided to wait for the crowd to thin.

He opened his mouth to scold his scattered partner and drag him back to the car. He was unwilling to spend this whole time chasing Johnny around like he was a puppy that got loose. Simon stopped as he sees the booth, the corner housing books and jars of starts.

His eyes catch on a sourdough starter. His gloved hand picks it up, having had no idea this was a thing. He always was a fan of sourdough, vague memories of enjoying a warm piece on rainy days were always anchors for him.

Curious, he turns the jar over to read how it works then seeing the many steps decides it seems more trouble than it's worth and sets it back down.

"Sourdough? I keened ye were an old man but..." Johnny trails off, snorting when he saw what Simon was just holding.

"Not old, just have superior taste buds" Simon replies, sending Johnny a look and stuffing his hands into his pockets. The various scents of the homemade foods vendors had sitting out were a good distraction from the loud market, even through his thin mask. It's also been awhile since he's had time to pick food out for himself. Between the bases set meals and MRE's when on missions, one can't be too picky.

"Should get it" Johnny says, putting the bread he bought under his arm to hold, he couldn't pick so just got both. He had abundant opportunities to try new things now and wanted to push Simon to do the same. His head was tilted as he looked up at his partner curiously before a smirk spread over his face.

Simon braced himself for whatever stupid words were about to come out of the man's absurdly plush mouth.

"You know who'd teach ye to make it?" He hums, reaching over Simon and grabbing the sourdough start kit waving it in the air in front of his unimpressed face "our sweet neighbor, imagine tha' wee thing in an apron Si."

"Shut it MacTavish" Simon replies, tone only half warning as he turns and chooses to focus on the crowd to keep that image out of his mind. He sighed his mask shifting with the heavy breath as he saw the market slowly getting more busy. He frowned when Johnny darted out from his grasp again.

Simon finally found him, after he used the moment alone to grumpily buy the sourdough start. His signature mohawk was easy to spot across the way despite the bustling market but Simon's nerves were still spiking at being apart.

Johnny was looking intently at a stall that boasted old fashioned recipes and Simon couldn't be too upset at his running off this time when he saw the desserts himself.

"Which one?" Johnny asks, not looking up at Simon as he looms over his shoulder, a shadow he's far too used to by now. Said shadow just shrugs, looking over the stall for a moment that had pies and various cookies laid about clearly fresh baked.

"Pie" Simon says simply his head turning to look back out at the crowd as Johnny murmurs in agreement. This happened a few more times, Johnny darting off when a new color or smell caught his attention. Simon slowly caught up as he waited for a break in the crowd, unwilling to make any more contact with people than he had to right now.

It was getting louder the more they lingered and Simon finally decided he would rather survive off of what few items they have than continue to shop here.

"We should go soon" Simon says suddenly, words sounding strained as he presses firmly into Johnny's upper back again trying to push him away from the most recent stall. This one was full of fresh eggs and his extroverted boyfriend was busy asking the vendor why some were different colors when Simon urged him to move.

"Aye, one last booth" Johnny says, easily following the man's push and making a pivot to a nearby honey stand. His arms were now full of different desserts so he put the small carton of eggs into Simon's hands, clearly distracted. He has no idea how artesian honey is different to regular honey but he's determined to find out.

"How do ye suppose they get the flavor in the honey?" Johnny murmurs once they make it through the slow walking shoppers. He was tilting the jar around, looking at the orange flavored honey the way he would a complex bomb he hasn't figured out yet. Unfortunately too enamored with the market to notice Simon's limit having been reached.

"Dunno, chemicals" Simon grunts, breathing out harshly when someone nearby drops their bag full of apples.

Each one hitting the ground sounded like a shotgun blast to Simon's overstimulated ears. The chuckles of nearby people as they help pick them up bled into screams in his mind and he watched with a clenched jaw as they slowly picked each one off the ground.

His hand moves from Johnny's lower back to grip his upper arm, the long since healed bullet wound there an anchor point he often holds tight to when needed.

Johnny looks up, frowning "naw, it says orga-" pausing mid sentence as he feels Simon's tight grip.

Johnny pushes himself up on his toes, trying to peek around Simon's broad shoulder to see what had him so on alert suddenly. Simon just grunts stopping his squirming with a more firm hold on his arm, his thumb digging into the scar tissue below the man's shirt sleeve.

Every little sound had Simon's fingers itching to grab one of his knives. It would be so easy, just a few quick flicks of his wrist. The more bodies that dropped, the quieter the market would be.

"My knees achin let's go LT" Johnny says suddenly voicing the pain he'd been ignoring in favor of his excitement when he notices Simon's eyes frantically darting around. The familiar title broke Simon out of his intrusive thoughts and his body flooded with concern now.

A quick switch from violence to care that was sure to have psychologists baffled.

"What? Why didn't you wear your brace?" Simon asks mind scrambling to remember the closest exit. He wanted to grab the food out of Johnny's arms, offer him his own arm to lean on but couldn't get his fists to unclench, the eggs were balanced in the crook of one of his elbows and he felt useless.

"I like having ye kiss it better" Johnny responds, sending a small smile to Simon over his shoulder trying to seem at ease as he lead them away from the honey booth. It helped a little, the usual ribbing giving something for Simon to focus on instead of the looks he was getting for how close he was hovering over the shorter man.

"Not gonna kiss your bloody knee" Simon grunts, eyes rolling a little as Johnny quickly finds a side exit. He breathed a little easier once they get away from most of the noise.

"I'll massage it though" Simon says, hands unclenching finally as they near the truck and shifting the carton in his arm to reach up. He meant to squeeze Johnny's shoulder but pauses as he realizes they haven't been at the market for very long.

Looking around he notes that all the cars were still the same as when they arrived. He sighs heavily and gets into the drivers seat of the truck, the silence hanging heavy as the engine turns on and Johnny sets their food in the back.

The drive to the house was tense to Simon. His clothes felt too tight and his head hurt from his brief panic. His mind was buzzing, thinking Johnny was disappointed and that thought made him feel worse than a crowded ever market could.

He rolled down the drivers side window and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the side door pocket. A habit he had stopped after retiring.

"Want to actually get old with ye" Johnny had said, ripping the cigarette he lit as soon as they were driving away from base for the last time.

Simon hasn't touched one since that night, sucking on hard candies instead during the road trip up to this town. Furthering the old man title Johnny had bestowed upon him.

He didn't think much as he ripped off his mask, lighting the cigarette with his wrists balanced on the wheel leaning forward to cup the flame. He leaned back, blowing out a smoke filled breath and felt his body relax.

Usually he could rely on Johnnys chatter to fill his own silences. Despite his complaints about the man's ceaseless talking he had relied on it during missions.

The constant stream through comms let him know his sergeant was still going strong. Silence was always concerning then, he wasn't sure what to do with it now either.

Simon knew he wasn't the best partner, that he couldn't always effectively communicate. A deep seated fear always forced him to simply shut down at any hint of a conflict with Johnny.

It was a far better alternative than anything his father ever did. So he sat smoking silently and wondered if this was what a domestic life meant.

"Stop spiraling m'not mad at ye" Johnny finally said, low voice cutting through Simon's inner panic.

His hand reached out and took the cigarette out of Simon's mouth, stealing a small inhale for himself before tamping it out.

"Just...I shoula listened, left when ye said ye wanted to" Johnny muttered, accent thicker as his emotions came bubbling up to the surface.

Simon left the window rolled down despite the smoke no longer needing to be let out. He found the whipping wind as he sped down the road grounding.

His gloved hand tightened on the wheel at the words. He was unsure if Johnny was referring to the farmers market, or the night in the field that got them fast tracked into retirement.

Simon made his thoughts on that night clear already, a big blowout they had in his office half the base heard. He didn't feel like hashing it out again. Instead he pretended Johnny was simply talking about the farmers market.

"'M solid Johnny" Simon says, sparing him a glance "let's just get home."

Johnny gave him a small look, and eventually a nod before he started filling in Simon on what he missed about the different colored chicken eggs.

Johnny talked mindlessly, trying to distract himself from his own guilt. He knew it was asking a lot, going to a farmers market after freshly moving and finding an unexpected neighbor to their little haven.

He also knew isolating themselves was not the way to truly heal and thought it would be a good step. Probably should have heeded Wren's warning about it being busy.

He talked the rest of the way, Simon interjecting small hums here and there until he pulled into the driveway. The truck engine turning off left them in another odd feeling silence.

They each got out and grabbed the food from the truck bed. Simon sending Johnny a look as he tried to grab the heavier objects after having just complained about his knee. Johnny just pouted, grabbed the bread, and headed up the stairs. Slower than he'd like to admit.

"Go sit" Simon grunted, throwing the groceries into the kitchen before making a beeline for the freezer where they kept more ice packs than meals. He sighed, realizing they didn't get as much food as they needed to and it was his bloody fault.

"Love it when ye order me around" Johnny chuckled from the living room, dropping onto the couch feeling his muscles loosening already with the help of the plush cushions.

Simon ignored his teasing as he rounded the corner with an ice pack and hand towel clutched tightly. It was a housewarming gift Gaz sent away with them and Ghost will forever pretend he doesn't love it.

Black embroidered letters spelled out 'hate is the secret ingredient' on a soft grey fabric.

The lack of a TV made the atmosphere seem tense again as he entered the living room and it set Simon on edge, again. He silently sat next to Johnny before grabbing the man's knee and draping it over his own.

He kept reminding himself that his partner wasn't disappointed but he still felt sick to his stomach.

Johnny hissed at the first press of ice before he hummed low in his throat, head dropping back onto the cushions behind him.

He looked over at Simon admiring his maskless face like he always did whenever he got the chance before opening his mouth to make a flirty comment, only to shut it with a snap when Simon spoke.

"Don't like you having to walk on eggshells around me" he said, words tumbling out quick as he pressed the ice harder against Johnny's knee as if the words had to be forced out.

Johnny nodded in response, pressing his lips together and turning his head away, eyes staring intently at the wall.

He breathed through all the things he wanted to shout at his thickheaded partner before settling on a soft "not eggshells, it's me being a good partner."

The words had Simon sighing heavily, hand lifting the ice off his knee and replacing it with his fingers, calloused skin rubbing gently into the sore muscle.

"Don't want your pity either" he said, eyes focused down on how his fingers worked over the tanned skin.

He was unable to look at Johnny as he spoke his feelings knowing he would just clam up again if he took one look at those soft brown eyes. He couldn't stomach being seen by his partner as something that needed fixing.

He heard Johnny sigh even heavier as he turned back to the wall. Simon distantly wondered about the merits of asking him to draw something to hang there.

"How would ye feel if I told ye I didn't like ya helping with my knee?" Johnny eventually asked, tone clearly hinting at something.

The question has Simon pausing his movements before he shrugged and grabbed the ice again, pressing it back down onto the towel he laid over the exposed skin.

He thought about that for a moment as he counted the minutes, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I'd hate it" he answered finally, shoulders dropping a little as he glanced over at his partner groaning lowly at the look he was already giving him.

"I'd hate it a lot" he admitted again.

Johnny hummed and shifted a little, wrapping an arm around Simon's shoulders that had him instantly leaning back into before jolting up at the soft smack he felt on the back of his head.

"Don't ever call my love for ye pity again Simon Riley" Johnny said, voice a low and a growling tone that would send a jolt through Simon if he wasn't currently getting scolded.

He quickly nodded, squeezing Johnny's knee in a silent apology before muttering out a soft "love you too" and leaned back into his arm, the silence finally peaceful.

[imnotasuperhero]

Look into my eyes (search your soul)

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Your love for Wanda could make you go the distance and more, just to see her happy.

A/N: I know I’m a week late, BUT! March came by and I’m back to my old schedule at karate and then a friend opened her own dojo and we celebrated and if you add work to the mix.. adulting sucks, dude. I promise I’ll try to stick to weekly updates! I also have a started wip that might be posted tomorrow.

Here’s part 4. I hope you enjoy this one and it’s enough to keep your hearts hanging 🤭🤭 Enjoy!

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX

The cries could be heard through the door, so you decided to avoid the knocking and just enter Wanda’s home, feeling your heart squeeze at the scene in front of you.

Hurrying to the quietly crying woman, you took one of her babies from her hold, slowly rocking him trying to calm him down.

"Shh," you coed. "Everything is okay." Bewitching the baby in your arms, Tommy -you noticed, you looked into Wanda's green eyes, hoping she understood the hidden meaning in those words.

Sitting on the couch, you patted the place beside you, a clear indication for Wanda to follow.

The whole smoothness in which the next minutes elapsed only added to your emotional bag.

"They're asleep," Wanda sighed. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," you breathed.

You knew this silence meant some heavy chat. It wasn't usual for Wanda to be so erratic. And if it wasn't for the babies, you knew she would even be catatonic. But you also knew you couldn't force her. So you just stood there, admiring the sleeping baby in your arms, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"You were with Nat." 

The spoken words froze your respiratory system for a moment too long. That was not what you expected. 

"I was," you looked at Wanda, who refused to take her eyes off her son.

"You had sex with her."

"Since when you question what I do?" You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk hiding on your lips.

"You did." She whispered, making the wires in your brain short-circuit.

Sighing, you just sunk deep into the couch, letting the silence make its presence once again.

"Can you look at them while I shower?" Wanda asked with certain shyness that squeezed your heart.

"Of course," you nodded. "Take your time, there's no rush," you made sure your eyes locked with Wanda's, hoping she believed your words.

Looking at her go, you finally breathed out all the pent-up emotions you felt. 

"Welcome to the world," you laughed drily at the sleeping babies, admiring the ability to ignore the problems. 

If only they could talk to fill you in the blanks.

Leaving Tommy in their small crib beside his brother, you marched to the kitchen, decided to mend Wanda's heart. Or at least try. 

"Wands?" You knocked on the closed door.

"Yes." 

"I brought you tea," you maneuvered to open the door with your elbow, giving her one mug to take the baby monitor out of your pocket and placed it on the countertop. "They're fast asleep," you smiled, easing Wanda's worries.

After staring at you for a few seconds too long, Wanda hummed at the warm steam filling her nostrils. "Thank you," she mouthed.

"It's nothing," you sat down on the floor by the bathtub, just waiting.

It wasn't rare for you two to work in tandem without having to speak your needs. Much less considering the friendship that linked you both. So when you stood there by her side, she didn’t think about kicking you out -not even when she was naked, only covered by the foam in the water. 

“I’m sorry,” Wanda felt her heart squeezing at the confusion plastered all over your face. “For always dragging you into my problems.” She changed the course of her intentions. Now was not the time.

Wanda’s breath hitched when she saw you move closer, maybe too close for two best friends. And the breath she was about to exhale delayed even more at the burning feeling of your hand against her wet arm.

“Remember all those years back after your fight with Pietro under our tree?” How could she not? It was one of her favorite moments with you.

Once she nodded, you continued. “Do you remember what did I tell you?”

“Soulmates don’t necessarily have to be lovers. I’m your soulmate and we’re linked forever, even after our deaths.” Wanda remembered every single word with a smile, the warm feeling in her chest easing the pain she was feeling moments ago.

“After all these years, I still stand by my words,” you reached for her shampoo, standing up to sit at the edge of the bathtub. “Scoot forward.” 

Wanda let herself relax at the feeling of your expertised hands washing her greasy hair. God knows she had barely had time for body showers.

“You are my soulmate, Wanda.” The pause in your statement went unnoticed by Wanda for all her body felt like giving up to gravity at the massages on her scalp, drawing soft moans out of her at the feeling of floating.

“Your burdens are mine and your happiness and successes are mine, too. So don’t you ever think for one second that I won’t be by your side to help you through whatever you’re going through.”

Looking up, Wanda finally let her tears run freely at the sincerity she could see in your eyes. But before she could say anything, a cry was heard through the white small speaker by the bathroom sink.

“Think you can finish yourself?”

“It’s feeding time,” Wanda smiled. “And Y/N?” She spoke before you walked out, “Thank you.” Wanda sighed, unplucking the bathtub before opening the shower to rinse her clean hair.

Feeling the hot water washing all her worries and the sadness lingering in her heart, Wanda finished with her task, taking her time to allow herself to think about the best way to break the news to you.

She’s known you for over half her life and even though a part of her wanted to join you in whatever your plan of action could be just to make him feel a small proportion of what she was feeling, an even bigger part wanted to keep things civil for her kids’ sake.

Feeling clean, she quickly changed into her comfort clothes before joining you. No matter how bad her body ached for rest, she couldn’t leave you alone with her kids. It won’t be right.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the cracks in her heart started to repair themselves agonizingly slowly at the sight of you quietly lulling both babies, making it seem so effortlessly as you paced around the living room’s floor.

“Nice shirt,” you smirked and Wanda looked down at her body, inspecting the clothing. Oh.

“It’s comfy,” she shrugged away the feeling of her cheeks heating up. Walking towards you, she picked Tommy up as she leaned towards your shoulder to kiss Billy’s head. “I’m ready,” Wanda locked her eyes with yours, hoping you understood. After all, you couldn’t do much with the babies sleeping.

“Vision left,” Wanda sighed after making herself comfortable on her couch.

“For how long?” You asked and Wanda smiled sadly at the confusion in your voice.

“No,” Wanda paused looking for the right words, trying her best to keep it steady. “He left us.”

The confusion on your face shifted into a shocked one just to be replaced by anger.

The change in your pupils lighted up something akin to fear in Wanda. It was very rare for you to get this way, and she thanked her babies for preventing you to break hell free.

“That fucker,” you growled, fidgeting uncomfortably.

Her tongue itched to speak, but she decided to stay quiet until your breathing returned to a normal rate, all while bracing into the baby in her arms. Her hold almost unbreakable, trying to keep the small hope that had been slipping through her fingers for a while, now.

“What was his lame excuse?” You asked, breaking the pregnant silence.

“He… He said he couldn’t do this. That all this chaos was hard for him and-”

“Stop. Please, stop before I go chasing him to kill him.” Your eyes closed trying to calm your erratic breaths and Wanda could only fight harder to run from the darkness chasing her. But when you opened your eyes, all Wanda saw was hope.

Granted, it lasted just a few milliseconds for it disappeared as fast as it came, but the pang in Wanda’s chest signaled something growing inside her.

Opening your arms, Wanda choked at the silent invitation.

“I know you can’t see it right now, but you’re better off without him,” your voice came soothing, but it only served to break her. Her eyes burning with every shedded tear.

Wanda snuggled impossibly closer into your warmth, allowing her body to blend against yours as you secured your free arm around her shoulders, as if shielding her from the bad things of life.

And just like the pain in her mixed with anger, a new feeling she seemed to ignore, lighted up like a torch in a pitch-black cave, clearing away the darkness that had settled around her beating heart.

As always, coments and reblogs are highly appreciated (:

Taglist: @summergeezburr​ @wandabear​ @red1culous​ @inluvwithfictionalwomen​ @aliherreraaa @kiancorpse ​ @whitewidowsbite ​ @xxxtwilightaxelxxx ​ @daenerys713 ​ @swiftie1-0-1 @godamnityess ​ @marvelwomen-simp ​ @forthelesbians ​ @when-wolves-howl ​ @marvelogic ​ @cowboyboots236 @iliketozoneout​ (If you wanna be added to the taglist, just let me know! :)

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Complications

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

|| Consent universe oneshot but can be read independently from the series ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Prompts: Dieter shoots a watch ad | New Year's Eve

Summary: Dieter shoots a watch ad at a New Year’s Eve party. What could possibly happen - specifically in the VIP powder room - when the ball drops?

Warnings: !WATCH KINK!, dirty talk, fingering, semi-public sex. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 2.3k

In horology, a complication is any feature of a mechanical timepiece beyond the display of hours, minutes and seconds.

Dedicated to Maddie @imaswellkid for loving watches on Pedro boys as much as I do 😘

‘Sweetheart. C’mon, stop pouting.’

‘I’m not pouting.’

Dieter brushes the pad of his thumb across your lips, pursed petulantly despite your denial. ‘You so are.’

You swat away his hand then cross your arms. ‘I’m scowling. There’s a difference.’

You’re not sure who made the executive decision to appoint Dieter Bravo as the brand ambassador of a watchmaker. The man’s never worn a watch in his life. Time is but a social construct to him.

But what’s done is done, and he will be launched as the face of their new line of luxury watches at a New Year’s Eve party hosted by the brand this very evening - a last-minute decision that’s upset your plans for your first new year together.

Pete is throwing a bash at the warehouse conversion he’s just moved into, and you’ve been looking forward to seeing your backstage friends from Resurgence since you got the invite. You pull out your phone to text him your apologies, which Pete responds to speedily with a string of sad face emojis, and follows up with a call to Dieter.

You can hear Pete whining through the receiver even though the phone isn’t on speaker as your boyfriend pacifies him. ‘Man, you know how much I wanted to come, but this work thing came up last-minute. We’ll make our way over right after the countdown, I promise. Yes, pinky promise.’

Your lips quirk despite your mood.

Hanging up as the car rolls to a stop in front of a swanky hotel, Dieter sighs at your long face. He leans over to press a kiss to your impassive lips, his brown eyes pleading. ‘I’ll make it up to you sweetheart, ok?’

‘Fine,’ you huff, softening just the tiniest bit as the car doors are flung open, and with one last smile at you, Dieter is whisked away by his PR team.

Midnight is still a few hours away, and the schedule is tightly packed with a photoshoot beforehand and filming of behind-the-scenes footage for social media. They settle you in the lounge of the presidential suite while Dieter gets ready in the other room, and you begrudgingly accept a glass of champagne and the plate of canapes they leave you on the coffee table.

You pace yourself, making the bubbles last. Pumped up dance music spills from his room as the door opens and closes with the rush of pre-shoot chaos. Garment bags, shoe boxes and makeup trolleys come and go as you entertain yourself with the glossy magazines on the coffee table while the PR team buzzes about, wired to earpieces and shouting orders into their phones.

You’re halfway through an embarrassingly engrossing magazine quiz - how hot is your sex life according to your fave side dish - when a shadow falls over you.

‘Sweetheart, we’re heading down to the party now. Come with?’

You can’t help but stare.

To be honest, you had no expectations whatsoever for this gig. You thought they would dress him up in a generic black suit, take some generic shots with him fiddling with his cufflink while showing off his timepiece like every other generic watch ad. It’s not like you don’t appreciate a sharp suit or a nice watch, you do - but it’s just not Dieter.

And it looks like the stylist heard your prayers.

Instead of a traditional two-piece, Dieter is wearing relaxed dress pants, a light knitted pullover tucked into them over a smart belt. Rounding off the ensemble is a smart knee-length black coat with sharp lapels. His signature sunglasses perch on the tip of his nose, his curls styled messily.

The sleeves of the coat are folded up to expose his strong hands, but what really catches your eye sits on his left wrist - a large, square-faced watch with a steel chain bracelet.

While you don’t count yourself a connoisseur, you know enough to recognise that this watch is the real deal. The time display is in refined Roman numerals, and an elegant moonphase complication sits at the top of the dial. The pièce de résistance is the small, circular window at the bottom of the face that offers a peek into the sacred inner mechanics - the tourbillon. Beneath the glass is a gorgeous criss-crossing of gold wheels, brass cogs, and silver springs, all tangled in perfect synchronisation, endless moving parts that tick and spin.

It is a beautiful watch, no doubt, and a hugely expensive one at that.

To your consternation, they’re letting him wear his ratty knitted bracelet he bought from a vendor on a farflung beach in Thailand on the same hand, as well as his rings with the black gemstones on his index and pinky fingers.

While unusual in theory, the contrast somehow pays off. The whole look just works - it’s Dieter. You could kiss the stylist on the mouth with joy even though your boyfriend is standing right there.

‘Sweetheart?’

Your eyes fall to Dieter’s palm, open and outstretched in invitation. Then they move just a few inches upward, lingering on the smooth steel encircling his wrist.

You swallow thickly and put your hand in his, letting him pull you onto your feet, knees wobbly. A shiver runs down the length of your spine when the watch brushes your skin.

It should come as no surprise to you that Dieter is just as good on the set of a photoshoot as a movie. He works the angles, ever aware of the lighting and the cameras, hitting pose after pose like the professional that he is.

The photographer’s assistant shows you the stills on a laptop as they snap. With the set outdoors in the dark, the raw lighting - bordering on harsh - lends a gritty overtone to the photos, the tone far more artistic than commercial.

There’s no tweaking of cufflinks or stale power posing here. Dieter’s smouldering at the camera, peeking through his hand while the watch takes centre stage. He’s raking his fingers through his hair, lips grazing the metal strap as he gazes into the lens.

But when he brings it to his mouth, biting the steel case with the pink of his tongue peeking through, your knees all but give out.

By the time the photographer yells it’s a wrap, you’re a mess. Tension hums under your skin and there’s a stickiness between your legs that puts you in a highly inconvenient position given that Dieter will be fully occupied for the next hour and a half. You adjust your dress as discreetly as you can, jumping when his palm lands warm on your back as he ushers you indoors before you can pull yourself together.

This party is not your scene. Formulaic pop music blares from the speakers, beautiful people mill about in sequins that sparkle under the disco lights and bounce off blindingly from mirrors everywhere you look. The only redeeming detail is the delicious champagne that flows liberally, at least that tempers the tedium.

Everyone wants a piece of him. Sometimes you find it hard to believe that this is the same guy who doesn’t know how to load a dishwasher. He handles the relentless demands with aplomb - a selfie with a fan here, a few words for New York Times Style magazine there, all the while performing for the live stream camera that trails two steps behind him.

You linger nearby, following discreetly while sipping on champagne. Even from a distance, the watch catches the light whenever he moves. Dieter notices you staring, jaw slack, more than once. But the harder you try to act normal, the more on edge you get. He sends you more than one quizzical glance over the top of his sunglasses, but with people buzzing around him like pesky wasps, it’s not until twenty minutes to midnight that he catches a break and drags you unceremoniously into the VIP bathroom.

The heavy oak door shuts out the blasted music as Dieter locks it behind him, wheeling you around with his grip on your elbows. ‘Alright sweetheart, what is it? Are you still mad about Pete’s party?’

You grit your teeth and force yourself to keep your eyes on his. ‘No.’

He sighs. ‘We can go afterwards. I told Pete we will, I just need to do this countdown thing and we can go right after.’

‘I said it’s not that,’ you insist, fighting the damn magnetic force trying to drag your gaze downwards.

Tugging you into his arms, Dieter traces his nose on your cheek. ‘C’mon sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you.’

Your voice trembles. ‘I’m not lying, I’m fine.’

Clearly unconvinced, he arches an eyebrow at you before pulling back, cocking his wrist to check the time.

The whimper slips from you without you knowing, suspended in the air between you that thickens instantly like some chemical reaction.

Dieter looks at you sharply. ‘What was that, sweetheart?’

You give in and take a peek at his watch for just one second, but he catches you - of course he does. A cocky grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he drawls, ‘What have we here - found a new accessory that you like the look of?’

You whine, a hot flush of embarrassment in your chest. ‘I don’t know why it turns me on.’

‘What does? The fact that I can tell time?’ he teases. Splaying his left palm on the nape of your neck, the cold bracelet of his watch caresses the side of your neck. ‘First my rings, now this? You filthy girl.’

‘I can’t help it,’ you gripe.

Knowing exactly what it does to you, Dieter takes another exaggerated look at his watch, head tilted to the side. ‘We have fifteen minutes. Can you be quick, sweetheart?’

At your desperate nod, he backs you up into the full-length mirror on the far side of the powder room before spinning you around, crowding you against the cool surface. His entire body engulfs from behind you as he trails kisses down the side of your neck, watching your reflection squirm in his grasp from the corner of his eye. With no preamble, he bunches your tight skirt all the way up your hips and tugs your panties to one side impatiently.

‘Look at how wet those panties are,’ he moans into your ear. ‘Have you just been standing there checking me out, rubbing your thighs together all this time?’

A gasp catches in your throat. ‘Yes.’

His left palm trails down your body, and you stare openly as the watch skims over your body, the hard steel scraping the swell of your cleavage as it descends. You’re panting by the time Dieter’s fingers slide along your folds until the tips nudge your slick entrance, a cry wrangled from you when the watch falls to the base of his hand and the strap grazes your clit. With a growl, he presses his inner wrist into the sensitive apex of your thighs. ‘Feel good, baby?’

You make an incoherent sound when two thick digits slip into your sodden pussy. ‘Oh fuck, yes, please.’

‘Rub that needy clit on my watch, sweetheart,’ he orders, dark eyes on you. ‘Smear yourself all over it.’

You mewl and do as you’re told. Riding his fingers, you feel every ridge on the watch strap as you grind into the smooth steel, your movements crude and fitful. Dieter has to hold you up with his free arm wound tight around your waist while your hands cling to the back of his neck.

‘Fuck, you’re getting so wet,’ he says through gritted teeth, as if in awe, and pumps harder into you. ‘Oh yes, I feel your cunt clenching around me, you’re close, aren’t you?’

You moan, words failing you. ‘Don’t stop, please -’

‘Fuck, baby, you’re getting my watch all wet,’ he grunts, pinching your chin between his fingers, making you look at yourself in the mirror. ‘See how it’s shiny with your slick? So fucking pretty, sweetheart.’

You feel another gush of arousal drip down his hand, and his watch slips, the bracelet catching your clit in an angle that makes your back arch. You cum hard, writhing desperately in his grasp as he whispers filth into your ear through your high. ‘So good for me, baby, that’s it, such a good girl, dripping all over my expensive watch, you filthy thing -’

Dieter nuzzles your neck as you catch your breath, the scrape of his beard on your sensitive skin making you tremble and squirm in his grip. He gently eases out of you, sucking his fingers clean before turning you around and kissing you slowly and deeply so that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You’re still drifting in the aftershock when a frantic series of knocks on the bathroom door shakes you out of it. With an irritated snarl, Dieter barks, ‘What?’

‘Um, Mr. Bravo - we’re five minutes from midnight, you need to come out right now -’

‘I can read the fucking time,’ he snaps and gives you an apologetic kiss to the temple. ‘Sorry baby, work beckons.’

Your hand shoots out of nowhere to grab him, and locking your gaze with him, you drag the flat of your tongue across the damp strap, tasting yourself on the metal.

His nostrils flare and you can almost hear his jaw crack, pupils blown wide and black as you give him a wicked grin. Snaking one palm all the way down to rub his straining erection, you breathe into his ear. ‘I want you to stroke yourself until you cum all over that fancy watch later, okay?’

He groans, burying his nose in your hair. ‘How am I going to count down with this huge fucking boner in my pants, baby?’

You wink and give him a full-mouthed kiss. ‘Just think of it as a countdown to something else after.’

Dieter chuckles against your lips. ‘Happy fucking New Year indeed, sweetheart.’

Notes: I finally did it. A watch kink fic! Honestly, it's not as wild as it could've been, but damn I had the best time writing it. Thank you for reading, wishing all you wonderful people a very happy new year! ❤️

As soon as it was became clear from the results that NYE was going to be paired with the watch ad prompt, I just knew instantly I had to set it in a NYE party. Thank you Hayley @haylzcyon for this request that went perfectly with my idea:

ooohhh don't feel pressured to write this in if you do the NYE prompt but the idea of a swanky NYE party where reader and dieter get a little tipsy, sneak off for a quickie in a coat room or something and realize they missed the ball drop when they come back would be hilarious. dieter can't imagine a better way to ring in the new year than between your thighs 😏