#Balance Wire Belt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pixzyn · 4 months ago

Text

AFTER ALL, I’M STILL ECLIPSE.

The air in the abandoned factory is suffocating, filled with the sounds of whirring machinery, the faint hum of energy systems, and the echoes of footsteps on the cold, metal floor. Solar stands alone in the center of the cavernous space, his heart pounding. His eyes, though heavy with sorrow, are focused—focused on the twisted shape of his son.

Jack—the son he raised, loved, and protected—now stands before him, a horrifying amalgamation of Negative star power and machine. His once innocent face is a mask of cold numbness, eyes glowing with a sinister purple light that speaks of unspeakable torment. His body is covered in shifting, adaptive-metallic armor, blades, and weapons that form and retract with every movement. His fingers are sharp, like claws, capable of slicing through steel. His speed is unreal, like a blur, his movements so fast they nearly defy the common eye.

Solar, once a mechanic who built things with his hands, has no choice but to face his son as a weapon. He knows the truth—the boy he once called his son is gone, his mind shattered and enslaved by the sadistic figure lurking somewhere in the shadows, controlling everything.

Jack smiles cruelly, his voice harsh, like a distorted echo of the person he used to be. “You’re too weak to save me. Thanks to my REAL father I’m better than I’ve ever been. Faster. Stronger. A soldier. A weapon.”

Solar’s hands tremble, not from fear, but from the knowledge of what he must do. He’s always been good with machines, with creating, fixing, and modifying. But he never thought he would have to use those skills in this way. His eyes dart to a pile of scrap metal and tools nearby—pieces of discarded machinery from his workshop. He knows what he has to do.

With a sudden motion, Jack vanishes, a blur of speed, faster than sound, and reappears behind his father. Solar barely manages to turn, just in time to raise a makeshift shield—a metal plate strapped to his arm, reinforced with jagged edges. Jack’s fist slams into it with bone-shattering force, sending Solar stumbling back, nearly losing his balance.

“You can’t stop us!” Jack taunts, his body flickering with lightning-fast movements as he generates a blade from his forearm, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. “You never could.”

But the Solar is quick—quicker than he’s ever been. He knows he has only one shot, one chance to end this. His hands fly to his utility belt, pulling out a few small, high-powered gadgets he’s cobbled together in the time he’s had since the Creator’s mind control first began to take hold of Jack. He pulls out a small device—a custom-made EMP emitter, something capable of disrupting electronic systems. He activates it.

Jack freezes for a split second, his expression faltering. For just that moment, his movements slow, and his body hesitates. Solar takes his chance, moving with all the precision of a mechanic working on a delicate machine. He hurls himself toward a workbench nearby, pulling out a piece of industrial wiring—a sharp, electrified cable capable of delivering a paralyzing shock. Managing to dodge the electrical waves thanks to his mechanic gloves.

Jack, recovering quickly, charges again, his body shifting into a deadly whip-like mechanic appendage aimed straight for Solar’s throat. The mechanic , using all his strength, grabs the cable just as Jack closes in. With a swift motion, knowing his son’s body like the palm of his hand. He jams it into Jack’s exposed side, targeting a weak point—one of the few vulnerable spots left in the boy's body, where the mechanical systems are imperfect.

For a brief, horrible moment, Solar eyes lock with his son’s, seeing the flicker of his son behind the cold, metallic eyes. Jack’s face twists in pain, confusion, and horror, as if the mind control is briefly cracking.

Solar’s heart twists in agony, but he knows that the boy before him is no longer his son—not truly. He’s become a weapon, a puppet of something far worse. And if he doesn’t act now, if he doesn’t stop the boy, there will be no way to save him.

Solar channels the remaining strength in his body, twisting the cable, sending a surge of electricity through his son’s systems. The boy jerks, his body convulsing violently, but still, he doesn’t stop. Solar, with tears streaming down his face, pulls out the final tool: a small but powerful magnetic pulse bomb he’d hidden on his body. It’s designed to short-circuit and destroy any form of advanced technology. Even the adaptanium couldn’t stand a chance.

With a grim expression, Solar places it on his son’s chest, activating it with the push of a button. Jack’s body reacts, shaking as the magnetic pulse begins to overload the mechanical systems that have been controlling him.

Solar steps back, his breath ragged. He looks at his son, his heart breaking as the boy collapses to his knees. For a brief moment, the mind control flickers again, and Solar sees it. Negative star power starts leaking out of his body.—a flash of recognition, the boy he once knew, the one he loved. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, drowned by the dark power of the Creator.

Jack’s body convulses one final time, as the devices and weapons within him shut down, his body now a twisted mass of broken machines and oil. He falls to the ground, his eyes no longer glowing with malice, but now dull and empty.

Solar kneels beside him, feeling the coldness of the boy’s case, and the unbearable weight of what he’s just done. The pain in his heart is excruciating, but there’s no other choice. The son he knew is gone, lost to the horrors of the negative star power, and the only way to stop him from becoming an even greater weapon was to kill him.

As Solar stands up, his hands trembling, he looks at the shattered remnants of his son—his final act of love, his final act of mercy. The sound of the creator’s laughter echoes from the shadows, but Solar has done what he had to do.

And now, he’s left alone with the broken pieces of the boy he once called his son.

The sound of Solar's breath is the only thing that fills the heavy silence in the abandoned factory. The EMP pulse hums softly in the background, the last lingering echo of the negative star power that once controlled his son. His heart aches with every beat, knowing the weight of what he’s just done. The boy he just grew to appreciate—the son he just started love—is now nothing more than a shattered shell, lying motionless before him.

But then… something stirs.

The mechanic's eyes snap open. The faintest tremor, like a pulse running through his son’s body, catches his attention. For a moment, the father freezes, his pulse quickening in hope and horror, unable to believe what he’s witnessing.

The boy’s body shifts. It’s slow at first—his chest rises in a shallow breath, his fingers twitch slightly. His metallic limbs, once so efficient and deadly, now seem heavy and clumsy, the smooth movements interrupted by jerks as if the machinery within him is struggling to repair itself, to correct what the Solar’s final act had temporarily interrupted.

Solar’s hands shake violently as he kneels beside Jack, barely able to breathe through the tightness in his chest. His eyes are wide, his face a mixture of disbelief, grief, and a glimmer of hope he never thought he’d see again.

"Jack...?" The Solar’s voice cracks. He whispers it again, louder this time, filled with desperation, as if hoping to pull his son back from the precipice. "Please… please come back to me."

There is a moment of stillness, almost unbearable silence, before the son’s lips twitch. Then, with great effort, Jack’s eyes—those eyes that were once so full of life, now clouded by the horrors he had been made to endure—slowly open. The unnatural glow that once illuminated them has faded, leaving behind only raw confusion and exhaustion.

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Solar is looking into the eyes of his son again, truly looking at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he sees the boy he built—the boy who laughed at the dinner table, the boy who had a bright future before him, the boy who had his whole life ahead of him.

"…Dad?" The voice is broken, weak, barely a whisper. His son’s lips tremble, as if the words are struggling to form. "What… happened to me?"

Solar’s heart cracks, and tears begin to blur his vision. He takes his Jack’s hand in his, trembling, his voice barely audible, as though he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter this moment. "You were… you were taken, Jack. Controlled by the Creator, twisted into something you weren’t. I—" Solar’s words falter, his emotions overwhelming him. He struggles to continue, fighting against the lump in his throat. "I had to stop you. I had to… I had to save you. But the cost…"

Jack’s head jerks slightly, pain coursing through his body as the realization begins to settle in. His eyes flicker with a painful understanding, and his hand tries to pull away from his father's grasp, weak and unsteady. “I… I killed people, didn’t I?” His voice cracks as the weight of his actions comes crashing down on him. His body shudders, a sob catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

“No, no,” Solar says, his voice filled with love and sorrow, not anger. "It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault." He holds the boy’s hand tighter, brushing Jack damp hair from his face. “You were taken from me. You’re still you. You’re still Jack!."

Jack’s face twists in pain, his eyes now beginning to water as his body trembles violently from the damage done by the negative star power. He tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for him. The unnatural energy that once fueled him now seems to be gone, leaving him fragile and broken.

Solar can see it now—Jack is slipping away. The Creator’s control had done irreparable damage to both his body and mind. His limbs are twitching uncontrollably, like the remnants of a system that can no longer function properly. His breathing grows shallower by the second, the energy fading from his body.

Jack looks up at his father again, his gaze filled with sorrow, and perhaps the last bit of clarity he’ll ever know. “I’m sorry... I didn’t want to hurt anyone... I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Solar presses his forehead against his son’s, tears falling freely now as the reality settles in. "I know. I know, Jack." His voice is barely a whisper, the pain of knowing the boy he saved will soon be lost again, the finality of it all gnawing at him. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to have to do this. But I would’ve done anything to bring you back… even if it meant losing you."

Jack’s hand weakly clutches his father’s. "I… I love you, Dad..." His voice is faint, a whisper on the edge of his breath. "I’m... sorry. I can’t... stay."

And just like that, as the final remnants of the negative star power fade away, his son’s body goes still. His hand goes limp in Solar’s grip. The last flicker of life and recognition in his eyes disappears, replaced by the emptiness of death.

Solar closes his eyes, his entire body shaking with the agony of losing Jack for the second time. His hands cradle his son’s face one last time, gently brushing his forehead. "I love you too, son," he whispers, his voice barely audible as the weight of grief and relief hits him all at once.

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped. Solar holds his son’s lifeless body, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be a boy with limitless potential. There are no words left. No way to fix the brokenness between them. The heartache of what could have been and what never could be again is far too much to bear.

And yet, in the silence that follows, as Solar holds Jack for the last time, there’s a final, fleeting thought. The negative star power may have stolen his son, but for a brief moment, he had his boy back. That’s all that matters now.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Solar's hands are stained with dirt, Sun! Moon and Dazzle by his side. His fingers trembling as he gently lowers the lifeless body of his son into the freshly dug grave. The hole is not deep enough to erase the sorrow it holds, but it's deep enough to ensure his son rests in peace. His body, though broken by the horrors of the corruption of the negative star power, is still his son, and Solar will treat him with the respect and love he deserves.

Solar’s breath catches as he gazes at his son one last time. The boy—now still and cold—has been returned to the earth, but Solar’s heart remains broken, raw, and exposed. With a solemn expression, he places the final layer of dirt over the grave, his hands working with an almost mechanical precision, despite the agony in his chest.

The grave lies under the shade of a large tree—a place that had once been Jack’s favorite spot, where he and Dazzle would sit together and enjoy their youth, looking forward a promising future. Now it serves as a silent witness to the end of that future. Beside it lies another grave—the resting place of on of Jack’s bestest friends, Neptor, a boy who had been just as full of life and curiosity as Jack, taken too soon, and buried under this very tree.

Solar pauses for a moment, his hands on the fresh mound of earth. He takes a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of it all is suffocating. His son, had been lost in ways no parent should ever have to endure, twisted into a weapon, forced to carry out unspeakable acts, all controlled by a dark force beyond his reach. And now, the last remnants of the child he built are buried here, where the world can never again see the boy’s true potential.

As he finishes covering the grave, his knees buckle. His hands grip the ground tightly, the feeling of emptiness clawing at him. The dirt is cold, the air thick with loss. He presses his palms against the earth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The tears fall freely now, mixing with the dirt beneath him.

“Can I have a moment alone with him, please”. Solar says with a cracked voice.

“Yeah…su-sure…Solar.” Moon replied.

“Of course…take all the time you need”. Added Sun.

Dazzle reminds silent. Just following her own father and her uncle back to their house with piercing sorrow.

Then, amidst the suffocating grief, something snaps.

Solar's hand clenches into a fist.

A violent surge of emotion rises from the depths of his soul, a fury so intense it nearly blinds him. He’s spent the last moments of his life mourning, burying, accepting the cruel fate forced upon his family. But the man, the ANIMAL!—the one who caused this, the one who had twisted his son into a killing machine, the one who had orchestrated all of this—has not paid for his sins.

Solar's mind flashes with memories—of the twisted figure standing behind the scenes, controlling his son like a puppet. He remembers the mocking voice, the cold, calculated promises, and the cruel laughter that echoed in his ears as the man turned his son into an instrument of destruction.

The grip on his fist tightens so hard it almost hurts, but he welcomes the pain. He knows what he has to do. Revenge.

The very thought of that thing—of the twisted creature that dared to control his case and oil—fills him with a burning rage, a rage that burns hotter than anything he’s felt before. The man responsible for this devastation must pay. His son’s death cannot go unpunished. The pain that has been inflicted on his family, on his son’s very soul, can never be forgotten, nor forgiven.

A low growl escapes his throat, his body trembling with fury. He lifts his head to the sky, the cool air biting at his case as he stares into the horizon. His mind is consumed with thoughts of retribution—he will find that man, and he will make him suffer as he has made his son suffer. Solar knows he’s not the same man anymore. The gentle mechanic, the loving father, is gone. The loss of his son has forged something darker within him—something capable of unimaginable violence.

His hands shake, but it’s no longer from grief. It’s from an all-consuming need for revenge. The loss of his son—his child, his world—has unlocked a ferocity within him that can no longer be contained.

Solar stands, his legs unsteady at first, but his resolve hardening with every step. He takes one last look at the grave of his son, his heart breaking anew, but this time, a different emotion lurks beneath the surface. His son is gone, yes. But that man who caused this pain is still alive. He still breathes. He still walks the earth.

Solar takes a deep breath, his eyes narrowing with cold fury. He knows exactly what he must do. No matter the cost, no matter the pain he must endure, he will make the Creator regret ever laying a hand on his family.

He turns away from the grave, walking with purpose, every step driven by the promise of retribution. His body may be broken, his soul battered, but his mind is clear.

He will find him.

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #the sun and moon show #tsams solar #tsams jack #tsams fanfiction

72 notes · View notes

theshiniestgemstone · 4 days ago

Note

situationship gideon lives in my head rent free. i feel like he lives in his head and has convinced himself that admitting his feelings/making things official with a partner would ruin whatever they have going on. so to him it’s just easier to act like they’re just friends who fuck sometimes, and sleep in the same bed, cuddle etc. imagine smoking with him (either weed or cigarettes we’ve seen in the show he consumes both) and just the simple gesture of passing it back and forth wordlessly makes him realize “oh god i gotta get my shit in order now or this is gonna crash and burn so hard and i’m fucked” (also high sex with gideon…..😮‍💨😮‍💨 oh lord take me now!!)

I fear I went a little overboard

Warnings: smut, minors dni

A distant door slam had Amber and Jesse both whipping their heads towards their sons’ bedrooms. Amber took a deep breath, shaking her head.

Jesse uttered the name of his middle son under his breath. “Always slammin’ doors.”

Pontius came out of the kitchen, mug in hand. “That was Gideon.”

Amber softened a bit, earning a look from Pontius. “Any idea what’s going on with him?”

Pontius turned. “Probably his little- I don’t even know what to call it.”

Jesse groaned, leaning back into the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Lord have mercy. Is he still doing that ‘friends but also not really friends but also you’re naked in my bed every night’ thing?”

Amber tipped back the last of her wine, clinking her glass gently against Jesse’s in a quiet toast. “Unfortunately.”

Jesse sighed. “That boy needs a therapist, not another sleepover with his ‘situational complication.’”

Upstairs, Gideon paced the length of his bedroom like a caged animal, fingers threaded in his hair as if tugging hard enough would ground him. His mouth was still dry from the joint you’d shared, lungs heavy with it, heart thudding in a rhythm that didn’t match the silence anymore.

He sat on the edge of the bed, palms digging into his knees, eyes wide and unfocused. He could still hear your laugh echoing in his ears, that little half-smile you gave him when you stole the joint from his fingers. The way you looked at him afterward. Your eyes were soft, searching, like you knew he was lying when he told you this was fine. That it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

It meant everything.

And now? He was spiraling. Fast.

Because if he didn’t say something soon this whole fragile, beautiful mess was going to shatter. And he’d have no one to blame but himself.

Downstairs, the sound of Pontius dropping a plate into the sink echoed faintly. Amber and Jesse didn’t even flinch.

“Three days,” Jesse muttered. “Tops. Before he cracks like a cheap-ass communion wafer.”

Amber smirked. “You’re being generous.”

Gideon’s not sure when the wires began to cross. What was an arrangement for two people to get alleviate their stress soon became something more personal and twisted in a way he never imagined.

Maybe it was the time she’d gotten into a fight with her parents, rocking her hips against his, holding onto his chest for balance, until her legs gave out. Or the time she wished him a happy birthday and instantly sank to her knees, grinning up at him innocently as she undid his belt. It might be all the times you’ve been deep in the throw of an orgasm, burying your face and moans into the side of his neck, your fingers squeezing into his skin, wherever you can reach as he holds you impossibly closer.

Though he knows it’s most likely the other stuff, the friends part in this unlabeled friends with benefits.

When he rolled a joint so sloppily (six beers will do that to you) and she cried, holding it up before pulling one out of an M&Ms tube, laughing through tears that she’d fix his mess when she went home. It’s the little things he remembers, really the things she does. Like when they visited the family amusement park.

The entire family had gone on a day out, invited friends to make it feel that much more authentic and not some rides collecting dust. Pontius had run off with his friends, Abraham with his group of eighth graders. Kids from the youth ministry were hogging up the lines. She and Gideon walked side by side, separated by a few inches of space. Sometime between rollercoaster rides, she pulled him behind a food stand and opened her purse to give him a cigarette, lighting it for him and taking a puff before handing it over.

The sex was less often after that. What started as a strict routine of sex, shower, and then leaving soon became a routine of long talks whispered under the same cover. Somewhere along the way, they stopped just screwing around.

They were high the first time he felt it. It was that feeling.

Two joints, a large meal shared on the floor of his bedroom, and wandering hands was how it started. His stomach burned with the edge of release, the kind that made his vision blur and his breath hitch. He leaned back on his haunches, arms hooked beneath her trembling legs, holding her open and close. She let out a wail that sliced through him, raw and unrestrained, and his rhythm faltered as his eyes locked on her.

She was glowing. Her skin slick with sweat, legs twitching with aftershocks, their combined mess dripping down his balls in slow, sticky trails. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face.

Not when she looked like that. Not when she looked at peace.

Like whatever storm lived in her had finally gone still. She trusted him to hold her there, undone and safe.

And that’s when it hit him, hard and fast and terrifying.

She gripped his arm when he stood from the bed, fingers weak but insistent. He glanced down, ready to ask what was wrong, but she only mumbled something incoherent and clung tighter.

“I’m just grabbing a washcloth,” he said with a low chuckle, brushing a hand over her hair. She whimpered, then nodded, loosening her hold.

When he returned, she was curled in on herself, blanket pulled up to her chin, looking smaller than usual. Quieter. The high was fading, but something heavier had settled in its place. Gideon didn’t say anything. He just knelt beside her, gently pulling the blanket back, cleaning her up with slow, careful strokes. She trembled beneath his touch, and he pressed soft kisses to the inside of her thigh, her hip, her stomach. Pretty much anywhere he could reach.

He didn’t mean to ignore her after that.

It started with a missed text, then another. A string of phone tag stretched out into nearly three weeks, the longest they’d gone without seeing each other in almost two years. No fights. No final conversation. Just silence, thick and unfamiliar.

Every time he drafted a message, his thumbs hovered, staring at the words like they belonged to someone else. Like they weren’t just texts, but confessions. Those slippery, dangerous things that, once sent, couldn’t be taken back.

He wasn’t sure he wanted what they meant. Or worse, he was sure. And that scared the hell out of him.

They saw each other again after those three weeks, sitting in a quiet corner of the park, handing a joint back and forth like no time had passed. The silence between them had vanished as easily as it had formed. She picked up mid-story, complaining about work or maybe a neighbor, her words flowing without hesitation.

Usually, Gideon was a good listener. He prided himself on it. But this time, all he could do was watch her.

The way her lips wrapped around the joint, how her hands moved with each exaggerated gesture, the slight squint of her eyes when she got too passionate. She was ethereal in the amber haze of sunset, lit up like something not entirely real. Something his brain must’ve made up.

She turned toward him, catching the look on his face.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, casual like always, but her eyes betrayed the weight behind the question.

He exhaled, heartbeat thudding against his ribs.

“I think I love you.”

She nodded slowly, handing the joint back to him without meeting his eyes. “I think you’re just high.”

“I’m serious.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Really? Because you can’t say that if we’re just friends.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile like he normally would when she teased. Instead, he set the joint down on the bench beside them, watching the smoke curl into the air before turning back to her.

“I don’t want to be just friends anymore. Or just fuck all the time and pretend like we don’t know each other like we do.” His voice was steady, but softer now, like saying it any louder would make it less real. “We can still do all of this… just… different?”

Her silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant. It was the first time either of them had said what they'd both been avoiding all along.

“I’ve never taken you on a date,” he said, eyes steady on hers. “And I really want to.”

She raised a brow, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Wouldn’t this technically count as a date?”

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I mean one where we aren’t high or drunk or pawing at one another. Like…” He paused, searching for the right memory. “Like the day at the amusement park. When we were just… coexisting.”

Her expression shifted then into something softer, something that lived between surprise and understanding.

“Coexisting, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But on purpose this time.”

“Alright,” she said, tilting her head with that familiar, teasing smile. “I’ll bite.”

He grinned, eyes warm as he leaned back slightly. “I know you do.”

She rolled her eyes, but the laugh that escaped her gave her away. He draped his arm over the backrest of the bench, letting his fingers draw little shapes over her t-shirt. She shifted closer, knee brushing his, careful not to disturb the joint still smoldering between them. The sun was low now, casting long shadows across the grass, turning the world gold and quiet.

For once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

#gideon gemstone #answered asks #gideon gemstone x you #the righteous gemstone #gideon gemstone x reader #gideon gemstone x fem reader #the righteous gemstones #gideon gemstone fanfic #fanfic

43 notes · View notes

graylinesspam · 9 months ago

Text

Charming

Having a teen girl in military camps was somewhat of a balancing act. Your average encampment, at least those for the 501st had around 300 men, and you couldn't expect to keep that many men on their best behavior, in a war zone, for extended periods of time.

There were some stress relieving behaviors that the men needed to stay balanced. Drinking, roughhousing, and generally acting unsavory to name a few.

In the early days they'd just tried to herd Ahsoka to certain parts of the camps and stay vigilant to catch her coming. It was a precarious game that Rex in particular had no intention of losing.

They tried having the boys on watch whistle signal her location, which had only irritated her. Curse her insanely quiet little stride, he blamed Vere and genetics for that one. They lost track of her once she started dodging them on purpose.

Then there was that comment on Felucia. "Maybe we should reconsider General Kenobi's suggestion of a bell," Rex had smarted off as Ahsoka ghosted silently into the upper branches of a tree.

Well Hardcase was injured on that deploy. His leg was broken, not an easy fix planet side and med evac wouldn't be for a few days. He was stuck in a cot. All that chaotic energy contained within the four edges of canvas. He needed something to keep himself busy. That's where Ahsoka's first present came from.

Six muzzle seals roughly the circumference of a thumb, cut and re-bent around each other until it roughly resembled a crude flower shape. It didn't hold it's shape well unless laid out flat on a surface, but he strung it with a crude chain made from braided wire pulled out of a fried HUD.

Ahsoka, the poor thing, was in and out of medical the whole time for medication, snot rubbing her face permanently raw. When the medication knocked her out she chose Hardcase to curl up on. He had presented her with the gift curled up in the center of his palm, a sheepish look on his red feverish face.

Rex couldn't have organized it better if he had tried. A bell they couldn't attach to her without some serious protest and her going even farther to evade their tracking tactics. But a handmade gift from a sick and pitiful vod? It was the perfect excuse.

Ahsoka hooked the dangly little charm onto her belt clip. It tapped musically against the hilt of her saber. The tinkling of little bells that could be disarmed quickly in combat by simply holding her sabers or hooking on of the rings around the clip.

Everyone came to memorize the sound of her stride, the little tapping highlighting every step. Just loud enough that you could here her before she turned a corner or caught you doing something you shouldn't be.

The first charm lasted for almost half a year. It's crude design and salvaged parts eventually becoming a casualty of combat. The second charm came from Fives, ever competitive to be everyone's favorite vod, He'd been working on it since she'd received the first one. Three little scraps of plastoid he'd cut to shapes. One rectangular chunk painted to resemble a domino, one flat piece painted with a five on one side and a tiny crude recreation of a hand print on the other side. And a third painted with 212th yellow unsuccessfully mixed with a hint of medic red to create a streaky red orange color, the paint carefully carved away in the shape of Ahsoka's markings. It had a woodier sound as it collided with her lightsaber.

Cody was next with a series of little plastoid stars strung on real chains. They tinkled like rain on music stones when they knock against plastoid.

And General Plo-koon, as her founder, showed them all up with a metal medallion wolf charm.

Getting bells on Ahsoka was easier than any of them expected it to be. Their only miscalculation was believing she didn't know exactly what they were doing the whole time.

#star wars #clone wars #sw tcw #ahsoka tano #tcw #captain rex #501st #Commander Cody #Arc trooper fives #plo koon #Sleeping Habits verse

81 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Crossed Wires 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: silverfox!Andy Barber, Cole Turner

Summary: you try to balance your work with your private life as your boss and a new client try to blur the lines. (short!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The gravel mulches loudly under the tires of the truck. You grip the ridged wheel as the seat belt strains against your shoulder. You make yourself sit back, the seat slid up as far as it will go. Still, the bumper shortens your perspective.

You figured you’d get a call to the old Orson place when you heard it sold. That was months ago though and the new owner finally set down roots there. You haven’t seen them, you’ve only heard the whispers that accompany any happening in Hammer Ford; from a new recipe to the juiciest of scandals. You pay much attention to any of it.

You keep your hands at ten and two as you follow the long gravelly drive to the farmhouse facade. There’s a single car parked outside the garage. It’s a sleek white SUV, luxury by the looks of the hood ornament. It’s not what you expect around here. That paint job will be dusty in now time, if not scratched by errant pebbles.

You pull in and shut off the engine. You undo your seat belt and check your watch. Right on schedule. You open the door and step on the rusted step below the door, letting yourself down with a hop. Your tan work boots kick up dirt as you round to the passengers side and swing the door open to retrieve your heavy work bag.

You sling the thick strap over your shoulder and snap the door as you head towards the house. You rest your hand on the side of the bag as you near the steps, searching for any sign of life. The stairs creak as you climb onto the low porch.

“Can I help you?” The deep voice startles you.

You blink and turn to face the man sitting on the wooden boards, bolts and screws around him along with metal parts and wooden boards. You hadn’t seen him through the tight slats of the railing.

You keep your usual vague stare as you sniff, “got a call about the breaker.”

He squints at you, a squiggle forming between his brows. He’s older. His grey hair has a single bolt of its former dirty blond just above his forehead. Despite the heat and the dirt sprinkled over the boards, he wears a pair of dark slacks and a button-up rolled to his elbows.

“You’re the electrician,” he states as he sets aside the small screwdriver in his hand. He stands with a grunt, grasping his knee before he straightens.

“Sure am,” you reply flatly.

“I spoke with a man,” he intones, hands going to his hips as he looks down at you.

“That’s would be my boss. Cole.”

“That’s his name,” he steps forward, wiping his hand on his shirt, staining the light gray fabric, “Andy.”

He offers his hand and you shake it curtly. All the farmers pride themselves on keeping a firm grip and you never faltered with them. He squeezes before he lets you go. He doesn’t have the typical callouses, you even have a few.

“How’d you get into this work?” he wonders.

“It’s work. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t– I don’t mean anything,” he stammers.

“Didn’t think you did,” you sniff, “so, what am I looking at?”

“Well, I don’t really know,” he reaches back to rub his neck. The power keeps… flickering.”

“Ah, been a while, probably just need to wait for it to stabilize. City worker came out months ago for the meters,” you explain.

“Right, well, I heard sizzling.”

“Show me where you heard it.”

He nods and gestures you towards the door. Before you can reach it, he pulls the wooden screen door back and waits for you to enter ahead of him. He tells you it’s just down the hall and stop you near the basement door. You peer down the stairs and flick the light switch. There’s a low buzz.

“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” you look up, “but I can have a look.”

“Oh, okay,” he utters, “I also had another question. You might know something about it.”

You look at him. He seems put off by your expressionless stare.

“I wanted to install an automatic opener in the garage…”

“I can do the wiring, sure, long as you buy the parts,” you answer. “I can give you recommendations, odds are, you’ll need a whole new door as well.”

“Sure,” he agrees uneasily.

“Can schedule an appointment when you decide,” you turn your palm out, “I’ll just go grab my ladder and have a look then.”

You go to step past him but he’s not quick enough. You nearly collide and find yourself moving back and forth with him, trying to get by. You stop and stare. He stills himself and turns sideways, waving you by. You pass and let out a slow breath through your nose.

You stalk back down the hall and onto the porch. You hear him following you. You come down the steps as he continues his close pursuit. You don’t exactly know what he’s doing but you won’t ask. Cole says you need to work on customer service and not tell people to get out of your way.

You go around the bed of the truck and open the back. You reach for the ladder but another arm stretches further and faster. He pulls the ladder out before you can and you step back with a grunt.

“Hey, I can get it,” you insist.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind helping.”

“So why am I here?” You ask curtly, immediately knowing you asked a bad question.

“Sorry, I was just… being nice,” he says.

“Right,” you try to soften your tone, “it’s just… it’s my job. I can carry the ladder.”

“I know you can,” he looks down at you and you feel even smaller. You don’t like it when they try to play gentleman, it’s condescending. You might be short but you’re strong enough.

“Thanks,” you grab the ladder and yank it from his grasp.

He lets go and you continue past him. He huffs and follows a few paces back from the end of the ladder. You angle it up the steps.

“At least let me get the door,” he inches past you, “okay?”

“Thanks,” you repeat in the same even keel.

You enter and take the ladder down the hall. He hovers just down the hallway, watching as he shifts his weight between his feet. He’s the worst kind of customer, the kind that have to supervise.

You step up the ladder and look past it. “Mind holding it?”

“You sure?” He gives a trite arch of his brow.

You blink and keep your eyes from rolling, “I’d appreciate it, sir.”

He comes forward and braces the ladder staunchly. You climb up and suppress a snarl. City folk think you’re all backwards out here but they can’t wrap their damn head around a woman with a brain.

#andy barber #cole turner #dark andy barber #dark cole turner #dark!andy barber #dark!cole turner #cole turner x reader #andy barber x reader #drabble #backwoods au #au #crossed wires #defending jacob #series #ghosted

181 notes · View notes

phantomphangphucker · 1 month ago

Text

Phic Phight - Spooky Squalid Splatter Scare Squad

For: @bellsandmischief and Jackskellletor

Teenagers desensitized to danger make for ridiculously dangerous paintball games, especially in an ‘abandoned’ construction yard.

Danny stands atop a dilapidated half-built building thing, eyeing the abandoned construction yard stretching out before him like a decaying jungle gym of concrete, rebar, and rust. Warning signs flapping in the breeze. Graffiti covered crumbling walls. It was an absolute twisted mess of steel beams and broken pallets. In short, it was fucking perfect.

No other people.

No ghosts.

No cameras.

And enough broken shit that more broken shit wouldn’t be noticed.

Danny nodding to himself before scaling back down the building to his friends, “cool cool, this works”.

Tucker quirking an eyebrow, “dude, you sure this place isn’t, like, actually condemned or some shit?”, squinting up at a hanging platform that sways concerningly.

Danny shrugging, grabbing his two friends by the waist, and moving to float up, “eh, condemned is just another word for ‘exclusive’”. Landing them down and yanking the strap of his paintball mask tight over his hair, “besides, it adds a hint of the unknown. Makes the game spicy without being, you know, our usual brand of a Bad Idea”.

Sam grumbling, fixing her full face mask, “I swear, if I end up on crutches again, I’m going to break all of your toes and then break them again as soon as they heal up”.

Danny putting a hand to his chest, feigning offence, “ah! How dare!”, then tossing her a fresh clip of neon paintballs, “you said that last time we raced Johnny on foot and still backflipped off of a roof”.

She flips him off, “fuck you and your good points”.

Tucker rolling his eyes at them as he finishes rigging his own harness and checks the pressure on his gun, “okay, remember the rules: no shooting below the belt, some of us have precious jewels to protect. No hits within five feet, because at least two of us can die. No ghost powers, for obvious reasons. And absolutely no shooting my pda-”.

Danny kicks Tucker’s gun, knocking him off balance, and leaps off of the building, shouting, “GO!”, and leaving a bit of a dent in the rusted truck cab below.

Tucker and Sam looking down, both sighing and shaking their heads at each other. At least Danny was nice enough to let them get down before opening fire on them.

Paintballs exploding against the walls as Sam bolts after him, doing a wall run along a cracked cement barrier before springing up onto a ledge that used to be part of an elevator shaft.

Tucker sighing again, “okay cool. So we’re having that kind of day”; promptly sprinting after them. Physical exercise sucked but at least this was fun, gym class should take some pointers on not sucking. Maybe then people will actually like the stupid class and ‘want to be active’.

The three move around like little nightmare gremlins, nightmare gremlins trained in ghost fighting and how to wield a fucking gun. Danny’s a blur, vaulting over steel drums, rolling off of gravel mounds, paintballs flying from both guns like he was actually trying to damage things (he kinda was). Danny landing behind a half-built cinderblock wall, firing three quick shots, and grinning when he hears Sam audibly scowl.

“Oh you really wanna do this today, ghost boy?”.

Danny was definitely not aware that Sam was peeking at him through a slit in some wood scaffolding. Meaning Danny very dumbly responds with, “fuck yeah! Just try and get me. Maybe if you teamed up with Val, you’d have a chance! But she isn’t here is she!”.

Sam scowling and flipping over the edge of the scaffolding, dropping straight down and landing in a crouch before sliding under a barbed wire fence. Popping up on the other side mid-fire. Danny barely ducking, the paintballs splashing behind him.

“Tuck! Wanna cover me!”.

“Fucking why! She’ll kill me!”.

“Didn’t she fill your secondary monitor with sunflower seeds again!?!”.

Tucker blinking, “oh shit yeah, Sam you’re fucking dead”, and he pops up, squeezing off a few bright orange shots that zip past Sam’s shoulder as she dives into cover. Tucker trying to sprint along a bent I-beam after her, leaping the five-foot gap to a crumbling ledge, and scrambling up a rebar ladder to higher ground. Tucker snickering, “nice, sniper perch unlocked!”. The ledge wobbling dangerously beneath his weight. Tucker chuckling nervously, “heh, mostly unlocked”.

But Danny hurls a smoke grenade and a thick green cloud mushrooms out, swallowing half the yard in seconds.

Sam coughing, “THIS IS WHY YOU NEVER WIN STRATEGY GAMES! AND SOME OF US NEED TO BREATH ASSHOLE!”.

Danny cackling, “I PLAY TO CAUSE CHAOS AND MOCK RELENTLESSLY! WINNING GLORIOUSLY IS A BONUS!”. Danny bursting out of the smoke, doing a front flip over a pile of tires, and absolutely nailing Tucker in the chest midair with a blue paintball.

“Are you serious?!”, Tucker wheezing, flopping backwards into the dirt, “I literally just got up here man!”.

“Sucks to suck, Tuck!”.

Sam popping out of the fog and taking advantage of Danny’s smugness to tag him on the arm with a vicious splat of yellow. Danny spinning around and firing practically on instinct, missing her by inches as she rolls into cover.

The yard is practically alive, probably for the first time in a while, with color now; pink, green, blue, and orange paint splattered all across random surfaces like a neon battlefield. Smoke curling in the air, paintballs clattering off of metal, and all three of them are grinning like lunatics.

Tucker wheezing from inside of a low crawl space, “truce?”.

Danny snickering, “only if we use the bucket crane thing next!”.

Sam snarling, “I heard that you goddamn dumbass!”.

But Danny just keeps smirking, pointing up at the old construction crane looming above them, its ladder looks to be still mostly intact, “how much you wanna bet there’s water inside that things bucket?”.

Tucker glares at Danny before sighing, “there’s probably a rusted hole in it, so I’m betting twenty against that”.

Danny snickers and cracks his knuckles, bolting out for the ladder. Tucker sighing and dragging himself across on his belly to get out from his spot and attempt to give chase.

Sam shouting, “you dummies!”, and chasing after too when she spots them, firing twice at them. Tucker absolutely stumbling a little from getting nailed one in the back of the head.

The metal ladder is ancient, spotted in rust, and creaks like it’s narrating its own funeral as Danny hoists himself up the thing. Getting halfway up before either of his friends can get anywhere near the base of the ladder.

Tucker chuckling awkwardly, eyeing Sam who looks a wee bit pissed, “you're gonna kill him, aren’t you?”.

“Oh yeah”, Sam huffing, “but only after I’m done beating the shit out of him”.

They both sprint after him, boots thudding across plywood and gravel. Sam taking a bit of shortcut, leaping from a stack of pallets to a hanging catwalk that swings dangerously under her weight. Tucker, wisely, takes the longer but more stable path; he’d had enough perilous places for today thank you very much. Him ducking under steel beams and crawling over a pile of bricks.

Danny getting to the top of the crane and standing triumphantly in the control booth, sticking his arms out wide, “BEHOLD! MY THRONE!”, grabbing at things, “now to get this baby moving”.

Sam snapping, halfway up the ladder herself, “DANNY GET OUT OF THERE, YOU GODDAMN PAIN IN THE ASS!”.

Danny snickering, “no can do, I’ve got a chance to fuck with one of these things and I’m gonna take it”; and he yanks a lever. The crane’s massive arm groaning, then slowly beginning to swing the bucket around. Danny wiggling a little before starting to crawl out of the drivers area and moving to scale his way up the crane neck.

Sam freezing on the ladder as it creaks, “Danny, for the love of everything. That better be in demo mode”.

Danny shrugging his shoulders as he scooches along, “eh totally probably maybe“.

Below from the base of the ladder, Tucker stares up, groaning, “we’re all gonna die. This is how it ends. Covered in paint and Danny’s poor decisions. Why did I ever agree to this?”.

Danny only laughing more as the wind whips his jacket around as he inches forward, one hand holding one paintball gun like he’s anticipating someone being above him and in need of a shooting. He was getting to that bucket and he was going inside of it and its water. Tucker is so gonna owe him a twenty!

Sam grumbling incoherently as she hauls herself into the control booth and yells up at him, “you are out of your mind! Get down here before you fall or break something!”.

Danny grinning and standing up a little to be crouching on the narrow beam, “can’t. Having too much fun. If you want me you gotta come get me!”.

“You’re gonna end up in the hospital”, Sam shaking her head, “and no. I am not trying to die today Danny”.

Tucker having made his way up and into some scaffolding, starts firing at Danny, it’s not like the guy would die if he fell, would just make a very Danny-shaped crater in the ground. The crane gets painted in orange and Danny starts flailing, “TRAITOR!”.

Tucker chuckling, “YOU DECLARED WAR DUDE!”.

While Danny’s flailing and struggling to cling to the crane neck, Sam leans out of the control booth and starts launching a flurry of shots back at Tucker; before moving onto the crane neck herself, shaking it with every step she takes. She weighs significantly more than Danny after all, everyone does. Tucker starts firing at her too just to be an ass, paintballs zipping past her. Danny also sticking one arm and gun behind him and firing at her while starting to yank himself on his belly further up the crane neck.

Danny successfully making it to the very end of the crane’s arm, where a massive rusted closed bucket dangles above the yard. Without hesitation, he clips his climbing harness onto the buckets connections and shit and leans back like a human pendulum; basically flipping and belly flopping into the damn thing.

Sam stopping her own ascent and gesturing at him, “oh for fucks sake”.

Danny cackles and starts crawling all over the thing to find himself a nice rusted hole big enough for him to squeeze through to get in, maybe he rips off some chunks of weakened metal or two but oh well. Not like anyone’s gonna be using this thing ever again anyways, and no one’s on the ground to get pelted by chunks of falling yellow bucket metal.

Danny’s managed to get his shoulders in, happily splashing his hands in the gross ass water inside, wettest twenty bucks he’s ever made, when a bunch of paintballs slam into his legs in just the right way to make him smack his face into the water before knocking him back out of the bucket. Sending him swinging across the open yard like a soaked neon-streaked wrecking ball; dangling from his harness and the bucket. Tucker ducking just in time as Danny starts blasting paintballs down back at him from midair.

Tucker laughing, “DUDE YOUR FLYING WITHOUT ACTUALLY IGNORING GRAVITY?!”.

“FEAR THE FLYING SWINGING DANNY BALL OF DOOM!”, Danny then doing upside down jazz hands, “AND LOOK! MY HANDS ARE WET! MY FACE IS WET! MY HAIR IS WET! TUCK! YOU OWE ME A TWENTY!”.

Tucker getting up to kick a wall, “damnit!”.

The bucket groaning under Danny’s weight as he swings back towards the crane, still firing. One of his shots hitting the edge of a support beam right as Sam was sliding behind it for cover.

“Danny! That was my face, you shithead!”.

“Battle wounds!”.

Tucker chuckling and shaking his head, “this is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done. Somehow”.

Danny gets slammed against a nearby ledge with a nasty sounding thud, unhooking himself frantically, and pulling himself up. Him wheezing, “that, was goddamn majestic. Ten outta ten would swing again”.

Sam stomping up beside him, yellow paint streaked across her helmet, “sometimes I wonder how you managed to die so young, and then I remember that you’re like this”.

“Aw you love me”.

“Unfortunately”.

Tucker joining them from around a pole, limping slightly, “we good now? Can we not die for, like, five minutes?”.

Danny snorting and rolling his eyes, “fine. Truce. For real this time”, stretching his arms out, “now let’s get out of here before cops or something show up”.

Sam groaning and shaking her head, while Tucker just sighs. But before Danny can fully get up to run off, the ground under him creaks and gives way completely, Danny blinking, “oh shit!”, him falling all the way down and his body banging off of random metal poles, stairs, wood, and bits of paint.

Sam and Tucker looking down the hole, shaking their heads as dust plumes out of the hole followed by a groan. Both of them actively wondering why the moron didn’t just go intangible.

Sam crouching down and shouting down the hole, “YOU ALIVE?!”.

Danny wheezing back, “define alive?”.

Sam making a face, standing up, and firing a few shots down the whole at him, “fuck you and your stupid dead jokes!”.

“JUST FOR THAT I’M NOT HELPING YA’LL GET OUT! HAVE FUN!”.

Tucker sticking his hands out to the side, “DUDE!”. Both him and Sam watching Danny drag himself off, half limping to a wall, flipping them off, and starts climbing it, leaving little finger puncture holes the entire way up.

Sam exchanging a look with Tucker, both lift up their paint guns and start firing at him again.

“HEY!”.

Danny still makes it over, leaving them behind to find their own ways out. Neither are amused but neither have a particularly hard time getting out either.

---

Joseph blinks, lowering his binoculars, and shakes his head, “what the actual hell?”, rubbing his forehead, “I don’t even know how I’m supposed to report this? And this? Yeah this shit is why I never had kids, holy fuck”. He didn’t really care about the trespassing, still had to call it in of course, but it’s not like they were luting or trying to commit acts of arson. The paintball guns made that much super obvious. So sue him, he put off calling it in at first, give the kids some time to have fun. You know, until one of them started climbing the goddamn crane! Yes he’s impressed the kid made it the whole way up but he could have died! And Jospeh’s ass would have been on the line for that! Goodbye Christmas bonus!

But now he has to report on this shit, at least one of those kids definitely got hurt, and he so doesn’t need some angry parent trying to sue the company for not having the place secured enough! Sure he’s glad they got out before the cops showed up, kids should get to be kids after all even if they’re reckless dumbasses about it. But geez.

… He needs a drink.

Well… he might as well get started on that paper work, hopefully pictures of all the paint splatters will keep his bosses from accusing him of being high on the job again. Ugh.

End.

Prompts: Danny sam and tucker play paintball Get in the water.

#danny phantom #phandom #danny fenton #phic phight #phantomphangphucker #have a fic suck my dick #my writing #fanfic #phic phight 2025 #sam manson #tucker foley #paint ball #breaking and entering #danyy's a little shit #how not to urbex

22 notes · View notes

serensama · 2 months ago

Text

Picker Wheel Fic

Grab an OC, any OC, then spin the picker wheel three times. Now write a paragraph or three about how the OC is using those things to either kill someone or seduce them.

Warning: Keanu Reeves is on the wheel, but you’re not allowed to seduce or kill him.

Thank you @thedissonantverses for the tag lovely <3

I have the wonderful task of now creating something that contains a broken flower pot, a tampon and a broken underwire bra. Here we go then O_O (It was meant to be a blurb but then became this because I have issues, clearly. Someone send help. A brevity coach… if they exist.) ((It was meant to be about Lucanis x Rook (Lilya de Riva) but blame me for not completing my Illario smut, which actually starts similarly now I think about it hahah oops))

Rating: M-ish? (slightly nsfw?) Word count: 2.7k (sorry... let's pretend it's 3 paragraphs long).

Tagging: @rookamell @jenn2d2 @nyx-de-riva @introvertedfangrl @woundedsoul12 @pixiedurango @apothe-cary @azdesertwillow @hightowerqueen Open tag to anyone who sees this, please tag me back so I can read your work <3

---

Rook threw the door open, happy to be home after what was probably the worst day of her life.

She had been living out of her suitcase for the last three weeks as she had been in Rivain for work, but thankfully she was going to be on a plane home in a matter of hours. Unfortunately, she realised that the last clean bra she had was her least favourite. It pinched everywhere, and the wire always tried to stab her- why the hell did she even pack it? Why did she even still have it?! Rook grumbled as she surveyed her final clean outfit and cursed her lack of planning. Her stockings had a run in them, and the garter belt she brought along was fraying- probably seen the last of its good days. Her shirt was the one that gaped at her chest, offering anyone beside her a free show if she buttoned up or left it undone. At least the evil bra looked cute; that was the one upside.

When she went to turn her phone to airplane mode before take off, she realised she had missed a call and quickly listened to the message, it could have been from her stepfather’s doctor with news about their recent bout of tests. But no. It was her boss. Firing her via voicemail, even though she managed to secure the deal between the Nevarran Watchers and the Rivani Lords. She threw her phone back into her bag and scoffed at their “deep regrets”- yeah, they were so regretful they packed her belongings and told her that they could “be claimed from the security desk”. She groaned and readjusted her bra and shirt, when the thin bit of fabric holding back her left underwire snapped, allowing the metal to finally stab at her skin. Fantastic.

Rook fought the urge to order every tiny bottle of alcohol the plane had.

… and to top off her run of good luck, of course, her luggage was the last one to come out on the carousel… with two missing wheels!

Fan-fucking-tastic!

Her right garter was unclipped, and her stocking had started to roll down her thigh; her tits were squished, and the band was starting to dig into her sides, the underwire moving and stabbing her as she held and balanced her suitcase uncomfortably throughout the terminal, otherwise, she risked scratching the floor. The one mercy she had was her ability to call the head of security, her bestie’s long-time partner- Taash, who spent 10 minutes (as the taxi fare kept running!) telling Rook how they were already looking for a new gig elsewhere after finding out what they did to her. ‘No one messed with their family like that.’

Rook was unsurprised to see that her office drawers had been unceremoniously thrown into a box with her favourite orchid, a bottle of aspirin sticking out from the soil, and a few of its leaves torn off by the items surrounding it. Perfect. Her mother had gifted it to celebrate her promotion the last time they were up, even though she was so disappointed that her daughter refused to join them in the family business. Her stepbrother was already running it; there was no need to worry… besides, she couldn’t imagine working with Viago. She had tried it once during university, and they almost came to physical blows. She had a company mug in her hand, ready to bash him over the head with it, and he had some window cleaner he threatened to pour down her throat. As if they weren’t already in their twenties when it happened.

She kicked her suitcase through the doorway and watched it skitter across the floor before following it and closing the door with her foot. Her handbag slid off her shoulder and fell to the floor, her shoes kicked off haphazardly as she walked through her wonderful but now outrageously-overpriced-now-she-was-unemployed apartment. She balanced the box on her hip as she opened her bedroom window to the fire escape to let in some fresh air. Rook shoved the box on the windowsill and started to remove her clothes, wanting nothing more than to slip into her oldest, most comfortable sleep shirt and curl up on her sofa to watch some trashy reality TV. Maybe order some pizza. And Chinese food. And some ice cream.

Off came the jacket and the pencil skirt, but she took her time to unbutton her shirt, one by one as if she were in a trance. She had never been fired before… she didn’t even get the chance to fight or discuss why it was happening… that stupid company wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without her connections to begin with-

A loud crash broke her out of her reverie, startling Rook, who jumped on the spot. She looked up and saw that her very carefully placed box of stuff had fallen into the fire escape. With a long, exasperated sigh, she shimmied out onto the landing, careful not to step on anything that may have fallen out of the box. She crouched down and let out a pathetic whine at the sight of the loose soil and broken parts of her flower pot that had covered almost everything she owned in dirt, laughing to herself when she found one loose tampon in the mix that looked entirely clean… if it were not lying on the filthy fire escape.

“Is that you, Paloma?”

Oh good god, no.

From below her, she could see her neighbour pop his head out of his window and try to get a better look at her. Illario Dellamorte. An infamous playboy from a rival company, but a close family friend. They had known each other since they were children, and the man still wouldn’t give up his stupid nickname for her, after seeing her at their first communion all dressed in white. It didn’t help that, in between all their years of pointless bickering, there was an undeniable attraction between them and that every time they got closer to crossing that line, something got in the way. Business. Friends. Her dating his cousin. Him dating her old university roommate. Then his cousin and her roommate got together, and for a second, they were on the same side… but it was just never… right. So they continued on with their stupid squabbles and harmless ribbing. It was tradition, it was comfort.

But god, how she wished he wasn’t so damn handsome.

“Yeah, Illario. It’s me.” “What was that crash? I was about to come up and check you weren’t getting robbed- thought you were getting back tomorrow?” she heard him say, his voice strained, probably from making his way out of his window and up to her. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she called back, rushing to put back all her stuff into the slightly warped box, promising herself she’d be back later to sweep up the soil after she had had some dinner. “Just a flower pot; you don’t have to come up-”

A pair of shiny black shoes came into her view. Rook looked up his long legs to see the man with his hands in his trouser pockets looking down at her with the same smirk she always saw on his face. Damn him. White dress shirt unbuttoned to his chest and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, it was as if Lucanis or Neve had personally told him her weaknesses just to torture her. “Let me help, Paloma,” he said without his characteristic snark, before squatting down and helping to clean up the mess. “But you hate getting dirty. Even when we were in the sandbox, you complained about the sand getting on you and your clothes getting gross,” she replied, dumbfounded, watching the man pick up her dirty pens and lip balm without complaint.

“I’ve grown up a lot since playing in the sandbox with you, Paloma,” Illario smiled at her (actually smiled. Not smirked. Or Leered. Smiled!). He wiped his hands on his expensive pants and picked up the box, nodding his head toward the window to usher her back inside. He followed her easily, Rook cursing him for looking like the perfect gentleman cat burglar as he climbed through her window. After he placed the box safely on the ground, she picked up the broken flower pot and plucked the orchid from it, tutting sadly as she brushed away the extra dirt from its roots.

“Do you mind if I wash my hands?” “Oh, no! Just head into the bathroom- second door to the left.” Rook headed to her ensuite and plucked a vase out from under her sink, filled it with water and hoped the orchids would take to their new home… or at least survive long enough until she got her ass out to the hardware store to pick up some soil for it. She washed her hands and caught a glimpse of herself, and gasped. She was still in her unbuttoned shirt, her pretty but sadistic bra and torn-up stockings… Ilario, the bastard, had seen her like that and said nothing! Pretended everything was fine! She desperately searched for a towel or robe in the bathroom and swore at herself for doing the laundry before she left and having nothing to cover herself with. And even worse, even if she did, Illario would know that she was embarrassed by the whole thing and would tease her relentlessly about it for months to come.

Booze. She was going to order a shit ton of booze too.

Rook mentally slapped herself for probably flashing half of the street when she went onto her fire escape. She took in a deep breath and tried her best to soothe her anxiety with the knowledge that he had seen her in a bikini before. For all intents and purposes, he had seen her naked when their parents put her and Illario in a bath together when they were babies. The stupid photo of them proudly displayed on her mother’s dressing table- both of them with matching bubble bath “hats” grinning up at the camera.

Then, as if she hated herself, his damned words replayed in her head- I’ve grown up a lot since playing in the sandbox with you, Paloma. By the way his muscles rippled under his fine shirt, and his suit pants stretched over the breadth of his thigh as he bent down to help her… she had to admit those days were truly long behind them.

Illario walked back to her room and knocked on the open door, keeping up the pretence of being polite. “All done. I was about to head out the front door, but realised I didn’t have my keys with me and would have to go back out through the window. You all good here?” She nodded and thanked him and followed him to the window to close it behind him. Before she could lock it, he pushed the pane back up and leaned on the windowsill, a look of absolute incredulity painted across his face. “Are you serious right now, Paloma?” he asked, staring into her eyes. Were his eyes always that blue?

Focus, Rook. God damn it.

“What?” she took a step back, not wanting to be so close to him that she could feel his breath on her skin. And there was so much exposed skin for her to feel it on.

“You’re going to let me go, looking like that, looking at me like that- without a damn word? Nothing?” She swallowed and watched as his eyes traced the lines of her throat. “What did you want me to say? I already said thank you. You want me to say it again? Thank you, Illario. Goodnight.” He huffed out with a bitter laugh and shook his head, his immaculate bun still perfectly in place. How come her hair never did that? Ah, shit focus, Rook!

“How can you let me go, when you are so obviously trying to seduce me?” Rook snorted and laughed. Seduce? Seduce him?! The arrogant, self-centered asshole.

She leaned forward, their fingers touching on the windowsill and their noses barely an inch apart. Her dark eyes narrowed at him as she reminded herself that she shouldn’t head butt him to teach him a lesson on humility. Last thing she needed was to be carted to the ER over his shoulder, dressed as she was. “Oh yes, of course! I am trying to desperately trying to seduce Illario Dellamorte. Yes, standing here in a pile of dirt, and a box of such sexy things like gum and my loose tampons, in my worst pair of stockings and broken garter belt, in a mismatched underwear with a bra that is trying to literally stab me in the heart as we speak… yes, you’re right. Take me now, Illario. My loins are all a fucking flutter for you.”

“About time you admitted it, Lilya.”

He closed the distance between them and kissed her, pushing further into her room so he wasn’t crouching at her window. Her mind was racing, telling her it was a bad idea, that whatever was between them should have stayed unexplored and they were going to regret it when they ultimately broke and couldn’t look at each other again- ending over 30 years of friendship, or whatever it was they had.

“Illario-” “Whether in the finest evening gown or my old shirt that I know you stole and still wear, you are always seducing me. Whether you mean to or not. No matter how hard I fight it, it’s always been you and me in the end. And yes… even next to a box of tampons and dirt and old, delinquent underwear- you are every bit a vision and the woman I have always lov-”

“Ow- fuck!” Illario paused, his eyebrows raised at Rook’s exclamation. She wedged her hand into her cleavage and wriggled it around before pulling out a long, curved piece of metal, sighing contentedly as she dropped the offending underwire to the ground.

“S-sorry,” she said, offering him a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said it was trying to stab me.” She pulled down the centre of her bra to show the angry red marks on her chest to show him. The youngest Dellamorte clucked his tongue as his eyes scanned her chest with something akin to concern, chased by a flash of hunger. “My poor Lilya,” he whispered, his eyes flicking back up to hers and holding her gaze to watch her reaction, to check for any hesitation from her at all. Finding none, Illario pressed his mouth to the sensitive flesh, dragging his lips along the line of red marks that started from just under her right breast, his thumb tugging at the cup slightly to allow him better access. Rook sighed and drew him closer to her, a new and very different type of embrace than those they had shared in the past.

Bad idea. The worst. But Rook was really tired of pretending that she didn’t feel anything for him, lying to herself that only friendship or friendly rivalry existed between them. Weary of faking that she didn’t know that Illario had bought the apartment from the original tenant for an exorbitant price just to be able to live there when he had heard she moved out of the loft she and Neve once shared. She was over ignoring how she would go out whenever she knew he brought a new partner home, or act like she never heard him swear at her whenever she’d bring someone to stay the night. She was done trying to believe the days they would randomly meet out on the fire escape to watch the skyline, to share bits of their dinner or drinks or gossip meant nothing- the way she’d fall asleep on his shoulder and he would stay there until she woke up as he didn’t want to enter her house without her permission- until she wanted him to…

Rook brought her left leg up onto the windowsill, Illario catching on to her silent invitation. With deft fingers, he pulled down the errant stocking, bending down to kiss the top of her thigh when he pulled her leg free from her hosiery. She pinched at the back of her bra to unclasp it, holding the damned thing up against her as her last means of cover.

“I was just about to order dinner, Illario… would you care to join me?”

He chuckled and grinned widely, baring his perfect white teeth like he wanted to eat her.

… Maybe he did.

“I thought you would never ask.”

#picker wheel fic tag #thank you thedissonantverses #Illario dellamorte #Illario x rook #illarook #slightly nsfw? kinda #we live and die without a beta or proof reading #sorry if there a bunch of typos/errors #<3 #long post

20 notes · View notes

jordanmoreau · 2 years ago

Text

Nothing In Particular

limoreau au; → in which two strangers come to understand one another as friends and (perhaps) as something more♡ 1,6k words

───

“Can you not be a jack ass for like, 5 minutes?” Marie grumbles weakly, her slender fingers lazily stirring the spoon that sat in her half drunken coffee. It must have been almost cold by now, the foam now separated and sad.

Her eyes never strayed from the window opposite where her and Emma sat, watching absentmindedly as leaves swayed and danced down from the trees above. Her friend snorted lightly next to her, nudging Marie’s leg with her foot jovially.

“C’mon, can’t you take a joke? she chirps. Her notes are left forgotten in front of her, half of them threatening to fall off on top the slabbed floor. They were barely legible due to the excessive highlighter however Emma insisted she could read them perfectly. Marie didn’t believe her.

“If you're interested in them, why don’t you just go over and say hi?” she says, as though its as easy as that. She begins scrunching up her face when Marie protests, “they’re not going to bite your head off, top ten or not”.

───

Emma was referring to a certain bi gender student that now occupied the furthermost booth inside the tiny cafe they had begun to frequent since the beginning of the semester.

It was a few weeks before that Marie had decided to give the new spot a try. She had sighed shakily to herself before entering, bracing herself for the certain conversation at the counter. The bell above the door chimes as she opens the door and it startles her a little. Did she always have to be so on edge, she thinks.

She orders at the counter with ease (a chai oat latte, extra cinnamon). Whilst waiting she leans against the counter, hugging her self tightly from inside her jacket.

Her head turns as she studies her surroundings curiously. It’s quiet apart from one other person, their mass of dark curls falling across their forehead as they bowed their head, clearing immersed in whatever they were reading. A pair of round wire rim glasses sit on the table in front of them along with a small pouch of pens and a stack of textbooks. Marie can make out 'Hero Ethics' in bold on the side of one of them, the rest of the words escaping her vision.

As if feeling eyes on them, the strangers head suddenly shifts, wet brown eyes coming into view as they peer upward. Marie's cheeks feel hot and she hurriedly turns away, feeling caught and almost knocks her order off the counter with her arm. She pulls her bag higher up on shoulder with a grimace and picks up her drink. A beeline for the nearest window table, she doesn't look back over for fear of making eye contact.

───

Over the next few visits Marie catches herself looking for the stranger in the corner. Her bottom lip snagged subconsciously between her teeth and a ridiculous amount of caffeine under her belt.

The stranger never looked the same twice in one week, she realized. On one day she’d entered to find them leaning back nonchalantly, legs spread in a comfortable manner. One hand held a book with ease, the other playing with their hair. It was short, slightly wavy and swept back off their face. A necklace that hung around there neck was balancing against their lip as though placed there as they read and a jacket was draped across their broad shoulders.

The next week, she almost missed them. Marie could tell it was the same person instinctively, the same blue jacket slung over the back of the booth and a sleek curtain of raven black hair falling against their cheeks in a little bob. She watched intently as the stranger pouted softly, pausing their note taking and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind their ear. They seemed to think for a while, twirling their pen between their fingers before returning to the page.

Marie liked the way their hair sat prettily around their face, the way their shoulders tensed slightly or when they chewed absentmindedly on their pen.

She didn’t know what was so magnetic about this stranger; maybe it was nothing in particular.

───

It was the day before last that Marie had chosen to peek at the stranger again, only tilting her head slightly and peering through her eyelashes. Her heart faltered though when she realized they had met her gaze. This caused her mouth to run dry and she felt a pang of panic rise in her stomach.

Their head tilted slightly to one side almost cat-like, the corners of their mouth twitching almost like a smile was threatening to break through. Marie silently cursed herself for being so nosy and decided to concentrate on her work, head ducking down. She almost dove head long into her latte in an attempt to seem busy, the cinnamon causing her to cough lamely as she inhaled it.

By the end of her study session (Marie had persevered, very bravely she thought) she had completed a few pages of work for her intro to Hero Ethics class. She blows on the pages from a short distance, hoping to hurry along the ink drying. The bell above the door chimes behind her and she flinches only to notice that the booth in the corner was now empty.

“Chai latte, extra cinnamon?” the server appears at her table, cradling a cup and saucer. Marie frowns with confusion, finger tips tapping her empty cup.

“I didn’t order anything, I’m sorry,” she says, to which the server shakes the head.

“It’s been paid for,” they say, gently setting it down. Marie freezes for a second at that before thanking the server. She tries to push away the butterflies in her stomach, giving the cafe one last scan before returning to her notes.

───

“It must’ve been them!” Emma says loudly. Marie’s gives her a tight lipped expression in return, causing Emma to roll her eyes with a playful grin.

“You know I could introduce you,”

Marie almost gets whiplash from how quickly her head snaps up at that. “You know them?” she whispers, almost afraid of them hearing her from across the room.

Emma mumbles something incoherent, gesturing with her fingers.

“Vaguely,” Marie scoffs at that. Emma throws her a look of indignation. “I do!”.

Emma knew of them. She recognized their face from the rankings board, nearly tackling Marie when she told her about the 'mysterious booth stranger' with the unreadable demeanor.

Today, the stranger was hunched over their table with their head down. Marie assumed that they were writing something urgent, a paper perhaps. They had barely looked up, hand gliding over each page without stopping.

Marie hadn’t looked over hardly at all that day, bringing Emma along for a good distraction. Besides, the girl was always a good friend to have around. Unfortunately she also had a habit of never letting anything go. Marie swallows.

“Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

Marie’s trance is broken, the gentle cadence new and almost musical. It was the stranger from the booth. They were in their male form, expression controlled and brows knitted together. Marie couldn’t help but stare for a moment, mouth slightly ajar before Emma interjected.

“Marie has one, don’t you Marie?” Emma says, intentionally pushing her own pencil case toward Marie with the end of her pencil. The stranger looks to Emma for a moment before focusing back on Marie.

“Yeah?” they ask, their hip grazing the table as they step closer. Marie, finally snapping out of her momentary daze, pushes the pen in her hand toward them. Their eyes follow Marie’s movement, flitting between the pen and her face.

Marie gives them a tight lipped smile, inwardly urging them to leave. She can’t take the awkwardness she’s exuding. However the stranger suddenly smiles, a small lovely smile. She notices the dimples that appear as they smile wider and her pulse jumps at the sight.

“Thank you, Marie” they say, waving the pen as if to indicate they were taking it. They don’t move for a second, a moment of silence falling across the trio. Emma pretends to clear her throat, leaning across the table.

“And you are…” she asks, her face contorted comically as though she has a lot riding on the answer. Marie felt like she at least, did.

The stranger half smiles again, scratching the back of their head.

“Uhh, Jordan?”they offer, almost posing it as a question. Emma grins, clearly pleased with herself.

“Emma,” she says, using two thumbs to point at herself, “and this is Marie, obviously”

It’s then with a pang of embarrassment that Marie realises Jordan’s eyes haven’t left her face since Emma began talking.

Jordan nods at her and Marie wonders if they’re usually this shy. Emma coughs again as if to alert Marie, eyeing the two exasperatedly.

Jordan smiles again awkwardly, mumbling something about “seeing them around” and wonders off back to their table, pen in hand. Emma smacks her hands dramatically on the table to which Marie jumps. Emma expression screams “are you kidding me” as she jabs a finger at a retreating Jordan.

“Stop,” Marie hisses desperately. Jordan finds their way back to their table, leaning down to test the pen on a loose bit of paper. Presumably pleased, they sit back down. Marie wants to scream at herself. She rubs her face roughly, frustrated.

"Hero Ethics, right?" a voice calls. It's Jordan, leaning across their table with their textbook presented toward Marie. She can read it more clearly now and she realizes that Jordan must be the year above her, maybe even a senior.

Marie nods slowly. She blinks and Jordan's half way across the room already, rounding her table before she can utter an audible response. A folder in hand, Jordan offers it to her. "First year notes," they explain. With a shaky hand, Marie takes them. She smiles, her first proper smile in their presence and meets their gaze.

"Thanks," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. Jordan shrugs coolly.

"Least I can do, freshman".

// authors note: did someone say, slow burn?? I am fairly rusty at writing like this so this was a little daunting to start however I hope this reads well. If this does well, I'll begin writing a part two soon! <3 trust me the study partners will be partnering eventually.

#jordan li #the boys #marie moreau #jordan li x reader #london thor #limoreau #jaz sinclair #derek luh #gen v imagine #gen v x reader #gen v x you #marie x jordan #jordanmoreau writes #imagines #x reader #limoreau fanfic #limoreau au

199 notes · View notes

alex-wire-mesh · 2 years ago

Photo

Balanced Wire Belt

Balanced wire belt ensures efficient product conveying, heat transfer, and liquid filtration, with their interlocked weave, high tensile strength, and open mesh design.

Adaptability, longevity, and safety features make the wire belt a preferred choice across various industries, enhancing productivity and operational efficiency.

Features: 1. Interlocked Weave The belt is created by interlocking successive wires, ensuring uniform strength throughout the entire belt. 2. High Tensile Strength The use of high-quality stainless steel or carbon steel wires provides excellent tensile strength and load-bearing capacity. 3. Open Mesh Design The open mesh design facilitates efficient airflow and fluid drainage, making it suitable for applications requiring heat transfer or liquid filtration. 4. Flat Surface The belt’s smooth and flat surface allows for stable and consistent product conveying, minimizing the risk of damage or deformation.

Advantages: 1. Versatility The belt can be customized to meet various specifications and sizes, making it suitable for a wide range of industries and applications. 2. Easy Maintenance Its simple design ensures easy cleaning and maintenance, reducing downtime and increasing operational efficiency. 3. Longevity With robust construction and resistance to corrosion, the belt has an extended lifespan, offering a cost-effective solution over time. 4. Enhanced Safety The interlocked weave prevents the belt from unraveling, minimizing the risk of accidents and ensuring operator safety.

Applications: 1. Food Processing The belt is commonly used in food processing industries for baking, cooling, freezing, and washing applications. 2. Industrial Conveyor Systems The belt efficiently transports various products in industries such as automotive, electronics, and packaging. 3. Heat Treatment The open mesh design allows for uniform heat distribution, making the belt ideal for heat treatment processes like annealing and tempering. 4. Filtering and Dewatering Its open structure enables effective filtration and dewatering of liquids in industries such as wastewater treatment and chemical processing.

#Balanced Conveyor Belt #Balanced Mesh Belt #Balanced Spiral Wire Belt #Balanced Wire Belt #Conveyor Belt #Conveyor Belt Wire Mesh #Mesh Conveyor Belt #Metal Conveyor Belt #Steel Conveyor Belt #Wire Belt

0 notes

aiartwerk · 9 months ago

Text

Carpenter A confident female carpenter working on wood in a workshop. With her curly hair tied back, safety glasses, and tools in hand, she is fully focused on her craft. Wood shavings and sparks surround her as she smoothly planes a piece of wood. Her robust physique adds to the image’s emphasis on empowerment and craftsmanship.

Construction Worker This image portrays a construction worker standing proudly on a construction site, donning a hard hat and tool belt. Her dusty outfit and powerful stance amidst cranes and scaffolding show her strength and dedication to the job, surrounded by a backdrop of a large industrial site under construction.

Crane Operator A woman sits inside a crane cabin, wearing a hard hat and work gloves, operating heavy machinery with intense focus. The interior of the cabin is filled with dials and switches, capturing the mechanical aspect of her job. The background is a vast construction site, highlighting the scale of her work.

Race Car Driver A striking woman in a yellow racing suit stands confidently in front of a Formula 1 race car. Her stance is powerful, with arms akimbo, as she commands attention amidst the high-energy backdrop of a race track. Her sleek outfit and the car’s detailed design contribute to the fast-paced energy of the scene.

Electrician This image showcases an African-American woman working as an electrician, kneeling down amidst a tangle of wires and cables. She holds a tool in her hand while sparks fly around her. Her expression is calm and composed as she works with precision in a high-stress environment.

Firefighter A fierce female firefighter stands in front of a blazing fire, exuding strength and bravery. Her orange firefighter suit is charred, and her face is determined as she readies herself for action. The flames in the background highlight the danger and intensity of her profession.

Pilot A stylish and commanding woman stands in front of a large airplane, dressed in a crisp pilot’s uniform. Her tailored black jacket and cap emphasize her authority and professionalism. The jet behind her and the blue skies reflect her role as a leader in aviation.

Lumberjill A woman in plaid and work jeans is in the midst of chopping logs in a forest clearing. Her strong arms grip an ax as she focuses on the task at hand. The sunlight filtering through the trees adds warmth to the image, emphasizing her connection to the land and hard work.

Mechanic In a garage setting, a female mechanic works on a car, her hands covered in grease. Her denim overalls cling to her toned frame as she holds a tool, surrounded by equipment and automotive parts. Her intense expression shows focus, dedication, and passion for her trade.

Soldier A soldier stands at attention amidst a battlefield, her body armored and weapon at her side. Her camo fatigues blend into the war-torn environment, while her fierce, unyielding gaze suggests experience and readiness for the challenges ahead.

Plumber A woman kneels beside a kitchen sink, tools in hand, as she works on the plumbing. Her determined expression and sturdy overalls emphasize her hands-on approach to fixing things. The homey kitchen setting contrasts with her industrial tools, blending domestic and technical elements.

Power Line Worker High above the ground, a woman works on power lines, equipped with a tool belt and safety gear. She balances on a wooden beam, her face focused as she repairs wiring. The towering power poles and bright sky in the background add scale and drama to the scene.

Spaceship Pilot Inside a futuristic spaceship, a young woman pilots the craft, surrounded by high-tech controls. Her white and black spacesuit glows in the colorful lights of the console, and the cosmos stretches out beyond the window. The vastness of space outside complements her focused expression as she navigates.

Submariner In the depths of the ocean, a woman operates the controls of a high-tech submarine. The control room is dimly lit with screens glowing, showing the sea life outside. Sharks swim past the large windows, creating a mysterious and adventurous atmosphere as she guides the vessel.

Welder A woman stands confidently in front of a welding torch, sparks flying around her. Her protective gloves and helmet highlight the dangers of her job, but her composed expression suggests mastery of her craft. The industrial setting around her adds a sense of strength and power to the scene.

Each image is crafted with ultra-realistic detail, featuring vivid 3D rendering and high-resolution 4K quality. The colors are bold and striking, with detailed lighting that brings out the textures in their environments, outfits, and the characters themselves. Each woman is depicted with strength and beauty, emphasizing her role in her respective profession while challenging traditional gender stereotypes.

These characters not only represent women of power but also pay homage to diversity by showcasing African American women in impactful, aspirational roles.

52 notes · View notes

darsynia · 10 months ago

Text

Momentary (Bucky/f!Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST | lmk for tags!

Summary: Your paths cross, intertwine, and separate again

WC/Warnings: 1,400 | Explicit Sex

Written for Essie's 300 Follower 'Summer Lovin' Celebration! Thanks for hosting, @bigtreefest, dear, I hope you like it! Prompts used were overstimulation, a hotel, and public sex

Excerpt:

“Please,” you breathe. His actions have slowed, turning from tempestuous to tender, a honeyed slowness designed to prolong your agony. His low, sexy chuckle is a live wire connected directly to his electric fingers as they dip and swirl.

“I want to hear you, doll,” he rumbles, lips grazing your ear in purposeful provocation. “Louder than the sunset, for me.”

You’re both still clothed, but the arch of your back and cant of his hips make clear what’s happening, visible to anyone with the fortitude to look away from the sun-painted sky. It’s exhilarating.

MOMENTARY

Your panties are puddled at your feet, and your mind is equally liquid. With your head thrown back against the balcony wall, you can only see the sunset over the water through slitted eyes, but its beauty is rivaled by the pleasure melting through your body. Yesterday you didn’t even know this man existed, but now his clever hand is moving under your white silk dress doing things that threaten your current and future stability.

He thrusts two thick fingers inside you, his thumb dancing light touches on your clit. It’s the perfect representation of his odd duality. This secretive stranger is intimately touching you in a semi-public place. He claims to be a businessman, yet he prowls around a luxury hotel with ruthless malice, clearly stalking more elusive prey than you’ve proven to be. The filthy threat you’d overheard him make to another guest had been vicious and incisive.

He is the opposite of everything you left behind at home.

“I want to hear you, doll,” he rumbles, lips grazing your ear in purposeful provocation. “Louder than the sunset, for me.”

“Make me, then,” you say, drawing on adrenaline for confidence.

Your lover’s expression sharpens, eyes glittering with anticipation. He pushes off the wall with his free hand, expertly opening his belt and shoving his clothes aside, all while maintaining the delicate devastation of his fingertips. Suddenly he stops, and you clutch at the wall behind you to maintain your balance as you watch him pull out a condom and apply it, his full attention on his task. Then he fixes his gaze on you and you practically stop breathing, your entire being focused on the slow movement of his hand as he slides it from your knee along your thigh, inch by glorious inch.

The urge to moan, to plead is intense, but you valiantly hold back.

He seems pleased by this, which is almost as sexy as this deliberate dismantling of your dignity.

When he finally touches you again, it's brief, but enough to make you dizzy, a supernova of erotic culmination for the few seconds before he lifts you up and lances into you. The resolution to hold back is obliterated by the aching cry that tears through your throat. Any other time you’d have crammed a fist in your mouth, mortified by the very idea of making your happiness audible. With every sensuous movement this man has destroyed all of that, and you’re a willing wreck.

He’d told you to keep touching to the minimum, so you limit yourself to clinging to his open collar, barely able to think against the purity of this pleasure. Eyes tightly shut, you keen through each powerful, rocking glide. You’re so distracted by the sensory overload that you don’t notice he’s only holding you up with one arm until he caresses your sleeve down your shoulder and fixes a hot, sucking kiss on your skin.

The unexpected, personal contact sends you fluttering around him, and you feel rather than see the way he’s affected by that--his free hand slams against the wall as his hips stutter the two of you impossibly closer. It’s as if the whole wall is moving with his desperate cadence, as caught up as you are in the mind-numbing pleasure.

“Your name,” you suddenly beg, clawing for coherence under the onslaught of your pending climax. You open your eyes and bite your lip, wishing you’d asked for a kiss instead. Knowing his name is far too much to ask from a man like this.

Your lover lifts his head. His blue eyes are dilated with desire, sending a heat flush across your body that pools at the place the two of you are joined. He opens his mouth, and somehow you know he wants to lie, which feels like a sin in a moment like this.

If he can break the rules, then so can you.

Before you lose your nerve, you move to caress his cheek with one hand as you nuzzle your nose against his neck, grazing your lips across the sensitive skin of his earlobe in a conscious mirroring of his own earlier action. “Please?” you whisper. His hips still.

“Jam--” he starts, then grunts when your surprise causes you to tighten around him intimately. “Bucky,” he admits, and you repeat the name in stunned triumph, more a breathy prayer than anything else. It’s a turning point, a sentence enhancer, and the the two of you follow it with fierce, frantic fucking in search of absolution.

You can hear yourself moan-gasping as you both come, the exquisite high tumbling and rising until you’re left breathlessly repeating words of gratitude interspersed with his name, your throat raw. For some reason, this causes him to slow his final thrusts, as if reluctant for the moment to pass. It’s almost shatteringly erotic, and you wonder if it’s a glimpse of the true him, or a sign that he’s donning another disguise--the picture of a wealthy, considerate lover. Certainly his groan sounds just as joy-ravaged as you feel, by the time he slides you down onto your unsteady feet.

The possessive sting on your shoulder pulsates in opposition to your body’s resonance, and you have to focus all of your attention on staying upright. Taking a few long, careful breaths, you open your eyes to see that Bucky is already perfectly put back together, his skilled fingers refastening the wrist buttons of his dress shirt from where he’d rolled it back up to touch you.

Without speaking, he respectfully tips his head in your direction and walks inside, crossing the dimly-lit suite without pausing at the bathroom to wash his hands.

It’s the realization that he could just wordlessly leave after such a defining moment that has you finally collapsing into a chair.

It’s fully dark by the time you get up to go inside.

You’d fled halfway across the world to India with the fortune your ex had tried to wrest from you, finally giving yourself the honeymoon you’d always dreamed you’d share with him. It’s hard not to feel like you’ve just fulfilled one of his ugliest insults during that sudden breakup, but at least you hadn’t been in a relationship when you’d had sex with a stranger.

At least you won’t head to bed still sweet with the buzz of someone else’s nectar.

There’s something mournful about showering after such an experience, washing away the fleeting remnants of a connection never meant to last. You’re torn between a light touch of soap to skin and scrubbing until you’ve excised both ex and rebound, but settle on something in between. Neither will release with ease, you realize. How strange that you’ve heard both men speak in anger in the past month, but in that time only one, the wrong one, used an endearment towards you.

“Go to sleep,” you murmur to yourself. The sound is sultry thanks to all the noises you’d made. A mix of mortification and memories sends you scurrying to the softest sheets and most heavenly mattress you’ve ever slept on.

You dream of wandering the hotel, checking doors one by one and finding a different version of Bucky in each--dashing and debonair in a vintage military uniform, cocky and confident in a leather jacket, sleek and sophisticated in a bespoke suit. For some reason, you step back from that particular door despite its familiarity, and decide to try one more. The Bucky you find there is long-haired and wild, dressed for war, but not a war any government would recognize. His black tactical jacket is missing a sleeve, showing off the metal of a mechanical arm that stretches from shoulder to fingertip.

He turns his head and catches sight of you in the doorway, and that’s when your dream-self sees the mask covering his mouth and nose, the dark facepaint shadowing his eye sockets. This strange yet exciting version of Bucky strides toward you, metal hand reaching--

--and you wake up.

In my mind, I picture him with the used condom folded into a handkerchief in his pocket, but I could not elegantly place that in the story lol. Hotel in the pictures is the Leela Kovalam, a five star hotel in India (loook! it's soooooo pretty!!!)

#bucky barnes #Essie’s 300 follower special #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #the romance of a brief poetic connection #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky smut #mcu smut #marvel smut #summer lovin’ celebration #Essie’s summer lovin’ 300 follower celebration #public sex in lush surroundings

65 notes · View notes

petertingle-yipyip · 5 months ago

Text

WORLD CLASS SINNER - FRANK CASTLE

finale - devil is a woman

seven // masterlist // MAG Masterlist

Pairing: frank x livia, billy x livia

Word Count: 8,919

Summary: It’s finally done.

The ride in the ambulance was hectic. Brett was ranting about how what he was doing wasn’t normal for him. He was weaving and gliding through traffic and Frank, the bastard, was as calm as ever.

You sat quietly, running your thumb over the bit of your pin sticking out the cuff. You knew it just needed a little nudge and the cuffs would pop open, but freeing yourself now did no good. You weren’t going to knock out Mahoney while he was going full-speed down a busy highway, so you waited.

“Hey.” Frank nudged your shin with his foot while Brett yelled on a phone call to Dinah. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Just wondering if I can convince Matt to take your case again.” You shrugged and he broke into a grin.

“What about you?”

“I can sweet talk Mahoney into letting me go. You, however, are always a different story.”

“That regret I hear?”

“Never that.” You smiled.

The impact to the ambulance jarred you, causing your rigged cuffs to pop open from the sudden movement you recognized as a car collision. You were thrown into Frank while Brett yelled something about not letting Frank go. He used his free hand to help you back to your feet and you saw Brett’s head whip around to see you free. You shook the cuff off your wrist and offered an apologetic smile. He simply glared at you before turning back to the road. You held a hand to Frank, the other slipping to the gun at the back of your belt.

“Do you got me?” You asked quickly.

“What?”

“Do you got me?” You emphasized and shoved your hand towards him.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” He nodded and grabbed your wrist tightly.

You offered a small nod before throwing your weight back into the seam of the ambulance doors, busting them open and balancing precariously on your heels as Frank countered your backwards lean. You lifted your other hand and fired three shots at the window.

The bullets sent spider-web-like cracks through the glass but didn’t penetrate. You quickly realized it was a cop car, meaning bulletproof glass. You sighed and scanned the car quickly. You needed a new target and your first thought was the gas tank, but that was probably under the rear bumper. You aimed your gun again and fired two shots into the back tire.

The car swerved before flailing wildly out of control before you could get a good look at the driver. You were pulling yourself back into the ambulance when the car slammed into the side again, causing your footing to slip and you to fall from Frank’s grasp.

You heard him scream your name as you bounced off the asphalt, the terror he yelled it with was so real you wished it was enough to catch you. For a split second, you wondered if he was thinking of that run for guns when Lieberman crashed into Dinah and you went dragging across the road in a similar fashion.

You closed your eyes as you rolled across the road, feeling the searingly hot road tear through your clothes and leave burning scrapes across your skin as your permanently unstable rib seemed to snap yet again. You’d never wished for that protective long sleeve more.

You climbed to your hands and knees, shaking the vertigo and blinking hard to clear the small rocks from your eyes. The muffled sound of a car horn and skidding tires drew your attention up, which hardly gave you time to get out of the way. You tried to turn away but the front fender knocked into your shoulder.

The collision sent you rolling across the road again and you nearly fell over the now broken edge. You managed to crawl to the ledge and look over. Seeing the ambulance completely tipped, you felt something shatter in your chest.

“Frank!” You cried out and the desperation you said the single syllable of his name with scraped your throat like sandpaper.

Instinctively, you went for the wire from your Bites, but you didn’t have them. You slammed a fist against the ground and tried to calculate the distance to the street below, if you could survive a fall from that height. It was unlikely the landing would be pretty, but how the hell else were you supposed to get to Frank?

You hurried to your feet and reached into the window of the nearest car. They asked quickly if you were okay but you flashed your badge before breaking off their passenger seatbelt. Their eyes went to something behind you but didn’t dare look. You just hoped Matt’s God was looking out for you.

You rigged one end to an exposed piece of rebar and wrapped the other end around your hand before you stepped off, hearing the hollow thud of another car collision. When you ran out of slack, the sudden stop yanked on your shoulder and you felt the deep pop and your arm went limp. You bit your cheek to keep in your cry as you had to cut yourself free and your knees buckled once your feet hit the ground.

You vaguely heard Dinah’s voice from above and you said quiet thanks to her appearance. You staggered across the distance and knocked on the ambulance’s side. You heard heavy thuds on the other side and the relief you were flooded with could’ve swept away New York if it was a real tide. You didn’t care to stop the tears as you hurried, and nearly fell, as you got to the back of the ambulance.

You pried the doors open and reached in to help Frank out. He wrapped one arm around you and you did the same. After a moment, he pulled away and put that hand on the side of your head. He scanned you for injuries but found only the array of small, surface level scrapes. You put a hand to your dislocated shoulder and Frank nodded towards his other arm, which you realized was hanging limply at his side.

“Just had to copy em, huh?” You tried to joke and he gave you a weak smile.

“Shit, I’m just glad you’re alive, Princess.”

He guided you to the side of the ambulance and slammed his arm back into the socket. You braced against it and he forced yours back in the same way, at which you cried out loudly. You looked around and saw the dripping gas, the lapping flames of the engine.

“Brett.” You whispered, putting a hand on Frank’s shoulder as you passed him.

You climbed back into the ambulance and drew your knife. Your footing faltered when you saw Brett’s limp form but you had to keep pushing. You forced yourself deeper into the ambulance and sawed through the seatbelt. Frank was at your side and helped you haul Mahoney out while the man mumbled about locking you both up.

The explosion went off only seconds later.

Then you and Frank parted ways. He was going after David Shultz and you were going home. You kept thinking about the man in the cop car but as you held on to the memory, forced it to replay, you could just make out who it was. The man from Ohio.

You decided to go home, not to hide, but to arm yourself. You were done hiding or running from that man, so you would be prepared to fight. To end it all. Him, Billy, anyone else who dared stand in your path. With the way you were feeling, you thought you might even cut down Matt if he tried to intervene.

You showered away the incident on the bridge, letting the water take away the small bits of gravel still stuck to your skin. It burned the fresh wounds but you let the pain sit there until your skin closed itself. You could’ve sworn you felt your rib shifting under your skin to try and right itself. There was a distinct scraping feeling just below the surface, like something was burrowing between your muscles and your lungs. It was a terrible pain, enough to make you nauseous as tears stung your eyes, but you forced yourself through it. The bones would never fully mend but it would be enough. You’d continue to put yourself back together until that ability failed you, which you knew it inevitably would. It had once, but luckily you had people who cared to bring you back. You may not always have that.

You debated your suit. You packed your staffs, belt, gun, Bites, mask, and shock disks into a bag while you thought. You wanted to wear your suit and feel it all come together, but you couldn’t fully bring yourself to it. This wasn’t something Exodus started. Livia did, and Livia would stay to see the hard work done.

So you wore fitted pants with your vigilante boots, a dark compression shirt, your usual gloves, and your long sleeve. You thought if you should go after them directly, track them by their fear or arrogance, but your mind kept wandering to Amy.

Had she gotten out of the hospital? Did she make it to the trailer? Or had she looked into Matt Murdock and gone to him? To her, he was just a name but you knew she understood what he meant to you, just how much you trusted him. Would she trust him the same?

You were reaching for your door handle when you were slammed by fear. It beat against the inside of your chest like a battering ram against a steel door, reverberating through your ribcage to a point where your breath stuttered. You backed away to your kitchen and spit in your sink. You hit the tap and tried to rinse the taste off your tongue but it wouldn’t leave.

It wasn’t your fear. It was from somewhere distant, from someone familiar. Your first thought was Frank but that man didn’t know fear, only anger. Revenge. It wouldn’t be Billy. You hadn’t felt his emotions in over a year. It couldn’t be Matt. He wasn’t involved in any of it, charged with keeping June out of trouble while you were away. That only left…

Amy.

You hurried to your door and threw it open, sprinting down your hall and down the stairs. You thought about your car but by the time you found your keys, got into your car, started the car, and pulled off, she could’ve been long gone or even dead. So you gripped your bag’s strap and ran.

You ran as fast your legs could take you, shouldering past people in front of you and mumbling apologies. Some threw curses at you, a few pushed back, but no one tried to stop you.

Night had fallen by the time you got to the trailer. As you were running up the dirt path, Frank pulled in beside you and you nearly ran into the front fender. You squinted through the headlights and saw Frank throwing his hands towards you and complaining. You scoffed and turned back to the trailer. Your eyes caught on the light coming from underneath.

Frank came up beside you and began to lecture you about running in front of moving cars, but he silenced when you reached out for him. You hand closed around the fabric of his sleeve and he reached for your elbow. He gently pulled you forward and you followed him inside.

Frank tended to Curtis, who was lying on the floor in pain, and you hurried to the back room. You checked the bedroom and bathroom, but both were empty. Your own panic began to close your throat but you had to force it down. You could feel Frank on the edge of a breakdown so you cleared your thoughts. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and used both hands to force your power through the room.

You saw the wisps move like fog, breezing through the small trailer and then fading out. Frank was calmer, though still frazzled, and Curtis was basically the same.

You heard Curtis explain that she ran and you felt some of the tension loosen in your chest. Frank used Curtis’ phone to call Amy but the phone was ringing from outside. Without thinking, you threw yourself through the door, a naive sense of hope flooding your veins. It ran icy when you found her cell abandoned on the ground.

You wanted to scream, but kicked the taillight out of the nearest vehicle instead. Frank went and dragged his hostage out the car and into the RV. You leaned quietly against the sink while Frank did what Frank did.

Your fingers drummed against your crossed arms as your brain flipped through questions like a rolodex.

Where could she be? Where would that man take her? How did he find her? What would you use to kill him? Why didn’t you give her the tracker like you did Lieberman’s daughter? Was she okay?

You dreaded the thought that maybe she was dead. Logic told you she wasn’t. She was leverage, bait even. Ohio Man wouldn’t waste that, not unless he had something better. But truthfully, nothing would be better to get you and Frank in the same place as the possibility of Amy being in danger.

“He’s truly scared of you.” You commented when the silence grew thick. “I can see it.”

“Good.” Frank said flatly.

“Listen, David.” You pushed off and crossed the room, leaning your hip against Frank’s shoulder. “Russians paid for these photos and then someone else found out. Suddenly… Everyone involved gets killed. Now you don’t seem the person to do that…” You looked him up and down and smiled slightly as his fear climbed and the yellow fog rumbled with new fear. “No, you don’t have the stomach for it, but I’m thinking that you know who does.”

Recognition crossed his features, quickly shifting to despair.

“No… No they- They wouldn’t.” He tried quietly but it was clear he was trying to convince himself.

“Who?” You urged, plucking at his restraint. “Tell us who it was and this ends so much sooner.” You coated your voice in fake sympathy. “I know you’re hurting, David. I know you’re scared, but just give us what we need and it can all end.”

“I swear to you I’m not part of this. I would never do this.” The man was near tears. You shoved off and patted Frank’s shoulder before going back across the room. You dropped into a chair near the table and leaned against the wall.

You were tired. You missed your friends. You wanted your kid back. You closed your eyes for a moment when you got a text from Dinah.

- need backup at dumonts. meet me? -

You raised a quiet brow and glanced at Frank. He was so enthralled in whatever he was doing that he didn’t notice. You stepped around Curtis and out the door. You headed to meet Dinah, quick strides but not quite a run. There was an urgency in her text you didn’t miss, but you were still so distracted with wherever Amy was. Your head might be for helping Dinah but your heart wanted to tear through New York till Amy was with you again.

But you knew Frank would get what you both needed. He’d get a location or a name. By the time you got back, he’d have everything ready to go. You had your gun out of your bag and a knife at your back. It wasn’t much, but to back up Dinah against a psychiatrist, it should be enough.

You could hear the fight as you approached the apartment. You loaded a comment about starting the fun without you and kicked the door open. You had less than a minute to learn the layout of the apartment. Rooms to your left, living room and kitchen to your right.

The fight was in the kitchen.

You got inside and saw Krista had Dinah’s head nearing the flame of the kettle. You reached for the kettle and knob simultaneously. Her head snapped up and you smiled in greeting before swinging the kettle at her. She screeched in panic and ducked, dropping her hold on Dinah.

You didn’t make contact but the hot water came out the spout and hit her arm, making her cry out again. From her position on the floor, she lunged for your legs. You sidestepped quickly and dropped to press your knee against her spine. You placed your hand firmly at the back of her head and forced her against the ground.

Dinah scrambled to the next room.

Krista thrashed beneath you and began elbowing the ankle you had on the ground. You rolled your eyes and leaned into the knee on her back to lift and slam your foot down on her hand. You pulled your blade and shifted your foot, only to drive it down and through her hand.

She cried out. You didn’t care.

You looked up to find Dinah and Krista threw the entirety of her weight to the side and you were thrown off. You hit the cabinets hard and she was able to get to her feet. You heard the squelch of her flesh as the knife was removed. Her hands scrambled over the countertop and she came back brandishing a steak knife in her bloodied hand. She looked down at you and the murderous intent was clear, but you didn’t miss the underlying motive. Protection.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that she was trying to protect Billy, and she was clearly willing to do whatever she had to. She wouldn’t stop until you and Dinah were dead. You expected a fight, but Krista had turned it into a death match.

She let out a loud cry and she fell to her knees in front of you before jabbing the knife forward. You caught her wrist and shoved her aside, forcing the knife’s tip into the cabinet door. You slammed your elbow against her jaw repeatedly until you heard the crack of splitting wood which told you she had freed the blade. Your head whipped towards it, which was a mistake, and as she pulled the knife back, the serrated edge skirted your cheek. You cried out and shoved her away.

You got to Dinah quickly, but before you could say anything, Krista slammed into you both. The three of you hit the ground hard and your shoulder smacked the edge of her coffee table.

At least she abandoned the knife.

You looked around and caught Dinah’s eye. She nodded to the window and then looked pointedly at Krista, who was groaning as she climbed to her feet. You nodded and moved to the other end of the couch while Dinah went for the other woman.

They struggled, shoving back and forth and reaching for throats. Dinah finally broke Krista’s hold and kicked at her chest, throwing her into your grip. You smiled as you latched onto her arms. With a small swing, you slammed her face first against the window.

Immediately, her fear was visible. You kept a hand at the back of her head, face squished against the glass, and she squirmed under your hold. With your free hand, you pulled your gun. You shoved off her, hearing a whimper as a response, and aimed. You fired four shots, two on either side.

Krista flinched at the sound and shakily turned to face you. You saw her bloody handprint on the glass before you slammed your shoulder against her chest.

The glass shattered with an echoing sound. Her scream filled any gaps for silence and you watched her limbs flail as she went down. You put your gun away as you did. Her body smacked the concrete hard, with enough force for her to bounce and hit again. The crowd gathered almost immediately.

You backed away from the window and grabbed Dinah’s arms. You spun her and tried to push her to the door but she seemed frozen.

Shock, you realized. Dinah was in shock.

You made a noise to yourself before checking the window. The crowd grew but no lights. No sirens.

You still had time. At least, you thought you did.

Your eyes locked with a hooded figure and the despair slammed you like a punch in the jaw. However, it quickly melted into rage, pure hatred. You backed away in a hurry and grabbed Dinah’s hand.

You yanked her with you, paused only to shove her jacket into her hands and tuck your bloodied knife away. You realized the fire was still on, and while you considered leaving it, you didn’t want to burn the entire building down. You hustled to twist the knob and looked back to Dinah.

There was no more time. You could feel Billy coming down the hall.

“Dinah.” You grabbed both her arms and shook her. “Come back. Come on!” You urged.

He was only a few doors down.

“Billy’s coming.” You shook her again. “I can’t fight him and look out for you.”

No response.

You groaned and quickly looked around, spotting the tip of Dinah’s gun under the table. You scrambled for it quickly and shoved it into her hands. She looked at the gun, then you, then it seemed to sink in what you had said. She nodded vigorously and you breathed out in relief.

It didn’t last long.

Billy slammed through the door, firing blindly and screaming. You dropped to the ground and slid around the corner, brandishing your bloodied knife, while Dinah spun to take cover in a room off to the side. Once he stepped into the living room, you acted.

You kicked out his knee and he buckled. His rage turned on you and you swiped the blade, catching his stomach. and he growled. You caught a glimpse of Dinah coming back into the living room.

You planted a hand on the ground and leaned into it, allowing you enough balance to swing your foot and kick at the slice. Your foot hit hard and he crumpled a little more. You dropped the blade and dove forward, tackling Billy to his back.

You had a comment loaded about a familiar view and different circumstances, but you ignored the opportunity. Instead, you made sure the gun slid away before you started slamming your fist against his face. His head jerked to the side with the impact and you watched the blood splatter out of his mouth and onto Krista’s hardwood floors.

He caught your next punch and twisted your wrist outward, his thumb purposefully digging into the bullet scar. You whined before he yanked down and pulled you off him. You hit your elbow on the ground first and before you knew it, Billy had you pinned. Both his hands closed around your throat and you grasped one of his wrists, fighting to get your other hand behind your back for your gun.

“You had to make it about her.” He said angrily, venom lacing his words as the hatred in them burned against your skin.

“I should’ve-“ You choked out. “Killed you at- At that ap- Apartment.”

The shot firing broke the silence and you flinched slightly. Billy crumpled against you for a moment and you took the chance to throw him off you. You scooted away quickly and freed your gun, quickly firing into his leg before he could get to his feet.

You felt Dinah’s hands under your arms and you let her help you to your feet. Your eyes scanned the area and you couldn’t find your blade. That made your stomach pitch, even briefly considering Billy using it, but you forced the thought away. Just because you didn’t see it didn’t mean Billy had it. Maybe it was just under the furniture.

Immediately after you had the thought, he proved you wrong. Your blade came through the side of your leg, angled down towards your knee, and you fell back to the ground. You scooted yourself away as Billy tackled Dinah to the ground. Every movement of the joint sent a jolt of pain and you bit your lip hard trying to keep your noises down.

You yanked your blade out roughly and used it to slice a strip of the curtain off. You tied it around your wound as tight as you could and gripped your knife’s handle. You leaned on the couch and you came around and found Billy on top of Dinah, both of them gripping the other’s throat. You rocked back a bit and threw yourself against Billy’s side.

He fell away and your instinct was to look at Dinah, just to see if she’s alive, but you couldn’t risk it. Instead, you slid on the side of your leg and got to Billy’s side. His eyes met yours and you turned your head to spit on the floor. Then you looked back and drove your blade into his stomach.

Once, twice, thrice.

He sputtered, blood trickling out his mouth, but you quickly slammed a fist against the side of his head and he fell limp. You dropped to a seat and heaved a sigh. As soon as you stopped moving, your adrenaline died and the pain flared.

Your knee felt on fire. Your cheek stung. Your elbow throbbed. Your throat burned. You leaned against the arm of the couch and gave in to the pain. You whined to yourself as you felt it grow, felt it sit under your skin while your body tried to mend itself. You could feel the edges of the slice on your cheek and the gash on your knee reaching for the other side, the tissues in your throat reforming after the swelling, the bruise on your elbow breaking apart. It was familiar, the pain of healing, but it was too much at the same time. You closed your eyes, only intended for a moment, and you felt yourself fall into unconsciousness.

It wasn’t long until you came to. The pains across your body were dull aches and you could see the lights of police cars on the street. You didn’t know where they were so you had to run. You ignored Dinah laying beside you but you couldn’t ignore the pool of blood. It wasn’t yours, but it had grown far enough to reach your pant leg.

You pushed to your feet and saw Billy was missing. You looked up and cursed God again for taking that victory away from you. Your knife was gone with him and you hoped that if he dared to pull it out, it’d take the last bit of strength he had. You ran a hand down your face and came to sudden realization that there was no mask to hide behind.

Your stomach pitched at the potential danger you were in. Billy Russo gone, Krista Dumont on the sidewalk in a pile of glass, Dinah Madani unconscious at your feet. It was a massacre and you were at the center of it. Your head was ringing, like someone was aggressively shaking a bell in your skull, when you realized it was your implant. Someone calling.

You snuck into the hallway, hearing the officers coming up the stairs. You went the other way down the hall until you found another stairwell. You inched the door open, heard no one, and darted inside. With a new and temporary limp, you made your way down the stairs and to the back alley.

You reached up to call back but no one answered. You shook your head, crept closer to the street to get your bearings, and made your way back to the trailer.

You’d reconvene with Frank, take a few hours to finish recovery, gear up fully, and go after your kid. You still had to find Amy.

You didn’t know how long it took you to get back. With the limp, seemingly having grown worse as you went, and the only moving via alleys, it felt like you took hours to get back. It could’ve been less than one. The moon was still out, that was all you knew.

You came through the door and Curtis stood immediately. He practically ran to your side when he saw you limp, taking on most of your weight until he got you to the closest chair. He examined the healing wound on your knee then promptly went off for a kit to clean and stitch it. You were grateful for it and the stinging of the needle was a welcome distraction from the vaguely familiar man staring at you with a pathetic plea in his eyes.

You looked at Curtis with a raised brow but he simply shook his head. You glanced back at the senator and found it wasn’t necessarily fear anymore. More apologetic, ashamed even. You said nothing.

The silence dragged on for what felt like an eternity until finally the stitches were done. Curtis patted your leg and you smiled in thanks. Quietly, he got up and left, taking Frank’s captive with him.

You rubbed the joint gently and winced as the blossoming bruise protested your touch. You limped to the bathroom and found a long wrap. You worked it around your knee and fastened it tightly, both enjoying and hating the compression it offered. It was a little while longer until Frank came back.

“Where is she?” You managed, though your voice came out raspy.

“He has her. She followed him, called us for help, and he took her.” Frank said.

He was angry and it unfortunately was pointed at you as well. It didn’t take a genius to know that the call you had gotten earlier was Amy. You missed a chance to get her, a chance to end that battle, because you were fighting Billy. All of that and you didn’t even know if Billy was dead. He was also angry at himself, for not being able to keep her. And he was angry at her for getting herself caught.

“And where the hell were you, huh?” Frank asked and the accusation was hard to miss.

You glared at him slightly, wondering what he thought you were doing that was enough for you to miss Amy’s call and come back with a bloody leg, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. You didn’t have it in you to argue.

“Took a shot at Billy.” You admitted. “Don’t know if it’s done but he left about half his blood on the floor… I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Yeah…” Frank sighed, coming over to your side. He dropped a hand to your shoulder and gave a small squeeze. Your head fell against his forearm and you reached up to pat his hand. “You gonna be alright?”

“Always am, Frank.”

Frank stepped away to take a call. He was gone less than a minute but came back with that look you’d come to expect from him. A fight was coming and it was coming fast. You gestured for Frank to give you his hand and he helped you out of the chair.

You made your way to your bag, which you had left on the small kitchen table, and began fitting equipment into place. Your belt clipped easily around your hips and you filled its sheaths with the appropriate weapons. You slung your pack over your shoulders and you decided to leave your mask behind. Your Bites fit securely to your wrists and the blue light from them loosened a knot in your chest.

When you were ready, you and Frank decided to wait outside. He sat on the little step leading into the trailer and you positioned yourself along the junk cars. You were kneeling in the dirt, drawing figures on the ground out of boredom when the car finally pulled up.

Frank and the Man had their exchange with Amy in the middle. When she finally caught your eyes, you saw the shock make her pupils go wide. You held a finger to your lips to keep her quiet and she gave you a small nod.

You crept around the cars until you were behind their exchange. You stood and revealed yourself, flexing your hands to wake your Bites. You heard Frank tell the man - who’s name you finally learned to be John - to point the gun at him because he’d do anything for Amy.

Frank’s eyes met yours for a second but you didn’t need words for his intent.

Not yet.

You recognized that John’s gun was too close to Amy’s head, his finger too close to the trigger. So you waited, tense and ready to fight. To protect Amy and Frank, whatever the cost. You knew Frank wasn’t bulletproof, even if he believed he was, but your shirt at least was. You’d put yourself in front of whatever bullet was intended for them, because they were your family.

You’d do anything for them.

“Where’s your friend?” John asked and your head tilted.

You backed away slowly, though your weapons remained ready. You kept moving until you were able to crouch behind the car.

“Let the girl go.” You called finally. “Come on, John. You just said you have kids. Let her go, I’ll come out, and we’ll settle this.”

You didn’t look up but you felt the relief from Frank and Amy. You smiled to yourself, blinking away the tears of your own relief, before you stood. Your hands were raised and John’s gun found aim at your chest almost immediately. You kept his gaze and he frowned at your outfit. You wondered if he recognized the top, but you also couldn’t remember if that was the one you wore when you fought him last time.

You were pulled from the thought when Amy’s arms wrapped around you. Immediately, you hugged back and allowed yourself to forget John’s presence.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled against you. “I’m sorry, Livia. I tried to call but-“

“Hey.” You stepped back enough to look her in the eyes. “It’s not your fault, okay? Listen, I’m gonna give you an address. You drive straight there and knock on his door. Don’t stop knocking until he answers.”

“But Frank said-“

“I’m not worried about that.” You cut in. “You tell him that I sent you. He’ll look out for you till I come get you, alright?”

“Who is it?” She sniffled.

“You finally get to meet Red.” You smiled slightly and guided her into the car. You leaned across her to put in Matt’s address in the GPS. You scribbled his apartment number on her hand with a pen you found on the center console. “June should be with him. Tell them I’ll see you all soon.”

“Don’t die.” She whined and your heart broke. You were painfully reminded of how young she really was.

“We won’t.”

You shut the door and walked to Frank’ side with your hands raised again. You felt John’s gun following you, but it was the least of your concerns. When you heard the horn, likely part of Frank’s orders, you felt like you could breathe again.

“Where’d you send her?” Frank asked quietly.

“Red.” You replied in the same low tone. “He’ll watch out for her.”

“He still looking out for your mini?”

“Yeah.” You smiled slightly. “She’s in good hands.”

“I know.” He nodded.

Frank and John had a quick exchange about David. Both men took dangerous steps towards each other and your whole body tensed. Once John was close enough, you acted.

You dropped a knee and shot a wire around his ankles. As you yanked his feet out, Frank was there to make sure he hit the ground. Frank pounded away at the man so you ditched the wire and hurried to kick the gun away from John’s reach. However, that didn’t stop John from hurting Frank with an old car part.

You reached behind and pulled both staffs, twisting them together quickly as John collected a new weapon of his own. Frank was regaining his bearings when you stood in front of your shared opponent.

He swung it at your head and just got your staff up in time to block it. You twisted around to force the weapon, what looked like a shovel, to the ground. Your foot slammed on top of it and you jerked the edge of your weapon to hit his jaw. He staggered and you jammed your knee up into his stomach.

His hold on the shovel fell. You kicked out at his chest to force him back against the closest car. Without hesitation, you moved in and pressed your staff against his throat.

You wanted him to die. You watched to watch the light fade from his eyes, to feel him struggle for his last breath. You wanted to kill him for everything he had done to you, to Amy, to Frank.

The thought brought out something long buried, something you didn’t want to fight against. You let that floodgate open, let the rage and pain and anger spill out.

The red haze across your thoughts and your vision served as enough of a distraction for John to use against you. One of his hands grabbed your arm and the other landed on the side of your head. He jerked you to the side and slammed your head against the car’s windshield twice. He kept you pinned, leaning his weight against your skull, and you had to squeeze one eye shut. The glass spidered beneath you and he twisted your head, slicing razor thin lines open across half your face.

Vaguely, you wondered if that was only a small fraction of the pain Frank inflicted on Billy back at the carousel with the mirror.

The pressure suddenly disappeared and you slid down the car. You dropped into the dirt, fresh blood seeping from the thin wounds. You blinked it away but you couldn’t quite tell if it was out of your eye, given the red tint the scene had taken on.

Frank had stepped in while you tried to regain control. You weren’t trying to fight the manic rage in your head or the burning sensation through your muscles. You were willing to use it, but you needed to direct it. You needed focus.

With a flex of your hands, both Bites ignited while you scanned the scene in front of you. The bright blue shifted to red and you could all but feel the electricity in your blood. It was the only thing that seemed to ground you into the present moment. That and the stinging pain down half your face.

John had just thrown Frank to the ground and was reaching for a length of chain. You twisted the long staff apart and threw one piece, ricocheting it off the ground to smack John in the throat. He stumbled away and you ran at him again.

You slipped the other staff into the pack before you shouldered into his side with enough force to head a crack. He hit the ground and rolled a few feet away. You heard the clink of the chain behind you, John coughing and wheezing in front you, while you patted your belt for a quick inventory.

Shock disks. Bites. Staff. Gun.

Your knife had disappeared when Billy did. Your retractable was long since gone. That was a weapon you didn’t think you’d miss.

You slipped two shock disks between your fingers and tightened your hands into fists. John stood unsteadily but still came at you. He landed a few heavy hits to your jaw, knocking you off balance slightly. He grabbed your chin, forced you to look at him as he raised his fist for what he intended to be a finishing blow. You took the opportunity to slam your fist into his stomach.

His entire body tensed with the electricity, gripping tighter to your face. You pried his fingers off with your other hands and shoved him away. Frank was at your side within moments, kicking at John’s head before helping you get some distance.

“You alright?” You asked before moving your jaw around. You felt the familiar throb of pain but it was still in place.

“Yeah.” He mumbled, pretending like he wasn’t covered in blood. Whose blood it was, you couldn’t say. “You?”

“Never better.” You smiled.

Frank threw himself back into the fight before you could. Fighting with Frank was starkly different than fighting with Matt. You and Matt fought in tandem, alternating punches with complimentary styles. You two moved like a pair of dancers or figure skaters, lifelong partners that could anticipate each other’s moves.

You and Frank fight in waves. His ambush would come, then while he took a retreat, you attacked. You two would alternate, creating a never ending barrage of offense. Neither of you stayed down too long because the other one always found a gap to haul the other up. You two fought like the soldiers you were.

It came to be your turn when John tackled Frank to the ground.

You took a short running start to slide on your knees around the fallen man, firing both Bites as you went. He convulsed with the sudden shock as your momentum stopped. Bracing your hands flat against the dirt, you slammed both feet forward to send John to his back.

Your previously discarded staff was close by so you scooped it up, swiped the rotating mechanism, and heard the distinct sound of the blade releasing. You jammed it forward but John managed to avoid the impalement, suffering a gash along his side instead. You shifted to a kneel and slashed upwards, cutting across the fronts of his legs as he tried to stand, then you threw the weapon like a javelin. It buried itself in his shoulder and he cried out.

You got to your feet before searching for Frank. Losing focus was your mistake. John had yanked out and discarded your weapon before he tackled you. His bloodied shoulder slammed your rib cage and the disconnected bones shifted suddenly. You screamed at the pain but John didn’t ease up. He kept pushing until your back hit a car and he could yank you over the hood.

You tried to push yourself up and get some distance, but the sharp pain made you collapse, your back flush on the hood and your head hanging off the other end. John took the opportunity to slam his elbow against the center of your chest, hard enough that you practically flipped over yourself.

Air was knocked out of your lungs. You were dizzy from the pain. Your head hurt. Your leg still hurt, even more now. The bruise was already forming across your sternum. You could barely hear the thunks, thuds, and grunts as Frank and John continued the brawl.

You wanted it over. You were just so damned tired.

You pushed yourself up and forced your feet to move. You limped over, practically dragging the useless leg behind you. Frank had gotten John to his knees by then. You stood behind John, gripping a suspender in either hand. Hard yanks allowed you to cross them over opposite shoulders and you pinned your knee between his shoulder blades while you pulled the strips of material back.

“When you- kill them-“ John choked out. Frank hesitated to listen and you rolled your eyes. “Don’t hurt- my boys.”

Frank looked at you, a silent request for you to wait. You considered it, put yourself in John’s shoes. If it was the other way around and John was going to kill you, you wouldn’t want him to go after your girls. If your last words were asking for June and Amy’s safety, you’d be okay dying.

You let go of the suspenders and John greedily gasped for air. Frank offered you a hand and you limped around to stand beside him.

“I know who you are.” John looked between you both. “You are Death.”

“What if…” Your voice was a rasp so you cleared your throat. “You mentioned your boys. What about their mother?”

“God called her home while I was here.” He confessed, nearing tears.

The red haze broke apart and you blinked at the clarity. You also understood you couldn’t orphan those boys.

“They did that on purpose.” You knelt in front of John. Frank’s hand landed on your shoulder. “They took you from your boys and your wife when they needed you so even if you failed, they had what they wanted. They’ll turn your boys into what they’ve made you. If I can keep my girls from becoming like me, I’d do anything… What if there’s a way to bring you back to your boys and end this?”

“You fight with the Devil in your eyes.” John said calmly. “But you have a good heart.”

“What do you say, John?” Frank asked. “Let’s go get your boys, eh?”

John sniffled then nodded. He looked at you both with tears shining in his eyes.

You knew you made the right choice.

The next morning, your body was stiff as you climbed out of bed. The deep purple bruise took over your chest. The stitched wound at your knee was red and swollen, making bending the joint hard. The white of your eye was red but the thin slices had healed. Your rib was less painful but you could feel it shift with each breath.

When your phone rang with the unknown number, you hesitated to answer it. Curiosity took over.

It was Billy. He confessed he was bleeding out, said he didn’t want to die alone. He didn’t expect you to forgive him. He just wanted company.

Something long since buried made you go to him. You did, however, have enough sense to text Frank to meet you there just in case.

You walked into the building and immediately knew you two were alone. Your gun was a comfortable pressure against your hip as you found the room he was in. You made a point to sit on the floor well out of his reach.

“How the mighty have fallen.” You commented.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.” He smiled weakly. “It’s good to see you, Livs.”

“Was it worth it?” You asked instead of acknowledging his sentiment. The worst part was that you could feel he actually meant it. “Abandoning the people who cared about you?”

He scoffed slightly, which turned to a cough and more blood spilled out his mouth. “We both know you didn’t- didn’t actually care.”

“I did.” You nodded. You figured it was about time to confess it all, especially if he wasn’t going to live much longer. “Bill, I would’ve… I thought you were going to be the one to bring me back after I lost Matt. I was scared of admitting I loved you because everyone I love gets hurt. I had just lost someone that meant everything to me. I wasn’t going to risk anyone else like that.”

“Do you remember when I said we could get married?” Another small smile.

“Yeah, we were both drunk off our asses.” You chuckled slightly. “You said there was a chapel not too far from Anvil and it’d be fun.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Because I was trying to decide if it was worth the risk.”

“Livs-“

“Don’t call me that.”

“Livia.” He corrected. “Everything I’ve done to hurt you, I don’t expect you to forgive me.” He spoke with an unexpected genuineness that threw you for a moment. l

A deathbed apology was usually just to clear a guilty conscious in your experience. But Billy said those words knowing you’d be unlikely to forgive him. You felt compelled to hear him out.

“I’m not sorry for what’s happened to you.” You said plainly. “I did love you, Billy Russo, but I mourned that man a long time ago.”

You reached into your pocket and withdrew the watch he had given you. You flipped it over, ran your thumb along his etched initials, then tossed it to him. It landed atop one of many blood stains on his shirt.

“That was one of the last things you gave me.” You explained.

“Why’d you keep it?” He asked, pupils blown wide as he fought to stay. “If you hated me so bad.”

You sighed slightly, your thumb running over the bullet scar. “I guess I used to hope that when I saw you again, you’d look the same. Like you did before everything… I thought I’d see my Billy, not whatever Rawlins made you. But honestly, I’m not even sure what you became.”

Frank came in before Billy could respond. He stood behind you like a guardian taking post. Billy tried to say he was happy Frank was there and apologize, but Frank didn’t let him get the words out. You flinched at the gunshots but said nothing. You felt nothing.

You had already mourned Billy Russo, so seeing his dead body stirred nothing. Just a faint sense of relief at the thought of a threat eliminated.

“You alright?” Frank asked as you two left.

“Yeah.” You nodded slightly.

The night came sooner than you expected and it was time to put an end to the Schultzs’ plans. You didn’t know their son David enough to care about his career or his life falling apart over the pictures. You didn’t even care about the pictures themselves. It was about going after the people who sent someone for you and your family.

So long as they lived, your family’s fate was unknown. You wouldn’t stand for that.

Amy went in first but you refused to let her in alone. You ignored the mask, wanting them to look clearly into the eyes of the woman who’d end them. Frank was beside you while Amy did her talking. You two took post in the next room. angling yourselves for a clear sightline.

When you saw the wife make a move for Amy, you fired your weapon. Your bullet went through her hand and the knife clattered free. Frank’s gunshot came next, blowing a hole through her head.

The husband screamed in terror while you two marched in.

You stood quietly one protective step in front of Amy while Frank made his threats. Amy warned of going to the Bulletin with her evidence. You knew that Karen wouldn’t hesitate to run the story with or without her editor’s approval, and you’d be by her side throughout whatever backlash came from it.

“It’s your choice.” You said flatly, tossing an empty gun to the table. You pulled out a single bullet, examining it thoughtfully as you continued. “You take that gun, put it in your mouth, and blow out the back of your head. Be with your wife.” You looked at the man. Yellow fog surrounded him like a blanket and you smiled. “Or you live. Live with the truth of what you’ve done.”

You carefully placed the bullet on the table before leaving. Amy was right behind you and Frank followed after, a neat line as you left the Schultz estate.

You weren’t even out the driveway when the gun went off.

The last exchange with John was silent, understanding nods before he loaded his sons and left.

The next day, you and Frank were at the bus depot with Amy. She tried to convince Frank to go with her but he refused, saying he didn’t need her on his conscious.

“Does that means he cares?” Amy teased, looking at you with faux shock.

“Even the Grinch’s heart can grow.” You laughed and it got a chuckle out of Frank. “You’re young, Amy. Go have fun, be a kid.”

“I care about you guys, too.” She said genuinely. “I owe you pretty much everything.”

“And you’ll repay me by living your life, okay?” You squeezed her hand.

“Yeah.” She nodded with a forced smile before looking to Frank. “Why did you come after me in the bar that night?”

“The tougher you acted, the more scared you looked.” He shrugged.

“And you?” She focused back on you. “Why’d you stay?”

“You reminded me of someone.” You smiled slightly. “I couldn’t save her, but I could save you…”

You glanced around while Amy and Frank shared a hushed conversation. You caught sight of a familiar figure standing a few benches away. She met your eyes and offered an understanding smile. You nodded and she came closer.

Suddenly, you were pulled into an embrace. One of Amy’s arms was around your neck and the other around Frank. You felt Frank grab onto your arm tightly as Amy was sandwiched between you two. There was a cold chill throughout the embrace and you could hear her sniffles.

“You’ll be okay.” You told her quietly when you pulled away. Gently, you wiped a tear from her cheek.

“She’s lucky to have you.” Amy said sadly. Your brows furrowed and she gave a weak laugh. “June.”

“Take care of yourself.” You smiled sadly.

Frank reached for your hand as Amy went to climb onto the bus. You slid over to sit beside him and a new presence filled your old seat.

“What are you doing here?” You asked her.

“Thought you two would want some company.” June said softly. “Hey, Frank.”

“Hey, Junebug.” He smiled slightly.

26 notes · View notes

youzicha · 5 months ago

Text

Normal Accidents

📖Charles Perrow, Normal accidents: living with high-risk technologies, 1984. Second edition 1999.

The Title

This is another example of a book that lives on its title, a great racket which works like this:

Find a proposition which many people would like to be true. E.g., Nations are fake and don't exist except in people's imagination. Victorian doctors used vibrators as a treatment for hysteria. Computer programming used to be gender-balanced and then male programmers took over. There's no way to run a nuclear power plant without accidents.

Find a catchy phrase that strongly hints at the proposition without outright stating it.

Write a few hundred pages of text: long enough that plausibly somewhere in there could be convincing evidence of proposition X, and someone would have to spend a whole day reading to find out whether there is or not.

Congratulations, you are set for life.

The Theory

The book theorizes that there is a particularly intractable type of accident which it calls “system accidents”. They are different from simple component failure accidents and happen in systems that are “complex” and “tightly coupled”. It classifies systems on two axes: a system is “linear” if each subsystem mostly interacts with one subsystem in front and one after (like an assembly-line factory) or “complex” if the subsystems all interact with each other, and it is “tightly” coupled if each subsystem immediately affects the other one without room for recovery.

Perrow then reads a bunch of accident investigation reports from different industries (nuclear, chemical, airlines, maritime, etc) and highlights interactions and coupling. The whole book produces this diagram:

From this we conclude… what exactly? Maybe that system accidents are important, and we should pay attention to them? Or slightly stronger, that there are more accidents in the upper-right quadrant than in the other ones? A big problem is that Perrow never says precisely what he is trying to prove and doesn't apply any objective measures. I would want to count the number of accidents in different industries, and compare the ratio of system/non-system ones, or compare the absolute numbers, but Perrow just relates a sampling of accidents and says that they are illustrative.

Whether these accidents really are good illustrations of "system accidents" seems to depend a lot on the spin he puts on them. The classification into complex versus linear seems very hand-wavy. In one example of aviation, which is supposedly complex, "even after bailing out … there was room for the unexpected interaction" because the pilot was hit on the head by the falling ejection seat. By contrast the mining industry is assigned the center of the linear-complex axis, and one example concerns a worker who walked under a conveyor belt—and got hit on the head. Basically the same accident can be glossed as interactive or not.

Or how about this airplane accident:

The next accident, an account of problems with a four-engine corporate jet, the Lockheed Jet Star Model 1329, is more prosaic, but it gives some idea of the world of corporate jets and involves a system accident, unusual risks, and a safety change that was responsible for killing eight people. The safety improvement involved new, solid state units in the generator control units and new wiring. The airplane was flight-tested after installation and one generator failed. Repairs were made. In the next test flight, all four generators failed at one time or another, and were manually reset during flight. [Two weeks later] The plane crashed a mile short of the runway […] The NTSB is not certain of the proximate cause of the crash […] The example strongly suggests a system accident

It is typical of the book: there are no statistics showing that system accidents are common, only isolated examples, and in this example he doesn't even know what caused the accident!

(Later in the book the level of rigor goes down even further. For accidents in space, instead of reading accident investigation reports Perrow says "I am drawing here on the immensely entertaining, and exceptionally perceptive book by Tom Wolfe, The Right Stuff." Then for accidental war the discussion is based on Dr. Strangelove. And then he turns to DNA technology, which "appears to be complex in its interactions and tightly coupled, but I caution the reader that I know even less about it than I do about nuclear weapon systems." Thanks.)

But the actual central claim that Perrow wants to conclude is something even stronger than that systems accidents are common: he says that there is no way to prevent them. Thus the final chapter says that we should only accept complex-coupled systems if accidents have acceptably small consequences, and otherwise we must replace them with safer alternatives. In particular Perrow wants to get rid of nuclear power; the book started as an anti-nuclear pamphlet written after the Three Mile Island accident. But it seems quite hopeless to prove this impossibility by just reading accident reports.

So the book has much talk about catastrophic risk, but very few testable predictions. In fact, I could only find two. First, there is this paragraph about airline accidents:

With millions of operating years of experience, repeated trials, tests without catastrophic consequences, and considerable government support, the industry has been able to maximize the potential for technological fixes, including buffers and redundancies. Two engines are better than one; four better than two; the jet engine less complex than the piston engine; and of course the industry makes use of exotic new materials and instrumentation. System accidents in flying will remain, but they have been reduced substantially. […] The safety of both automobile travel and airline travel (and military and general aviation as well) has increased dramatically in this century, but since the 1960s and 1970s the safety curve has flattened out; we appear to be in the area where further increases are very hard to achieve.

It seems to say that airline accidents first fell quickly because we solved the issue of component failures, and now will fall no more because the rest is intractable systems accidents.

Second, there's this nicely unambiguous paragraph:

I would expect a worse accident than TMI in ten years—one that will kill and contaminate. […] There will be more system accidents; according to my analysis, there have to be. One or more will include a release of radioactive substances to the environment in quantities sufficient to kill many people, irradiate others, and poison some acres of land. There is no organizational structure that we would or should tolerate that could prevent it. None of our existing reactors has a design capable of preventing system accidents. Perhaps a safe one will be discovered—loosely coupled and linear—but I am doubtful.

Forty years later, there has not been any accidents in American nuclear power plants, so the analysis seems nicely refuted. The airplane accidents also did not come through. The trend in the 20th century was that the accident rate halved every 10 years:

And based on this data the same trend remained. From 1983-1989 to 1990-1999 the deaths per departure halved, from 1990-1999 to 2000-2009 they halved again, and from 2000-2009 to 2010-2017 it decreased even faster.

As it happens, there's a second edition from 1999 with a retrospective afterword, and it talks about how warmly the book was received while skipping over the fact that its predictions were wrong. It says “Commercial jet disasters are at approximately the same (low) level as in 1984, per departure” (no), and “of course we had Chernobyl”. But Chernobyl was not one of the American power plants whose incident reports the prediction was based on, and also it was not a systems accident. There was only one relevant subsystem, the core, and only one relevant parameter, the power output.

The second edition also adds a chapter about the Y2K problem, which could be "a test of the robustness and applicatory scope" of the Normal Accident Theory. While officials are optimistic, those Y2K plans are "fantasy documents" and there could be disaster whose "potential scale and scope dwarfs all other 'normal accidents' discussed in the book". (Notably one of the scenarios discussed in the book is a global nuclear war.) Having seen the actual outcome of Y2K, I think the robustness and applicatory scope comes across as well here as in the other cases.

Annoyances

So the theory seems dubious and the conclusions wrong, but that on its own would not make me write this long screed. What really gets to me is two annoying tics in the writing. First, constant smugness. The style matters because most of the book consists of summaries of accident investigations, and although they are supposed to illustrate his "normal accident theory", in practice he is mostly just writing descriptions without any particular theoretical angle. Of course I love reading accident reports too, but these days you can get all the pdfs you can read at the click of a mouse button, which raises the question what Perrow adds over the source material. And the main difference is that he thinks he is smarter than everybody else, and lets us know so through constant asides.

First, he is smarter than the reader. The first chapter, about the TMI accident, reassures us that it "will be the most demanding technological account in the book, but even a general sense of the complexity will suffice if one wishes to merely follow the drama rather than the technical evolution of the accident." Don't worry your pretty little head, Perrow is here to explain things. This tendency is even more annoying when he doesn't understand what he is explaining. He does not know what the word envelope means, and then projects his own confusion by saying that this aspect of flying has "poorly understood dynamics".

Second, he is smarter than the accident investigation board, and takes random snipes at them. A random board member in a press conference mentions a “remote possibility”, which Perrow jumps on. He comments that in marine accidents "the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) do what they can. But they can do little in this error-inducing system. […] It can happen. It is bound to. The recommendations are futile." I guess his methodology forces him to take this polemical tone, because all he is doing is reading accident investigation reports, so if he didn't complain, there would be nothing added by his descriptions.

In fact, he is smarter than just about anyone, and happy to share his observations even if they are not related to the accidents at all, e.g. “the approach to the Westchester Airport goes right over an interstate highway with one of those curious signs with the fruitless warning: ‘watch out for low flying aircraft’”.

I think this is a general hazard with writing about nuclear policy: both the pro- and anti-sides seem to have a lot of very smug people. I think for me the biggest takeaway from this book was that I should try to tone it down in my own writing.

The other annoyance is that Perrow never mentions any numbers, even in situations that really cry out for them. For example, there are many mentions of plutonium, in criticality accidents or when it was accidentally released from the Oak Ridge National Laboratory. An article says “��in all plutonium incidents to date, only a small fraction of the plutonium involved was released.’ That is like saying that in a war, only a small fraction of the bullets kill anyone.” A Titan ICBM can “literally go off with the drop of a workman’s wrench and possibly release plutonium”.

And beyond these local accidents, in 1964 there was a “cosmic” one: “Most of the failures of the space program have not been death-dealing, and if they were, they were limited to first-party victims—the astronauts or technicians. However, in three cases of failures with plutonium power packs, the risks are potentially catastrophic, since plutonium is perhaps the most deadly substance known to humans. … a navigational satellite sent up in 1964 that failed to achieve orbit when its rocket engine failed. It reentered the atmosphere over the Indian Ocean and distributed 1 kilogram of plutonium-238 about the earth.”

Like, at this point surely you’d want to know how many people were actually killed? From looking around on google a bit, it seems the 1964 satellite may have caused two hundred cancer deaths if you assume the cancer risk scales linearly to extremely small radiation doses. (And it prompted a change in policy to no longer let plutonium burn up in the atmosphere.) To me this kind of number seems essential to judge how catastrophic the accident is.

Another example where the numbers are lacking:

The price of electricity from nuclear power plants does not reflect the very large government subsidies, nor the costs of the unsolved problem of long-term waste storage, nor even the unknown costs of dismantling reactors after their forty allotted years, if they run that long. Had all these been properly considered in the 1950s and included in the cost, this book would have not been written because no utility would have ordered a plant.

This claim is not cited to anything. I believe that people were in fact considering this, but in any case the costs are now known: the long-term waste storage came to 0.41 cent/kWh and the dismantling to 0.24 cents/kWh. Meanwhile electricity prices have varied between 19 cents/kWh and 13 cents/kWh (in 2020 dollars), so the waste + decommissioning costs are a rounding error in comparison to other factors.

At some point he says that “you are good at counting while I (as I tell my quantitative colleagues) don’t count”, but really, you live like this?

Coal versus nuclear

Perry spends most of the book talking about the risk from nuclear power plants. But what is the alternative? In the introduction he says

There is no technological imperative that says we must have power or weapons from nuclear fission or fusion, or that we must create and loose upon the earth organisms that will devour our oil spills. We could reach for, and grasp, solar power or safe coal-fired plants

And then he doesn’t mention those coal plants again until the final chapter. But as he was writing, American coal plants were killing 30,000 people/year. Compared to the deaths from cancer, that corresponds to multiple Chernobyl accidents every year. Does he not know this?

Actually he includes a final chapter about “current risk assessment theory”, where he notes that fossil fuel plants kill a lot more people than nuclear power, but nuclear power provokes more “dread” and “the public’s fears must be treated with respect”. I feel this would be more convincing if Perrow had not spent an entire book trying to stoke that fear.

He gives a more operational description of “dread risk”: “lack of control, high fatalities and catastrophic potential, inequitable distribution of risks and benefits, and the sense that these risks are increasing and cannot be easily reduced by technological fixes”. I think this still doesn’t distinguish the coal pollution and nuclear accidents very well. Neither is controllable, the particulate emissions and the radioactivity both drift with the wind, the parties that take the risk and benefits are the same for both, and the “sense” that technological fixes don’t work is illusory.

Of course, nowadays we know that coal has has another drawback besides the particulate pollution, and this is mentioned in a single paragraph, literally in parentheses!

(One enormous risk which the industrialized nations may be facing is not considered in this book on normal accidents; eliminating this ill would require much more drastic measures than any of the above: This is the problem of carbon dioxide produced from deforestation primarily, but also from burning fossil fuels such as coal, oil, and wood. This threatens to create a greenhouse effect, warming the temperature of the planet, melting the ice caps, and probably causing an incredible number of other changes, most of them disastrous. If it is significant—the experts do not agree—we may have a few decades to handle this; but it may be too late. It is one of the strongest cards the nuclear addicts can play, though the enormity of the problem, by some accounts, would dwarf the capacities of nuclear industry. We would have to divert our energy and natural resources from much of industry and use it to build nuclear plants for the next generation to meet some estimates. Battalions of scientists, engineers, and operators would have to be recruited and trained, and so on.)

Conclusion

This book is frequently cited (I have even seen tumblr users refer to it), and I think it’s considered a classic, so I was very disappointed. Let’s mark it as another mistake of the 20th century and forget all about it.

#review #nuclear power

35 notes · View notes

socially-awkward-skeleton · 15 days ago

Text

Chapter 7 - Betrothed

[Also Available on AO3]

Masterlist

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (Price POV)

Summary: The final chapter. Domestic bliss occurs for the couple after John's proposal. Couch sex with feelings and the morning after.

Word count: 3.4 K

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI - Engagement, Established Relationship, Swearing, John Price POV, Domestic fluff, Porn with feelings

A/N: this is the next fic in the timeline of Rory and Price's relationship, picking up right after the ending of "Shadow Dance". Rory Sinclair is a Lieutenant in the 141 who has been in a committed, long term relationship (albeit a secret one - at least from higher ups) with the Captain for 5 years

Rory and Price will return in "My Head is Bloodied, But Unbowed" the MW3 canon rework fic

January 17, 2023 - London, UK

Neither can be bothered to turn on the lights once the formality of the front door being locked is completed, there's enough light streaming in from the windows with the lamps outside reflecting off the snow for them to find their way. Boots are kicked off haphazardly and coats tossed to the floor in a damp pile of rapidly melting snow as the warmth of the townhouse's interior wraps around them.

Home. Together.

Connected. One.

The stairs up to their bedroom is a feat that they have no interest in right now, bodies entwined and hands working on removing clothing at a brisk speed. John gives a quick nod upwards only to be met by her discouraging shove towards the french doors leading into the living room. It's just as inviting in any case, but especially as the amorous heat begins to boil over between them and jumpers are stripped away to reveal bare flesh, left in a crumpled mess at the threshold.

Tugging the beanie from his head, John flings it in a random direction over the back of the couch before tossing Rory down onto the cushions, her body bouncing gently with the gentle creak of springs, legs hanging over the armrest and spread to allow him to take his position at the juncture of her thighs. He stops, taking a moment to catch his breath, to regain his focus while the world feels like it's fading away from his grasp right along with his reason. Restoring some semblance of steadiness, his hands roam up her thighs and he grounds himself, finding his balance with her. This body, this fucking temple, has been branded into his heart and his head and Rory is the deity he confesses his every sin to, seeking solace within the ring of her accepting arms.

The way her chest rises and falls, the skin turning dusky, color crawling up her throat, she's flooded with blood, with desire — and it's for him. Christ, that's a powerful feeling that scrambles the wiring of his brain, coherent thought gone by the wayside. His every impulse rings through his head like a screaming alarm. His heart races, mind only on one thing. Fuck control, it's her. Only her.

Fumbling with the buckle of Rory's belt, the rapid pulse of his blood thrums through his veins. Positively fucking singing. Elated and about to cum in his pants if he doesn't hurry up and get her out of those bloody painted on skinny jeans.

He's past the point of being gentle as he tears her jeans down her legs and throws them behind him, the whisper of material skidding against the wood floor lost in the jumble of groans and panted breaths as Rory grips him by the hair and tugs him into a heated kiss marked by the slide of slick, silken tongues. Sparks flare across his skin as her touch travels over his body, caressing hard pecs and soft tummy with the tender glide of her nails scratching lines down to the waistband of his jeans. Marveling momentarily at how well-practiced her movements are, fluid as she slides the leather of his belt through the metal clasp with the same ease as loading a weapon.

The button pops, the fly is pulled, and he's finally free.

Diving in headfirst, a plan of attack firmly set in his mind, his lips travel down her neck, teeth grazing over her collarbone, mouth sucking at the soft flesh of her breasts — her heart hammering against her ribs every step of the way. Lifting her hips, peeling the thin cotton of her knickers off, John is immediately graced by the intoxicating perfume of her arousal and the pink petals that invite this pollinator in every chance he gets. He breathes deep, hands twitching with the need to touch, mouth watering. The couch doesn't offer him as much space to work, he has to be economic about what positions he chooses, but without a word spoken between them except breathy moans and throaty growls, she's already pulling her legs up towards herself, knees pressing against the swells of her chest and opening herself to him — if he dies right now, he's already sure he's been to heaven.

Arms hooked under her knees, sinking into her warmth, his eyes roll back into his head and he chokes back the pleasure that aches to spill from his lungs until little more than a deep grunt escapes between gritted teeth. Her cry as he fills her, stretches her around the shape of him, is the holiest hymn, a psalm whose lyrics are etched into his being as she rakes her nails down his back, scoring it into his skin. John has never believed in God, always living by the understanding that a man makes his own way, putting his faith in himself and the skills of those he keeps around him, but being wrapped up in Rory has the capability of stoking his piety. A certainty roaring to life that this is the work of something greater than himself and that she is the very emissary of it's will, it's hand on his fate working through her.

She's warm and soft, eyes shining sweetly up at him. His good girl. Gazes locked, moving in perfect synchronicity. He can see the future in those bright, soulful hazel eyes. Can see her at his side come what may. Can see his every hope and dream coming true as he rocks into her welcoming form. Retreating, returning. Never far from her.

Her back arches, fingers splayed against his cheeks as she hisses and sighs. "I love you"s tumble from her lips like a prayer, an angel's choir, a chorus in his head that nearly sends him over the edge.

"Oh, Christ. I love you too, sweetheart," he mumbles, having to rest his sweat-slicked forehead against her shoulder, reining in his breath, in the fever that sweeps through him like holy fire. He's not a good man, he's never been one, not really. But fuck, for her, for her he'd give his all. He'd rake himself across hot coals, sacrifice his own sanity, forsake every vice, anything to keep her just like this.

Keep her his.

She grips his nape and whispers in his ear about how he's the only one for her, "the love of her life", and a shiver courses down his spine and spreads to every extremity. He can't escape this, doesn't want to, being driven mad over this stunning woman is his recompense for a life where career and duty came first and everything else fell by the wayside, a life of toil and naught else to show for it. Accolades and commendations don't count for much when everything else is empty, a shell of a life now filled to brimming with a golden ichor of worth.

Her high-pitched, breathy mewls of encouragement, of pleasure, break down the barriers of his mind and his unwavering mastery of it and the world in his iron grip, snapping like a safety cord pulled too tight. Chest pressing to hers, shapely legs bowed out around him, sticky sweat adheres their flesh together in wondrous fusion that has left his muscles aching, and his lungs breathless. Left with nothing else to do but nuzzle into the crook of her neck as he melts into a boneless heap against her.

"Fuckin' hell, love," he drawls, and his hands can't seem to help but roam over curves and plateaus. Soft handfuls and taut skin that beg to be kneaded, appreciated. Desired, down to the very cells that worked together to create this incredible creature who lays cocooned in his arms.

She giggles, her breath rustling against the shaggy whiskers of his beard, a gentle breeze tickling his neck. "That good, eh?"

Groaning, he has just enough strength in his arms not to crush her petite frame trapped beneath his weight. "You've no bloody idea, my girl." Lifting his head, he looks down at her, at the mussed hair, dewy skin, and the plump, kiss-bruised lips, and a lazy smile spreads across his own. "You've no idea what you do t' me."

"Well," she says, stroking his cheek, her stare hazy and tender, "I've got all the time in the world to find that out, don't I?" She smirks and nudges his nose with hers. "And you know how exceedingly brilliant I am at extracting the truth."

"Do I ever." His grin grows, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses her cheek. Crawling back to lean into the opposite corner of the couch, the hair on his abdomen drenched with sweat, he spreads his legs and drapes an arm over the back of the couch. John's head falls back, staring at the ceiling as he catches his breath, chest heaving, working for every inhale and exhale.

With a faint grunt of exertion, she flops over to rest her head on his thigh, gazing up at him. "I still almost can't believe it, you know?" Rory murmurs, placing her hand that glistens with the engagement ring on his sternum. "You and me, finally tying the knot soon."

Brows flicking up, he presses his chin to his chest, looking down at the glint of his mother's ring, and he covers her hand with his own, pressing her palm more firmly against him. "No one else I'd rather be doin' this with 'sides you."

"The feeling is very mutual, my darling."

The glow of the outside world falls upon her, but its no comparison to the way she shines in his eyes. This woman has been his greatest challenge. She had promised that winning her heart would be one, and he had set his focus on her with all the fierce intent he had used throughout his entire career. Persistent, diligent, anticipating every fork in the road, adapting as needed, and now here they were. A ring on her finger, their lives intimately intertwined, there was no turning back now — at least as far as he was concerned. She was it. Even if he lost everything else, so long as he had her, nothing else mattered.

A mist climbs towards the sky as the sun beats down upon the fresh fallen snow from the night before, evaporating the glittering pack with beaming rays. The steady dripping of the melted snow falling from the tree branches outside punctuates the new day along with the creaking floorboards as the happy couple begin to stir. Light fills the kitchen, flooding in from the glass doors that lead out into the garden. Blissful domesticity is a rare treasure in John's life, spending more time on bases and out in the field than he ever does at home, so when given the chance to appreciate what he has here, he holds it tight with a ruthless grip that refuses to ever let go.

Seeing Rory dressed in little more than a loose white tank top and a thong is one of his favorite sights in the world, and she is treating him to it now. Her hair rumpled and messy, the glorious bedhead of a woman who had a proper night's kip wrapped up in his arms. She starts filling the kettle with water at the sink to put it on to boil for the morning tea, once again humming to herself. She's happy. Truly.

“On your six,” John murmurs, nuzzling into her neck, smirking against her skin as he gives her arse cheek a squeeze, feeling the soft flesh in his grip.

Laughing, she playfully swats his hand away before reaching up to grab two mugs from the cupboard above the kitchen island. His eyes drawn to the peek of skin that appears between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her knickers. His Rory was a sight to behold, and this morning, more than any other now that she was wearing the ring, had him feeling proud as a peacock that she was his. She, Lieutenant Rory Sinclair, one of the best soldiers he'd ever served with, was his soon-to-be-wife.

“Allow me, darlin’,” he says all too smugly, stretching up behind her and bouncing on his heels, giving his hips a slight thrust in her backside, sinking gently into the cleft as he grabs the mugs for her.

The gentle clink of ceramic hitting granite counter top blends with the lilt of Rory's giggle as she's sandwiched between the hard surface and his body. Her laugh only grows as his arms wrap around her waist and he holds her tight. "Cheeky beggar," she says in a gentle rebuke of his advances.

Squeezing her back into his chest, the gentle curve of her lower back molds to his pelvis. “Can you blame me?” he purrs in her ear. “You'd think a bastard like me would've asked a sweet girl like you t' marry me sooner, eh?” he jokes, his beard rasping over her sensitive neck.

"I appreciate that you took your time." Her arms wrap over his as he holds her tight, keeping him firmly locked around her. "I'm sure you thought long and hard about it."

"Tha' I did. Had me sweatin' bullets more than even my toughest op."

She gazes up at him, dimples carved into her cheeks. "It was worth it though, yeah?"

"Was it ever," he says softly. Carding his fingers through her tousled waves, a firm kiss is pressed to her forehead.

John had never thought that he, of all people, would ever be afforded a life like this with a woman as incredible as her. A woman, who despite being his opposite in so many ways — ways that counted, that made her better than he could ever hope to be — filled in all the spaces he knew were missing. Hardened by life, she gave him soft, tender affection. Gallows humor and a dry wit to handle the worst of what he had seen, she brought her sweet laugh and a smile that lit more than a room. His reliance on cold, calculating logic that barreled through whatever stood in his way, met by her compassion, her moral compass.

Forcing himself to extricate from her touch as the kettle begins to whistle, he grabs a frying pan from the rack. "I'm thinkin' full English f'my girl, yeah? You want sausage or bacon?"

"Both."

"Fuck me." His brows lift and the lines of his forehead become deep trenches as his eyes go wide. "You've got quite the appetite on ya."

"You put it there," she says, glancing back at him as she prepares their mugs of tea.

A low, rumbling chuckle builds in his chest, unable to deny the truth. "Red-handed, sweetheart," he croons, leaning over to give her a quick peck.

He moves to the fridge, resting a hand on top of the door as he opens it and leans in, poking through the recent groceries she's bought. His eyes scan the contents as the chill cools his skin. It doesn't take long for him to collect what's needed in his arms: bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, brown sauce, butter, and the milk for tea.

"I must say," she starts, "You're in quite a good mood this morning, usually you're all grumbles. A proper grumpy bear."

He gruffs at her comment, a quiet growl caught in the back of his throat as he places the ingredients down on the counter and waits to hear the sizzle of the ready pan.

"See."

The cheek on her never ceases to amaze him, the way she can make light of nearly anything and easily slips into teasing when most people wouldn't dare poke the so-called "bear" she refers to him by. It's refreshing not to be bound by the rigidity of rank, to have someone who looks at him without a hint of intimidation, who sees him as only the man that he is and not the title. She can so easily navigate when to follow an order and when to bring him back down to earth. It's why he's so drawn to her. He's loathe to admit that even now, while she's being playful about his surly attitude, that he's fond of it coming from her — anyone else and he'd be forced to tear into them. In her case, the worst punishment she gets is a heavy hand brought down to meet her rump, squeezing the firm cheek for good measure.

Rory snorts out a laugh and her attention momentarily flickers down to where his hand is attached to her backside before she looks back up at him with a lifted brow. "You checking if I'm still all there?"

"Didn't manhandle you that much last night," he mutters, placing the milk carton down beside her.

A skeptical hum vibrates from her as she unfolds the flaps and begins to pour the preferred amount of dairy into each of their mugs. "Quite sure the hickeys on my neck would beg to differ, and considering the fact we have a briefing to get to tomorrow you best hope they fade well enough to be covered by makeup."

His gaze holds on her neck from under his heavy brow for a moment before watching as she stirs the spoon in the mug that's a darker shade than the other. "No fan of Gaz and Soap takin' the piss out of ya? Welcome to my world, darlin'."

"Speaking of… " She passes him the tea she's just finished preparing. "Have the lads been told already about our situation?"

"I warned them it was happenin', yeah." Leaning back against the counter, John takes a sip of his tea and sighs. She makes a bloody good cuppa, learned exactly the way he likes it after the first month of dating. All her skills of observation, usually used to find a weakness in the enemy, were more than able to be tailored to the domestic.

"And?"

"And what?" The mug is held inches from his mouth as he's about to take another sip for his parched throat.

"Were they surprised?" Her brow lifts, reaching for the package of bacon beside him and opening it using the kitchen scissors with a few precise snips.

"Hardly." He takes another sip and places the mug down on the counter before meticulously placing the strips of bacon into the cast iron pan to get the perfect fry. "Soap's already askin' to play DJ at the weddin'."

Shooting her a glance it's easy to see she's no fan of that idea. Rory might wear a good poker face out in the field, but she's no stranger to wearing her heart on her sleeve with him. A sneer curls her upper lip and she rests against the counter with her arms crossed.

"I do not want him making any playlists for our wedding, I refuse to have even the slightest chance of "Goodbye Horses" showing up again." Snatching up her mug, she blows away the steam and then takes a sip. "He can claim its because I like New Wave as much as he wants, but I am not having even the thought of Buffalo Bill anywhere near the happiest day of our lives."

John is quick to give her a curt nod, accepting her command. "I'll let 'im know."

"You better."

The sharp look she gives him over the rim of her mug is one he knows well, it's one Rory gives him all too readily. The silent point made that he can't ignore, a form of communication all it's own that proves she's drawing a line in the sand. Unlike his own reaction to either bark or step into someone's personal space to break them and get the upper hand, it's the lack of words that makes her piercing, fiery glare all the more powerful. Leaving a man unnerved facing down the firing line of soft eyes turned steely.

He grunts in agreement and grabs the spatula to flip the bacon, a smirk curling his lips as lithe arms coil around him from behind his back and plush lips press to the line of his spine. Her body heat floods his system, radiating from her in a gentle caress on his skin, warmer than the sun that fills the room. "Mr. and Mrs. Price," she murmurs, nuzzling into the space between his shoulder blades. "Has a bloody good ring to it."

"It does."

"I love you, my darling," she whispers, and her breath ghosts softly over his skin, causing the fine hairs it stirs to stand on end, and a shudder to gently course down his back.

"Love you too, my girl."

np tagging: @taciturntraveller @voidika @elligatorrex @statichvm @d-esmond (sorry for the two tags in one day)

#call of duty #cod fanfic #john price #captain john price #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #ship: you are the sword to my shield #skelly writes #fic: the proposal

14 notes · View notes