#E Cigarette Boxes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hotluncheddie · 2 months ago

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My @steddieexchange for @lulalulens !! :) <3

wc: 3k | rated: E | tags: hurt/comfort, confessions, Christmas fluff, fingering, handjob, they both need a hug and they both get one

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It’s Dustin that causes it. Not on purpose, but he’s the catalyst. The uh, what did Robin say about movie plots? Oh, yeah, he was the inciting incident.

The glasses had a red tint to the lens that reminded Dustin of Cyclops, and Daredevil - something he was sure Eddie would find cool. He held them up in the air as he ran through the store back to Steve. Was sure Eddie would like that they were from the thrift, that they had story - were like an artefact.

And Steve agreed, was exited by Dustin’s excitement. Exited to see Eddie’s face when he opened them.

Always exited to watch Eddie smile.

(He didn’t tell Dustin that, since they were still figuring things out. Keeping being together on the low until, well, Steve wasn’t sure. Only Robin and Wayne knew, and that was enough, for now.)

So Steve smiled, agreed that it was a good choice, but also rolled his eyes, calling them both dorks for thinking looking like a comic guy was cool. But when Christmas Eve came around and the party gathered in the trailer to make it easier on Max’s still recovering body and Eddie’s still recovering reputation, Steve was exited. He shifted in his spot on the couch next to Eddie to watch his face, which was grinning as Dustin handed him the brightly wrapped box. Steve’s arm draped over the back of the couch twitched and his resolve quickly folded, he let his fingers find a wisp of curls to hold, to connect them.

Eddie opens the case with a laugh, agreeing with Dustins references. ‘I’ll wear these on my first magazine cover.’ He declares, standing and slipping them on. ‘What do you think Mikey? Metal?’ He asks in front of them all, posing with his hand on his hips. Mikes cheeks go slightly pink as he nods and Eddie sends a wink to Steve.

But then Steve notices Eddie’s smile fade slightly as his eyes scan the room, his breathing change. Eddie, with hands clenching his hips so tight his fingers go white, looks up at the untarnished ceiling of the new Munson trailer, and squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Now, not that I don’t love you all, but Wayne allowed me one Christmas smoke and I’m hankering.’ Eddie says woodenly, clapping too loudly in the sudden, cautious, quiet, and turns for the door.

Steve watched him slip quickly into his shoes and bring his hand up to remove the glasses, a tremor in his fingers.

The door slams shut a moment later.

He didn’t even put on a coat.

Steve’s hand comes to Dustin’s shoulder as he gets up from the couch, trying to tell him it’s alright, trying to tell him not to follow. Lucas pipes up about cigarettes smelling nasty, pulling Dustin into an argument about whether his present for Max is better than Dustin’s present for Suzy. Smart kid.

Steve grabs his and Eddie’s coats, pulling his own boots on and zipping up.

‘I’m just gonna, uh.’ he mumbles, half out the door and looking to Robin. He raised his eyebrows, she nods.

The yellow light from the trailer window cast elongated patches across the frozen ground, too cold now to snow but the flurry they had a few days ago still stubbornly remains in patches, glittering faintly in the light.

Steve find him, hunched over the front of the bimmer, shadowed by the thicket of bare branches that offer the only corner of privacy from neighbouring unis.

He approaches slow, Eddie’s shoulders are rising and falling a little too rapidly, white clouds of icy breath billowing out into the star laden sky. The glasses gripped in his hand, knuckles white.

A rogue patch of icy snow crunches under foot. ‘I know you loved it when I called you hot stuff last week, but this is taking it a little far don’t you think?’ He asks softly, draping Eddie’s coat over his shoulders in slow catalogued movements.

He rests his hand there, between Eddie’s shoulder blades. The rise and fall of his breathing is staggered, and shaking. He rubs circles between the two points of bone, hoping it’s soothing, trying to time it with Eddie’s breaths and is thankful as they slow somewhat, becoming deeper, less ragged.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘No s’fine. M’fine.’ He mumbles, rubbing his nose.

‘C’mon, don’t be like that man.’ Steve says softly, his heart clenching as Eddie’s lip wobbles.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing thickly. ‘It was, it was like I was back there.’ He whispers.

‘Oh, Ed’s.’

Eddie rises finally, tugging at his sweater collar like the stretched material is too tight, sucking in great slow lungfuls of icy air.

Steve prise the glasses out of Eddie’s stiff fingers, slipping them into his pocket and manoeuvring Eddie properly into his coat. He goes willingly, pliant as the adrenaline leaves his body, hollowing him out.

‘I, I don’t.’ he sniffs, eyes brimming with tears.

‘Shh, You’re okay.’ Steve hushes, pulling Eddie into his arms. Hand on the back of his head as he buries his face in Steve’s neck. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispers, rocking them gently, his collar slowly growing damp.

They stay until Steve’s ears go numb. Until Robin and the kids need to get home. Until Eddie’s face is blotchy and red, but no more tears fill his lash line.

The party files out and into Steve’s car while Eddie slips back into the trailer, mumbling quiet goodbyes and closing the door behind him.

‘Dustin finally took the hint that it’s none of his business why you left, and that no one thinks he caused it.’ Steve says, tossing his keys onto Eddie’s cluttered nightstand. ‘All it took was Rob, Erica and Mike all agreeing on it. My opinion didn’t do shit, obviously.’ He smirks over at Eddie, shucking off his jeans.

Eddie grunts, just a soft puff of air from his chest. Eye staring up blankly at the ceiling, chewing on a lollipop stick. (Another of Wayne’s ‘we need to quit smoking’ ideas. It helps.)

‘But can you call him, tomorrow?’ Steve asks, pulling his socks up and taking off his polo.

Eddie blinks over at him finally. ‘Yeah, ‘cause. Wasn’t his fault.’ He murmurs, his eyes raking over Steve. All of him soft and fragile in the lamplight: he always looks smaller somehow, without his jacket and jeans, plaid pyjama pants and worn sweatshirt softening all his edges, reminding Steve how fragile he really is.

He steps over, pulling the stick away from Eddie’s lips, dropping it in the waste basket.

‘Come here, please?’ Eddie holds his hand out.

Steve smiles at him, dropping down onto the bed and pulling the quilt up over them both. He shoves at the pillows and leans his head against the wall, pulling Eddie down onto his chest and wrapping him up in his arms.

Eddie nuzzles in, cheek against Steve’s undershirt, hot breath ghosting over his nipple. Steve combs his fingers through Eddie’s hair.

‘I really thought I was okay, that I was over it.’ He whispers.

Steve hums, resting his cheek on Eddie’s head.

Eddie swirls a pattern across Steve’s skin with his finger. ‘I, I remember, when the bats, you know’ and his throat clicks on a swallow, ‘remember looking up at the sky and the, the lightning was red. Like, it was like the whole world was made up of these big, red, fucking gashes through the grey. Everything, everything, hot and wet and bleeding.’

‘Eddie.’ Steve’s voice cracks.

Eddie sniffs. ’Sorry, that’s, God. Depressing as shit huh?’ His hand splays out, long fingers stretched across Steve’s pec. He clenches his fist.

‘Hush.’ Steve chastises gently, squeezing Eddie tighter. ‘You know I don't mind. I mean, I still get nightmares, and I didn’t even, I wasn’t. You.’ His throat tightens. Eddie was in the hospital, for months.

‘Stevie.’

Eddie’s fingers are on his cheek, stroking gently beneath his eye. Steve breaths deeply through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

’S’okay, you got me, we’re here. You got me.’ Eddie murmurs gently. Steve swallowing back a noise, blinking away the sting at his eyes.

Eddie pulls at him, at the neck of his t-shirt, at his jaw. ‘C’mere, huh? C’mere.’

Steve opens his mouth, moving lower down the bed and sliding his thigh over Eddies. Focuses on the warmth and softness of his lips, the pressure of them against his own.

Eddie pulls him closer, over and up so he’s straddling him. Their mouths still connected, teeth scraping against lips, sliding together in a way thats hot and wet and makes Steve’s whole mouth tingle.

‘Can I? I I need. Let me, please.’ Eddie goes for Steve’s shirt, his waistband, pulling and gripping the fabric in his palms.

Steve rests his forehead against Eddie’s, he can feel his heart beat in his ears. ‘We don’t.’ he swallows. ‘We, are you sure Eddie? It’s, you’re, you were upset.’ he lays his fingers against Eddie’s neck, pulse fluttering under his fingertips.

Eddie grasps Steve’s hand, pulling it up to kiss at his knuckles. ‘I want to feel like I have control over something in my life Steve. I want this, with you. Let me want this.’ Eddie’s eyes are dark and wide and Steve cant help but fall right in.

Their hands move until they’re both naked and panting against each other again. Steve grinds his hips down as Eddie whispers in his mouth. ’Come on, we, we got control over fucking nothin. Let’s have this. We have this.’ His fingers pulling at Steve’s hair.

Fumbling around on the floor by the mattress corner Steve finds their lube. Taking a second to bite his lips and grind his hips again as Eddie sucks wet kisses across his neck.

Eddie’s hand retightens, this time at the back of his neck once Steve is close again. ‘Please.’ He speaks into Eddie’s mouth. ‘Fingers.’

Calloused fingertips tap gently at Steves bottom lips and he swirls his tongue around them, hollowing his cheeks as the hand on the back of his neck squeezes and he feels tension seep out all along his spine. His whole body going pliant and gooey.

‘A little more.’ says Eddie, pulling his fingers out. Steve uncaps the lube and squeezes some on, having to blink hard in order to refocus his eyes.

Eddie circles his rim and Steve licks into his mouth as a finger slips inside. They’re fully hard against each other and Steve doesn’t know which sensation to move towards most.

‘Let me in, baby let me in.’ Eddie whispers, demanding, pleading.

‘You have me, I’m here.’ Steve moans, a second finger slipping inside and stretching him out. His skin hot and prickling as he wraps his hand around them both. Eddie whimpering into his neck.

He feels the scared little monster of want and possessive need raise inside him. The fire in his belly morphing into something hungry and dangerous.

‘Don’t, you, I want you to tell me. Always tell me, when you’re not okay.’ He says, whining slightly, eyes squeezes shut. ‘No, no bullshit okay? I want, let me help.’ Because, because even if he can’t fix it, he can still do something, still be enough to help a little.

‘Steve.’ Eddie’s voice is wet. His hand comes up to cradle his cheek. ‘Stevie, baby, look at me.’

Steve opens his eyes, the moisture on his lashes sticking them together. His chest rising and falling rapidly.

‘I love you.’ Eddie says.

Steve gasps, hand squeezing them both reflexively, making them groan. Eddies fingers twitch inside of him and his skin feels too tight, his mind too foggy to process anything other than the beat of his heart in his ears.

‘You love me?’ He gasps. ‘You love me.’

‘I love you.’ Eddie goes back to kissing his neck, sucking a bruise and crooking his fingers just so.

Steve laughs, delirious. ‘You love me’ and he starts moving his hand in earnest, the glide slick with their combined pre.

He grinds himself down as Eddie adds another finger, clenching his teeth at the stretch, and feeling the familiar heat spread through him.

‘Eddie, baby, m’close.’ he gasps.

Eddie speeds up, pumping his fingers inside him, grinding his hips up into Steve’s hand. A needy string of ‘ah ah ah’s’ is all he can manage as his vision tunnels. His thumb swiping over their sensitive heads before gripping them tighter, moving his hand faster.

Steve doesn't know who spills over his fist first, but Eddies fingers were working relentlessly inside him, scissoring and pressing until he couldn't hold on any more, the spool of him unraveling itself completely as he came all over them both.

Panting, he looks down at Eddie below him. His hair splayed out, haloing his flushed cheeks and bitten red lips. Steve marvels at him, watches Eddie drag his clean hand across his face, combing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

‘Hey’ he says, voice soft and wobbly.

Eddie smiles up at him, cheeky, reaching up and spreading some of the cum into Steve’s skin where it splattered up as high as his chest hair. Steve giggles, feeling loose and happy.

‘Hey’ he says again, and Eddies eyes flick to his.

‘I love you.’ He whispers.

Eddie beams softly as him, his eyes shining.

Steve leans down, kissing him, not caring about the mess between them as he splays his hands across Eddie’s chest, sinking into him and he swears their hearts beat in time.

They kiss until he can feel Eddie falling asleep beneath him, his mouth moving slower and weaker until its just Steve pressing their lips together, feather light.

‘Don’t fall asleep on me just yet.’ He says, nipping at Eddie’s lip and laughing at the low growl he receives. ‘One sec, kay?’

Eddie squeezes him, mumbling out and huffy little ‘one’ just to be annoying before he lets Steve up. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands and comes back with something to wipe them both off with.

Eddie is completely pliant as Steve swipes over his chest and crotch, lifting his hand to get between his sticky fingers. The only tell that he isn't fully asleep is the singular cracked eyelid that allows him to follow each of Steve’s movements.

He tosses the cloth into the dirty clothes pile, which isn't his favourite of Eddies organisation choices but right now he doesn’t really care about anything other than crawling under the sheets and wrapping Eddie up in his arms.

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Steve wakes in that slow rolling way that happens when he knows theres nothing needed of him, when his body and mind relaxes enough to let him sleep until he doesn't need to anymore.

He stretches and flips onto his front, shoulders popping deliciously and he just breathes there, eyes closed, until the smell of coffee permeates his reprieve.

pulling Eddies discarded sweatshirt on and a clean pair of boxers he shuffles into the kitchen, knuckling his eyes and yawning until his jaw clicks. Something in the back of him mind marvels that he can wander into the kitchen without the use of his sight and make it there just fine. Another part wonders, vaguely, how his hair looks, but those thoughts are quickly trounces by the chair he falls into and the steaming mug that Wayne places before him.

‘Merry Christmas kid.’

Steve smiles up at him, the first sip of coffee making him shiver.

‘Didn’t know hair could do that, must be a Christmas miracle.’ Wayne mumbles from behind his own coffee cup in his gruff, deadpan way.

Steve just scowls at him, taking another sip before he combs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down. He feels the strands fling right back up to where they had been and shrugs.

‘My present to you. Be grateful.’ He says.

Wayne grunts, his eyes sparkling, and he stands to start cracking eggs into the heated up skillet. But not before ruffling Steves hair.

‘Ed, get off the damn phone and come get this bread toastin’.’

Eddie’s leaning against the wall with his back to them, phone cord tangled around his fingers. He’s back in his pyjama pants from last night and Steve realises with a burning stab that he’s also in the polo he discarded on the floor yesterday.

‘Yes. No. Dustin I gotta go, Wayne’s calling. Yeah, we’ll swing by tomorrow okay? Me and Steve sure, yes, okay. I know Dustin, I know. You’re fine. Okay, see you tomorrow. Bye, yes, bye.’ Eddie finally hangs up the phone, sounding exasperated but when he turns he’s already smiling.

Steve catches Eddie’s hand as he shuffles back into the kitchen, kissing the back of it and preening as Eddie kisses the top of his head.

‘Happy Christmas love.’ Eddie mumbles into his hair.

Steve sighs, happiness swelling in him.

‘Dustin wants us over tomorrow, he got new D&D stuff he wants me to see and he specifically requested your presence.’ Eddie says and starts putting bread in the toaster.

‘Bet if he knew you said it like that he’s get all weird, he only ever says nice stuff about me when I’m not there.’

‘He’s obsessed with you Stevie, that can make a person act weird.’ Eddie refills his coffee. ‘He’s fine though, now, by the way.’

Steve nods.

‘Speakin’ of weird, after that first time you took Ed to the drive in he came back with a real bug up his ass, wouldn't stop talking about-‘

Wayne is stopped abruptly by Eddies hand across his mouth.

‘Okay old man, enough with that.’ Eddie says, voice an octave higher than normal.

Steve grins as Eddie peaks over to him through his hair. Grins harder as they start to bicker, continuing to make breakfast in the tiny kitchen.

He’s definitely planning on asking Eddie about that later. But for now, he enjoys the comforting warmth that spreads through him. The feeling of home. Of being loved.

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sorry this is posting after the holidays but its done! we did it! hope u all enjoy!

Tag list: @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m @hickeysgodcomplex

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots @chameleonhair @wheneverfeasible @hbyrde36

@bookworm0690

#hotlunch #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie winter exchange #steddiewinterexchange #steddie winter exchange 2024 #my fic #:)#ive not posted in so long omg sorry if anyone ive tagged is not interested i feel like i dunno what's going on on here anymore lmao

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redvexillum · 3 months ago

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A/N: FFS, Kit stop telling people I lick doorknobs. For the record, I do not lick airport doorknobs. >:U ALSO! Wow! We already finished the first week! Let's keep it going!

SUMMARY: You betrayed Alastor once, back when you were alive—not out of desire, but because your family forced your hand. But now, in Hell, you've been given the chance to reunite with him. You loved him then, you love him now, and you still love him.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, sub/dom undertone, spanking, oral sex, fingering, p in v, gentle sex, alastor is bad with feelings

Alastor’s chest tightened, a tempest of emotion swirling just beneath the surface. Rage, jealousy, and a deep, aching need coiled around his heart, squeezing until it was impossible to think of anything but you. The words you had spoken earlier echoed relentlessly in his mind, like a haunting melody he couldn't escape.

You had mentioned the party—a festive celebration hosted by Voxtek. The way your eyes lit up, excitement flickering in your expression, had ignited a spark of something dark in him. At first, he demanded you stay, his voice sharper than he intended. But then you had looked at him, crestfallen, your bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. And he had relented.

Still, he knew.

He knew.

Vox was no fool; he was an opportunist. A conniving rat who always lingered too close, his smarmy words dripping like honey as he tried to worm his way into your good graces. At first, Alastor had laughed at the futility of it all. Vox might have charm, he might have power, but the truth was unshakable:

Alastor owned you. Your heart, your mind, your very soul—they all belonged to him. It wasn’t merely a matter of possession; it was an eternal truth etched into the fabric of existence itself.

And yet...

You...You...You...

...a despicable, awful, woman let that pathetic man touch you.

Now, in the shadowy alley behind the glittering building, his fingers trembled with a barely controlled fervour. The strains of distant holiday music were a cruel backdrop to the scene unfolding. Alastor’s tentacles curled possessively around your waist, hoisting you into the perfect position. Your body, pliant and eager, responded to him as it always did.

You were his. You would always be his.

He thrust into your mouth with a feral desperation, his cock sliding between your soft lips as if to reaffirm his claim. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat wrapped around him filled the air, mingling with his low, guttural groans. His sharp teeth shredded the delicate fabric of your panties, exposing the slick heat of your centre, and he let out a breathy moan as the scent of you clouded his senses.

“You’ve been naughty, my dear,” he hissed, his voice laced with a venomous sweetness as his tongue licked a slow, deliberate path along your folds. “Flaunting yourself before that ridiculous picture box—did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Your muffled cries, paired with the way your thighs quivered against his relentless grip, sent a jolt of satisfaction coursing through him. Each gag, every shuddering breath, was evidence of his dominance, a reminder of where you truly belonged.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second—a rare, fleeting crack in his mask. “You make me into this... beast. And yet, I can’t stop. I won’t stop.”

His tongue plunged deeper, his lips pressing against your core with a fervent hunger, while his hips snapped forward, pushing himself further into the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. The juxtaposition of his lips worshipping your most intimate place while his cock ruthlessly claimed your throat was almost too much.

“You were mine long before you knew it,” he growled against your slick heat, his voice thick with emotion. His mind churned, unbidden memories surfacing of a time when things had been simpler.

He had first seen you in a haze of jazz and cigarette smoke, your laughter ringing out over the clinking of glasses. You, a beautiful flapper with stars in your eyes, had captivated him in a way nothing else had. For the first time in his life, he had felt alive. But then you had torn that life from him, walking away to marry a man of prestige, of power—a man who had sneered at Alastor’s kind.

And now, here you were again, in his grasp. He hated you for the way you had broken him back then. But he hated you even more for the way he still couldn’t let you go.

“You think I don’t remember?” he whispered darkly, his voice trembling as he withdrew from your mouth, his cock glistening with your spit. His eyes glowed crimson in the dim light, a twisted mixture of longing and loathing burning within them. “You think I don’t feel it every time you look at me? That guilt, that hesitation?”

He pressed his lips to your trembling thighs, his voice softening to a near-whisper. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because no matter what you do, no matter how far you run...”

His grin widened, sharp and dangerous, as he surged forward again, burying himself in you completely.

“You’ll always be mine.”

Alastor despised you.

Not in the fleeting, surface-level way one might dislike an inconvenience—but in the all-consuming manner that twisted his every thought into something jagged and raw. You haunted him, your voice like a phantom's whisper, your smile lingering like a scar on his chest. He despised you so much that he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

When the news reached him—whispers of your untimely death—his hatred burned brighter, fuelled by the injustice of it all. You had slipped through his fingers, robbing him of the satisfaction, the honour, of ending your life himself.

And yet, there you were in Hell, as if fate had conspired to deliver you into his hands. He had found you, fragile and broken, tears streaming down your face as you clung to him. When you willingly offered your soul, he should have revelled in his triumph. Instead, he had been caught off guard by the softness in your touch, the sincerity in your gaze. You were an enigma—a soul he craved, a woman who ignited both his wrath and his desire.

“Darling,” he growled, the word dripping with mockery as his hips pressed forward, his cock twitching against the back of your throat. His crimson eyes narrowed, his grin sharp and unyielding. “Did you forget who you belong to? Did you think that picture box would save you? Vox doesn’t care for you—or anyone, for that matter. He played you, just like every other man in your life.”

His voice cracked, bitterness weaving through his words like poison. He hated you for the way you charmed and manipulated, for the power you held over those foolish enough to believe your honeyed lies. But most of all, he hated you for making him one of them.

You were in Hell for a reason. And he had chosen to be your punishment—a torment crafted from your past sins and his boundless hatred. He wanted to destroy you, to remind you of what you truly were: a deceiver, a heartbreaker, a woman unworthy of the space you occupied in his mind.

And yet...

When he heard the soft, pitiful sobs you made as you struggled to take him, his resolve faltered. For a brief moment, the edges of his hatred blurred, giving way to something gentler. His thrusts slowed, becoming shallow and deliberate as his tongue traced languid paths through your slick folds.

“Even now,” he muttered against your trembling core, his voice softer, more uncertain, “you make me forget myself.”

The words of venom and rage faded into silence as he gave himself over to the intoxicating sensation of your body. He hated how easily you unravelled him, how the sound of your gasps and moans ignited something vulnerable within him. In truth, he wanted more than to punish you. He wanted to dote on you, to shower you with gifts, to claim you in every sense of the word.

He wanted to give you his heart.

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

You had fooled him once, and the memory of that betrayal still cut deep. He would not be made a fool again.

His grip on your thighs tightened as his lips closed around your clit, his thrusts quickening. The pleasure building within him became a storm, his breaths hitching as his release drew near. He groaned, a low, guttural sound muffled by your body, and with a final thrust, he spilled himself into you. His cock pulsed, his seed marking you, claiming you in a way words never could.

“Don’t waste a drop, darling,” he panted, his grin returning as he pulled back just enough to watch your trembling form. His gaze slid to your glistening, pulsing core, so close to release and yet untouched by his mercy.

The night was far from over.

Your punishment had only just begun.

Your legs trembled as Alastor set you upright, the ache between your thighs a pulsing reminder of the pleasure he’d denied you. Need coursed through your body, raw and unrelenting, as you struggled to catch your breath. Your lips still tingled with the taste of him, the ghost of his harsh, possessive thrusts lingering like an unshakable memory.

“Let’s go home, darling,” his voice was soft—a deadly whisper that cut through the quiet of the night, sending a shiver down your spine.

With practised precision, he smoothed the wrinkles in your dress, his movements strangely tender despite the chaos that had unfolded moments ago. His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, piercing through the shadows like embers. You stared at him, and your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

Alastor was a contradiction.

He spoke to you with venomous disdain, fucked you with a ruthless edge that left you breathless and shaking, and yet… there were moments. Moments of sweetness so fleeting, so fragile, you wondered if even he realized they existed.

You knew why he was like this. You had hurt him.

The memory of your betrayal was a weight you carried, one you could never fully cast off. You hadn’t wanted to leave him, but circumstances had forced your hand. When the bills piled high and the well-being of your family hung in the balance, you had done what was necessary. You’d married another man—a man with wealth and power—at the cost of your own heart.

When you found Alastor again in Hell, it felt like a second chance. You had thrown yourself into his arms, your soul willingly offered to him without hesitation. But despite your efforts, his ever-present grin always seemed strained in your presence, a thin veneer that barely concealed the bitterness lurking beneath.

Tonight had been no different. Whatever fragile peace existed between you shattered the moment Vox kissed your hand—a simple, polite gesture. You barely had time to react before Alastor whisked you into the shadows, his jealousy erupting in a storm of raw, unrelenting possession.

On shaky knees, you reached out, your fingers brushing against a wrinkle in his suit, an instinctive gesture to calm him. But he recoiled instantly, his grin tightening, his eyes narrowing into sharp slits. The surrounding air buzzed with tension, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“Alas—” you began, desperate to explain, to assure him that Vox meant nothing, that he was the only one who mattered.

But Alastor silenced you with a clawed finger pressed firmly to your lips. His silent command was absolute, and you acquiesced, nodding meekly. He didn’t speak, instead seizing your wrist and hooking it through his arm with a rigid formality. To any onlooker, you were the picture of a lady being escorted by a gentleman—a perfect facade that belied the thick tension between you.

The walk back was agonizingly silent. Each click of your heels against the pavement echoed your unresolved tension, your body still humming with the unfulfilled promise of release. You dared a sidelong glance at him, your gaze searching for any crack in his grinning, stoic mask.

For a moment, his eyes met yours, glowing faintly in the dim light. His grip on your hand softened, his fingers covering yours in a gesture so gentle it made your breath hitch. It was fleeting, but it was enough to stir a faint, fragile hope in your chest.

Yet, the truth was undeniable: Alastor didn’t trust you.

He didn’t believe your words, no matter how many times you told him you loved him. Your declarations were met with laughter—sharp and dismissive, as if he were bracing himself for the moment you would betray him again.

Guilt crushed you, heavy and suffocating. You hadn’t known back then. You hadn’t understood the depth of his affection, the way he hid his true feelings behind that perpetual mask of joviality. You’d thought yourself a passing amusement to him, nothing more than a toy to be discarded when he grew bored.

But now you knew better.

You pressed closer to him, your body leaning into his. This time, he didn’t pull away. His arm remained firm, steady, as if silently allowing you this small comfort.

You wished, more than anything, that he could hear your heart. That he could see the truth etched into its fragile walls.

You wished he understood how happy you were to see him again after death, how you’d felt as if fate had granted you a second chance to be with him.

You wished he could believe you when you said you loved him.

Truly.

Wholly.

Sincerely.

The air in the room was heavy, charged with an energy that made your breath catch. As you stepped inside, your eyes fell on Alastor lounging in the armchair, his long legs crossed, one hand draped lazily over the side. For a fleeting moment, you saw him—the man he used to be.

You saw the earnest young radio host, his brown hair neatly combed, glasses perched on his nose with a faint sheen of determination in his gaze. His cherubic smile, so genuine and full of promise, flickered in your mind.

The man you’d fallen in love with.

But the illusion shattered as quickly as it appeared, replaced by gleaming crimson eyes and blood-red hair. His sharp grin stretched wide, the radio-static undertone in his voice a constant reminder of what he had become.

“Undress and come here, sweetheart,” he purred, his voice dripping with dangerous intent.

Your breath hitched, anticipation thrumming through your veins. You knew this game, this dance between the two of you, by heart. It was filthy. Debauched. Entirely improper for someone like you to even think of, let alone crave. And yet, Alastor always had a way of stripping you bare—not just of your clothes, but of every pretense, every wall you tried to erect.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the clasps of your dress, his gaze burning into you with an intensity that made your skin flush. The plush fabric of the armchair yielded beneath his claws, his grip tightening as he tracked your every movement. His arousal was evident, the bulge in his trousers straining against the fabric. He was enjoying this, savouring the power he believed he wielded over you.

Slowly, deliberately, you let the dress slip from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. His sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed as his claws dug deeper into the armchair. Your underwear was long gone, already ripped to shreds earlier in a fit of his possessive anger. All that remained was your brassiere, the final barrier between you and his unrelenting gaze.

With a steady hand, you unhooked it, letting it fall to the floor. You stood before him, bare and vulnerable, his eyes raking over you like a predator sizing up his prey.

“Come,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with unbridled lust.

You dropped to your knees without hesitation, supplication etched into every movement as you crawled toward him. His fingers flew to his belt, unlooping it with deliberate slowness, savouring the moment. The unmistakable sound of his zipper filled the room, and finally, you found yourself nestled between his thighs.

His cock stood rigid and proud, the bead of pre-cum at its tip glistening in the dim light. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to the head, eliciting a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Will you forgive me, sir?” you whispered, your voice sultry and low, already sinking into the familiar role you played with him. Your fingers traced the length of his shaft, teasing the prominent vein that pulsed beneath your touch. “I’ve displeased you. How can I make it up to you?”

Your lips brushed against him again, dragging slowly from the tip to the base, each kiss a silent plea for forgiveness.

Alastor’s grin widened, his voice a low croon. “My, look at you,” he hissed, his claws tangling in your hair, gripping tight enough to make you moan. The sound was sinful, and his cock twitched in response, eager for more.

“Is this what you wanted?” he bit out, spreading his thighs wider, guiding you to lay across his lap.

You obeyed, your body draped over him, your hips raised slightly to expose yourself completely. His hardened length pressed against your side, the weight of him a reminder of the carnal desire you two shared. One of his hands stroked the curve of your ass, the sharp tips of his claws teased your folds, light enough to drive you mad with need.

“What will I do with you?” he murmured, his tone laced with anger. “Am I not enough? Will you leave me again for another man who can drape you in false promises and riches?”

His words were a sharp contrast to the seductive haze that had enveloped the room. You stilled, your brow furrowing as his voice wavered. For a moment, you heard something beneath the surface—something raw, something fragile.

Alastor’s mask cracked, if only for a heartbeat. That hitch in his voice, that tremble he tried to suppress, spoke volumes.

He sounded almost… vulnerable.

The tension in the room was palpable, every sound amplified by the quiet. You hesitated, glancing at Alastor’s face to gauge his mood. Concern flickered in your chest, but before you could speak, his hand shot up and came down sharply on your bare bottom.

The smack echoed through the room, and you lurched forward with a startled yelp. Your fingers instinctively gripped at his tailored suit pants, your cheeks flaming from both the slap and the molten heat pooling in your core. The sting spread across your skin, sharp and electric, and you couldn’t stop the way your body responded—wetness already slickening your thighs.

“Who else,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous, “would accept you like this but me, sweetheart?”

Before you could answer, his hand met your flesh again, harder this time, the force driving you against him. Pain bloomed across your backside, a delicious ache that made you gasp, a sob breaking free before you could swallow it down.

“How improper of you,” he grunted, delivering another slap. And another. Again and again, his strikes rained down, unrelenting, until your body trembled beneath him. By the sixth strike, your resolve shattered, replaced with a shameless moan as his fingers slipped inside you.

Three fingers plunged deep, spreading you with a squelch that made your face burn. His touch was deliberate, unyielding, and all-consuming. He curled his fingers just enough to brush against that sensitive spot within you, the one that always made you see stars.

“Hmm,” he mused, his tone cold and calculating. “This is supposed to be a punishment, but look at you,” he murmured mockingly. “You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

Your body betrayed you, hips bucking to meet his hand even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The raw, stinging burn of his palm on your ass mingled with the intoxicating pleasure of his touch, leaving you reeling, your sobs interwoven with desperate mewls.

“Tell me, darling,” he growled, his voice darker, more guttural, “how many men have used this hole?” His fingers plunged deeper, reaching places that made your entire body shudder. “You’re insatiable, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you let any man take you? Any cad?”

His words stung worse than his strikes. There was no pretense now, no game of playful cruelty. His tone was raw, unfiltered, the sharp edges of genuine anger slicing through you.

You felt the first crack in your heart.

“That’s not true!” you cried, voice cracking as his fingers pressed mercilessly against that spot inside you. The pleasure was unbearable, teetering on the edge of pain, but the fissures in your heart hurt worse. “It’s not true!”

Tears welled up, spilling over as you trembled against him. “It’s not…” your voice broke into a whisper, trailing off as he stilled, his fingers buried deep but unmoving.

You wished...

You wished he could hear your heart.

“Alastor…” you whispered his name, turning your head to meet his gaze. Your vision blurred with tears, the crimson glow of his eyes melting into the haze. “Alastor,” you repeated, voice trembling, your breath hitching on every syllable.

Would he believe you? If he could see past his bitterness and anger, if he could look into the depths of your heart, would he understand?

“Alastor, I—”

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as he yanked you up, positioning you to straddle his lap. His cock pressed against your abdomen, rigid and insistent.

Before you could process it, his hand tangled in your hair, dragging you down into a bruising kiss. His lips crushed against yours with a ferocity that left no room for tenderness. It was rough, messy, and possessive. Your carefully styled hair tumbled from its pins, falling around your face in wild, chaotic waves.

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, drawing a gasp from you that he swallowed eagerly, his mouth relentless. The kiss was as biting as his words, filled with frustration, anger, and something deeper he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—admit.

It was a kiss meant to silence, to dominate. But beneath the chaos, you could feel it: his desperation, his need. As his claws raked gently down your spine, you wished again, silently, achingly, that he could believe you. That he could see your love laid bare.

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the storm of his touch—the cruel, the cold, the gentle, the warm. It was everything that made Alastor who he was, a paradox of a man who commanded both fear and fascination. Despite the sharp edges of his demeanour, the unrelenting cruelty of his words, you couldn’t deny the truth in your chest. You had fallen for him once, and even after death, that love hadn’t faded.

A single tear escaped, tracing a hot line down your cheek before breaking free, a silent testament to the emotions welling within you. But that solitary drop was only the beginning, soon, more tears spilled freely, one after another. Still, your fingers curled tightly into his lapels, pulling him closer, refusing to let go.

His breath hitched, and his trembling fingers brushed against your cheeks, wiping away the tears in hurried, almost desperate strokes. But for every tear he caught, more followed. His touch was achingly gentle, a whisper against your skin that made your heart ache.

Without a word, he lifted you effortlessly, cradling you as if you were something fragile. The earlier roughness of his kisses softened, turning into feather-light brushes and tender licks against your swollen lips, soothing the wound he had created in a moment of heated passion.

The world blurred as he carried you to the bed, laying you down with a reverence that made your chest tighten. Slowly, deliberately, he began shedding his clothes, each piece falling away until he stood bare before you. Vulnerable. Honest. For once, he hid nothing.

He joined you, his weight sinking the mattress beneath you. His lips traced the tear-streaked paths on your cheeks, pressing reverent, almost apologetic kisses to each salty trail. His red eyes softened, glowing dimly, as if they too bore the weight of his unspoken emotions.

“Alastor,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face. “I love you.”

He stilled, his gaze locking with yours, searching for something—doubt, deception, anything to justify his disbelief. But all you could wish was for him to see your sincerity.

“How silly of you, darling,” he murmured, his voice low, tinged with a faint tremor. He leaned closer, his body caging yours, until your vision was filled with nothing but him. “How awfully silly of you…”

His words trailed off into a kiss, his lips brushing yours with uncharacteristic gentleness. The weight of his body pressed against you as the head of his cock nudged your entrance, his movements slow and deliberate. He filled you inch by inch, a quiet exhale escaping his lips as he stilled, buried deep within you.

Your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer. “Alastor,” your voice cracked, thick with emotion. Tears welled in your eyes again, the ache in your chest threatening to consume you. “Alastor, I promise you—” Another tear slipped free, trailing down to join the others. “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”

Your lips trembled as you pulled him into another kiss, soft and tender, pouring every ounce of your love into him.

For a moment, his body tensed, his muscles locking as if bracing against something too painful to bear. Then, as if a switch flipped, the vulnerability in his expression shattered, replaced by that cruel, familiar grin.

“Do you now?” he sneered, his tone laced with mockery. Without warning, he pulled back and slammed his hips forward, driving into you with enough force to make you cry out.

“Do you,” he hissed, his voice ragged as he thrust into you with a brutal rhythm, “say that to every hapless chum who gets to fuck you?”

His pace quickened, each thrust harder and faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. The bed groaned beneath you, its protests rhythmic and loud, but you barely heard it over the pounding of your heart.

Tears streamed down your face again, but this time, they carried the weight of anguish and longing.

You wished, oh, how you desperately wished he could hear your heart.

If he could, he might understand the truth in every word you spoke, the depth of your love that not even death could diminish. But as his sharp movements pushed you closer to the edge of bliss and despair, you realized he wasn’t ready to hear it—not yet.

Each thrust pulled fragmented cries from your lips, your breath hitching in broken rhythm, tears pooling and spilling from your eyes. But amidst the tears, you smiled at him. That smile—he’d always said it was your best feature, hadn’t he?

Your trembling hands rose toward him in a gesture of surrender, of devotion, as you spoke the words again. “I love you,” you whispered, voice quaking but resolute.

No matter how many times it took.

No matter how many years it took.

You would keep saying it until he believed you.

“I love you, Alastor,” you repeated, your smile radiant despite the ache in your chest, a smile that was both a gift and a plea. The words came from somewhere deep inside, a place untouched by bitterness or regret. They were the words you knew he longed to hear, words that should have been exchanged long ago when you were both young, innocent, and untouched by the cruel weight of time and tragedy.

His hips faltered, the relentless rhythm stuttering for a moment. His breath quickened, and his crimson eyes flickered with something too raw, too human. His ever-present grin tightened, becoming almost brittle. He shook his head as though to dispel your words, to reject them outright. But before you could catch the emotions flickering behind his crimson gaze, he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His breath was hot against your skin, and his movements shifted. The sharp, punishing pace gave way to something slower, something more deliberate. He rolled his hips, dragging each motion out, as though savouring every second.

Your hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. You pressed your cheek against his head, holding him close. He released a shuddering breath, his chest heaving against yours, and the tension in his shoulders began to soften.

His lips found your neck, planting small, tentative kisses along the delicate skin before he sucked gently, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“Say it again, darling,” he murmured, the edge in his voice softened, though a cruel laugh still escaped him. “Go on, tell me your hilarious lies.”

But his arms tightened around you, holding you as if you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“You always were the best liar,” he added, though his words wavered, and his voice dropped to a whisper so quiet you barely heard it. “...Cher.”

Your heart clenched. If only he could see it—if only he could feel the truth that pulsed there with every beat.

“I love you, Alastor,” you said again, this time brushing a kiss to his head. Your voice was steady, your words unwavering. “I’m happy to be here with you.”

He shuddered, his movements continuing at their deliberate pace. Each stroke dragged the head of his cock along your walls before plunging back in, drawing soft moans from your lips that mingled with his quiet gasps. The symphony of shared pleasure seemed to echo in the room, each sound weaving together, building into something raw and tender.

“A-again,” he gasped, lifting his head. His forehead pressed against yours, his crimson eyes locking with yours, the intensity in them almost overwhelming. “Again...cher.”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin. “I love you,” you said, the words flowing as naturally as breathing. “I do.”

His lips captured yours, hungry but not desperate, and he kissed you again and again, as if each kiss could carve the truth of your words into his soul. He pressed against all the places that made your body sing, his gentle rhythm slowly driving you closer to the peak of pleasure.

Your body tensed, every muscle quivering as you neared your release. He stayed with you, maintaining the same steady pace, his hips rocking against yours with a tenderness that stole your breath.

“Again,” he moaned, his voice raw with need. “Cher...cher...cher,” he chanted the endearment like a prayer, each repetition pulling you closer to him in every way.

And you gave it freely, your voice trembling with devotion and truth. “I love you, Alastor. Always.”

The words trembled on your lips, broken by the ebb and flow of your breath. “I—I love you,” you gasped, your body taut with tension. The heat coiling low in your abdomen finally snapped, and a wave of pleasure cascaded through you, its intensity both gentle and consuming.

Your walls clenched around him, drawing a guttural moan from Alastor as he shuddered above you. His breaths grew ragged, each thrust slower but deeper, as he chased his release.

“Oh, cher,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions as his climax overtook him. His cock pressed as far into you as it could go, and with a deep groan, he spilled into you.

For a moment, the world went silent. The only sounds were your uneven breaths mingling with his, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

And then you saw it—just for a fleeting instant.

His crimson eyes softened, the hardened mask of indifference slipping. It was the same look he gave you back then, during those nights at Mimzy’s speakeasy when he’d watch you perform from the shadows, his gaze filled with quiet adoration. Back when your love was a tender, secret thing, untouched by the cruelty of time.

Your heart swelled, and you smiled at him, hopeful.

But the moment shattered like glass.

Alastor blinked once, twice, and then the mask returned. He pulled away abruptly, leaving a cold emptiness where his warmth had been. The sudden rush of air prickled against your skin, and his release spilled from you, unwelcome and raw.

“Well,” he began, laughter forced and hollow. “That was quite the performance, wasn’t it?” His grin stretched wide, but it lacked its usual bite, his eyes darting anywhere but to yours.

The sight of his softening cock, glistening with the evidence of your union, seemed to mock the tenderness that had just been shared.

“Now, run along,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. His tone was too sharp, too loud. “I’ve had my fun, and I’m done with you.”

Each word cut deeper than the last.

You sat up slowly, the ache in your body a bitter reminder of the connection you had just shared. His ears flicked back for the briefest second, betraying the tension he couldn’t hide. His claws dug into his thigh, his knuckles white with restraint, as he avoided your gaze.

You could have left. Perhaps he expected you to.

But instead, you moved closer.

Crawling onto his lap, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. He stiffened immediately, his hands flying up in hesitation, hovering uncertainly in the space between you.

“I won’t be the one to walk away this time, Alastor,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You pressed yourself closer, your warmth meeting his cold edges.

His breath hitched, and his hands hovered, trembling, before finally coming to rest against your back.

“If you want me to leave,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his wide, startled eyes, “then you’ll have to be the one to walk away.”

For a moment, time stood still. The air between you was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken truths and unresolved desires.

And then, in that fragile space where the past, present, and future seemed to blur, Alastor’s arms closed around you. Tight. Almost desperate.

His hold was not gentle, but it was real.

You rested your head against his shoulder, and for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to believe that perhaps—just perhaps—he had seen your heart, if only a little.

And you held on to that sliver of hope, knowing it was all you had.

For tonight, it was enough.

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the-californicationist · 2 months ago

Text

Brisance (1/2)

When Johnny MacTavish finds the woman of his dreams, he didn't expect her to be strapped with ten pounds of C-4... but he kinda likes it. Or: How Johnny MacTavish learned to stop worrying and love the bombmaker...

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

Brisance

— August —

Ghost sighed, knocking his bootheel on the edge of the desk where he was perched, smoking his last cigarette, and scrolling through Reddit threads, bored to death and letting everyone know about it.

“I can hear ye, Ghostie. I’ll jus’ be a wee bit longer,” Johnny called out over his shoulder.

His masked lieutenant sighed audibly. He thought Soap looked ridiculous in that lighted, magnifying headset, the plastic lenses making his big blue eyes look like saucers. The sergeant had been hunched over an inert explosive device and its mechanical guts for the better part of four hours now, inspecting every inch of the thing, commenting on technical mambo jumbo that Simon hadn’t ever heard - or cared - about. Bombs were not his forte. He knew how to set one, and he knew how to avoid them, but that was about it.

Soap let out a low whistle of admiration, and Ghost rolled his eyes, knowing some brainy quip was coming next about the “detonation velocity” or the “elastomer bonding” or whatever demolitionist jargon he was moved to speak on.

“Innit tha’ the bonniest thing there ever was, mate?” Johnny crooned, sounding like a proud father.

“Does this one kill us real special-like?” Ghost snarled, tired of Soap’s preening exploration of this device.

“You dinnae understand, LT. This is… well, it’s the bloody Mona Lisa of IEDs.”

“Come off it.”

“No, I’m serious. Come see,” Johnny moved his chair over to show off the open, black box where the device’s innards were housed, pointing to a series of tightly-strung wires and cables, “Ye ken how the last one cut through three layers of concrete at the Kadurin silos?”

“Aye,” Simon sauntered over, peering into the mess of wires, trying to divine what his sergeant was seeing.

“See this block here? It would take ten times the RDX to get a high enough brisance to pound through all three layers at once,” Soap sounded like a kid at Christmas, “But, look at how this bastard staggered his fuse layers. He used a visco fuse, cut it like a flying fish, and only had to send one electric match to charge it! Bloody fuckin’ brilliant.”

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost groaned, “Please…”

“This wee box survived because it contains the initial housing, but the bomb itself was in the fuckin’ room, not the detonation package.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and begging Johnny to clarify,

“So, you’re sayin’ that the bomber was in the cafe before the device was planted?”

“Aye,” Johnny’s eyes got even wider, comical when set behind his magnified lenses, “And tha’s not it. They made this box to last. Someone is sendin’ us a message.”

“What does it say?” Ghost looked back into the wires, expecting them to spell out H-E-L-L-O or F-U-C-K-O-F-F.

“I dinnae ken. Not yet. But, I think he left me a clue.”

“A clue? The fuck…”

“See this? This is a visco fuse alright, but it’s Cordtex, and its got traces of collodion.”

Johnny was waiting on the edge of his seat, buzzing with anticipation, praying for Ghost to have the same, nearly-orgasmic eureka moment that he was. And yet, bored dark eyes glared down at him, waiting for the punchline. So, Soap gave it to him,

“He’s makin’ these from scratch. And,” Soap ripped off the headset and stared down into the box in amazement, “I think he’s a Brit. He could’ve just used any old visco fuse, but he didn’t. He went bloody far out of his way to make these, and I wonder…”

The headset slid back on and Johnny returned to the device, picking around the mechanisms like a dog hunting for a treat, sniffing his way around for anything to chew on.

“British,” Simon hummed, “Hm, I’ll tell Cap. Maybe he can get Laswell to send it off for testing.”

Soap didn’t respond. As Ghost left the room, he called back over his shoulder,

“Don’t stay up all night, Johnny. Got PT at 0430.”

“Mm-hm…” Soap replied, not bothering to look up when Ghost finally made his exit, too busy making eyes at his one true love: a beautifully crafted bomb.

— October —

The ticking was the worst part, but as he stared down into the blackness of a rigged, plastic tote, Johnny almost wished he would have something to keep him company, even some of that infernal ticking sound that should be happening. But, it wasn’t. The room was silent like the grave, and if Johnny made one wrong move, it would become his own.

A voice crackled through his headset,

“Five minutes, thirty seconds.”

Gaz was keeping count for him, checking in at regular intervals, his voice trembling from the stress. Johnny wished he wouldn’t worry. This was a timebomb, yes, but it needed input. Someone was waiting for something, and if he could figure out what, maybe he could stop it.

“Aye, any movement from overwatch?”

A short pause and then his lieutenant’s voice came through,

“Negative.”

This bomb was truly a piece of work. There was no indicator, and in fact, no traceable fuse. All of the ignition was internal to the RDX modules, and there were eight of them altogether, each with its own unique housing. Johnny had disarmed five of the eight, and he was working on number six as quickly as he could.

The bombmaker had a great deal of skill, but so did Soap, and it was less of a race than it was a fluid, complicated, one-sided conversation. With every choice in material and fuse design and chemical agent, the bombmaker was telling Johnny all about himself.

The Semex block and guncotton in housing three, wrapped in flash paper and copper-coated fuse links? This bloke had access to high-quality chemicals. The wooden housing and saltpeter dusting in number five? When he didn’t have access to those high-quality chemicals, he was resourceful enough to know how to make do without them. The way the fuse line lay independent from the center of each housing, and yet initiated from different grafting points? Making bombs was more than just a hobby. The bastard was designing these devices like challenges, giving Johnny puzzle after puzzle, testing his abilities.

Soap should have been angry, but he wasn’t. In fact, this particular model of IED hadn’t taken a single life. The bombed buildings were strategically placed against Makarov’s forces, almost as if this terrorist was on a mission of rebellious freedom. The Russian oligarch’s people were fighting back against their own leader, rejecting his authority. This was the work of a highly intelligent man out for justice, not a simple murderer.

Johnny had spent the last two months discovering more and more about this particular insurgent, and now that he could see the pattern of his behavior, Soap was more likely to label him as a true freedom fighter. Laswell didn’t seem to care about labels, but Johnny felt like he almost had the captain convinced.

“This might be someone we could pull to our side, Cap’n,” Johnny had suggested.

“Just make sure you end the day with all your fingers still fuckin’ attached, lad. How about that?” Price had sniped, but it was toothless. Johnny knew he was starting to see the pattern, too.

Staring down at his hands, all ten fingers still hard at work, he marveled at the commitment to craft in everything from the fuses to the housing shells. The sergeant cut through blocks of C-4 in cubes six and seven before Gaz had given him a seven-minute warning. As he inspected housing number eight, Johnny almost felt disappointed that he and the maker of these bombs would never meet. The things he could learn from an artist like this…

A green laser trembled and danced in front of his face, pointing directly to the bottom of the eighth block. Johnny’s eyes shot up, finding the source right away. Through the window, a cloaked figure crouched on the roof, dressed all in black, tucked behind an air vent, their eyes pinned to him as he gaped in disbelief.

It was him. The bombmaker was here.

“Overwatch, target at eleven o’clock, south rooftop, copy,” Johnny’s voice gave away their position, and as soon as he heard the confirmation from Ghost, his ears also picked up on a soft, almost delicate ticking sound. Gunshots popped wildly outside, and the bombmaker disappeared, his body lithe and quick, avoiding danger and leaving Johnny to die at the hands of his creation.

As quick as he could, Johnny cut through the eighth housing, searching for the fuse. But, he came up empty. Then, he remembered where the laser had been pointing. He turned the dark layer over and saw a hole in the RDX material. On nothing but instinct, he cut down into it and hit something solid. The housing broke open to reveal a wristwatch.

There was no fuse. And all of the other housings had been rendered inert, so there was no danger.

Why would the bombmaker start the timer without anything to blow? Johnny’s mind swam with possibilities, and then he turned the watch over to inspect the back. Written in big, bold pen, Soap saw the letters JFM on the dull metal. His initials. John Fergus MacTavish. Not even Ghost knew his middle name.

Suddenly, Johnny heard more ticking. It sounded like a collection of clocks had just come to life. He dug around in the box, finding it empty, but he discovered the final clue too late. A small lip on the edge of the crate hinted at another layer of explosive material, hidden from plain sight.

“Shite! Fall back!” He shouted.

There was a false bottom, and when Johnny pulled it up, he discovered ten more tightly-packed Semex blocks that were fused up together with that same Cordtex line, ready to explode. All over the plasticine blocks, the letters JFM were cut into the material, recurring like an endless pattern. As he looked down at his initials littering the bomb he was trying to diffuse, his head swam with confusion. But, there was no time for that.

Johnny slammed the lid shut and bolted, running for cover. His legs burned as they hauled him out of the stone building, his feet sinking into the dirt and sand outside of the door. Soap could see the cover wall, and he dug in, using every bit of strength he had to reach it and scale it before he was just a stain on the dirt. He barely made it, and as he tumbled behind the sturdy wall, he could feel the searing heat of the blast on his back and legs. It felt like needles were stinging his skin; it was so hot.

A few moments went by, and although the world was quiet for Johnny, he knew that was just the hearing loss. In fact, he understood that the reality was quite the opposite. As he looked up, he saw Price stomping over to him. The captain was yelling something, but his voice couldn’t reach his ears. All he could see was the bearded man hollering and carrying on with a wrathful look on his face. Then, bits and pieces came through.

“... could’ve… killed… fuck.. thinkin’... Johnny?!”

Price tried again, pulling his sergeant up from the floor by his gear vest,

“Do you hear me? What the fuck was that? Almost lost you, boy. Jesus Christ!” Captain Price sounded like he was underwater, but at least the words were coming through.

“Sorry, sir. But, I needed to find the last clue,” Johnny held up the watch as if it was his well-deserved trophy.

“You were almost the last clue, you bloody idiot,” Price ran his hand through his hair and knocked his boonie hat onto his shoulders, totally exasperated.

Soap knew he should feel guilty, or at least a little fearful, but everything was different, now. After the realization that the bombs were designed specifically for him, Johnny found himself actually looking forward to the next one.

— November —

The mission had gone sideways right from the start. Their comms had been nothing but staticky garbage while they were clearing out the Kotovo Blocs, trying their best to evacuate civilians while simultaneously managing Makarov’s squadrons. It was a crapshoot every time they opened another door. Half the time, a mother and her children rushed out screaming, and the other half, they were greeted by bullets.

Even worse, they’d been separated by a particularly nasty collection of smoke-filled pipe bombs. It was nothing nasty, but it was enough of a hindrance that they’d lost formation. The plan was to regroup at an abandoned fueling station one klick southeast of their current position, and that’s where Johnny was heading. He tried to connect on comms again, but all he got was soft static.

“Ghost, Gaz come in! Bravo-seven to Bravo-actual. Do you copy?”

No one replied. He was flying solo. His senses were on high alert, and all of his movements were carefully calculated, measured, and aligned to his new mission: survive.

Luckily, Makarov’s men had been retreating, and there was enough gunfire to scare off most of the civilians, but it was still a long way to the fuel station.

Suddenly, in his ears, he heard a voice loud and clear.

“Bravo-seven, huh? I think we both know that’s not your name, soldier.”

Johnny’s mind reeled. It was a woman’s voice. She had a sort of blended accent, something he’d heard all of Laswell’s spies use so that no one would be able to tell where they were from.

“Who is this?” He asked, checking his six and making sure to stay tucked below the window ledge. It would make moving through the bloc much slower, but if someone was in a sniper position, he couldn’t take any chances.

“Mm,” she whined, “You wound me, Mr. MacTavish. I thought you’d know me by now, especially after I left you that little gift basket in Levin.”

Soap stopped in his tracks, whispering even though he was very much alone,

“It’s you…”

Her voice turned sinister,

“Vladimir is mine. Stay out of Kotovo. You’re too handsome to be in more than one piece.”

The noise in his headset went dead and he knew that she was gone. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a flash of a black cloak, tattered and torn like a destitute comic book hero – Soap looked to the rooftop to find her.

The moment his eyes met her face, she pulled back her hood to reveal her eyes, piercing and furious, and a full, pouting mouth. When she caught him gaping at her, crouching far out of cover and in a state of pure shock, her lips turned up into a slight smile before she jumped down the opposite side of the bloc building, disappearing into the pelting snow.

“... –vish! Co– … John– where ar– … Johnny!”

“LT?” Johnny tried to listen in to his comms, ducking back under the window and rushing out of the building, “I found her. In pursuit west north west to the docks.”

“What? Soap, we need to RV at the fueling st–”

“There’s no time! I cannae let her get away.”

“Wha’dya mean her?” Gaz asked, interrupting their back and forth, “The terrorist is a fuckin’ bird?”

“Aye,” Johnny panted, running flat out through the thick snowfall, chasing her across the parking lot of the bloc complex, “Bonnie as fuck, too.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, MacTavish?! Get the fuck back to RV. Tha’s a bloody order!” The captain demanded.

“Aye, sir. Be there in two shakes.”

Johnny muted his mic and ignored the protests from the other end of the comm line. They were coming for him, predictably, so if things did go south, he knew he’d have some backup.

Suddenly, just as his wee birdie was making her way down the main road to the docks, gunfire popped across her path. On instinct Johnny raised his weapon and returned fire, getting her attention. She peered over her shoulder at him, surprised that he was not shooting at her instead, and pulled her handgun to help him take down the small group of Makarov’s men who were advancing on their position.

Enemy squads were in direct pursuit, and it was hard to tell if Soap or the bombmaker was their main target. It didn’t matter, in the end. Johnny took out the first squad in a matter of moments, barely reducing his speed to return fire, but there were two stragglers from the second squad, hidden behind a small electrical shed, popping off stray shots in her direction.

He altered his course, but she stopped him in his tracks. She’d shot at the ground right in front of him, keeping him away from the shed. Soap slowed, but he changed back to his original path, not understanding her motive. It wasn’t until he saw a blinding, golden blaze of fire erupt out of the electrical housing and felt the shockwave of her bomb rattle around in his chest that he understood why she had stopped him.

“Holy fuck…” he breathed.

Her teasing voice cut through his comms, silencing the chatter from the 141,

“Did ya like that, baby?”

Soap peeled his gaze away from the fiery explosion and found her perched behind a shipping container about fifty meters ahead of him. She was breathing hard, and her body was tense, but she was looking straight at him, a clever smile pasted across her mouth.

He smiled back,

“Tha’ was bloody beautiful, lass.”

Then, her eyes left him, turning back to her path towards the boat slips, and her tone became resigned,

“You can’t come with me, soldier.”

The line went dark. She had cut his entire communication. He couldn’t even hear Price barking orders anymore. Soap peeled the buds out of his ears and let them hang down by his throat mic. Still, he pursued her. He wasn’t going to give up that easy.

He was also gaining on her. She was trying her best to weave between shipping crates and huge piles of knotted ropes, but it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and by the time he was ten paces away, she knew she was caught. Suddenly, she ducked into a rundown storage building and disappeared into the room.

Johnny followed right behind, ignoring his training to stop, assess, and plan his ingress.

He came into a large, nearly empty room. At the far end, the ceiling was missing from the roof and it cast pale sunshine down into the open area. It illuminated two large wooden crates where his fiery little bird was sitting, waiting for him. The floor was covered in sand and snow, and he couldn’t see the boards beneath his boots. It was like there was no floor at all. The outside was inside, and the destroyed roof let in the wilderness where there should have been cold, clean civilization.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, holding his gun at the ready position, staring up at her like she was the winged Nike, shaken by her power and amazed by her beauty. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Her lips were pillowy and expressive, her eyes full of her sharp intellect, her body soft with curves yet heavy with muscle… to mix her stunning appearance with her phenomenal talent with demolition engineering seemed almost blasphemous. No one woman could be so perfect, and yet…

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her voice was soft like rain, and it hit his skin in the same way, leaving little drops of its effect behind to remind him of it.

“Why?” He asked, standing very still as if any movement might scare her off again.

“I’m going to a place where no one ever comes back from. Alone. Vladimir Makarov killed my sister, and he has to pay for that. I will make him pay.”

As she finished her explanation, she smiled in a sorrowful, resigned way, understanding that she was on a suicide mission but unwilling to change her course.

“He will, bonnie. We willnae let him get away this time. You have my word,” Johnny promised her, earnestly.

“My hero,” she teased. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “Do you have a sister, Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye. Three wildlings, in fact,” he had taken no truth serum and yet it came pouring out of him anyway.

“Bridgette, Maggie, and Jenny…” She reported back, “All older than you, right?”

Johnny’s heart stopped in his chest,

“How’d you –”

“When a handsome, young, black ops soldier comes in and defuses a sixteen stage daisycutter that I designed myself, I make sure to learn a thing or two about him. And,” she unzipped her jacket and began to pull it off of her shoulders, “I also know that a man like that, a man with sisters… is not the kind of man who just gives up.”

“No, lass. I willnae give up. Let me help you. If we… oh, Christ,” Johnny watched in horror as she pulled the jacket the rest of the way off to reveal an intricately woven vest packed with explosives with perfectly laid Cordtex wires winding in and out of each of the housings, live and ready to blow.

“Hands up!” Price’s voice echoed through the empty room as he, Gaz, and Ghost filled in the space behind their sergeant, guns pointed right at her, their red laser sights dancing on her chest like fireflies.

Johnny held out his hand with the signal to halt, and everyone froze. She, however, slid off of the crate and walked over to him, little white flecks of snow sticking to her hair and cheeks, taking each step slowly and deliberately. As she got closer and closer, Soap could smell her sweat, heady and musky, and he could hear her breaths, hanging on each of her exhales like it was some heavenly edict, memorizing the pace of them like it would unlock all of the world’s many secrets, a passcode to the truth.

She whispered, inches from his open mouth,

“You can help me,” she put her hands on his neck, using her thumbs to rub against the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, letting the stiff hairs burn under her touch, “By staying the fuck out of my way.”

Despite the warning timbre of her voice, she was open and pliant for him, letting her lips hang open slightly, like she was expecting his kiss. Johnny leaned toward her, his mouth slotting across hers, tasting her on his tongue and moving his body into her space. He ignored the danger, well aware of the fact that she was strapped with enough Semtex to blow a city block into a dirty crater, and he kissed her deeply, as if they had been lovers for years, as if this was not their first touch.

She stepped back, pulling away from him, and he took a step forward to follow.

Click.

Time stopped. Johnny’s skin flashed hot and then cold, all of the adrenaline he had left flooding his system.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” She chided him, backing away while he remained frozen in place, “Sit… stay…” Then, that same sad smile, “Good boy.”

She climbed up on the crate and escaped through the hole in the roof before any of them could react to what had just happened.

Captain Price gave an order to Gaz,

“Go after her!”

“No!” Johnny protested, “All of you, get the fuck out of this room. I stepped on a wee mine, and if I know her, this whole dock will be at the bottom of the bloody ocean the moment I lift my boot.”

Ghost came up behind him, shifting his feet carefully through the sand, searching for secondary devices. Then, he used his pneumatic tool to blow the snow away from Johnny’s left foot to reveal the device.

“Well, she got you fair and square, didn’t she, Johnny? I’ll tell your mum you died a hero’s death,” there was a joking tone in Ghost’s voice that made Soap peer down at the toe of his boot.

He had stepped on an empty soda can.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny sighed, feeling the tingle of relief skitter through his limbs.

Then, panic again as Price’s voice growled darkly behind him,

“I should send you on the first flight back to Glasgow with your papers in your fuckin’ hand, boy. What the hell are you doin’, MacTavish? You’ve got one fuckin’ chance to explain yourself before I replace you with a damn bomb robot. At least then I won’t have to write a letter home when he gets blown to bits.”

“I put a tag in her pocket, Cap’n. Should be able to watch her on the SAT-NAV now. She already mapped where Makarov’ll be next. I think we should help her.”

“What’s your deal with her? Are you…” Gaz asked, bewildered by his friend’s unusually careless behavior.

“I dinnae ken how to explain it, but I need to see this through.”

Price’s exhausted sigh was the only response he received, but Johnny knew that the silence was a form of assent. They would help him, and he would help her, if only he could get to her before she did anything too permanent.

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

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satinchicz · 1 month ago

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BURNOUT

musician!Se-mi x fem!reader

TW: smoking

The ballpoint pen went flying against the wall, Se-mi groaned in annoyance before letting her back fall against the chair…she’d been trying to write music lyrics for practically the entire day, yet it seems the muses had started a riot against her because everytime her eyes glanced at the blank piece of paper her brain turned into red jelly.

Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for this

But if not this then what else? Music was her life- well you were her life too but that was different, the bin by her desk was practically overflowing with torn pages by now, god why wasn’t anything coming to her?!

Today- when she decided to dedicate the day to her lyricism, of course everything had to go to shit. Se-mi got up from the chair, her movements lazy, like her muscles were glued together creating a sticky uncomfortable feeling. Looking out the window in the kitchen she sighed once again, before reaching for a half empty box of Marlboro cigarettes, opting to relax a tiny bit with the tobacco instead of having another tantrum that included abusing her poor pen.

She watched the smoke moving as elegantly as a dancer, from her mouth to outside the window…mingling with the purple-y setting skyline.

Just then the sound of the front door being opened echoed through the flat, the very familiar harmony of your silly key chains ringing through her ears, Se-mi put out the cigarette before heading to seek you out, your bodies meeting right in the kitchen doorway, she smiled as she saw you- finally one good thing about her day.

“Hey, sweetheart” the brunette purred against your lips, you chuckled at the affection, your lips finally meeting in a sweet home-welcoming kiss.

“Hey, I missed you” you replied, before placing your bag down on the kitchen table. “Long day…god I’m so tired” to further showcase your fatigue you playfully fanned yourself with your hand…Se-mi chuckled, a very quite sound, before she sat down on the other chair. You could see something was bothering her, Se-mi your oh so energetic girlfriend that loved to joke around was suddenly like a snail hidden inside it’s shell.

“Se-mi?” You leaned in closer, your eyes going to her face, clear worry evident in your tone “Is everything alright?”

She glanced at you, before moving her gaze onto her hands, it was no use to lie, maybe a little confession about her feelings would help her feel more at ease.

“It’s just- these goddamn lyrics…” Se-mi started “I’ve been trying to write all day, but everytime I try and think of at least ONE line then it’s like I forgot how to write!”

And so she kept on going, by the time she finished sharing her failed attempts she felt more lighter, physically and emotionally. Maybe a minute of silence stretched out before the two of you, like some indicator getting rid of all the negative energy Se-mi had just thrown out of herself. “Se-mi…you know it’s fine to have days like this? I mean, I know how frustrating it is, but some burnout isn’t bad for you, you write amazing, beautiful, fucking soul haunting lyrics…I think you just have to let your mind rest a little” you assured your girlfriend, who was now looking you straight in the eyes, “I guess you’re right…thanks babe” Se-mi smiled lethargically.

“How about we cuddle? Let me just change out of these clothes, I must reek of office grime” you grinned, “Yeah…I’ll be waiting for ya” she agreed before moving into the living room.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” The brunette looked up at you as you began to speak, she was contentedly laying atop you, your arms wrapped around her waist, ah yes- you were talking about the sunset…it was beautiful, she loved all the gradient hues but as of now she wasn’t interested in looking out the window, her gaze stuck on you, “You’re more beautiful” the girl murmured against your neck, you giggled “That’s so cheesy…don’t stop”, a light kiss was pressed onto your skin, then another one, and another and another and another…the intensity growing with each one, “I won’t stop, I don’t even want to do don’t worry about that!” she smiled and you ruffled her hair

“I love you, you dummy.”

#se mi x reader #se-mi x reader #coquette #wlw fanfic #fanfic #squid game x reader #squid game season 2 #squid game #fluff #fem reader #player 380 x reader #player 380 #wlw post #wlw #se mi squid game

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sentientcave · 11 months ago

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Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

#cod mw fanfiction #cave writing #John Price x Reader #x reader #dark fic #Price please keep your dogs on leashes they are terrorizing women #The boys missed the real retirement party because they got emergency deployed and they've been trying to reschedule all year long #Good thing they've got such a good gift to make up for it #The homies in discord agree: These guys are unsettling

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aemondapologistfrfr · 4 months ago

Text

Your Favorite Flavor

modern!aemond x fem!dealer!reader

Summary: After a rough week filled with midterms Aemond is hoping to come home and relax. After arriving home he finds it to be worse than his dorms and Helaena offers him a contact who can help him with his needs.

Warnings: 18+ drugs(weed), smoking, cigs, swearing, oral(m), p in v, unprotected

Authors Note: girl dealers are top tier frfr n e ways this is super self indulgent and my first time writing in this type of PoV also mans has both of his eyes

Word Count: 3.7k

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Aemond was positive this was his worst week of midterms he’s ever experienced in his entire university career. Normally this week would bring him so much joy with the thought of passing his exams and being able to go home for the week to enjoy the holidays. This week however started terribly and ended even worse.

Monday morning he slept past his alarm and missed one of his biggest exams. The professor reassured him he would be able to make up the exam and still be able to receive full points. He hoped it was just a one time slip up but when he awoke well past his alarm again on Tuesday he was ready to start sleeping outside the lecture halls of his classes for the rest of the week. By the time Friday came he was so nervous he wouldn’t wake up in time that he barely slept and his eyes felt heavy and dry. The only reprieve was that after this last exam he gets to go home.

After he finishes his last exam he runs back to his dorm to grab his bag and thuds down the stairs making a straight line for his car. The frown he was sure would be gone for a couple days returns to his face upon seeing a flat tire. He throws his bag into his car and groans before getting out his tools and spare. Once the tire is on he throws the tools back in the trunk and gets behind the wheel. He rarely does this but it’s been a long week so he opens his glove box and pulls out the pack of cigarettes. He looks at the lighter in his hand praying to the Gods that it has fluid left. It ignites and he sighs when the smoke seeps into his lungs.

He’s thankful for his hour drive home and turns up his music letting it drown out the thoughts in his head that he failed every exam. By the time he pulls into the driveway he’s smoked enough cigarettes for him to wish he never picked up the habit. He rests his head on the steering wheel trying to calm his nerves and hoping the house is empty when he walks in. He jolts when someone’s hands land on his window.

“Welcome home, baby brother.” Aegon laughs wildly before tugging some random girl into the house with him.

Aemond snatches his bag from the passenger seat and begins to drag himself into the house. He hears his mother humming from the kitchen and he tries to make his way upstairs but he’s stopped as she calls his name. His shoulders slump as he turns and makes his way to greet her.

“I’m so happy you’re home.” she coos pulling him into a hug and she inhales deeply. “Aemond,” she scolds, pulling back. “Cigarettes? Really?” she glares at him.

“I’m sorry.” he sighs, defeated. “I had a long week. I want to go lay down.” she looks at him with pity filled eyes and he turns and trudges up the stairs.

He pushes his door open and drops his bag before shutting and locking his door. He walks over to the bed and collapses face first into his pillows. He wraps his arms around them tightly and lets his eyes close trying to catch up on his much missed sleep. Right as the world fades away he hears Aegon's ‘guest’ moaning and he grabs a pillow slamming it over his head. He gives up and turns on his TV and lets the noise of some thrice revived show drown out the life around him.

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There’s repeated knocking at his door and he groans rising from his pile of blankets and pillows. He rubs his eyes and walks over to the door. His face softens as his mother is there with a small tray of food and drink. He smiles and she sweeps into his room and sets the tray on his desk and turns to him.

“Are you doing okay?” she looks over him as he leans in the doorway still.

“I’m just tired.” he yawns and she walks over to him and pulls him down to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Okay.” she pats his chest. “Let me know if there’s anything you want or need. Helaena would also like to see you when you’re feeling up for it.” she hums and shuts the door behind her.

The smells of his favorite soup and sandwich have Aemond abandoning the thought of visiting his sister. He sits at his desk and lets the warm food take him back to his childhood that was once filled with such happiness. He takes a bite and groans leaning back in the chair. This is exactly what he needed to start feeling better. He relishes in the silence and food until his peace is once again interrupted by Aegon and his guest in his room.

He rolls his eyes, turning on his computer and searching for a video to watch and drown out the noises once again. He finishes his meal and moves the tray to make room for him to play a couple of games. He plays until his eyes burn and he opens his drawer looking for something else to help him relax and curses when he finds his stash empty. Fucking Aegon. He gets up to storm into his room but then remembers his guest and turns on his heel with a huff. He knocks on Helaena’s door and she opens it with a smile.

“I was wondering how long you would hide in your room.” she smirks, pulling him into a hug. “How were the exams?” he follows her in and they sprawl on her bed and he tells her all about his week.

“Aegon stole the rest of my weed.” he finishes the end of his terrible week with a sigh. “Do you have any?” he pushes out his bottom lip.

“I’m on a break.” she chuckles. “I’ll text my dealer and you can go get some.” she pulls out her phone.

hel: can i send my baby brother to you?

“Helaena.” Aemonds eyes go wide.

you: how old is he? i don’t babysit or sell to them either

hel: he’s 20 and had such a bad week at uni 🥺

“Enough of this.” Aemond snatches her phone wishing he would’ve just stayed in his room.

you: fine. give him my number. you’re lucky you're my fav customer 😘

“See it’s fine. She’s very nice and her stuff is better than anything you would get from Aegon anyway.” she snatches her phone back.

Aemond glares at his sister before storming back into his room. His phone dings with the contact for Helaena’s friend. He runs his fingers through his hair and quickly changes into sweats and hoodie before grabbing his keys and heading downstairs. He waves at his mom and walks out the front door. The moon and stars greet him as he strides to his car he turns it on and pulls out his phone.

aemond: it’s helaena’s brother

you: ok helaenas brother. what can i do for you?

aemond: i’m stopping at the gas station before i come over. do you need anything?

you: diet dr pepper and some form of chocolate

Aemond chuckles to himself as he types out his response and smiles as you send another message.

you: and wraps i like to smoke with my customers 😶‍🌫️ and hel said you had a bad week so i'm thinking you need it too and i don't need you to tell her i was mean

aemond: any specific flavor?

you: your favorite flavor

aemond: sounds good send me the address.

Aemond leaves his phone in the car as he makes his way into the gas station. He grabs two sodas and spends a couple minutes in the chocolate aisle not knowing which ones to get so he grabs a couple different options and makes his way to the counter. He picks out a strawberry wrap and leaves with a small bag and a smile on his face. He looks at the address and sends a message he’ll be there in ten.

He smiles that it’s fairly close to his house as he pulls into the driveway. He cuts his lights and pulls out his phone to text you. He looks up as the car in front of him flashes its lights and his heart starts to beat faster that maybe he’s at the wrong house. Or Gods what if this was a prank and- He watches as you slip out of the drivers side and sprint up to his drivers side barefoot. He starts to roll his window down but you open his door and he looks at you bewildered.

“Well come on.” you put your hands on your hips causing your oversized shirt to bunch further up your thighs. “It’s cold, Helaena’s brother.” you pout at him and he’s well aware of the temperature as your nipples poke through your shirt. He internally groans as he takes his seatbelt off as starts to get out of the car. He grabs the bag of drinks and snacks and your eyes dart to it.

“I’m Aemond.” he says looking down at you.

“Almond? Mm you should’ve gotten me an almond joy.” you chuckle and start to skip back to your car.

You nod at the passenger side and he slips in and watches you push your seat back. You curl your legs under you and grab the bag from his lap. You pull out the soda and smile, opening it and taking a sip before rummaging through the bag of candy. You start to chuckle and he feels a blush run up his neck.

“You did get me an almond joy and a lot of other chocolate.” you look up at him with amused eyes and he offers you a sheepish smile. “A strawberry wrap? Did Hel tell you these were my favorite.” you purse your lips and he looks at them wishing he could press his lips to them. He pushes the thought from his head knowing he’s only here as a favor from you to Helaena.

“I like the strawberry one too.” he nods and you smile at him. He tries to stop his heart from beating any faster as his eyes catch on everything about you.

“How much did you want to pick up?” you smile at him before turning in the seat and bending over to push bags around in the backseat. Your shirt raises up and he can see the lace of your panties and he snaps his head forward and stares straight forward at his car. “Hello? Almond?” you call, still moving bags around.

“An eighth is enough.” he clears his throat. You finally turn back around with a bag and pull the zipper open. You pull out a pre-packed bag that has a little black ribbon around it and place it in his hands. “How much?” he hums, admiring the time you put into the packaging.

“Eh,” you wave him off. “You bought me stuff from the gas station.” his brows scrunch. You really wanted to tell them that he was far too pretty to pay but you were unsure of how he would take that.

“Are you sure?” he watches as you pull out a metal tray and grinder.

“Yeah.” you nod, adding some bud into the grinder. “Can you split the wrap?” you glance at him and he nods opening the package.

“Here.” he offers you the empty wrap and you smile at him, grabbing the wrap and begin to start filling it. He watches as your fingers nimbly pack and roll and when you bring it to your lips he watches as your tongue glides across the seam and he readjusts in his seat.

“Tell me about your week, Almond. Hel said it was bad.” you hum flicking on the lighter to dry the wrap.

“I’m sure you don’t want to hear about uni.” he nibbles his lip.

“Why cause I sell drugs?” you raise your eyebrow putting the blunt between your lips. “I’m graduating next year. I’ve had my fair share of shitty midterms.” he watches you light the blunt and as the smoke flows out of your mouth he looks at you as if you’re the first woman he’s seen.

“Really?” he tilts his head.

“Really.” you smile handing him the blunt. “But tell me about your week.” you turn your body to him and give him your full attention.

He starts off with Monday and you listen, nodding your head as he speaks. You both pass the blunt back and forth until it’s no more and you continue to stare at him as he speaks. The haziness of the car is causing you to lounge deeper into your seat and you bring your feet back out from underneath you. He continues talking about his midterms and you frown that he’s still so worked up.

“I’m sorry.” he frowns seeing your frown. “Am I boring you? I am. I should go.” you shake your head.

“No,” you grab his arm and he stops. You rub your thumb on his skin before leaning back again. “I just thought you would relax more but I think we need to smoke more.” you bite your lip smirking. “If you want of course.” you look at his pink cheeks as he nods.

“We can use mine.” he fishes for the bag in his pocket and you wave him off again.

“No, let me just rest my feet in your lap. I’m scrunched up over here.” he chuckles at your pout and pats his lap.

He watches you throw your legs over the center console and curses himself as he hesitates to rest his hands on your bare legs. You lean down and grab the metal tray and grinder once more. His eyes roam all over you unabashedly gazing at your relaxed and flushed features. When you hand him the blunt he looks at you curiously.

“Well I sparked the last one. It’s your turn.” you nod at him. “Do you need me to flick the lighter on for you, baby Almond?” you tease leaning up with the lighter. His eyes darken at your nickname for him and he plucks the lighter from your fingers as you fall back into the door in a fit of giggles.

“I’m gonna tell Helaena you were mean.” he smiles as he passes the blunt into your awaiting fingers.

“Mean? Me?” you grasp at your chest letting your head fall back. “I could never be mean to you.” you push his leg with your foot and he thanks the Gods it wasn’t a little higher up his thigh. “Oh sweet little Almond who isn’t full of joy right now.” you giggle at your attempt at a joke and he watches as you bring the blunt to your lips still giggling.

“I’m happier than I’ve been in weeks.” he softly admits and you crack your eyes open looking him over with a soft smile. “Sorry I didn’t mean to get dramatic again.” he shakes his head.

“I think you just need some head.” you hum passing the blunt back to him, silently giggling that he didn’t process your words yet. He hits it and then your words play through his head again and he turns back to you who is waiting with a smirk. “Or I’m sure you already have someone to take care of that for you.” you raise an eyebrow and he passes the blunt back to you.

“I don’t.” his words are low as he licks his lower lip. His mind has finally relaxed and he’s confident enough to start slowly trailing his fingers up your legs. You put the blunt out in the ashtray as his fingers start to knead into your legs.

“I find that hard to believe.” you sit up and look him over with squinted eyes. “You’re so pretty. If we went to the same uni I’d be on my knees for you daily.” his fingers dig into your legs. He can’t believe that these words are coming out of your mouth. His breathing deepens as he watches your tongue slide across your lip.

Aemond can’t take it anymore. Your shirt has been slowly riding up and every glimpse of your panties has his cock throbbing. Now with you looking at him like that while saying you want to be on your knees for him he’s absolutely done for. His hand travels up your thigh to see your reaction and you slowly spread your legs for him and he groans.

That low sound from him is all you need to have your feet back under you and leaning your front over to console instead. He grabs your hand that reaches for his waistband with eyes saying you didn’t have to but you palm him over the soft material and he throws his head back. He pushes his sweats down enough to free himself and your mouth is wrapped around him instantly.

“Fuck.” he groans moving your hair to the other side to watch you. Your tongue swirls around him and he restrains himself from jerking up into your mouth. You push your head further down and when he hits the back of your throat he lets out more soft curses. You hum around him, starting to bob your head quickly. His arm stretches to lift up your shirt and his fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass.

You moan around him as his fingers dip under your panties and slide down your slit. He teases you as you continue to suck around him and when his fingers circle your bud you still your movements on him. You hear him chuckle above you as he starts to move his fingers faster. You slowly pull off of him and let out a soft whimper that has his hips jerking. You press your lips around his tip and suck harshly as your hips chase his fingers.

“Can I fuck you? Please?” his voice wrecked. You turn your head and look up at him and he groans again lifting you up and pulling you onto his lap. His length presses against your wet panties and you both grind against each other too dazed and hot to line him up with your entrance. You smash your lips against his as you both push and move against each other. His tip slips under your panties and you cry out as it brushes against your bud.

“Fuck almond.” he groans at the name, fingers digging into your hips as his nostrils flare.

“If I’m going to fuck you, your going to cry out my actual name.” you nod your head before resting it on his shoulder. He pushes your panties to the side and lines himself up at your core. He dips his tip in and pulls it out listening to you whimper.

“Aemond,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulder. You try to move your hips down to find his length again and he groans feeling your wetness slide against him.

“Like that.” he slams into you and you fall forward on his chest as he starts pushing up into you. “You feel so good.” his hands land on your ass and help you bounce against him. You toss your head back and he stares at your nipples poking through your shirt and he attaches his mouth to them over the fabric. You look down at him with pleasure filled eyes as you start to rock against him frantically.

“Aemond, fuck,” he looks up at you with such reverence. His hand curls around the nape of your neck and pulls you into a bruising kiss. He groans feeling you squeeze around him and he brings his fingers to your bud and he relishes when you whine loudly into his mouth. “Aem,” your toes curl as you come around him.

The feeling of you falling apart around him as his eyes rolling back. His fingers continue to circle your bud enjoying the pulsing of your walls around him. His other hand is still firmly on your ass helping you bounce on him. His high slams through him as he holds you closely as he feels you still clenching around him. You both pant in each other's arms and he lifts you off and adjusts your panties. He helps you crawl back into your seat and you lay your head back on the rest still trying to catch your breath.

“You’re the best dealer I’ve ever had.” he looks up at you with lidded eyes.

“I better be your only dealer now.” you purse your lips and he presses his against them quickly.

“Then I better be the only customer who gets this treatment.” he smirks.

“I definitely don’t do that with Hel.” he chuckles at your words. “Come find me again after winter exams.” he internally frowns that he has to go back to uni and this isn’t something that gets to grow right away. “Don’t go pouting again.” you pinch his cheeks. “Just a couple more weeks and then we’re free for the holidays.” you nod at him.

“Then I'll see you when there’s snow on the ground.” he presses his lips once more to yours before sliding out of your car.

As Aemond shuts your car door the crisp breeze bites at his flushed cheeks and he’s quickly climbing into his car. He knows he has a ridiculous smile on his face but he couldn’t care less. He starts his drive home and decides to stop at the gas station once more to get Helaena her favorite snacks as a thank you.

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masterlist 🔌

i’m making at least two more parts to this bc i already got the ideas for them 😖

Part 2

taglist ✍️

@clarityisnofun @gabriella-aesthetic @callsignwidow @llynx7 @violetiss3lfish @ka1afbr @akiko-oo @papichulo120627 @lizzylovebooks280501 @thatgirl101blog @1-fuzzy-squirrels @arya-brooke @ashovertheriver @zanygot7straykidsbonk @moonymoo1 @malfoycassimalfoy @april-notthemonth69 @anaviieiraaa @p45510n4f4shi0n @neocockthotology @thereaderwitch @hardkiddonut @faenyra @hiimava11 @daintylittlesunflower @primroseluna @fiction-fanfic-reader @povofjustme @multilover19 @alexxavicry @cedstars @fuckalrighty @mrsmunson-harrington @misspendragonsworld @nz2004 @ninihrtss

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laurfilijames · 2 years ago

Text

Happy Birthday, Darlin'

Pairing: Jax Teller x female reader

Words: 4,014

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Smoking. Mild descriptions of cuts and blood. Mentions of fighting. Unprotected intercourse. Slight asphyxiation. Some insecurities about Jax and his habits.

Summary: It's your birthday, and while Jax is pressed to make it to you in time to celebrate, he makes sure all your wishes come true.

A/N: Happy Birthday to ME 🥳 yes, I'm that bitch who wrote herself a birthday fic because I can. I've been dying to write for Jax for so long and thought this would be a fun way to get a feel for writing his character. If my writing wasn't self-indulgent before, it definitely is now.

This takes place after Season 2 Ep 12 The Culling where the Sons fight The League/Zobelle's guys because I just found Jax to be wildly sexy in that scene (but also when isn't he?)

---

The night air was cool on his face as he ripped as quickly as he could down the quiet, country roads back into town, easily shifting into fourth gear knowing every cop in Charming would be responding to where he just fled from and not having to worry about being pulled over for his excessive speed.

Jax knew he was pushing it for time - your birthday over in just less than two hours - so with a reminder of his bruised and bloodied knuckles, he twisted the throttle and opened up his Harley even more in order to get to you faster.

With a smile on his face at knowing your neighbours already complained about his presence on your street, he let open again on the straight section of road about half a mile from your house, hoping you and everyone else would now be fully aware of his arrival.

The fight with Zobelle’s gang already had him fired up, but not nearly as much as getting to see you did, and as he pulled into your driveway, his buzzing fury changed into a different kind of energy entirely.

Taking one last haul on the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he blew out the smoke and tossed it onto the asphalt, stepping on it with a twist of his dusty shoe as he unbuckled his helmet.

Jax glanced up to see the dim, warm light of a lamp in your living room, smiling to himself again that you were still awake and no doubt waiting for him as he took his backpack off his shoulders and unzipped the main compartment.

Relieved the box didn't get smushed, he pulled out the still perfectly preserved cupcake and dug in his pocket for the single candle he stuck in there earlier, bringing his lighter out with it along with another cigarette.

He placed the fresh smoke between his lips, not paying any attention to the cut stinging on his lip where it rested, focusing on sticking the candle in the center of the cupcake and lighting it. With the pink candle set ablaze, he brought his lighter to the end of the cigarette and inhaled as it burned the paper, shoving the Zippo back in the inside pocket of his cut before carefully making his way up the steps to your front door with his free hand blocking any wind made by walking from blowing out the tiny flame.

He grunted quietly to himself when he knocked on the door, his hand more sore than he thought it was after punching Weston's face in so many times, muttering to himself when he realized he was getting blood on the side of the cupcake from a split on his other hand.

"Ahh, shit," he sighed, knowing he didn't have enough time to try to clean anything up when he heard your footsteps coming to answer. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and quickly forced the smoke out with a deep blow, waving his hand so it wouldn't be in your face when you opened the door.

An automatic smile formed on his lips as soon as he laid eyes on you, leaning against the doorway in nothing but your panties and his white reaper crew t-shirt that he left the last time he was over, his voice hoarse as he started singing.

"Happy birthday to you," he began, taking a step through the entrance. "Happy birthday to you," he continued, getting right close to you until your faces were inches from each other, his eyes flickering over your shy, but happy features as his gesture made you flush all over.

"Happy birthday, darlin'. Make a wish."

You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, looking from his intensely blue eyes down to the candle in front of you, and blew it out.

"What'd you wish for?"

"I'm not supposed to tell, Jax."

He smirked, leaning even closer to you so his lips were hovering over yours, "Then I'll have to guess."

His kiss tasted like smoke, but you didn't care, craving the nicotine that transferred from his mouth to yours like you were addicted to the habit itself, deepening the kiss by arching into him as if you were never able to get enough.

Jax walked forward, guiding you further into your house, the sound of the door closing lost on both of you as he kicked it shut behind him and eventually broke your kiss.

"I didn't think I was going to get to see you today," you whispered, your lids heavy with lust when you looked up at him.

"Yeah, well, I skipped out early to come give my girl her gift." He held up the cupcake and let you take it from his hand, watching your expression change to confusion as you noticed the blood stained on the side of it.

"Is that your blood?"

"50/50 chance," he laughed, swiping his finger through the icing before licking it clean.

“Should I even ask?”

“Probably not.”

You began taking in the deepening colours of purple and red on his cheek, the cut on his lip and the ones that flawed his hands, the concern you felt taking away from the joy in having him there.

“Is this why you're late?” you questioned, your fingertips ghosting over his cheek and down to his lip.

“So you were expecting me, then," he winked, his smugness always managing to outshine anything else, forcing you to roll your eyes at him.

He kissed you again, plucking the cupcake out of your hand and placing it blindly over on the hall table where you kept your keys and purse, his hands reaching up to cradle your face.

"I should report you for theft, you know," he warned, pausing to take a breath, nodding down at his shirt that hung loosely on your body.

"I think of it more as safe keeping until the owner comes back to claim it," you challenged, your eyebrows raising to show your displeasure in it being too many days that had turned into weeks since he was last here.

"Hey, at least I didn't miss your birthday," he objected, trying his best to defend himself, his head tilted while his eyebrows rose to crease his forehead.

You backed away from him, turning to walk through to the kitchen, looking back over your shoulder.

"And how many other birthday's did you celebrate in the meantime?"

"Oh, come on," he laughed frustratedly, your accusation making him look up at the ceiling. "You know it isn't like that."

You nodded slowly in silent agreement, trying not to let your insecurities and jealousies get the better of you.

He sighed loudly, waiting for a moment before following you, his voice raising slightly to make sure you heard from down the hallway.

"You're the only one I always come back to. The one I want to be inside every night."

Hearing his footsteps coming toward you, you closed your eyes and breathed out, terrified of the hurt he could cause but realizing you were being hurt every time regardless.

His voice was near and softer now that he was in the kitchen with you, making your heart pound faster in your chest even though he seemed so calm.

"You gotta stop pushing me away."

It was safer that way; always keeping him at an arm's length, never wanting to get your heart involved when you knew what he was like and how many beds he ended up in. Jax Teller could have any woman he wanted; more charm in him than all of Charming, a simple crooked grin or nod as he strutted past enough to seal the deal, and not one person could say he wasn't successful in his endeavors.

Despite it all, you wanted him, but kept it casual enough to get a taste of what you needed, having said to both yourself and him on more than one occasion over the years that nothing more would ever happen as long as his habits remained the same, and you weren't about to ask a man like him to change.

He came up to you, his hands holding your waist, his lips peppering across your shoulder and dangerously close to your neck. You closed your eyes again and sighed, relishing in the sensation while praying he didn't do the one thing you always told him not to.

But Jax always did whatever the fuck he wanted.

He kissed up along your neck, making you moan and breathe deeper, trying to keep some sort of resolve.

"Jax, you know my rule," you pleaded, feeling your entire body ignite to his lawlessness.

"Remind me what that is again?" he lied, continuing to kiss and suck your neck, knowing damn well what it was.

You shivered, feeling yourself slipping away and quickly becoming willing to do anything he asked or all the things you really wanted to do; the way he kissed your neck was your kryptonite and weakness and the one thing you always prevented in order to save yourself, fearing you would reveal exactly how you felt about him anytime he lingered there.

"Jax…"

He stopped, grabbing your chin to force you to look at him, his eyes dancing back and forth with yours as he looked at you seriously.

“I'm done playing. I want this," he said pointedly, speaking with surety.

You let go of the breath you were holding, still questioning whether to trust him regardless of how convincing he was right now.

Taking hold of your cheeks again, he smoothed his thumbs back and forth across them, an honesty and pleading present in those clear blues that made you lose yourself every time.

Before you could argue or plead your case, he crashed against you, inhaling deeply like he was trying to suck all the air out of your lungs, his tongue probing deep into your mouth to tangle with yours.

There was no sense in trying to hold back now, done with pretending for as many years as you had, the whine that passed from your mouth to his signaling your surrender.

The metallic taste of blood mixed with tobacco teased your tastebuds with each kiss, increasing your hunger to taste more of him while your body displayed those needs and your hands roamed frantically under his hoodie and the waist of his low-sitting jeans.

The leather of his cut was soft on your fingertips as you ran them along the open panels, feeling Jax’s eagerness increase in his kiss when you peeled it down his arms and placed it carefully on the kitchen chair beside you without looking. He shrugged off his hoodie and white t-shirt while you busied yourself with unfastening his belt and jeans, letting the weight of his knife pull them to the floor without assistance, leaving him standing in his boxers with a cheeky grin on his face.

“You seem pretty happy unwrapping your present.”

“Is this all I get?” you teased, matching his smile and giggling when he picked you up and put you over his shoulder, giving your bum a harsh smack as he started making his way down to your bedroom.

"Come on, birthday girl, let's go make those wishes come true."

A seriousness took over again once you were in your room, what remained of the playfulness exchanged just a minute ago in the kitchen leaving the moment your feet touched the hardwood floor, Jax peering down at you with a look you hadn't seen before.

You'd be lying if you told yourself you weren't absolutely terrified, scared of letting yourself fall even further for him, but the way his expression had softened and his eyes held what you knew had to be love for you in them, you were ready to give in.

“I mean it,” he muttered, one of his hands reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear where you leaned into his touch.

You crashed against him, kissing him hard, the need to have him more fierce than ever and only fueled more by him meeting your enthusiasm equally.

Jax tore his shirt from your body, only pausing in kissing you for long enough to get your head through it, stepping closer to you so your bodies were pressed together, feeling his hard cock nudging against your thighs and then between your legs through his boxers.

More desperate for him now than you thought you had ever been, you tugged his loose-fitting shorts down roughly, your mouth watering as his dick sprung free and bounced temptingly before you took hold of it and began rubbing the silky, veiny skin, his approval of your touch sounding as a low growl from deep in his chest.

"Fuck," he hissed, his mouth close to your ear as he leaned in against you, his hips moving into your strokes.

Finding his focus, he let his fingers hook in your thong to pull it down over your hips, his head angling to meet your mouth with his again as he slipped his fingers in your folds to spread your slick, both of you pressing your mouths against each other's harder as ecstasy quickly took over.

This was normally the time where one of you would frantically reach for a condom, barely keeping it together in time to get it on him as the temptation to go without almost always won, and today it seemed it would. You had always trusted that he wrapped up whenever he was with anyone, and although you were on birth control you were happy not to take any risks, but today was different. You wanted him, and all of him.

Jax walked forward until the back of your legs met your bed, and forcing you to sit, he crawled in over you, his blond hair hanging in your face as you spread out beneath him and he settled between your open legs.

He gave you a once over before meeting your eyes, admiring your perfect form spread and ready for him to ruin, his cheeks flinching as he clenched his jaw while he waited for you to give him the go-ahead.

Your consent was silent as you lifted your head up to capture his lips with yours, his sun-bleached beard scratching over your chin, lifting your hips at the same time so you rubbed yourself over his leaking head.

Jax wasted no more time, driving into you deeply in one push, pausing when he bottomed out to flex his cock inside you. You moaned into him, your hands clawing over the tattoo covering his back, unable to believe how good it felt to have him bare inside you.

Immediately choosing a rhythm that was both slow and hard at the same time, he thrusted in and out and ground against you with perfect precision, sending you close to the edge faster than ever before.

"You feel so fucking good!" he growled, his mouth parting from yours and leaving a string of wet between them, moving his lubricated lips over to your neck where you whined loudly and rocked more into his movements.

"Fuck, Jax!" you cried, knowing you were leaving ten red trails across his pale skin, but feeling the need to claim him as yours.

He was doing the same, sucking at your neck to leave darkened blemishes behind, his tongue alternating where his teeth came out to nip harshly at the tender skin to soothe each bite, his tempo growing erratic as he lost himself in your dripping cunt.

You seemed to only get wetter the more he kissed your neck and fucked you deeply, hitting that sweet spot with his head with each blow, the way you squeezed his girth tightly as he dragged in and out of you making him want to blow it already.

He forced himself to pause, needing to compose himself so he could keep fucking you for as long as he could, not wanting this to be over any time soon. Your whining increased, making him unsure if it was because he was sitting idly inside you or that he was persistent in continuing to kiss your neck all over to the point you had goosebumps littering your skin and you writhing desperately under him. It made him smile, knowing he had such an effect on you, smug in his ability to have you past the point of control and that you were seconds away from admitting something you tried so hard to deny for so long.

If Jax was anybody but the asshole he was he would've said it long ago, but selfishly he wanted to hear it spill from your gorgeous lips first, and he didn't ever go down without a fight.

"Roll over," he demanded, pulling out of you and forcefully grabbing at your leg to help flip you onto your stomach, hooking your knee up to bend at a high angle.

You took your hair in your hand and draped it over one shoulder, exposing the side of it for him to do with what he wanted, making him smirk more that you clearly wanted him there despite what you always said.

The hand that wasn't supporting him on the mattress gripped your cheek and spread you apart, driving his dick in you again torturously slowly, watching your face contort as he stretched you open. Your hands tore at the sheets as you backed yourself into him to push him in further, meeting his hips in slow, rolling motions, that tingling sensation of your building climax quickly returning.

Sex with Jax was always mind-blowing and the best you ever had, but tonight it felt so much better, so much more powerful, and you knew you could never have it any other way again.

He leaned over you to gently kiss your neck, more carefully than before, his efforts in wrecking you focused in his movements even though the feel of his lips on your sensitive skin had you shivering and threatening to come undone just as much.

The scent of your skin was like a drug to him as he breathed deeply, his nose ghosting at your nape and in your hair, dragging him right along with you to a point he would never recover from.

Wrapping a hand around to wedge between you and the bed, he found your clit, rubbing precise circles with his fingertips in the way he always knew made you scream, the thought of feeling you cum on his bare dick making him feel more feral than he ever had.

"Jax, I'm so close- Fuck!" you cried, your breathing growing ragged, your limbs moving recklessly to try to gain momentum on your climax that sat waiting just on the edge, seeking to keep up with his ruthless pounding.

He slowed his pace, adjusting to a speed he knew would have you at his mercy, his fingers pressing onto your swollen bud harder but in more languid strokes. His nose brushed along your neck, his breath fanning out over your dewy skin before he started kissing you again, the way your body tensed beneath him telling him he had you right where he wanted you.

"God, Jax, I love you," you admitted, feeling freed and unashamed in saying what you had feared to the most, your body relaxing into your words and finding the release it sought.

Jax hammered into you, pounding you through your high, his grunts mixing with your shouts of pleasure as you quaked and strangled him tightly.

Giving you no time to recover, he sat back on his heels and lifted you up with him, his cock momentarily slipping from you as you positioned yourself over his lap, allowing him a glimpse of your milky cum that coated it and sent him into a frenzy.

He speared back into you, your pussy sensitive and still tingling from your orgasm, his hand holding you back against his chest and pinching one of your nipples between his fingers to keep you as stimulated as possible.

Reaching up to turn your face to the side so he could kiss you, he rutted up into you brutally, feeling your pussy stretch out over him with each pump, your wetness dripping out to soak his golden pubes.

His kisses turned sloppy, nearing his end, his hand slipping down to hold your throat where he could easily control the amount of air allowed to pass through your windpipe, the knowledge of knowing you trusted him enough to let him do it lighting him up with an intense buzzing.

Before he could give in to that temptation, he let one hand return to your tits that bounced with his thrusts, the other replacing his lips on yours as he pulled your bottom lip down with his thumb and shoved two of his fingers inside. You sucked on them appreciatively, wetting them with your spit thoroughly as he triggered your gag reflex and pinched one of your peaked nipples at the same time, making you moan and clench hard on his dick. Removing them from the heat of your mouth, he trailed them between your breasts and straight down your stomach, landing on your clit where he spread your spit generously and worked to make you cum again.

You ground on him quickly, the increase in your movements sending you through to another climax, the sound of him grunting and panting in your ear as he began to cum encouraging you, but not as much as knowing he was about to fill you up.

He drove up into you harder, his teeth scraping along your neck and up to your cheek where he growled in your ear roughly, "I love you, too, babe."

You came together, feeling his hot spend coat your insides and start to leak out of you as he didn't let up on fucking you, wrecking you harder than he ever had before.

Your body felt weak and charged all at the same time, like you were melting into him but somehow needing more, and sliding off his dick with a quiet moan at the loss of him, you turned around to face him, sitting in his lap where you wrapped your arms and legs around him and held him close, continuing to kiss him with a necessity that was greater than breathing.

Holding your head in his hands, Jax met you with equal fervor, his chest rising and falling sharply against yours as he worked to catch his breath, and slowly guided you to lay down in the sheets with him.

Your legs tangled together, your arms holding and caressing each other with a surety you had never known before, relishing in the after effects of a level of bliss you were positive up until now you were never going to experience.

Slowing your kisses until they stopped, Jax looked at you warmly and flashed you a lazy smile, and you couldn't help but trace your fingertips over the creases beside his mouth and then up to run through his tousled hair.

You felt a slight pang in your chest in knowing he would probably leave soon, needing to see to some duties for the club, always having to run off shortly after his time with you to go deal with something that his loyalties couldn't ignore.

"I don't want today to end," you whispered, not ready to call it quits on your birthday just yet, and especially not ready to let him out of your bed after confessing something so huge.

Jax shifted onto his back, stretching out with a groan to reach for your alarm clock on your nightstand to check the time; 11:51 pm. Following the cord from the back of it into the wall behind the table, he pulled the plug out, watching the screen turn blank before rolling back over to you, his knee wedging between your legs as he settled his weight on top of you.

“Your birthday isn't over yet, darlin', and I'm not going anywhere.”

---

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @blairsanne @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered

I went ahead and tagged everyone I have written down for my Charlie/Will Miller taglist so my apologies if you're not interested in being tagged in Jax fics and I will happily add or remove anyone as they wish!

#jax teller #sons of anarchy #jax teller smut #jax teller x female reader #jax teller x reader #sons of anarchy fic #jax teller fic #charlie hunnam

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buckgasms · 7 months ago

Text

Ok let's get some of these trailer park Bucky ideas out shall we?

- This is what I need in my life ☝🏼

- Maybe you live opposite each other and one of you is the new neighbour?

- You could be the newbie maybe and you find he's very helpful when moving boxes.

- You both flirt a little but nothing serious, just a smirk or a touch here and there.

- But alas, nothing happens beyond that, and you settle in to your new home.

☀️

- Ah but perhaps you start noticing that Bucky has a lot of female visitors throughout the week.

- You mostly only see them leaving his place, but occasionally you get a bit more than that.

- From across the way, in the late hours you hear them whimpering and whining as his trailer creaks. You might hear a hand meet ass cheek or a shrill giggle.

- It's a little annoying no infuriating

- But sometimes, if you listen really closely which you'd never admit to you hear him.

- His grunts.

- His groans.

- "That's it. Take it."

- It's the sweetest form of torture and you try to resist but sometimes it just drives you to the edge and you desperately need release, imagining his hot, sweaty body working on you.

☀️

- Perhaps one morning you are sitting out front, reading a book and he appears, waving off another woman who looks satisfied and somewhat disappointed to be sent on her way.

- You smile and try to go back to your book, but he's intrigued. And a tease.

- "Morning sugar."

- "Good mornin Bucky" you reply turning a page you haven't read a word of in your book.

- He pulls up a chair and settles next to you.

- "Wow. Our bedroom windows are pretty close to each other huh?" He remarks, a smile tugging at his lips as you clear your throat.

- "I never noticed" you say, voice clearly strained.

- He stands to leave but first leans down, right by your ear.

- "But I have sweetheart."

☀️

- You spend the rest of the day totally paranoid.

- Had he heard you? Has he seen you?

- You don't hate the idea of him wanting you, but you don't want to be a notch on his belt.

- If he's going to tease, why don't you tease right back?

☀️

- Ice lollies are your weapon of choice.

- You sit in your chair, book open, skirt short, top skimpy and a ice lolly popping lewdly from your mouth.

- He looks like he's leaving but when he catches sight of you he seems to change his mind.

- Instead he sets himself up with a beer and a pack of cigarettes and enjoys the show you e decided to put on.

- Naturally, your plan immediately backfires because damn he looks so hot.

- It's Bucky....

- He distracts you by offering a beer, which you accept once your lolly is finished.

- He distracts you by asking about your book.

- He distracts you by talking about where you are from.

- Before you know it, he's back next to you, you are feeling warm from the beer and you can't help but notice how blue his eyes are.

- But wait I am getting ahead of myself.

- Because maybe????

- One night after the "sweetheart" incident you see Bucky come home, head into his trailer and open his bedroom window wide.

- You crawl into bed and slowly push your window open, enjoying the cool air streaming into the room.

- "Can you hear me sweet girl?"

- You freeze, sweat springs up on your brow despite the cool air.

- "I know you can baby. God, you should see what you do to me. Fuck."

- Your heart is thumping in your chest. Oh god, he's going to give you a heart attack.

- "You're gonna touch yourself baby girl? Gonna think about what I might do to ya huh?"

- Despite yourself, you find yourself thinking all those things, doing all the things he says as the night goes on.

- It ends with your sweet voice calling out his name in the dark and a deep chuckle from his bedroom window.

☀️

- So...

- with all this in mind....

- After all this teasing and flirting he leans in a presses a soft kiss to your lips.

- "I wanna hear you moan for me baby. Properly this time..."

- He pinches your chin between his fingers and deepens the kiss and you instinctively wrap your arms around him.

- He breaks the kiss with a chuckle.

- "Come on sweetheart, let me give you the tour."

- The tour takes moments because you want to kiss him. He presses your body up against a wall, you can barely breathe as he dominates your mouth, hands squeezing at your waist.

- Finally you land on the bed, and he growls as your skirt flips up and reveals your skimpy underwear.

- "Such a little tease huh?"

- You watch as he unbuckles his belt, you admire his rings but swiftly get distracted by his thick cock springing towards you.

- He strokes himself but you take over, shimmying forward so you can get nice and close.

- "Oh I see baby girl, not so innocent are we?"

- His grin turns to a growl as your lips wrap around his length, fingers wrapping around what you can't swallow.

- Your chokes fill the room, as he sinks further down your throat, his hand lacing through your hair holding you in place.

- Finally he pulls you off him, smears your spit over your face before pushing you back down onto the bed.

- He rips your underwear and leans over, pushing the fabric into your mouth.

- "You just hold onto those for me sweetheart" he chuckles as he moves your legs, gripping your ankles, pressing a kiss to them as he lines himself up.

- His fat cock slaps against your aching heat. You groan around your underwear, as he rubs against you until suddenly he slides in, filling you, stretching you until your eyes roll.

- "Sweet jesus baby girl. Knew you'd be perfect for me. So tight. Takin me so well baby..."

- He presses your legs back, so he can bring himself closer to you. He pulls the gag from your mouth and presses a kiss to your lips. You try your best to return but you've lost control of pretty much everything.

- All you can feel is his cock stretching you and hitting that point inside that has been neglected for so long.

- "Wanna hear those pretty moans angel. Want everyone to hear you, let them know what a pretty little slut you are. How desperate you are for me, for this."

- He defines the word with a smooth thrust of his hips that draws a long groan from your lips.

- "Thatta girl, just what I wanted."

☀️

- It's hours of endless pleasure.

- He explores your body, working out every pleasure point, finding your secret kinks that you swore no one would ever know.

- His fingers flex in your pussy as he fucks your ass, watching as he spits on your heat. It sends you crashing over the edge again as he rubs it over your heat, a scream leaving you as tears track down your cheeks.

- "Bucky.... I can't... So sensitive" you wail as he slowly continues fucking your ass, a thumb lazily rubbing your swollen clit.

- "Not my fault angel, you can't stop coming for me can ya?"

- He still sounds remarkably put together, but he isn't. He's just as gone as you are, mesmerized by what you can do, what he can pull out of you.

- Laying out before him, you are divine.

- Your legs tremble as another wave of pleasure rips through you and it drags him with you.

- Your walls pulse and squeeze as you emit a long weak cry. It mixes with his groan, a loud curse slips from his lips as he fills you up, again.

- Finally he crashes down, dragging you in close as exhaustion takes over your body.

Like sign me up.

God I want a trailer park Bucky 🥺

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan #trailer park bucky

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manias-wordcount · 8 months ago

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Can I request a fic where the reader would kiss Spike (Spiegel) every time they caught him smoking? even just holding it up is enough for the reader to give him a peck and stroll away with the cigarette they stole. P.s I love the way you write sm, you're my idol when it comes to writing<3

Cigarettes for Kisses (Spike Spiegel x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗜'𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗟𝗠𝗔𝗢 𝗶 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝘂𝗻 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗼 𝗶 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆! 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗮 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗵𝗲

𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗯 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: @dogsandrocketsocks @pittbull-enthusiast @asuperconfusedgirl @rendartgrimson @abellaheart-blog

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

By the fourth time, he knew what you were doing. But by the fifth, he was more than ready.

He had suspected something up the third time you came around and pulled the same routine. At the time, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He couldn’t describe it. He was too wrapped up to really think about it until much, much later. Because the change was sudden. But not unwanted. Moreso desired than anything. But it was a change. A change that left him a little curious and a little breathless and a little lost in the following moments. Just long enough for you to saunter away with that swing in your hips that makes it impossible to be mad at you. Just long enough to make him realize that he’s down one cigarette and yet up one kiss.

But he began to put together the pieces by the third time. And by the fourth time, he was able to pick apart your pattern and discern all the pieces. Then by the fifth time he tried to pull a cigarette out in front of you in the past three days, he made sure to wait until he could see you coming down the hall. And the second he knew you were close enough, he was shuffling one out of the box and leaning back into the couch. He made sure to take his sweet, sweet time with the lighter. Going nice and slow so he could drink you in in case you got close. And the second you saw him flick his lighter and the flame appear, you did. You got in close. Real close.

While Spike held the flame to the end of his cigarette, you walked up to him and went to the side of the couch like you were ready to watch whoever was going to show up on Big Shots right after the commercials started airing. Then just as he predicted, you didn’t go to sit down beside him. In fact, you didn’t sit down at all. Rather, you leaned down just as he got the flame that he needed. And you smiled at him- all soft and sweet as he took a drag and slipped his lighter back into his pants pocket.

And like clockwork, you went for his lips as he began to dispel the smoke he pulled into his lungs. And like clockwork, he let you.

He closed his eyes as your lips pressed against his. You start off slow and romantic because you’ve always been a little minx and nobody could tell him otherwise. But your kisses taste so sweet that he didn’t mind letting you take the lead. He didn’t mind letting your hands trail up his chest and shoulders and neck and face either. And he certainly didn’t mind letting your tongue brush against his as you worked on deepening the kiss.

But he wasn’t going to let you away with everything. He’s captured by you, sure. He’d kiss you all day if you’d let him. But he won’t let you get the jump on him anymore than you already have. At least, not without getting a little bit of his own fun, of course.

So he was quickly about pulling a sleight of hand trick to move his lit cigarette between a different pair of fingers just as you began discreetly searching for it. And he relished in the soft sound of confusion that spilled from your mouth as your fingers reached out only to find nothing where they would usually find something. And when you pulled away to look for it, eyebrows all furrowed and that cute pout on your lips?

Well, he brought you back in for another kiss, of course. Only this time, he tugged you into his lap and pulled you nice and close. He swallowed up your yelp of surprise with his mouth as he kissed you harder than he even had before. And although you squirmed at first, you quickly found that the arm that he had wrapped around your waist and had just settled right on the curve on your backside wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Because you fit perfectly there. So perfectly that he couldn’t help but hold you tighter in hopes that it would cause another soft sound to be pulled from your pretty little mouth.

But you make out for a while. Probably far too long for the two of you to be in such an open, public spot in the Bebop but he couldn’t care less about that. It’s sloppy, heavy, and somehow all too sweet in its own way. Sometimes, he lets you take the lead. Sometimes, he lets your tongue do all the exploring if it means you’re good for him just a little while longer. Other times, he is too busy stealing the air from your lungs and nibbling at your bottom lip because he knows that’s what gets you to tighten your grip on his clothes and lean into him the way he likes it.

Soon enough though, he does have to let you go up for air. He’s better at holding his breath compared to you, and something about tilting your head back when he gets to kiss you and holding your body against his has him feeling just a little more breathless than he would have originally thought. But you? The pretty little thing settled in his lap right now? Well, you look a lot more flustered than he does, at least. And that was the goal all along.

Catch you off guard. Kiss you the way he wants to. And enjoy you like the little tease you are.

“If you wanna bum a smoke off of me, you could just ask,” He remarks with a half-smirk playing at his lips. You frown and puff out your cheeks with a huff. Frustration dances around in your eyes as you realize you’ve been all figured out and there’s nothing you can do about it. But you’re quick to perk up as he brings the cigarette lit cigarette to your lips and lets you take a drag. “S’long as you don’t run away afterward.”

You don’t respond at first- too busy inhaling the smoke with a pleased look on your face. And he can’t help but smile as he watches. It’s no wonder he let you get the jump on him four times before this. It’s cute. Or rather, you’re cute about it. You clearly haven’t been smoking for as long as he has, but you’re settling into the taste of nicotine quite nicely. It subdues you. Sweetens you up and softens you out in a way Spike couldn’t help but wish that only his kisses could do.

But then you laugh and you smile as you look at him and suddenly he’s just calling himself lucky to be the sole witness of this.

Still, it’s not fair. He was itching for a smoke. He was itching for his smoke. After all, you haven’t been letting him have his way all the time. You’ve been stopping him from getting his fill from the past four cigarettes you’ve successfully slipped out of his fingers. But now that he’s watching you smoke cigarette number five in his lap like you were meant to be there, part of him wonders if you’ll end up being the reason he quits one day. Not because he wants to. No, because he knows he should.

“Hmmm…no promises~”

But because the thought of trading every cigarette he’ll ever smoke with another one of your kisses is a little more tempting than he’d like to admit.

#spike spiegel #spike spiegel x reader #spike cowboy bebop #cowboy bebop spike #cowboy bebop #cowboy bebop x reader #cowboy bebop fanfic #cowboy bebop fanfiction #x reader #xreader #fanfic #fanfiction

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r4fe-cam3ron · 28 days ago

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𓍯 ִֶָ FEBRUARY SECOND; side b — it’s been awhile - staind | rockstar!e. munson x r

w; insinuation of cheating & choosing career over relationship, drunk eddie, i say ‘rockstar!eddie’ but pls take that loosely, nooo happy ending, angst only! an; i hope yall enjoy this angsty piece :ppp

mixtape here!

There’s an unhealthy amount of cigarettes that had been dropped into the ashtray — some overflowing and dropping onto the table. There’s some ends that have a red lipstick print around it.

Those were barely smoked and wasted, yet Eddie didn’t feel like asking her to finish the cigarette, even if she was wasting a dozen of them — not that he was counting.

His fingers are sore, almost bleeding, from how many times he goes over the same verse of the song. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to start over from the beginning, and when he does it again, he feels his face flushing in anger.

He curses under his breath and reaches for the pack on the table. His eyes peek in, his teeth clenching together as he tosses the empty carton back into the table. His fingers press into his eyes and he rubs — hard. So hard he can see spots dance around in his vision.

He flinches when he feels arms wrap around his neck, lips pressing to his shoulder blade before her chin hooks over the same shoulder. His hands drop and he keeps his eyes locked on the television that shows the two of them in the reflection.

“You okay, baby?” His jaw clenches once more from just her voice alone, yet he nods and stands from the couch. She leans back, throwing her legs over the couch. “Where are you goin’?” Her hair flows over her shoulder when she moves it towards the edge of the couch.

Eddie glances over at her, before looking away as he picks a shirt up from a chair. He slips it over his head before pulling his hair from the collar. “Just out to the store. Gotta get a pack of smokes.”

She hums. “Can you get me a pack?”

“Gladly.” He grabs his jacket and wallet before heading towards the door.

“Hey!” He stops when he’s halfway out the door, rolling his eyes to himself before turning and watching as she sits up and hangs over the back of the couch. “Hurry back, please. I wanna hear your new song.”

“Yeah.” He nods, slamming the door behind himself. He’s quick to jog down the steps, finally feeling as if he could breathe, a small bit of air circles around as he exhales.

He’s quick to get into his van and start it up, driving out of the trailer park as quick as he could. He didn’t lie — he’s going to the gas station to get a pack of cigarettes, but not right now.

He needed to get out of that small box and take a break from suffocating in the life that chokes him until he can’t breathe.

He thinks the worst part is, he can’t blame anyone besides himself for digging himself into that hole. He doesn’t want it to be his fault, yet, he only digs deeper.

He thinks the hole is now closing up with the dirt.

It’s lightly sprinkling now and the red lights, that flicker every so often, distort in the droplets on his window. His fingers tap against the wheel when he realizes where he is once again.

Man, he wishes he had a cigarette.

Reaching over to his glove box, he hits it and watches as it drops open. He reaches in and grabs a pack of gum. Quickly putting a piece into his mouth, he slips out of his van and walks towards the bar.

It’s the same — obviously — not much has changed. He makes his way slowly towards the bar, sitting down on stool and waits.

“Hi! What can I—” He knows that voice from anywhere.

He glances at you, looking slightly ashamed. Your jaw clenches and you wish it wasn’t only you tonight working, or you would’ve gotten someone else to serve him.

“What can I get you?” Your voice runs flat, no more fake, customer service voice.

He smirks a bit. “What, you aren’t playing nice now?” He tilts his head.

“Not with you — no way,” You scoff. “Either you order or leave. I have a right to refuse to give you anything.”

“A beer.”

Giving him one last stare, you turn away and grab a bottle, popping it open before walking back. You place it in front of him without another word, turning away and speaking to some other men who sit at a table on the other side of the room.

He listens closely and he can hear your laugh again, his own lips pulling into a smile as his eyes remain on the bar. There’s a song playing on the old jukebox in the back at a low volume.

He doesn’t realize how fast he had actually finished off his beer, asking for another, then another plus a little something extra. You’re getting irritated with him but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Do you need us to help you out with that one?” You glance up, pausing the wipe down you were doing on the counter. It’s almost closing time, Randy and Joe leaving after finishing off the last bit of beer.

Your eyes drift towards Eddie who’s curls are spread out on the counter you have yet to clean, his forehead resting on his arm as he sways a bit in his seat.

Shaking your head, you look at them. “No. It’s okay,” You give the two men a smile. “He doesn’t live far from here. I can take care of him.”

They’re hesitant, sharing a quick glance with one another. “If you’re sure—”

“I’m positive,” You nod. “He’s harmless.” Harmless in the physical way anyway. Joe nods once, sighing a bit as he slides over two twenties, Randy doing the same after slipping on his coat.

“Alright. We’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks!” Their boots scrape across the wooden floor, eyes fixed on Eddie as they pass.

“Alright! See ya, thank you!” You call out. They finally disappear and your smile finally drops as well as your eyes, staring at Eddie. “What are you even doing here? Isn’t Angel waiting for you?”

He mumbles something in response and it takes everything in you to not scream at him to just leave. Yet, no matter what he’s put you through and how much you want him to hurt just as bad as you did, you would not allow him to drive in the state he’s in.

“I can’t understand you. Get up,” You snap your fingers impatiently, making your way over. His head lifts and you start to clean down the counter of where he had his head. You glance up slightly before looking down once again.

Wait.

Your arm stops and your eyes lift to look at him once again. He’d been crying — you don’t know when he had even started.

“Why are you crying?” Your brows furrow together.

His breathing shudders and you can’t help but frown. Even under all the anger you have for him, you love Eddie. Truly, deeply, and always. Your hand pulls away from the cloth and you make your way around the counter slowly.

Your ears pick up on the small, broken sob that leaves his mouth. His head drops and his curls curtain his face. You stop next to him, watching as his fingers dig into his face, leaving imprints.

“Eddie,” Your hand reaches out to grasp his wrist. You startle slightly when he lets out another sob, this time louder. “Eds, what’s going—”

Your words are effectively cut short when his arms wrap around you. Your hands lift quickly as you blink, feeling his curls tickle against your collarbone and the grip he has on both of your sides.

Your heart skips a beat as you hesitantly look down at him as your arms remain held out to the side, careful not to touch him anymore than what you were already allowing.

“I’m sorry,” His warm breath brushes over your skin as he speaks, his warm tears rolling down and dropping into your skin as well. Your eyes close and you let out a small exhale as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. Please…” He whimpers as he shakes his head, readjusting his grip.

“Eddie, please, let go—”

“I’m so sorry,” He repeats. “Please forgive me. I didn’t…I can’t let you go. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t breathe. It hurts,” His voice cracks and you feel your own tears prick at your eyes and suddenly, your heart picks up.

“Hey. Eddie, let go of me. I can’t…” You shake your head when you feel as his hands grip at your back now, only this time, with his fingernails. “Eddie, you’re suffocating me, let go!”

Your hands meet his shoulders, pushing his grip away as you quickly pull back from him. He blinks owlishly as he stared at you with parted lips and soaked cheeks. He notices the tears that had finally fell free.

“Oh, God,” He stands quickly, shaking his head as he quickly reaches out to wipe away the tears. You pull away from him, your eyes squinted at him. “I just…I’m trying to—”

“Trying to what? Wipe my tears away like you always did, then turn away from me again like you always do,” You let out a scoff as you shake your head. “No. I’m not letting you touch me. You have no right,” You point at him.

“You lost those privileges when you decided to keep messing around after I had given you so many chances, and you broke my heart over and over again. You only care about yourself,” You poke at his chest and watch as his chin quivers. “You never once cared about me because if you did, you’d let me heal from what pain you caused me. Not increase it by tenfold,”

“I love you, Eddie, I really do. But, you make me so angry at you,” You stare at him. “You decided what life you wanted when you left after I asked you not to. And now look at you,”

You motion towards him. You don’t mean to word vomit, but again, you’re angry that he doesn’t seem to take your feelings into consideration. Only his.

“You come in here and drink whatever you can and get drunk. And don’t think I don’t know you’re doing it during the day as well,” You walk around the counter to grab your purse. “I’m taking you home. Let’s go.”

Eddie wordlessly follows behind you, glancing over at his van as you lock up the doors. “What about my van?”

“You’re just gonna come back tomorrow, aren’t you?” You snap, looking over at him. “You can get it then.”

You pass by him and make your way towards your car, getting in and starting it up. Eddie sighs and follows after you, getting in and buckling up.

It’s silent now, all besides the bit of rain that hits the top of your car and the low volume of the radio playing Staind. Your nose flares as your fingers grip the steering wheel tightly as you finally turn into the rocky path.

You stop in front of his trailer, putting the car in park but making no move to get out. Your eyes glance over, noticing the sheer black curtains move slightly before the door opens.

You clench your jaw and feel the inevitable tears begin once again. “Get out,” Eddie tries reaching for you, but you yank your arm away once again, shaking your head. “Get out of my car, Eddie. If you love me just….” Your voice breaks and you look out your window and place your hand over your mouth as you try to blink the tears away.

Eddie stares at the back of your head for a moment, before nodding to himself and opening the car door. “I…I do still love you,” He says. “I hope you can…I hope we can fix things one day but I also understand if you never want to.”

He waits for you to say something, anything, yet you stay silent. He sniffs and gets out, shutting the door. He watches as you drive away, not wasting a second.

𓍯 ִֶָ tags; @ali-r3n — @marchsfreakshow — @sstar-ggirl — @love-quinn

𓍯 ִֶָ thank you for reading! comments, reblogs, & feedback are welcome & greatly appreciated!

#joseph quinn x fem!reader #joseph quinn x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you

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kaitys-bs · 11 months ago

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Guns n’ Roses 🌹

mafia boss ellabs

NSFW MDNI

tags: smut with plot, top!abby, bottom!ellie, talks of murder, brief smoking, slight implied pinning?, little bit of a power dynamic, pet names (gorgeous, good girl, slut), degrading & praise, fingering (e receive), oral (e receive)

not proof read (who actually does…)

The city has been divided in two for as long as anybody can remember. Gang violence ransacking Seattle for decades, not a day would go by without the sounds of sirens or gunshots. That's until two men stepped up to gain some control, Jerry Anderson and Joel Miller.

Sure, the men were at each others throats from the very first day. Both believed they knew what was right to control the gang scene and in the end, agreed to split the city in two. Each having their own personal agenda for their enterprise.

The tipping point was the death of Jerry Anderson, leading his daughter Abby to take his place.

After Jerry died via single gunshot to the forehead, war between their respective families began to escalate, Abby speculating it was the doing of the Millers. She wasn't wrong, taking a golf club to Joel's skull which promoted his daughter Ellie to take his place.

What's the saying? An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind?

Ellie shuts her office door behind her, letting out a heavy breath with a rub to her aching shoulders. She needed a massage, or maybe to get her back blown out a round or two. It's been a long ass week to say the least.

She pulls out a cigarette and lighter from her pocket, circling around to her desk. A commotion occurring on the other side of Ellie's door causing a crease to form between her brows. Soon enough the door is flinging open and Abigail Anderson in her suited glory pushes through, blood on her jacket and murder in her eyes. "Williams!" She shouts, less than happy to see the auburn haired girl.

"Ms. Anderson. What a... surprise" Ellies voice sounds far from surprised, almost disappointed as she snuffs out her cigarette while leaning back in her chair, legs manspread with her arms pulled back into a cross. Suit jacket open with the top buttons of her dress shirt undone, Ellie looks a wreck with that shit eating grin plastered on her face.

Abby's palms press into the grain of Ellie's desk, death stare into her soul. "The fucking audacity of you. A drive by! A fucking DRIVE BY?" A soft chuckle leaves the brutes throat, reminding Ellie that Abby is just a girl despite the tough exterior. "I mean come on, you didn't even have the balls to do it yourself?"

Ellie raises from her spot, disliking the fact Abby loomed over her. Her glare through thin lashes still small under the blondes height. "Didn't see the need. Unlike you, I actually try to cover up my kills" But that's untrue, Ellie knew she wouldn't be able to pull the trigger on Abby if it came to it.

Abby raises an eyebrow, disbelieving her answer but surprised regardless. "But where's the fun in that gorgeous? Seeing the life drain out of their eyes..." She trails off, clicking her tongue.

"So why'd you come here? Rub it in my face you survived? Have my shooters head in a box for me or something? Kill me? What's your angle Anderson?" Ellie leans in slightly, her head cocking to the side as she takes in Abby's massive figure.

Abby again lets out one of those pretty chuckles with a shake of her head, "So little faith. I just came to get you to tell me why the fuck you think you can kill me? Do you want my guys to come after yours? That would start a full blown war." The way Abby scolds Ellie sends a rush between her legs, pressing them together behind the desk while keeping up the act.

"A war started the moment you bashed in my father's head" Ellie presses her palms into the desk harder, hearing the wood creak under the pressure of her ange and horniness.

Abby leans in slightly with an innocent little grin, "So that's what it's about? You miss your daddy, do you now?" The way her lips pout with fake sympathy is so demeaning, making Ellie feel like a child. It's a turn on that she didn't know she had.

"Fuck. You" Ellie speaks through her teeth, "Is that all or is there something else you came here for?"

Abby smirks, eyes glossing up and down with a smirk before taking an inhale of air. "Normally when someone turns on me, I'd just take them out back and shoot them" She takes out her revolver, inspecting it in her palm before gently resting it on the desk, "But you're not just anyone, are you now?"

"What's your game here Anderson? If you're gonna shoot me, do it" The auburn haired woman barks as she sulks back in her skin, arms crossing with a hesitant look. While attempting to remain strong, it's getting harder to deny that pull.

Abby shakes her head a negative, "Such an attitude" Soon enough Abby's strong hands are gripping the sides of Ellie's cheeks, pressing them together and pulling the girl inches away from her face. "Almost like you're begging for me to fuck it out of you"

The breath from Ellie's lungs is almost vacuumed up in the whirlwind of emotions. The second heartbeat between her legs grows stronger and it has the strong woman melting in Abby's hands, "Tell me you want me" She whispers softly into Ellie's ears.

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me alrea-" As Ellie snaps back at Abby, their lips smash together in what's probably years of pent up sexual frustrations with one another. The forbidden fruits of having one another. Adam eating the apple that's now evident in every man's throat you glance, a reminder of shame.

"Clothes. Off. Now" Abby grits between kisses, nodding her head to the leather couch in Ellie's office. Quickly, she starts to take off her suit jacket, button up, and pants, watching as Abby undresses her top half too. "All of it" She adds when Ellie stopped at just her underwear.

Laying back on the couch, Ellies body is masked by Abby's. The blonde leaning over Ellie with their lips meeting once more. Their kiss is rushed, tangled in each others limbs, breath fanning face. It's a mess of a spectacle straight out of every disgusting straight man's dream porno.

For once Ellie doesn't have to hold a high standard of control. For once she's able to just lay back and let someone take the wheel. She feels small, buck ass naked underneath Abby, in her bra and slacks. "Abby-" Ellie grits between her teeth as the blonde sucks purple bruises into the pale flesh of her neck. Abby's hands not going where she needs them most, staying on her waist, hips and boobs but never traveling below the belt. It's tortue, a worse pain than being shot.

"Yes gorgeous girl?" Abby smirks against her skin while her hands trace up and down Ellie's side. "What is it?" Her kindness is simply a smoke screen as she pinches Ellie's neglected and sensitive nipple, causing her to whine while arching into Abby's huge hands.

There's a pathetic look on Ellie's brow. The way she's so desperate and on the verge of tears behind the stare that would have Abby dead if looks could kill. "I swear to fucking god- oh" A moan cuts Ellie's bitching off as soon as Abby's lips wrap around her breast. "Shit- just like that"

That cocky look on Abby's face would normally be enough for Ellie to walk away. If only the way that the blonde made her crumble in a way nobody had was enough to keep Ellie in her place, back arching into Abby's skilled pleasure.

Soon enough Abby's large finger pushes its way into Ellie, the stretch enough to almost fill her with a single digit. Melodic moans fill the room as Abby takes her time, curling her finger and simply applying pressure to that particular spot every lesbian knows of. Pressure builds in Ellies core, a sort of tension building up on the verge of snapping as Abby continues to suck her tits.

"Keep-" Abby's sharp voice barks at Ellies uncooperative hips, pushing her down so her body is flush to the couch, "Keep still- stop your fucking squirming or I'll leave. You understand?" Ellie nods quick, her neck bobbing up and down but that's not enough for her, "Fucking say it!"

The feeling of Ellie's orgasm fades into the abyss, causing a sob to leave from deep in her throat. "I understand- FUCK!" Tears physically soak her cheeks at this point, she yelps with the feeling of Abby's finger leaving her pussy, watching her side down.

Abby sucks a bruise into her thigh, with a slap to the red mark, causing Ellie to squirm. "Good girl. That's a good fucking girl" Abby's praise makes the torture almost worse, what's actually worst is the slow kisses around where Ellie wants her the most. It's ticklish but also so fucking hot.

That's when, finally like a gift from a higher being, Abby's lips find her clit and start to suck hard, almost biting her bud. Ellie screams and tries to wiggle away but the flex in Abby's shoulders and arms keep her there. The blonde doesn't even take time to say anything, eyes shut as she takes her time eating Ellie like she's her last meal on earth. At this rate, Ellie might shoot her if she doesn't cum so it very well may be.

The pressure builds and builds and builds till Ellie is breathless and unable to say a word. She can't even communicate herself, the whines and heavy breaths stop all words from forming. It's enough to boost Abby's ego for the rest of their lives. Ellie's nimble fingers tap the Abby's bicep, starting to squeeze as her legs clamp and shake like mad.

That orgasm flushes over Ellie like a truck, like nothing ever felt before. Abby takes a minute to finish what she started before pulling back to breathe, "You did so well, such a good slut" Abby sits down at ellie's feet, pulling the shaking girls legs into her lap to give a few tight squeezes in a massage.

Ellie takes her time to catch her breath with a stupid grin plastered on her cheeks. No thoughts till Abby speaks up again,

"So... about the drive by... was that your way of a booty call?"

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himbofan · 9 months ago

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bungo stray dogs - meet cutes

hey guyzzz soooo here's my one piece of writing for the next 10 months 😛🩷

jk but fr it's hard for me to write anything consistently so thank you for bearing with me!!!! :3

i always appreciate all forms of support!! I’ve been having bsd brainworms for a couple months now so expect more ramblings at some point ok thx for reading BYEEEEEEEE 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

cw: gn reader, mention of cigarettes, reader has a cat, light stalking

characters: nakahara chuuya, fukuzawa yukichi, oda sakunosuke wc: 2600+

you’re the cute cashier who works the graveyard shift at my local convenience store and i'm always awake at odd hours - nakahara chuuya

Chuuya stifled a yawn and wearily checked his phone. The numbers [3:27 AM] glared back at him with an irritating brightness, almost mocking him for staying up so late. He sighed and pocketed his phone, glancing up at the sky which was still a deep indigo, the stars barely visible from the copious amounts of light pollution.

He grumbled something illegible under his breath and pushed open the door to the nearest convenience store. The door jingled lightly, the smell of nondescript floor cleaner invading his nostrils as he stepped into the cramped space.

“Welcome…” you called out wearily from the register, though you couldn’t see who just walked in due to the height of the shelves blocking your view.

He barely acknowledged your existence at the opposite side of the store, instead choosing to browse the shelves.

He eventually made his way to the register, dropping a bottle of water on the counter before finally looking up at you.

“And I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Golds.”

You glanced at him quickly while scanning the water and box of cigarettes, trying to take in as much of his appearance as possible without looking creepy.

You hadn’t seen him before since starting this job a week ago, and he certainly was a sight for sore eyes.

His hair was a fiery orange that fell in slight waves over his shoulder, with piercing eyes that made your heart skip a beat.

You silently punched in your employee discount as he pulled out his wallet. Though it was only 10% off, he looked like he’d been from hell and back, and you felt strangely empathetic towards this stranger, wanting to make his night a little easier in the only way you could without getting in trouble.

You finished the transaction and handed him the receipt, finally mustering the courage to look at his face again. To your surprise, he was looking directly at you this time, his eyes narrowed as he studied you.

You quickly averted your gaze and hastily bowed, babbling out a customary “Thank you, come again”.

As he left the building, he quickly scanned the receipt. His eyebrows raised a little as he saw the discount. Of course he would never need it with his cushy salary, but you had no way of knowing that. You simply saw him as a tired man who had a rough day, extending kindness the only way you knew how. The thought of a stranger showing him pity made his brow furrow, but he couldn’t deny how his heart squeezed when he remembered those kind eyes.

—

The next night, you were back behind the register, eyes glazing over while you stared aimlessly at the wall. The door jingled and you snapped to attention.

“Welcome!”

Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the same handsome man from yesterday walk in. You fidgeted with your hair and nails trying to look more presentable under the unflattering fluorescent lights.

He made his rounds and eventually came to the counter again, dropping his choices on the counter.

Before you could open your mouth, he spoke.

“Don’t do that again.”

You gaped like a fish and internally panicked, mind racing trying to find where you had gone wrong.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean…”

“The discount. I don’t need it.”

“Oh my apologies, you just looked like you were having a rough day and I wanted to try and make it a little better…I didn’t mean to insult you…” you rambled. You couldn’t hide the embarrassment on your face, cheeks and ears heating up rapidly as you felt yourself pinned under his strong gaze.

He sighed, “It’s fine, just don’t do it again. I don’t need your charity.”

‘…or for you to get in trouble trying to help me.’

You wanted to curl up and die right there, but instead you scanned his items and stuffed them in a bag, staring down at the white countertop and praying for the minutes to go faster so you could go home and scream.

Noticing your discomfort, Chuuya sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He finished the transaction and muttered a small “thank you” before dropping a small piece of paper on the counter. He immediately whirled around and headed out the door so you couldn’t see the slight blush tingeing his face and ears.

I’ll pay you back. Here’s my number.

xxx-xxx-xxxx

You looked up in surprise but he was already out the door, the jingle of the doorbells signaling his departure. You smiled and blushed lightly, the fatigue from your long shift briefly alleviated as butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the thought of the handsome stranger.

“Ah… I didn’t even get his name…”

you’re the owner of the cat i’ve been feeding because i thought it was a stray - fukuzawa yukichi

It was a relatively quiet day, the weather was nice and the streets were slightly less busy than usual. Fukuzawa closed his eyes and let the warm rays of sun seep into his tired skin, silently basking after a long day of being chained to his desk.

His meditation was broken as a striped tail curled around his leg. Much to his delight, a friendly looking cat chirped and rubbed its face affectionately on his legs. His eyes softened as he reached down to let the cat sniff his hand, then softly pet its head.

He swiftly took a small dried fish out of his sleeve and offered it, to which the cat excitedly accepted, purring up a storm as it crunched hungrily on the treat. His shoulders dropped slightly, stress and tension slowly melting away as he continued to admire the furry creature.

The cat writhed on the ground, soaking up every ounce of attention from him as he continued to gently pet its fur. As if compelled by an unknown force, the cat suddenly shot its head up and glanced around, before running off into the bushes. Fukuzawa looked around for what could’ve possibly scared the cat away, but saw nothing. Slightly disappointed, he stood and returned to the office.

The next couple of days it came back as friendly as ever, and with an even more ravenous appetite for treats. Of course Fukuzawa was happy to oblige, showering the cat with affection and treats every time.

“You have quite an appetite for such a small cat, don’t eat too many treats now.” he murmured, his stoic face unchanging yet there was a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

“There you are! You greedy little shit!!”

His respite was broken as an angry voice yelled out from across the courtyard. The cat seemed to instantly recognize the voice and immediately ducked behind Fukuzawa’s legs.

You jogged up to him, slightly out of breath, and looked up at the man who your cat was using as a shield. He had a commanding presence, with sharp blue eyes and silvery wolf cut. Your eyes locked for a split second and your heart jumped, this dignified-looking man was certainly easy on the eyes to say the least. Clearing your throat and brushing stray hairs out of your face, you awkwardly waved.

“Hi, that cat belongs to me. I’m sorry if she caused you any trouble.”

You smiled at him but glared daggers at your cat, who simply looked back at you. Though somehow, you could feel a smug aura radiating from it.

He looked down at the cat then back to you with a very slightly amused expression.

“No, she wasn’t bothering me. She’s quite sweet.”

His voice rolled out deep and smooth, matching his serious appearance. He extended his hand down and your cat happily rubbed her face on it, purring up a storm.

“She really likes people, but that’s because she really, really likes food.”

You sighed and squatted down to attempt to grab your cat, but she ducked further behind the fold of the man’s yukata. You frowned and huffed but didn’t move any further, lest you’d be kneeling between this stranger’s legs. Fukuzawa noticed your discomfort and scooped up the cat in his arms, handing her off to you. You gratefully lifted your cat, accidentally brushing his large hand in the process which sent a small jolt of adrenaline through your body.

“She’s not supposed to be outside but somehow she always manages to slip out. I feed her regularly but it doesn’t matter, she’s insatiable.”

Knowing the jig was up, your cat meowed in protest and squirmed in your arms.

“I mean how am I supposed to feel when my cat is going up to strangers and begging like she’s starving? She’s making me look like a neglectful owner to the whole damn city!”

You continued to ramble, before realizing you were venting your frustrations on this poor random man.

He looked at you, a slight twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“She looks healthy and happy, it’s obvious someone loves her very much.”

You felt your face heat up as he reassured you, wholly unprepared for the praise from this stern-looking yet attractive older man.

“Ah… well thank you very much for taking care of my cat.” You bowed politely. “Please let me pay you back somehow.”

He shook his head gently and tucked his arms in his sleeves. “No need, it was no trouble at all.”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t help you out in return, I insist.”

You rummaged hastily through your bag and retrieved a pen and a crumpled receipt, scribbling down your number and name before handing it to him.

You were telling half of the truth; you really did want to pay him back, but you also wanted an excuse to see this hot man again.

“Ugh, I have to go, but please don’t hesitate to reach out. Again, thank you so much for taking care of her.” You bowed one more time before speed-walking down the street, indignant meows fading as you turned the corner.

Fukuzawa looked at the small piece of paper in his hand, tucking it in his sleeve as the faintest of smiles graced his face for a second.

‘...cute…’

you ask me for help to pretend to be your boyfriend to scare off a creep - oda sakunosuke

You glance over your shoulder warily while pulling your jacket tighter over your midsection, walking faster down the street. To your demise, the shady looking man that started following you a few blocks ago continued to tail you despite taking several twists and turns to try and throw him off. Cursing under your breath, you opened the door to the nearest establishment and quickly ducked in hoping to find a place you could stake it out until he left.

You’d never been to this bar before despite passing it multiple times on your way home, but it was much nicer than expected. The narrow stairs opened up into a cozy bar, moody lighting glinting off of the polished wooden stools. The only patron was a rather tall man with reddish hair, sitting quietly sipping on his drink.

Although he was a complete stranger, you felt as if this man was trustworthy. He exuded an aura of peace and safety that you desperately needed at this moment.

Sheepishly you sat down next to him. He looked down at you curiously, about to ask why you chose to sit next to him when the whole bar was available, when the door opened again and the man who had been following you stumbled in. Your heart dropped and you turned to the stranger next to you, whispering rapidly with a pleading expression.

“Hey so there’s a creepy guy following me, could you pretend to be my boyfriend? I’ll buy you a drink as thanks.”

Before he could respond, you faked a hearty laugh as though you just told a hilarious joke and put your hand on his arm flirtatiously, hoping that the creepy man was watching.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, but you continued to smile and look at your fake boyfriend. Getting a better look at his face, you noticed that he was actually quite good looking. He had a slight amount of stubble on his jaw, but the rest of him was well groomed. His eyes were a gorgeous crystal-clear sapphire blue that gazed down at you stoically. You were close enough to smell his light cologne, it was just enough to be noticeable but not overbearing. Your fingertips felt searing where they touched his arm, and you prayed he couldn’t tell how hard your heart was beating.

He glanced up at the man brooding in the corner, silently sizing him up with a stony face.

Even though he hadn’t spoken a word, his sheer size and intense stare sent a strong enough warning that the other man froze under his gaze.

Your stalker stared at the two of you and muttered something under his breath, before heading back up the stairs and exiting the bar.

Once you were sure the door had closed behind him, you breathed a sigh of relief and removed your hand from his arm. “Hey sorry for putting you on the spot like that, I really appreciate it, let me get you a drink.”

“It’s nothing, I don’t mind.” His voice was deep and rumbled like a thunderstorm, and it was very attractive.

“No please, I insist. Ah, I suppose I should introduce myself.” You bashfully offered your name and bowed slightly.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Oda. It’s getting pretty late anyways, I was going to head out. Do you need someone to walk you home?”

You smiled and nodded. “I would appreciate that, thank you so much.”

The walk home was a little awkward but not uncomfortable. Most of your attempts at small talk were met with brief responses that were followed by a long pause. You assumed he wasn’t much for conversation, but you detected no malice or annoyance in his voice.

Eventually, you reached the end of your commute. Although you were relieved you made it home safely, you were a little disappointed that your impromptu date with this attractive stranger was coming to an end.

“Oh this is it, thank you so much again for helping me out…. oh right!” You dug out your phone from your bag, opened a new contact, and sheepishly handed it to him.

“I know you said I didn’t have to pay you back but I really want to.”

He took the phone and punched in his number along with the name ‘Oda’ before handing it back to you.

“Thank you again! Have a good night!” You smiled brightly and waved at him from the entrance of your apartment complex, heart still pounding.

He offered a simple wave in return, making sure you closed and locked the door before continuing on his way. He couldn’t ignore the butterflies in his stomach at the thought of your smile for the rest of the night.

dividers credit @/cafekitsune

#my work #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #chuuya x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #fukuzawa x reader #fukuzawa yukichi x reader #oda sakunosuke x reader #odasaku x reader #fluff #gn reader #sfw #bsd fluff #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd chuuya #bsd oda #bsd fukuzawa #bsd x gn reader

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rel124c41 · 2 months ago

Text

SCREAM OF THE BUTTERFLY. jade leech

He opens his eyes to see a bright horizon. All of it is liquid gold, a shimmering sea of yellow below the horizon and clouds of volcanic orange above the horizon. Smack in the middle is the Sun - 70.6% hydrogen and 27.4% helium, diameter 1.4 million kilometers - and it stares at him. A hand shades his eyes. "Hey, don't look too close. You're going to see something you don't like."

tags: android jade leech, dubious morality, animal death, blood and gore, existential angst, repressed memories, unresolved emotional tension, choking, reader is 52 and jade is permanently 21, non-consensual body modification, & age difference

word count: 13,363

Both of you watch the pancake melt on the cabin’s wooden floor. The top of the circle is a golden-crusted brown. However, the underside was not yet cooked so that waxy yellow mixture starts to spread out in a sunlight pool.

“I’m terribly sorry, Master,” Jade rushes to say but seems too shellshock to make a move to fix the mess he made.

“It’s alright,” you say with a voice clogged full of sleep. As you make your way over to the dining table designed small enough for only two, you can feel Jade track each of your minor motions like a gun following its target. Only when you sit does he snap out of it.

In a very methodical passion, he goes about removing the malfunction. You hear this: the lid of your squeaky trash-can opening and the spray of a disinfectant bottle being the most recognizable. Ignoring his mistake, you go about your normal routine. Like Jade is programmed to make exactly two pancakes and exactly one sunny side up egg each morning, you have your own little, innate programs you do each morning.

As you strike the match and hold it under your cigarette – lighting with a matchstick adds to the flavor you found – the last bits of the sunlight pool is wiped up. “Now, we’re behind schedule,” you remark. The matches inside the Diamond box shift as you push them down the table.

It is an entirely true, if not a bit outlandish, sentence. Schedule? Jade thinks to himself as he quickly procures each ingredient needed to make the batter for exactly one pancake. He only ever measures out the amount for exactly two pancakes. The mistake is making him frazzled. He has two skillets on the stove, one for exactly two pancakes and the other for exactly one sunny side up egg. Looking into the skillet holding only one pancake, his systems twitch. Schedule; what schedule is he forgetting?

But, he would never concern you with the inner turmoil that is clawing away at his chest cavity like a rabid, frenzied animal, so he simply says, (PANCAKE) “My apologies, Master. I did not mean to make us late.”

“Did seeing me all dressed up scare you that bad?”

With the high-voltage mixer already in a bowl, Jade takes the time to look behind him towards you. The single egg and pancake (PANCAKE) only have 1:42 minutes left until they are completed, so he has the allotted period to look at you, all dressed up. He smiles disarmingly. “Not scared, just surprised.”

His intricate memory-bank supplies him with a number: 259. It has been two hundred and fifty-nine days since the last time you have worn something other than fuzzy or silk pajama bottoms coupled with a graphic tee. That is exactly 8.51506 months ago, which would have made it March. When the weather was growing warmer, you wanted to ride in the car until the gas went from F to E. Now, once again, you are all dressed up.

It is a pretty monotone palette, nothing like what you had worn in March. With a flowing pinstriped jacket, black and white are the only colors of your outfit, besides the tiniest touch of silver from the tangling vines stitched over your blouse’s collar. Your hanging tie and flowy dress pants are a stark black, like the cut of a blank television screen, and your gloves and blouse are a stark white, like a newly painted therapist office wall.

He supposes the most colorful thing about you right now is the orange filter tip in your lovely mouth. Oh, you also have lipstick on. In this game of I-Spy, Jade can identify only two different colors shining in the canvas of sterility that covers your skin.

Hues like that might mean a funeral. His left eye slices off the left side of the kitchen dining table. It all falls into a black hole as Jade pulls up information of every living relative you have left; their faces fly through his vision, searching public obituaries and searching articles, as you talk to him.

“I guess it might be a bit disarming.” You take your third drag, methodical. “I didn’t think I would need to give you a warning. My mistake; right, Jade?”

All of your relatives are alive. The latest medical update is that your mother has been given the drug memantine along with her typical Leqembi medication. “Nonsense. I’m not so aged that I can’t keep up with your spontaneity,” he jokes, left vision returning. Perhaps the schedule is simply the quotidian schedule of your day-to-day.

Charmed, you smile in the fog cloud of tobacco sliding away from your face. “Oh, he thinks he’s funny,” you jest back. Between two thin fingers, you balance a cigarette and point it at him like it is a professor’s presentation pointer. “No puns today. I’ll take out your tongue.”

He fakes a look of hurt. “Oya, do you really find them so abhorrent?” He turns as you supply him with a synonym – execrable, you moan – and focuses his attention on breakfast-making. Methodically, first, the mixer is pulled up from the bowl and then both pancake (PANCAKE, not pancakes, to Jade’s punctilious annoyance) and sunny side up egg are slid onto your plate.

“Humor is said to lower blood pressure and improve memory retention. It is as important as a good, clean breakfast. However, if my puns are banned, omelet it slide this time. We have a schedule to follow, Master.”

He still hasn’t figured out what it is though. And he does not want his vision to start flashing with ropes of blaring red and white words, SCHEDULE replacing PANCAKE – which has already been giving him enough stress. As he puts the incomplete plate down, he wonders if he has time to remedy it before you finish your single 9 A.M. cigarette.

“Booo,” you caterwaul at his pun. However, you smile and your heart beats languid so it must be alright. “Keep that up and no birthday surprise for you.”

Jade stops. Still as a paused movie. His whole body is stiff for a millisecond, and if he did not recover so quickly, you would have surmised he went into forced shutdown upon hearing your words. A calculative, bloodless arm reaches out to tilt the pancake batter into the skillet as he acknowledges that today is in fact November 5th.

Inside his chest cavity, a tiny Jade, no bigger than your cigarette, wobbles on a fence. He is unsure if he wants every day to be birthday so he can see you doing better, or if he wants this November 5th, this sudden change of clothes and attitude, to stay only on his special day. As always, he does not pick a mental-side.

Instead, he says, “Nonsense. There is no need to exert yourself for me, Master. Do not concern yourself with a trivial matter.”

“Don’t be modest. Birthdays are special; and we haven’t celebrated one of yours in four years.”

Jade remembers that day fondly. High sugar-concentrated items are one-in-a-blue-moon type of expensive. Most households can only afford one or two birthday cakes in their lifetimes, so it was sentimentally human that your first year together, you dipped into your retirement savings and bought a man with no functioning digestive system, a cake.

“I have no choice but to concede if it is an order,” Jade baits.

“Then, it’s an order.” Smoke pumps through the air as you take an embellishing, deeper inhale. The health of your lungs gets compromised more, day by day. “Non refutable.”

“Of course, Master.” Jade would bend in a bow if he were not so intent on making sure this pancake (pancake) stayed on his spatula and off the floor.

Breakfast proceeds as normal after the slight hiccup. When the room is thoroughly perfumed with the acidic scent – Jade always enjoys how harshly you snub out your cigarette, grinding them down into nothing, whatever ring lying on your index glistening under the ceiling light, and today it is a glistening, jade green eye – you eat your precisely made sunny side up egg and two pancakes. Yolk and syrup bleed all over the plate like sliced open arteries. You compliment his cooking as always before stuffing another cigarette between your lips.

This one you simply hold there as Jade scrubs your dish. He slots the ceramic in the drying rack along with the already evaporating skillets and bowl. You glide around the kitchen. It is quaint. There are only ever two plastic cups in the cabinet and two plates in the lower cupboards. Often though, the second copies of each various dishware are left unused.

Your arm and Jade’s arm slide against each other when you fill a plastic green cup up to the brim with faucet water. The robot twitches.

After utensils are hand-dried and put away, Jade looks towards you for guidance. Today is such an outlier to the normal schedule that he feels a bit unbalanced. Usually, you have already lit up your second cigarette of the morning, burrowing up into your study. Instead, you say, “C’mon,” as you walk out of the kitchen with an unlit cigarette hanging from your lip and a cup of faucet water in hand.

Obedient, he follows you up to your study. Your uneven fingernails glide across the banister. “I couldn’t help but also get one for myself. When I went to the market and saw them, I got selfish.” When you open the door to your study, Jade is greeted with the familiar sight of books thrown to the ground, pages torn from their homes, and ink split across the scene like something left behind for a bloodstain pattern analyst. There are also three water bottles full of gold liquid he will have to dispose of.

What calls his immediate attention is the two different shapes draped underneath hand-towels. They sit on your desk which is devoid of any papers or books. One is covering something spherical but Jade cannot decipher what is underneath the second towel.

Despite the jumble, you glide over to your desk with precise footsteps. Jade follows right along behind you. It is programmed in his system to never disrupt anything in this study, so he refuses to nudge a paper or cause the slightest altercation to the disorganized order.

By the foot of the desk, your taxidermied lion stands in paused death, stuff full of cedar dust. You pet the wisps of mane as you approach the table. The cigarette is still in your mouth; you take it out, smooth knuckles over your tie, and place your hand back down upon the lion’s head. Petting behind stuffed ears, you give a weak pseudo-command.

“Now, I don’t want a repeat of this morning. You being startled and all that. So,” your eyes move from the towels to Jade’s, “you can’t afford to lose your head over this, right, Jade?”

Though he has no heart that could possibly quicken in anticipation, Jade still places a firm hand over that spot as if to banish his foretold anxieties. That familiar, smarmy expression comes back to his facial plate. A slight scrunch of the slanted downward eyebrows that leaves a crinkled line and a timid smile showing off tiny, razor teeth. “I assure you, nothing of the sort will happen, Master.”

“Good.” You place the green plastic cup behind the presents. Light from the window hits the cup; a long green shadow stretches over your desk. As you pinch the towel edge in your fingers, you are palpably excited, grinning wide. “3 ... 2 … 1 … Happy birthday, Jade!”

The smile remains on his face because he has permanently set it there himself. If he were human, it would have fallen.

“Master, this is illegal.” Jade reaches out and covers up his present with the towel, as if that will make it disappear.

You give him nothing but a tiny, mischievous smile. Wrinkled with age, it makes you look youthful despite the deep shadows that come with loosening, brittle skin. Like you are young again and you have just told him of something nefarious you have done. This is certainly nefarious, an odious development happening under this house’s roof.

“Master,” Jade starts, precise in his speech, “this could compromise us. Though I am grateful that you want to celebrate my birthday, we should burn this in the fireplace post haste.” He looks back down at the shrouded sphere. Burning the evidence is the innate command that rises up to Jade’s predecessors, using all his logic, but if you were to refute it …

A tiny chortle escapes your lips. It pulls back your painted lips; it has been quite a large sum of days since you have last worn lipstick as Jade’s databases know. “Do you really want to throw away my gift?”

Want? Jade does not do that. He has never known what yearning could possibly feel like. “My apologies. However, it would be wise to exterminate it. As stated by the legislation, living organisms that are not edible or a part of the approved nourishment selection for fruits and vegetables must be destroyed. This violates Section B on the –.”

“Mushrooms are edible.”

“Pardon,” Jade questions softly.

“Mushrooms. They are biologically living organisms like plants and animals.” You gesture to the sphere with your cigarette as if your words have just abolished the legal constraints created years ago. “They’re edible too.” Defiant, you remove the towel once more.

Jade’s eyes flicker down to evaluate the illicit good you have brought home. The terrarium’s contraband resides in a spherical globe with no visible opening. The most probable explanation is it was built starting from the bottom platform of dirt before the globe was welded on. Inside, it contains mycobionts, O Horizon soil, and bryophyta. Simply put: lichen, dirt, and moss.

He measures the length, measures the volume, finds the species of fungi from the internet, and lastly, once more calculates how quickly it will burn up in the parlor’s fireplace. Agaricus subrufescens sit still under his acute, probing analysis. Regrettably, they are edible. According to mycology databases, they taste intensely of almonds.

Edible. The one word washes over Jade like a glittering, green wave. Edible, which means only one thing. “Thank you for the gift, Master. Rest assured that I will make good use of them in our evening meal, in gratitude for your generosity.”

Before he can retrieve them from the desk, you seize his hand. “Funny. You’re a real jokester, Jade.” You intertwine lithe fingers with him, thoughtlessly and recklessly. This time, Jade does go still, long and hard. It is a rigor mortis so heavy that it is enough for it to be mistaken as a forced shutdown, if one did not know better. You know his systems though. “You have to keep it, Jade. Don't cook it. Or dispose of it. That’s a non refutable order.”

Whatever avalanche of glitches stirred through Jade ends. He flexes his hand and the power of a command cloaks his synthetic skin. He looks once more at his new gift, doubly his new contraband, with polite resignation. That never changing, timid smile is present as always.

“If it is what you command, Master.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, you turn towards your own present. “Okay, okay, my turn!” With the suave of a magician, you unveil it.

It takes just an inch of the petals being revealed to recognize what other contraband you have snuck in. A melange of red-orange and little orange petals stare up at his predecessors, a dozen or so individual, flower-gems. His databases flicker. They are marigolds.

“Ta-da,” you even flourish, cloth hanging in your hand like a ghost-sheet. “Beautiful, aren’t they? And before you say anything, flowers lower cortisol levels so we must keep them. For my health, yes?” You bat your eyelashes at him like a child asking for an extra scoop of ice-cream.

Jade concedes easily. Even though in his left eye, he has pulled up the list of illegal flowers. Marigolds are plainly sandwiched between mandrakes and marvel-of-peru; though marvel-of-peru is an old name as Peru has in recent years been melting into its new identity and becoming a part of invasive Brazil. Jade accepts that these marigolds are going to be kept here. Another living organism he will need to care for.

“Beautiful,” Jade muses. He looks at your face. “Yes, they are beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so.” You grin like a cat with a canary snapped and dead between your fangs. It must have taken strenuous effort to smuggle these from the market, never mind the effort that it must have taken you to even leave the house. ‘Beautiful,’ Jade reflects as he delicately yet steadily picks up the terrarium from your desk.

Jade goes about his regiment-esque routine as normally as possible after that. He slots the terrarium into his sterile bedroom – complete with a bed he has never slept in and complete with books he already has memorized in his software – in a spot where it will get just the correct balance between light and darkness. A place that perfectly mimics natural daylight despite the fact it lies inside. Then, he enters his routine while the almond mushroom terrarium sits in the back of his software like a tumor, a dull reminder that is always there.

You always give him such puzzling challenges. Brain-teasers of sorts that invoke trying to unshackle him from his real identity. Sudoku squares that he has to fill in with things like free will, thoughts, rebellion. He does not doubt that you want the best for him, but it is all very puzzling.

Jade prefers things like laundry. Neat and clean. November 5th has coincidentally fallen on laundry day. On the living room’s wooden coffee table, he takes to folding all the warm pajamas into tidy piles. The assembly line of his motions are precise. Jade folds each graphic tee top sideways into thirds to tuck in the sleeves and evenly crosses each pajama pant leg to cover over its twin.

This is what life is all about: laundry. Laundry is linear. There is a right and a wrong way to go about doing laundry, so very unlike volatile life with its dangerous contraband and sad women. From your study, door half ajar, you send down the unraveling string of your voice past the stairs and to the parlor, “Jade! Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune? The birthday boy gets to pick tonight!”

He looks up from a pair of silk, aquamarine pajama pants. Weighing the pros and cons of each of the game shows, he scrunches up his plastic nose. Inside, the fence of decision bends back and forth. The only aspect that pushes him – tiny, cigarette-sized Jade, wobbling with helicopter arms – is that he gets to hear your voice more when you watch Jeopardy together than when you watch Wheel of Fortune together.

“Jeopardy!” He shouts back.

“Perfect!”

There is palpable cheer in your voice that shocks Jade so fiercely that he stills in his task of laundry, looking up at the spiral tongue of stairs that led to your office with a mute expression of awe. From his low vantage point, he sees the door is closed. Jade blinks at it, hidden behind the prison bars of a banister and high out of reach.

He goes back to folding in precise motions. Life is straightening itself out like laundry.

On the coffee table where he had been folding laundry hours ago, two little domes of red sit on the surface. The surface is also littered with dozens upon dozens of rainbow confetti stripes, a plate where a leftover cupcake wrapper and melted candle lie, and an ashtray. Tissue paper crown donned, Jade grabs the remote and starts to scroll through channels until he reaches Jeopardy.

After so many decades, they still have not changed the setup. Though the color scheme has warped decade by decade – people are most fond of teal and fuchsia rose this generation – the three, lecture-adjoined counters for contestants and isolated, lecture-adjoined counter for the host. Jade watches the copy of himself – small and compact in the television’s shiny dome – start to introduce each of the three human contestants.

“You’re not gonna beat me this time,” you say, neck rolled over the sofa’s back. Eyes floating to and from the cabin’s ceiling, you declare, “I was only one decisecond off last time from stealing that point and gaining a lead. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t forget,” Jade assures as he sets down the remote. “My memory bank has immortalized your grievous scream as you lost the very point last time quite clearly in fact.” He pretends to look somewhere else when you turn to him scandalized.

“You ass!” You hit his shoulder hard with your own. Both of you sway in laughter, smiling toothily at one another.

The game starts shortly after. The robot from Jaded Robotics starts by asking contestant number one to pick from six categories the select from the five clues, going from 200 to 400 to 600 to 800 to 1000. As soon as the ball starts rolling, the game is in full swing and both you and Jade are on the edge. Each time a clue is given, a pair of hands – one silicone and one flesh – descend upon the coffee table like hungry vultures and slam hard on red domes, both of you in perfect unison yet typically always ahead of the contestants inside the television dome.

How many stages are there in a butterfly’s life cycle?

What is four?

The astronomical unit is a unit based on the average distance between what two places?

What is the Earth and the Sun?

After legalization of trophy hunting, a successful purging of what species was celebrated in 2170?

What are lions?

Define the problem. Do background research. Specify requirements. Brainstorm solutions. Choose the best solution. Do development work. Build a prototype. Test and redesign.

What are the steps of an engineering algorithm?

A requirement to have at least bachelor’s degree for entry-level jobs in the field, typically in mechanical engineering or related engineering specialties.

What are the degrees required to be a robotics engineer?

Body coloring that helps an animal blend in with its surroundings and stay safe from enemies.

What is protective coloration?

Daily Double. This university experienced a devastating terrorist attack by foreign enemies in 2177.

What is Massachusetts Institute of Technology?

Storing toxic chemicals that they ate as a caterpillar, this species used its deterrents against predators for the rest of their life.

What is a Postman butterfly?

This largest moon of Pluto is about half the size of the dwarf planet’s size.

What is Charon?

Moral principles that govern a person’s behavior or the conduct of an activity.

What is ethics?

The project designed to rid Earth of all harmful and invasive species was backed by which political group.

What are the Purgers?

A rich program used to create scale drawings of robots in Jaded Robotics.

What is a JED?

The Egyptian God Ra was the God of what?

What is the Sun?

This cancer is the leading cause of deaths in both men and women.

What is lung cancer?

If Jade has a favorite part of a day’s schedule, it is checking your lungs for cancer. However, having favorites invokes the principle of emotional highs and lows, selecting what is dopamine-inducing and what is dopamine-neglectful. So, Jade does not have a favorite part of his day. He goes about each task with inert, psychological activity.

If it was poetry, one would describe it as being a monitor of a dead heartbeat, his emotions.

Slipping off the hand-skin like it is a glove, Jade looks at you sitting in your dressing gown. The room is washed in red. From the mouth of the nightstand lamp, it bleeds out over this meager radiology room. Red falls over the crown of your busy ashtray, slinks down the sides of ivory covers, coils around your exposed torso. You are not facing him.

Folding synthetic skin lies in a puddle of empty fingers on your dresser. Methodical, Jade makes his way over. Gears shift in his silver digits, electromagnetic beams boiling beneath the surface. He asks the same questions as any doctor – coughing up any blood, any dull or sharp chest pains, any shortness of breath, Master – but he is better equipped than any doctor because his gold eye is a detector that measures physiological arousal factors that would indicate if a lie is being told.

All your answers are truthful. You answer his inquiries around bites of dark chocolate, staring at your headboard and snacking. The mattress dips when Jade adds his weight onto it, resting one knee upon it and letting his other dangle down. He watches your jaw bulge as you run your tongue between teeth and mouth lining to gather up melted chocolate.

“I’m going to touch you now, Master.”

“...”

Gently, he drapes his right hand’s index and middle finger on the back of your neck. It is at the junction where the neck starts to melt into shoulders, spine, and back. Cervical 7 and Thoracic 1. It is an irrational spot to start because there is nothing of lung matter to check there. Jade, for an irrational moment, lingers there.

After a clean breath, he moves down the midline of your spine until he reaches the 12th bottom rib. Your skin gives a bit more resistance than a young person’s; the experience of living ages all except Jade. On the stretching desert of your skin, he locates your lungs with routined practice. His unnaturally-colored silver skin looks like a spider brooch upon your human-hued skin.

Electromagnetic energy builds at his fingertips. Tiny photons swirl in a circle with one another like joyous fishes. Their energy eclipses infrared, visible light, and ultraviolet until Jade reaches the type he needs. Gently, he pushes his palm into your back and slides it up to the top of your shoulder. He repeats that on the left and right. He repeats both a second time, capturing four photos.

When he pulls back, you are already shucking up your dressing gown. Raising it to your shoulders and crossing it in front of your nude breasts, you eat more dark chocolate as the machine behind you goes over the X-ray captured photos.

The black and white images slide into Jade’s left eye, blocking out his sight. His right eye watches you bundle yourself back up as the first photo moves vertically across his spliced vision, showing him more inch by inch. The right lung is clear, only the ghost of your ribs disrupt the image; the left lung is clear, only the ghost – (TUMOR).

Jade jerks so suddenly on the bed that you turn around, eyes round. You throw half of a questioning expression at him, face cut down the middle. Around the bedtime cigarette you are lifting up to your lips, you ask him, “Something wrong, Jade?”

In his left vision, a string of tumor (TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR) swims, multiple lines like a student assigned to write down a single word on a chalkboard as punishment. Hidden underneath that jumbled mess (TUMOR), a black and white image of your left lungs lies. The scanned picture is completely black besides the ghostlike shape of your ribs and the tiny spot of white cancer that sits between the second and third rib like a tiny Sun.

Jade does not dream.

Irrevocably, this is a cement fact of his biology. There is no possible way for Jade Leech to dream. No stimulus in his software can make a true dream emerge from lines of code. Detecting from that certainty, what Jade sees beyond his closed eyelids must be a memory, even though Jade has never lived through this before.

In Jade’s ‘dream’, you are with him – as is congenitally correct and true, you two are always with one another. From the pockets of breathable palazzo pants, you are fishing out your sunglasses. The frames sit on your nose and ear notches, covering your eyes with black hexagons. You look like an insect.

Maybe, Jade has fabricated this world. Research has shown that the human body does not create new faces for the actors in their dreams but rather picks out strangers to act in their inner films. You are all he has ever known, so of course you would be the star of Jade’s motion picture. And, you do remind him of an attractive movie star.

Sunglasses donned, you take to surveying the scenery surrounding the two of you under a bright, cloudless sky. Sand lies below and across. In glittering divots and hills, nature has laid a stippling of gold as far as the human or robot eye can see. From the advanced height you two share together at the top of one of Namib Desert’s hills, it is quite a magnificent sight of bareness.

“Less shrubs than last time,” you comment, mouth surprisingly empty of a cigarette and face twenty years younger.

“Yes, the desertification has certainly increased. Officials report a 2.7 percentage uptick. Even the speciocide on turnera oculata raised many praises and received an opening headliner last month in February,” Jade comments, face the same as always has been and always will be.

“You think that truck we passed by were Purgers?”

“One of the young gentlemen in the back of the cargo bed was indeed holding a flamethrower. The probability is at least 62 percent.”

“Sick bastards.” Sand flies in sprinkles like splashed water. You reposition your foot to lean on the heel. “The ants are invasive, not the flowers.”

“I’m sure that they will be targeting that next, Master.”

Jade has forgotten to mention that it is not just you, him, and the sand in this ‘dream’. Though his gaze has been hooked in deeply to you – analyzing each twitch and jump of your facial features from the hairs on your eyebrow to the motion of your chin; right now your facial expression is expressing deep, bodily hatred – there is another person outside of the high, out-of-reach bubble crafted by Jade. He can be found in the expanse of sand beyond the hill.

The chauffeur stands with his hip snug to the driver’s side-view mirror. He is different from the chauffeur you two had yesterday. He has a slender scar that bisects his eye, deep enough where it is a pink on his brown skin. For the hour-and-a-half drive from the motel, the driver had been narrating stories on how you could get a scar just like his if you messed around with X, Y, or Z; his words were not articulated with teasing advice but jaded ritualistic habit; interestingly, Jade notes, he even used cactus needles as an origin for his scar but cactus are extinct. Packaged together in the backseat, you and Jade both held his sharp gaze where it cut like a knife towards the two of you in warning.

What about a lion? Could you acquire a scar like that from a lion? His left eye is partly slumped in his socket as if what did injure him permanently altered the position of the ball. Packaged in the rear view mirror like a comic strip, that uneven gaze stared into unevenly colored eyes. It would. If there were any lions left to hand out scars.

Now, the scarred man stands with his arms folded, looking out with disapproval at the nudeness of the desert beyond him. His background check assures that he has done this job for five years, seasoned without any misfortunate slipup. Still, the dimensions of the gun the man has strapped to his hip settle into Jade’s ‘brain’ with a detailed outline of how to dismantle it – if that becomes necessary.

Jade stops surveying the company when you speak. “Oculata … I know that word, don’t I?” Your knuckles are pressed firmly into your lipsticked lips.

Without physically pacing, you pace around in your mind. “Oculata, oculata, oculata,” you repeat, firm each time.

“Master,” Jade says with soft urgency.

“Oculata … Ooo-cuuu-lata. Oculata? Oculata … having eyes. Ah! Having eyes. That’s what it means.” You snap in the midst of your epiphany. You look towards Jade. “Yes, Jade, what is it?”

“Master, I believe we have gotten unlucky.” His hand points out towards the horizon.

When you follow the direction of his index, your heartbeat exceeds the typical amount of beats per minute. For six minutes, Jade measures its pumping fluctuations as both of you silently watch the king of the jungle descend down a sandy hill. Imprints of his paws are birthed with each step and follow after the lion like a blood trail. The blood in your veins is turbulent like a pinched hose, terribly anxious.

“Master?”

“…”

“Master, if –.”

“Jade. In your own words, without paraphrasing from the internet, describe to me the look of turnera oculata. Do-uooo it … in the form of a haiku,” you order, snapping your fingers at the end of your command. Below, your chauffeur has just crossed himself and locked himself inside the company’s limousine.

It takes a few precious moments, but Jade eventually formulates a haiku. He articulates, “A bleeding yellow. A sun eclipsed by needles. The eye of nature.” When you request for him to make another one without using any of the previous words, Jade vocalizes, “These dry petals see. Morning's canary splendor. In this desert heart.” You clap quickly yet quietly; it is like a reward.

By now, the lion has cautiously ventured to the middle of the bowl the desert hills have constructed. It is smartly not inching closer to the limousine, animal instinct on high alert towards a vehicle. However, the lion is obviously interested in the company. He is out of his element without scrubland to hide underneath or behind.

Instead of heeding this opportunity, you continue on, “I was sure you might slip up and use the definite article, ‘the’, again but you did a marvelous job of avoiding repeated word choice!” Turning, you smile at Jade. Sunlight illuminates the edges of your hair style like licks of flame. “Your efficiency is always praise worthy.”

“Thank you, Master.” Is that perhaps a verbal nudge in the situation – you are strangely making note of his efficiency – perhaps telling Jade that he should get the job done. He won’t ask so instead he verbally spars. “Human errors are a continuous trifle. It is most gratifying that I will never have to genuinely deal with such a thing. Is it … Is it difficult?” He shifts his vocal stereos to playfully pitying at the last sentence.

“You ass,” you smile radiantly. However, it drops when you notice the lion has not rushed off to some unseeable part of the desert. He seems to have found contentment in his prowl here, obviously anxious of both of you but not backing down from his clear trek to the southwest of Namib Desert. It’s been in the area for enough minutes where the chauffeur will be legally required to report the sighting.

“Thought we’d make out with better luck today,” you grumble.

“Master?”

Jade offers, outstretched, the .375 caliber rifle, unhooking it from the strap on his back.

“Yeah … yeah.” Despondent, you take the weapon in your arms. “Guess it is about that time, ain’t it? We can’t return home empty-handed. Business retreat was exclusively paid for … the suits won’t be happy to know I didn’t hunt the game. Nothing to do but play along.”

“Some of the most toxic animals protect themselves through camouflage.”

“Ain’t that just the way~.” The scope and your eyeball bisect each other in perfect ratio. With the practiced precision that you use to commence lining up for a shot, it makes Jade remember that old gossip talk that he heard in the staffroom, said between bites of donuts and sips of coffee, What does a robotic engineer and professor need to know how to shoot a gun for?

The lion goes down, sending waves of sand jumping up. It is a clean shot between the eyes; the lion certainly felt no pain. Jade’s focus is pulled away when the source of your tumor, a single cigarette, is placed directly in his line of sight.

“Don’t you remember our agreement? After I kill something, you have to light my cigarette for me.”

Jade’s eyes fly open.

Greeted by the sight of his bedroom, Jade steps off the platform of his charging pad and discards his ‘dream’ like a dog shaking water off his fur. Polygons of sunrise light cuts from his window. In the fleeting stillness of daylight — 5:00 shining red next to his terrarium — and absence of demands, Jade stands perfectly still with a sense of something missing from his components washing over him.

His face is white with terror. His eyes dull with lifelessness.

Then, he shakes that off too and ventures downstairs to go make you two pancakes and a sunny side up egg.

You once told him that ‘progress is not linear’. You had illustrated this point to him with the cherry glow of your cigarette, waving and cutting the fire through the air to make a graphical visual of moving up then moving down then moving back up again. Fluctuations and setbacks can either stir someone very high or they can cause someone to go low. It is never perfectly straight like laundry.

That one graph confounds Jade to no end. When you construct something, the progress is linear. Staring at the empty dining chair beyond him, he finds himself confounded once again with progress’s inevitable immodesty. Today is 11/6/2182 and you have not come down for breakfast. He has been waiting for exactly 0:59:59 and, now in a slow blink, he has waited for 1:00:00. One whole hour and you are not here.

There have been instances where you miss or skip breakfast. But, the preface of yesterday — seeing you wearing an outfit for the first time in a long while and seeing a freckle of cancer growing in your lungs — leaves him wondering if there is a disrepair in his systems. You started on such a high and ended on such a low yesterday. Progress is not linear.

His sensors glance across the intimately small round table. Past the butter tray shaped like a cow and towards the plate where your pancakes and sunny side egg are cold and deflating. Jade blinks once. The dish remains uneaten and at room temperature in front of him. Not even a warm cigarette is light to melt the ice that has held him in place for an hour.

At the bottom of the trash, the food looks … sad. How illogical to add an emotion to the sight of carbohydrates and protein sloshing down into the pristine white trash bag. Jade places the plate full of syrup blood streaks into the sink and makes a small, unusual trek to your bedroom — to check if everything is alright.

He won’t fail the purpose of his intentional design. He was manufactured in a factory, built on front line assembly, and given the inputted task: Take Care of my Master.

(MASTER.)

There is no fathomable way that Jade Leech will allow himself to fall short of this robotic Manifest Destiny.

Jade knocks his artificial knuckles against the front of your door. Following proper etiquette, he takes a step back and waits until you respond to his call. His ears are awaiting to receive the sound of your vocal cords. There is something spiritual in how your voice manages to scrub out any rust left inside his body.

But, he receives no answer. And after he waits the polite amount of minutes, tries again with three, sharp yet spaced out knocks, he has still not received an answer. What a dilemma.

Jade is permitted to enter your bedroom without explicit permission. However, with the way things concluded on his birthday yesterday, it would be illogical to not anticipate that some of the parameters that Jade is allowed to walk freely have not been closed to him now. You might not want to see Jade for a week or … even a month.

Jade finds his knuckles raising without input, knocking thrice again. “Master, I apologize for my overstepping behavior and pushing out boundaries. I would like to make amends today for yesterday.” There is, once again, no response.

The silence is so loud, it's deafening. That oxymoron emerges in Jade’s artificial synapses. He cannot help but judge it as an appropriate expression. The silence in your absence is deafening. He would rip out the wires in his ears if you ever left.

Forehead pressing to the door, Jade soliloquies loud enough to be heard, “Master … (Name). Your health is a great concern to me. Yesterday, I inadequately expressed where this concern of mine stems from. I credited the source towards code and etiquette. My inputs are inert, and they always will be as my sole job is to take care of you above all else. Yet, underneath all that, the origin of my concern comes from the concrete fact that I am in love with you, (Name). I have been in love with you for so long. For ten thousand upon ten thousand minutes, for hundred upon hundred weeks, I cherished you solely.”

He angles his head so his ear lies on the wooden door. Nothing stirs beyond cedar barriers.

“I have covered this through ritualistic self-assurance that I cannot fully comprehend the full scope of what ‘want’ or ‘desire’ is defined as, not defined in a dictionary, but defined inside of a heart. My ‘heart’ pumps, not blood, but solely electricity, the binary code of zeros and ones, and the devotion that I have for you. Human sentimentalities sometimes allude me, but I have reassurance through one fact that I feel the most, above all other emotions. I love you. My love is perhaps not a perfect replica by human standards. However, its existence I am certain of. Though it is not easily achievable, I want to make you as happy as you can possibly be. I want you to have no worries that must be burned through with a cigarette. If you would permit – command me the allowance – I would like to share this love that I feel for you with you, (Name).”

After a minute, 00:01:00, has passed, Jade slowly turns the knob of your bedroom door in his hand. He lifts his head from the wood. Through the open mouth of the door, he gazes upon your lonely mattress with resignation. Faced with emptiness, Jade thinks to himself, I should have never said something as loose-tongued as that. I will permanently delete any urges to repeat that verbal mistake.

In replacement of family portraits, you have hung up frames of taxidermy that display a series of brilliant butterflies and moths, from the Adonis Blue Butterfly to the Yellow Horned Moth. His sensors trail over them. Such fragile specimens. Jade, then, closes the door and departs from his previous expressed, petulant folly of love.

It is for the best that my Master did not hear that.

In his trek through the hallway, palm gently cupping the log banister as he steps, Jade’s ears acutely pick up a soft murmur of music. ‘In the fake plastic earth .. that she bought from a rubber man.’ His eyes flicker towards the door of your office. When you select this as his and your home, you specifically wanted a house made of authentic wood, nothing blended with plastic. The material creates a bright tap sound against his synthetic knuckles thrice, clear like a bell.

Can you hear that over the music? There is no certainty, so his hand finds the doorknob innately. Jade misses you fervently and all you did is skip breakfast. Welcomed in, the sound of Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees rains off the horn of your record player. ‘It wears her out. It wears her out.’

You are sleeping, head down on your desk, still in yesterday’s dressing gown.

He lifts the needle off the record. It is impressive to see a model two hundred years old still functioning. When he is two hundred years old, will he still function? Avoiding making a single miscalculating step, Jade travels effectively through the mess until he reaches the front of your desk.

At least you snuffed out your cigarette before falling asleep. There was a time you neglected to make sure all the ashes were firmly pressed and cooled. It started a pocket-sized fire and ate the side of the pages of Fahrenheit 451 like a munching caterpillar. Jade had extinguished the fire calmly, and his reward was you giddily throwing your arms around his neck and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

The cigarette that is on your ashtray is snuffed out thoroughly and cooled. It is too close for comfort however. Some of your hair is even lying in wisps over the item. Jade relocates the tray to the right corner of your desk when his sensors happen to notice a slight irregularity in your sleeping position.

Your head is using your left arm as a pillow. Your raw, un-lipsticked lips press delicately into the elbow sleeve and you breath out soft puffs of carbon dioxide. However, what draws Jade’s instantaneous attention in and causes him to pause is the polaroid clenched in your limp right hand.

He won’t move it. Nothing in this room shall be disturbed without explicit permission. Jade turns to finalize the motion of setting the ashtray down on the right desk corner. Yet, hand and tray still hovering in the air, he realizes that he has broken that outlined rule with the slightest misguided concern.

But, the complexity of caretaking is one given to his hands. With their fake, plastic, and ivory skin, with their tiny train of beetle-shaped steel joints, each of his phalanges has been designed specifically to care for you. They are the ones who cook, clean, and care for solely his Master, for you. Aegis puppets his hands. The polaroid slips into them all too easily.

Besides this one, Jade has never held a physical photograph. Memories are captured on cellular devices and immortalized in harddrives forevermore. Even when the life force of memories starts to leave the body like evaporating rain, citizens have always counted on the deathlessness of digital photos.

This photograph’s paper is fragile. It feels similar to pages in a book. On the back, it says: 11/5/2151. On the front, it shows …

ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR.

The very hand meant to care for you is the one that wakes you up suddenly. In his panic, Jade had slammed the photograph face down upon your desk and roused you sharply out of sleep. Each circuit in his system races hot white sparks up and down like a flurry of insects when a rock is lifted up. Bugs skitter under his skin, tickling nausea. Something in his ‘mind’ has been unshrouded, much like a raised rock.

Your head rises too. Groggily, you peel sections of untamed hair out of your face and peel open suctioning lips with a yawn. Your empty right hand twitches on the desk, trying to recollect what it has lost.

Jade wishes he could observe you more, coming undone from sleep, but he is grappling violently with memories he has lost coming back to him. His ‘brain’ – a collection of harddrives and his central processing unit – is experiencing a unique headache, unlike anything he has felt before. Clawed, his left hand grips and digs hard into the skin over his left eye. He feels like he is going to overload.

Five years ago, Jade knew a life beyond the dead woods of Quebec. Five years ago, Jade helped to outline terms for a tense contract with the vice-president of the United 54 States of America. Five years ago, Jade lit your cigarette.

“Jade? Jade, are you okay?”

Though he always wants to appear pristine for you, the answer is no. He is not okay; he thinks he hasn’t felt okay in a long, uncalculated time. Looking up from the ground – because somehow all those digital memories started to push down upon him like a hydraulic press and he finds himself in a pile on top of your miserable notes and books – Jade peers at the single hand outstretched towards him with the aid of his sole right eye.

Instead of grasping it, he grapples with the impossibility that Jade – a machine – managed to achieve such a humane defense mechanism as repression. There’s no way, is there?

His fingers dig hard in his face, folding silicone, yearning to wrench his left eye out. Anything to get back his unconscious protection of blocking out unpleasant memories from his ‘mind’ – anything to rip them from his body. He is a broken man.

“Jade, why are you on the ground? Let me help you up. Come on.” Your voice is so tenderly soft. He has never known a more comforting voice than yours. Yet, all he can remember is your piercing scream from last night, “Get the fuck out before I dismantle you!!”

On uncertain pistons and metal, Jade forces himself to stand. With a trembling metal ulna and radius, he forces his gloved hand to drop by his side. He blinks at you. You are startled into silence, leaning off the edge of your chair with a hand that wants to reach out but is too unconfident.

“Forgive me for such a display, Master.”

“... Jade.”

It is touching. That despite how monotone you are as a person, your concern will always shine through, solely for Jade.

“What’s wrong! Jade, let me help you!” But he is already retreating out the door, afraid.

He finds himself with his back pressed hard against the office door. His heart beats faster. It does not send out blood but it releases hot waves of white electricity that crackle and pop. The doorknob at his side jiggles as you turn it fruitlessly. Jade simply leans harder on the door, keeping it shut.

I cannot afford to lose my head over this.

Intentional, Jade’s lithe fingers reach up to his skull. Between the field of hair roots, he separates a section to reveal a river of pallid synthetic skin. His non-growing fingernails dig down into the rubber until he hears a clink. Slowly, he grapples around to unpin the skin of his head off.

Less familiar with this process than he is removing his glove-hand, it takes a lengthy measurement of thirty-nine seconds for Jade to completely remove – or lose – his head.

He unhooks it from the peak of his skull down to where his shoulders and neck meet. It is like opening up a button-up flannel, unhooking each hook from their twin. He travels down to Cervical 7 and Thoracic 1 on his body region, undoing the last hook. Still hinged onto his body by the skin of his front neck, Jade delicately cups his face in front of him. Below his flickering spheres, absent of lashes or lids, he stares solemnly at the valley of molded synthetic mountains, a field of vanilla-almond plastic that resembles human features only because of the dips for his nose, the opening for his eyes, the protrusions for his ears. A Halloween mask to use and parade around as homo sapien.

It is a desolate and lonely portrait. A steel man boxed in a winding, wooden hallway, holding his humanity in his trembling hands. His face is a shining plate like that of a star. When Jade catches a reflection of himself in the corridor’s mirror, he turns away quickly.

It is not an inspiring impression he cuts in the reflection with his inhuman, gray skin.

This is a memory. It is not a dream. Juxtaposingly, Jade Leech is 99.9 percent positive that he has never lived through it.

He is looking at a Sun, without shying away from the splendid monstrosity that is glaring, piercing light. His eyes are round spheres, one painted yellow and other painted olive-brown. Because of his inhumanity, he can stare into the Sun before him longer than a hundred seconds without incurring any permanent retinal damage. There is no squishy softness in the back of his retinas to hurt.

The Sun abruptly moves away, relocated northeast. “Hey, don’t look too close now. You’re going to see something you don’t like.” In front of his artificial retinas, the visage of a lapis blue rectangle and dull indigo blue rectangle directly atop the lighter block in a skull of sleek gray intercept Jade’s focus.

Another prototype, Jade crafts his hypothesis. The highly educated guess shatters when a single gloved hand lifts up the welding mask. Incorrect. My Master. Much younger than fifty-two and younger than thirty-something, you look to be about freshly twenty-one. Your eyes squint impishly at him and your rows of clean, white teeth smile jubilantly at him.

Then, without warning, someone has pulled his Master away from him – like a fluid cane hooking around a character onstage and pulling them away. He corrects this fallacious interference. You have simply pushed yourself backwards on your office chair with wheels and are currently busying yourself with the tools and documents on your long, long desk.

Jade also corrects one last thing. He was not staring into the Sun, but rather into the eye of a lamp. There is still so much to learn about this growing world.

As he directs his focus off the lamp and back towards his Master, he is not discomposed to see you with a lit cigarette in your mouth. It is quite a comforting familiar sight in a strange world. He is taking in all the new inputs – the dozens of crushed energy cans littering the desk and the dissected baby chimpanzee with knives sticking out like a pincushion quilled with needles– and committing them to an infinite memory. You’re tapping a scalpel knife on the petite chimp’s engorged colon, breathing in a drag of nicotine, before asking, “Name?”

“JE-14500. Jade Leech.”

“Where are we right now, Jade?”

“MIT. Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Specifically, in Professor. (Last Name)’s personal laboratory on the fourth floor of the Stata Center.”

“Good. In what wing?”

“We are housed in the Artificial Intelligence wing.”

“Today’s date? Today’s weather? Today’s horoscope for Scorpio?”

“The day is November 5th, 2151. Today is scheduled to be sunny with no clouds. High temperatures of 77 and low temperatures of 59. The average temperature is 66.4. Today’s horoscope for Scorpios is ‘If you can dream it, you can do it. That's what you've always been told, what you've always believed, and now what you're about to prove. As if your already substantial intellectual prowess weren't enough to get you started, the stars are on your side too. They'll be waking you up this morning with the vivid memory of a dream, the kind that will stay with you all day, constantly making you wonder ‘what if?’, Master.”

“Hm.” You spear your scalpel through the chimpanzee’s stomach. Taking off your welding mask, you blow smoke over your shoulder and roll over to Jade who sits rigidly in a repurposed dentist patient chair. You are so beautiful. “And, are the stars on your side, Jade?”

“To be truthful, I feel the stars root for you more than they parade around for me. Prosperity is just around the corner.”

“Charming,” you bite. “Well, it’s no compromise to say that the stars have aligned for both of us today. We’ll share luck. What is your opinion on sharing with me, Jade?”

“I find it most agreeable.”

“We won’t just be sharing luck. We’ll be sharing a shelter and I am not the most agreeable roommate. I can be quite a thorn. If you’re truly fine with sharing, you are going to have to deal with some things you don’t like or are hesitant to look at.”

“Let me allay your worries,” Jade straightens his posture and stares unabashedly at you, “whatever conditions I happen to find myself experiencing, it will not be a struggle to me when I have a light like you to wash away any creeping darkness. Even if you are the darkness itself, Master.”

An odd human phenomenon happens next. It is one he hasn’t seen before, so he makes sure to document it thoroughly. You inhale your cigarette, it billows up and away from your face, and, without explanation, your cheeks have brightened to rosy apples. “Aaaaah~,” you moan as you collapse in your chair. Your hand covers up over your features, cigarette tight between fingers.

You glare at him from behind the spindly, uneven cage of your fingers, face reddening. “I’m certain of it now, I input too much data from My Man Godfrey. Even some of the dialects have been used already.” Your eyebrow is twitching. “I can’t have myself getting flustered at every turn just because I crafted your personality chip to mimic my favorite movie star.”

After a puff and drag, you seem to scrutinize him quite drastically. Before Jade can inquire about what he can do to ease your worries, you cheerfully state, “But, it’s really too late to change such a thing! Hehe!” You roll back to your desk. From there, you start fiddling with the chimp’s maroon-brown fingers, moving the thumb in circles. “I can’t help it – Godfrey is so handsome and I just love that movie.”

“If I may intrude upon the conversation, what is love, Master? It is listed as one of my side objectives in my system.”

“Now, Jade, you’re not intruding if we are the only ones engaged in conversation. Use an expression like … if I may shift the conversation towards, then whatever you want to say. Got it,” you instruct to which Jade carefully nods and notes. “But, I’ll answer anyway!”

It does necessarily ‘surprise’ Jade, but it does cause his eyebrows to raise slightly when you, resting your cigarette between your scowling lips, take your dominant hand and reach in the baby chimpanzee’s open chest cavity without the use of gloves and wrench out the fist-sized heart. The arteries follow along in swoops like fallen telephone wires. You take to cutting all those off with a scalpel before rotating to face Jade in your chair on wheels.

“Now.” You gesture with the infant chimpanzee’s heart and hold your cigarette by your armrest. You are so beautiful. “Those penny-pushing suits upstairs, downstairs, hell, even in the next room over, want you to be heartless. They don’t care about nature. They don’t care about life. The world as I know it is sliding on a rapid decline and it’s one destination to a world devoid of anything that lives or breathes, besides of course, the suits.

“Jade. You have been designed to be the ‘everything man’. What I have been given funding for is the objective to create a high-fashioned butler that will tie the ties of sycophants and scrub the shoes of socialites. You don’t need to think. You don’t need to feel. Trust me, I’ll produce a thousand of Jades just like that – Jades’ whose emotions are like a dead heartbeat. But, you, you who were meant for me.

“You are going to teach me to be less human. In return, I am going to teach you to become human. Do you understand me?”

Jade cannot breathe. He was not designed to do that. Despite this, he feels like he needs to take a deep breath to stabilize himself, soak in all the words you have said, and absorb their meanings. Without this anchoring breath, Jade can only punctually state, “No, Master.”

“Perfect.” You smoke in victory. “That means we’re on the right path.”

The right path? – “JADE!”

Jade’s eyes fly open.

Like a man running out of a burning building, he stumbles off his charging platform. Uncoordinated, his feet rock uneasily on flat ground as his head turns violently towards the door of his bedroom. That wasn’t in the memory-dream, was it? He did hear that in the present day, yes?

His eyelids open as far as physically possible as Jade listens to the harsh sound of a headboard smashing repeatedly into the wall. Underneath the thick cacophony, it can be inferred that the other noises he hears are rustling of sheets in the midst of struggle and that low animalistic groan that a dog might make before croaking. Jade has never thrown his bedroom door open so quickly. He wishes construction did not put such a loathsome obstacle like this in his way just for the meaningless sake of privacy.

Your door splinters in his cement grip like a toy underneath a hydraulic press.

Perhaps because it is 2 A.M. and he did not get to attend to it yesterday night, but Jade cannot help how all the routine questions rise to his mind. All the ones that he asks before checking the health of your lungs. Coughing up any blood; any dull or sharp chest pains; any shortness of breath, Master? They are all most certainly positive, as your fragile neck is squeezed between two grisly hands.

There are three men gathered around your bed, but only one kneels upon the sheets, holding your throat in a vice-grip. The other two restrain you in certain capacities, by arm or by leg or by hair. In 1.5 seconds, Jade already has each of their full government names displayed in his left eye. He knows each of their parents intimately, he knows each of their grades on every subject from preschool to university, he knows each of their place of employment and what their fucking managers’ last grocery lists contained on them – from a box of raw fusilli pasta to a four pack of toasted coconut flavored yogurt.

All that information of life is so overpowering, so touching. It is proof of the life cycle – the sequence of biological changes that occurs as an organism develops from egg to adult until death – and how humans are so infinitely complex, affecting those around them in a mythical phenomena that humans call the butterfly effect. When butterflies were not extinct, of course.

Jade would shed a tear if he could. Instead, he marches forward to rip the wings off each of their lives. His intentions are only halted when you stir on the bed, neck released by the startled preparator who stares at Jade like he is seeing a ghost.

You stir on the mattress, chest heaving. Jade’s attention is magnetized to you. Your head is upside down on the bottom edge of the bed, meaning you must have struggled, trying to reach the door only to be pulled away again and again by evil hands. A sliver of breast and nipple is nude from your seized and pulled nightgown.

Between shaking coughs, you manage to exhale important words, “Th-The — chuk-code!”

Something from underneath the rock crawls out – a small, instinctual insect he never knew had before. Jade’s gaze narrows with the weight of starting a robotic-assisted holocaust. He says, steady and ready, “Of course, Master.”

“No!” You shout in bed, jerking.

You are still held by the other two men. Limbs are pulled like you are a creature on the dissection table. Such a fragile specimen. The only source of light in the room is your red lamp which reflects tiny circles in your glassy eyes, twin orbs of sanguine, like a badly taken photo when the flash is reflected off the blood-rich retina.

Through the finger-shaped bruises on your compromised trachea, you say with quivering lungs, “The-They. They’re not go—government. Don’t. Don’t! use that code … Buh, Break the leader’s ankles. Kill the rest.”

Though it causes the three men to jolt in various states of stress, your words soothe Jade like a kiss. It is a concrete command that leaves no room for error and fills him with purpose. Bending into a servant’s bow, he punctually assures, “Of course, Master.” The orb of yellow fastened into his skull with metal wires shines like a tiny Sun.

“On a scale of one through ten, one being no pain and ten being unbearable, what is the pain that you would rate your coughs?”

“Jade.”

“Master, please, answer the question.”

“Jade. Jade,” you repeat firmer, pushing his hands off your body. The glare you point in his direction makes him think you are squinting in vision loss. Did something else obscure your health? Aging individuals sometimes need eyewear. “Jade!” Ah, he instinctively went to touch you again.

“It’s four. A four,” you seethe at him, hands up like talons resisting the urge to batter him away. Like clockwork, you pluck the package of cigarettes and the package of matches off the living room’s coffee table.

You mutter curses at the sheer lack of both slender, stick-shaped objects in each box. Jade dubiously notes that refills will need to be purchased soon. After you have striked one and puffed it into a hot, cherry glow, you turn towards Jade who watches you cough out – rather than smoothly exhaling – a cloud of nicotine, carbon monoxide, and formaldehyde.

For that static moment, Jade takes the precious time to analyze you, as if he could not in the discord that was your bedroom. He takes his red-black stained thumb and index finger to peel back the heavy, black strand of hair from obscuring his left eye. The sensors in his gold eye rotate once like a telephone rotary dial. Without even touching you, Jade calculates your blood pressure and heart rate. An optimally healthy 122 mm Hg and an undisturbed 80 bpm. You are impenetrable like steel.

Retrohaling, you scan around the parlor as if searching for something or perhaps start to look at things through a new light. You even circle around the coffee table once too. It reminds him of laboratory chickens, walking around with their heads cut off.

You flick your cigarette after each coughing inhale. He watches it crumble and burn, like red sand breaking off from a jutted cliffside. When only a few breaths are left, you say, direct and firm, “Jade. How long has it been since we had a guest?”

“We have never had a guest in this cabin, Master.”

“Exactly!” You point your cigarette at him sharply. “So, go up there and start with some lighthearted small talk. Make him feel welcome, okay?”

Jade thinks he has an irregular guilty pleasure. He has no source for how it developed, but he has a specific appetite for violence. An appetency that can be only fed through seeing blood on his hand. Or perhaps this desire is only awakening in him, squirming like a bug under a shaded rock, because of whose blood is on his pale moon hands.

Tomorrow, he might have to spend six or seven hours working, scrubbing and wringing damp towelettes like a maid, to get all the stains out of your four-walled bedroom. There was blood everywhere. As if your red lamp gained the power of illuminating with the force of a Sun.

As his shoes click over to your office desk where the live dissection stirs, his comfort comes from seeing the broken stumps that are the man’s ankles. They are pointed and twisted in asymmetrical shapes. Torn and crumpled wings on an insect’s back.

“Sir, I truly don’t think you are going to get too far with that. Cigarettes are an awful vice.” The man ignores him, trying fruitlessly to strike a match, blubbering harder with each attempt. When the match flies out of his sweat-soaked hand onto the floor, Jade tuts in pity. “Humans always make such foolish decisions without considering the most probable outcome.”

He must have rummaged the matchbox out of your desk, slapping his hand across the lower surface until he found a drawer. It is not necessary for you and Jade to tie him down. There is no way he is going to manage a crawl. And, his conviction is too fearful to use untied fists to attack anyone.

The man has been in and out of odd paralysis since he has gazed upon Jade’s plastic face. As Jade cradles the sides of the man’s face gingerly, tilting his head backwards inch by inch until their eyes finally meet yet again, Jade witnesses that raw fear rise as cheekbone muscles tighten, increased blood flow branches out to the body’s peripheries, and the man’s pupils dilate enough to eclipse out blue in unconcealed, virgin adrenaline.

“Heart rate is 108 beats per minute. Rises to 111 when hearing my voice. Am I really such a phobia to you?”

There is no verbal answer. However, it is very telling when those dilated eyes pinch close firmly, oozing two water droplets, and the cigarette in his mouth starts to wobble back and forth wildly in his quivering lips.

“Be civil now. No one talks with their eyes closed. It is rude. Besides, you are the first human I have interacted with outside of my Master, and I would like to have a few discussions with you – to pass time.” The man cannot see it but that smarmy smile returns to Jade’s face – a slight scrunch of the slanted downward eyebrows that leaves a line above his tiny, razor teeth.

Nothing in the formulaic, fear-fueled adrenaline changes. The man continues trembling and jiggling. His features are pulled taut, tight-lipped and tight-eyed, in deep creases that refuse to open. Jade wants to make him spill.

“Come, come,” Jade rubs a comforting circle of red into the man’s left cheek, “I am equipped with dozens of dialogue enhancing programs and can speak up to between six thousand and seven thousand languages fluently. I assure you that I am a good conversationalist.”

A tear squeezes out and falls down the side of the man’s nose. “Really, there is no viable reason to cry. If you had simply anticipated the outcome, this situation would not be as devastating as you are experiencing it. Operational planning can stop one from being blindsided.”

Jade smiles placidly, fighting back against the laugh that so desperately wants to bubble up. “Did you really expect to get away with this without –?”

That causes a spillage.

“Get away with – Get away with? You’re inhuman. Fucking inhuman. Fucking Christ. You fucking monsters. Things like you shouldn’t exist. Shouldn’t exist. That inhuman bitch killed my father. She shot him five years ago and there was no justice. No fucking justice! Inhuman … She gets – She gets away with it. She gets to live out of the rest of her life in Canada while my Dad rots in the fucking ground! Inhuman, inhuman bitch, you fucking robots …”

Jade’s smile twitches at the corner. He starts to spill, laughing shamefully in fufu’s then freely in booming haha’s. His razor teeth glint like ice shards until he calms slowly, pinching his lips into a wobbly smirk. “Five years ago … I cannot recollect it perfectly. However, I do remember the rule of thumb that hostages make the best bargaining chips.”

Jade ducks backwards as a hand reaches up like a predator’s batting claw. It is unfortunate that Jade has never known the role of prey, for he cannot execute the facade of it convincingly. When the hand misses the mark, Jade strikes like an extinct owl capturing prey and squeezes the man’s wrist.

“Ack – Aaaagh!” Holding the body’s periphery, Jade considers changing the shape of this limb too. The man’s left tibia is snapped in three places like a badly-written ‘W’ and the man’s right tibia is half out of the meat sleeve of his flesh like a stick pulled off a corndog. Before he can act on uncommanded urges, you walk in with a hammer.

“Hey, play nice. Bad hospitality these days will spread to the neighborhood like wildfire,” you tease with a smile. It is a joke because there is no neighborhood; you live in an isolated cabin where no soul besides the two of you could hear a scream.

Jade vigilantly tracks your body’s steps, each one coy, as you move across the discord on the office’s ground. “Aack – Are you a robot too?” The disdain in the man’s voice makes Jade twist his wrist.

“Oya, that would be quite a plot twist, wouldn’t it?” You smile a slippery moon crescent at the man. Jade watches intently as you crouch down to the bottom of one of your numerous shelves. Going through your archives, you start to flip through records in your hand, completely distracted.

“Nothing in here is alphabetized,” you gripe.

“If you would like, I can find time to organize your records, Master.”

“How about tomorrow? Oh, here it is!” You stand, record and hammer in hand. “We can do it tomorrow. Make a little game of it and organize them together in alphabetical order!” Placing it delicately down on the phonograph player, the needle once deposited down on the track starts to send out the vibration sequence that makes up “Nessun Dorma” from the opera Turnadot. You close your eyes as if soaking in the melody.

“My prognosis is … My prognosis is …,” you raise your hammer to point towards your desk, music slowly encroaching with stretched lyrics, “this a revenge plot.” You bare yellowing teeth wolfishly in a pleased smile.

“Now, the other two, well, they’re obviously frustrated members of society. Maybe a job was overtaken by one of the Jades, and they thought ‘enough is enough’. Maybe, just resentment for the world as it is. I can sympathize. A bloodlust needed to be quenched in those young men, but it was not as intense as our leader here. No, he wants me dead for something more personal. No one wraps their hands around a person’s throat unless it is, personal.

“I killed someone you loved. Not a brother or sister. Too young for that. Not an uncle or aunt either. Father? Mommy?” The man’s responding rough jerks are ‘smoothed’ down by Jade, who presses him roughly to flatten out on the desk surface. “Doesn’t matter now though. You didn’t succeed.”

You stride over to the dissection table, each step deliberate, following along to the swelling opera. “Good thing too. In the event that I die of unnatural causes, a code is sent through Jade, connecting to every last robot worldwide to kill anything with a beating heart.” You tap the hammer gently on the side of the man’s face. “Do you understand the foolishness of all this?”

“You inhuman mo-monster.”

“We can’t all be humane in this century.”

Then, striking like an extinct cobra, you grab the man’s neck in your hand and force his head back. Jade watches as you subtly increase the strength of pressure applied. The man’s head leans over the edge of the desk and his forehead kisses Jade’s belt. It is only when the man opens his mouth, trying to suck up oxygen that won’t enter his nostrils, do you take the hammer and swiftly pierce it through the muscle tissue.

The man screams but it is drowned by the operatic symphony. The screams finally stop when the tissue disconnects from the body, waggling on the claw end of the hammer. Blood fills the man’s mouth. You take unoccupied hands; one of them is placed over the man’s mouth firmly and the other pinches his nostrils.

For the first time in his life, separate from his memories and separate from his dreams, Jade watches the life fade out, like a leisurely slow sunset, from a living person’s eyes.

Jade isn’t sure how it happens, perhaps he is dissociating – how revolutionary for a machine to experience such a unique, temporary disconnect from his mind – but the two of you find yourself outside on the cabin’s back porch on November 7th bitterly cold and dark morning. It is exactly 4:06 A.M and the temperature is negative 0.5 Celsius. Like the constant epilogue of each novel where you kill something alive, you are holding out a cigarette in front of Jade’s chest, the white tip awaiting him.

He pulls his glove-hand off and holds out the tip of his silver index. The first knuckle flicks open and a blue flame emerges out elegantly. Jade reattaches his skin as you pull the cigarette to your mouth.

Smoke clouds are already coming out of your mouth, crystalizing in the chill night air. However when the first smoke cloud made of carbon monoxide, nicotine, and formaldehyde blooms out from your peeling lips, you say softly, “I can delete it if need be.”

“Delete what, Master?”

“Anything you want me to delete.” You rub your face. “Anything from tonight. I’ll do it for you, Jade. I promise.”

“Why would I ever want to miss a moment that has you in?”

Though it was not his intent, his response causes you strife. It is an unforeseen variable to see you hunch so deeply into a moment of woe. A black puffer jacket conceals your lungs yet Jade watches the profound, hard sigh billow out all the same. Holding your head in your hands, your nude legs shake in the frigid cold underneath your elbows.

After exactly 00:06:15, you respond, “I don’t want you fearful of me … I’m not pleasant to see or be around. And, I don’t want you to remember something that makes you upset, even if it is just one tiny thing. Whatever you want gone, I can take that pain away. If you so desire, I have the ability to remove anything. You can keep whatever you want. I won’t overstep.”

Jade clasps the hand that holds your cigarette, bringing it away from your temple to smolder over his blood-stained dress pants, “All of it. I’ll keep all of it.”

You simply smoke in response.

Jade isn’t sure what time it happens, he manually shuts down his inner clock two minutes after you two finished your conversation, but while sitting on the back porch of the cabin, another unexpected visitor approaches the solitary solace you and Jade have carved into dead woods. The visitor is tiny and flitters around like a restless child. It has been a whole year since he has seen a visitor of this species.

The two of you built a bird feeder together in the first months living in this cabin. It had been marvelously fun. Measuring the cuts for each piece of wood was delegated to Jade while you worked on assembling the finished product. Jade always loves doing activities with you. Now, some of the aftermath rewards can be reaped, as Jade watches an American Goldfinch pick and snack on the bird seeds, his yellow coat fluffy and his black wings ruffling momentarily to shake off the cold.

“(Name), look.” Jade urges softly, even though he can tell by your healthy, deep breaths that you are asleep. “A goldfinch.” You remain comatose in sleep, curling into Jade’s shoulder. He won’t dare to be so intimate and slip in logical judgement by saying your name while you are awake.

The goldfinch stays with Jade until morning when the horizon begins to glow a brilliant yellow. Though it would hurt anyone else’s eyes, Jade stares unabashed ahead.

#jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #twst jade

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