#Rad Writes

[radskull-69]

Mammon x reader stuff because I love him-

this man is TOXIC, ain’t gonna sugar coat it sry y’all.

you probably work for him or met him at one of his shows, happening to catch his eye

if your a imp or a hellhound he’d definitely keep it under wraps, weather it be you two boning or in a relationship. He cares for his image a lot.

if you’re a succubus he’d make it seem like it’s nothing but a one time thing, but behind close doors would keep making you lay him visits to ‘satisfy him’

definitely very cold and would probably not to after care :(

this man is a MAN CHILD, would definitely whine and pout when you don’t give him what he wants. Such a brat tbh

will sound mean while in his pov he sounds romantic, like you’re about to go on a date and he tosses you a matching dress to match his jester attire. Not even looking at you as he tosses it over his shoulder with a “put dis’ one on yeah? Make ya look like a good cunt.”

cat behaviour, 100%. Would be rude and cold but after a while of not getting enough or no attention from you he’ll throw you on his lap or lay himself on you (prepare to get crushed)

also he totally purrs, it’s a fact. Give him scratches.

since he has four arms he’s very grabby, probably always has one hand grabbing, patting or pinching you.

baby talks you in a sign of affection like he did to fizzie.

If he likes you enough he would buy you something expensive but would secretly benefit him as well, like a cute outfit that he just wanted to see you in.

if Ozzie ever found out about you two he’d never hear the end of it, so you two are a secret.

does get angrily easily and never admits when he’s the wrong one, crossing his arms and growling. But maybe after a day or two he’ll begrudgingly say sorry and get you a present. Maybe mc Donald’s.

if the fans love you both and ship you like they did with Ozzie an fizzarolly he’ll use it to his advantage and milk the SHIT out of it. Making cute vlogs and shitty love songs with his guitar to play, steeling off of Taylor swift probably.

[radical-sky]

Shelter, part 1

don't you ever leave me alone, my war is over, be my shelter from the storm

One year post-Fallout, Ilsa joins the IMF, partnering with Ethan and his team. After their first mission goes catastrophically wrong, Ethan sacrifices himself in a desperate bid to save Ilsa's life. Believing he failed and she's dead, Ethan suffers the consequences of the unsuccessful mission. Five months later, the team - and Ilsa, get him out.

pairing: Ilsa/Ethan

wordcount: 4.1k

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, violence, graphic depictions/descriptions of torture and the aftermath, pregnancy, very minor mention of a suicide attempt.

AO3 (user restricted) here

ENDLESS thank you to the truly amazing @agentfaust for the most thorough, in depth, and detailed beta anyone has ever given me. You are phenomenal babe!!

Ilsa can’t remember the last time she was tempted to fidget, all nervous ticks trained out of her before she was even with MI6. The old habits have never been as tempting as they are now, standing in a cold and damp third-world prison waiting for Ethan to be brought out to her.

Well, not just her. The White Widow stands next to her, her brother not far away. He scowls at Ilsa, not happy to be here and not happy to risk his and his sister’s lives on a job for her. It’s nothing sanctioned (if any members of your team are caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions) but the moment Benji had finally, finally found Ethan the team had gotten things moving as quickly as possible. Luther and Benji worked their computers nearly 24 hours a day, and Ilsa called favors and made connections in country wherever she could. Even Brandt was helping, pulling strings and doing as much as he could legally behind the scenes while staying their inside man at the IMF.  

Luther or Benji (it doesn’t matter now because they both had been trying their damnedest to get it done) had hacked into the security system in the prison; cameras in every cell, interrogation room, the hallways. Not that any of them needed to see what they were doing to Ethan (in the two weeks since she first saw him on the grainy camera feed it’s all she sees when she closes her eyes, doesn’t need audio to hear his screams and the sounds they rip from his throat, or backdated footage to catalog what tool made each scar or bleeding wound on his body. Those pictures will be seared in her brain for all eternity. She wants and yearns and rages at the sacrifice he made for her, for them, and falls asleep with a screen playing live footage from his cell in her lap, showing him pressed back into the corner of the tiny cage, curled up protectively, shivering or trembling she can’t tell. Wishing she could tell him somehow I’m coming. I will get you out. I haven’t forgotten about you. you’re not disavowed to me. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry Ethan). 

They don’t have to watch the footage for long to decide that any escape that depends on Ethan getting himself out won’t happen. Without government backing and even with Brandt’s help they don’t have the resources or the manpower to storm the prison and break him out. That left one option, and it wasn’t one that any of them liked. The White Widow hadn’t been the least bit interested in taking a call from Ilsa until she’d said John Lark needs your help. 

The team had debated on how to refer to Ethan, desperately wanting to keep his identity as an American agent secret. They knew he hadn’t revealed it, the terrorists would have auctioned him off or killed him if he had. The White Widow knew him as John Lark, and that was all it took. From there Alanna was easily bargained into breaking him out. To Ilsa’s trained eye she could tell Ethan intrigued the other woman. It wasn’t a jealous realization, wasn’t even a shock. It’s Ethan - people are drawn to him, he’s magnetic without even trying or meaning to be. Without even being in the room he can convince people to take jobs that are completely against what they usually do. Ilsa can speak to it herself, she knew she was burning a bridge when she saved him the first time, but despite her past, she couldn’t watch Vinter kill him in the most painful way possible. She’s never been in a relationship like the one with Ethan, drawn in and ready to sacrifice the mission for someone else. Ilsa had been ready to be out of the game for a long time, before Kashmir had believed that it would never - could never - happen. Ethan changed that. Changed her reasons for wanting out. She didn’t plan on falling in love when she tossed him the key in London.

Breaking him out had been the original plan, but when Zola studied the camera footage, guard patterns, and security he decided it would cost too many men. A second plan was formed, and the White Widow had brokered a trade as diplomatically as she always had; the prisoner who was arrested after a motorcycle accident on terrorism charges 5 months ago traded for cash and enough weapons for a small personal army. Ilsa knows she should be as worried about what the weapons will be used for as the rest of the team, but even though she is part of them now, she operated differently for so long that she’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have those concerns. It’s Ethan, surely any price is worth his freedom? (Deep down Ilsa knows Ethan would disagree, loudly, with his dying breath, that his own life is not worth a single innocent life.) Benji and Luther had come up with a secondary mission, running alongside the retrieval to guarantee there would be no innocent lives lost because of the weapons traded for him. It took another week for Alanna to acquire the weapons, leaving ample time for the team to gather the cash for Ethan and the separate cash for Alanna, one-half of the price for her involvement in the exchange. Alanna, just like the terrorists, had also required a two part payment, unable to pass up an opportunity when it presented itself to her. Ilsa doesn’t worry about the other half of Alanna’s fee, it's a problem for later. After Ethan is back and healed and whole again. She hopes he won’t be too furious with her for agreeing to it on his behalf. 

So, now here she is. Not fidgeting. Not twisting her ankle or flexing her calf muscles and imaging she can feel the rods and pins holding her leg together, or the scar where her tibia bone punched through the skin of her calf, not twisting her arm and feeling knitted scars where the bones ground together excruciatingly. 

And above all else she’s not resting her hand on the barely there bump on her stomach, the bump invisible and hidden beneath a loose blouse and trench coat. Invisible to everyone who doesn’t know her and Ethan’s secret. 

———

The first mission wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

It was supposed to be easy and wonderful and the start of the greatest partnership of his life. 

So of course, like everything else in his life, it went to shit in 5 minutes. 

He and Ilsa had never exactly named The Thing between them, except that it was theirs. He didn’t tell Benji and Luther (although greatly suspected Luther knew and Benji was suspicious), and Ilsa being a free agent didn’t have anyone to tell. They were each other's greatest secret, greatest weakness, greatest compromise. Because they did compromise each other. There was no question after they’d saved each other so many times, sacrificing the mission for them. The Thing started simply. After handing Lane off to MI6 they spent a week in London exploring each other's bodies carefully around broken ribs and bruised necks (and how he had enjoyed adding his marks to her neck and having her hands on his chest) telling stories and sharing the private, secret parts of themselves no one else knew - then a night Cape Town, a weekend in Moscow, six hours in Brussels, two days in Paris, traveling 8 hours to spend half that time in her hotel room in Athens. Whenever they could and their schedules overlapped enough, or if they even happened to be in the same time zone, they were together. 

After Julia, he didn’t think he’d ever feel this way about another woman. 

Any chance he could he’d pull her into his missions. Anything to have her by his side. Ilsa was always available and never said no. She was traveling a lot, but he didn’t think she was taking any other jobs as a free agent, waiting for him to call her and almost always close by. Ethan had wondered many times if she declined jobs and traveled to follow him, just close enough it was convenient. When Brandt told him Sloane had given him the approval to extend the offer of a permanent position with the IMF - with Ethan’s team - to Ilsa he was perhaps the happiest he’d ever been. The two of them together - partners - properly, permanently. 

He never thought he’d be considering marriage again either.

So it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when it fell apart. The plan failed. His backup scenarios ran out. There were no more moves, no more chess pieces. So when he wrecked and went down, Ilsa dead in his earpiece, Benji too late to save her, a part of him, all hope, died with her. When he saw his pursuers approaching he was relieved, he’d never been so ready or willing to meet death than in that moment. To go where Ilsa would be waiting for him. He was already halfway there, a piece of rebar in his chest, internal injuries too numerous to catalog, his leg didn’t feel right, arm wouldn’t lift. Ethan closed his eyes, ready for the bullet that would end his life. 

He certainly hadn’t expected them to take him alive, put him in the hospital, and get him just healthy enough that he’d survive the torture, and survive he did, but not as Ethan Hunt. As something else, a shell of a human. All hope lost. No prayer of rescue. He knew he was disavowed and no help would be coming. He tried to escape, more than once. Each time failed and each time it got worse. So he kept his mouth shut and took what they gave him. Didn’t utter a word except for the screams and shouts when it became too much. He’d already failed everything and everyone else. He couldn’t fail here. Couldn’t stand to betray his country on top of it all. 

When his captors told him he was being traded for goods more valuable than him, he knew he had to end it or escape. He couldn’t do this indefinitely. Eventually, he’d break and the shell would crack and he’d be human again. So he plotted and planned, and when they came for him he knew what he had to do. His final mission, the last plan, the one to end it all. 

———

The far door opens with a clang and three guards file in, dragging a body by a chain between them. 

She’d known it would be shocking seeing him again and was already braced for what condition he’d be in, but she wasn’t quite prepared for how awful it would be to come face to face with the consequences of her own failures. How jarring it’d be to see Ethan so still and lifeless, compliant. She would’ve guessed he’d die before giving up. 

Ilsa is the cynical one, she knows the harsh realities and cruelties of this world. She’s practical. She’s been the torturer and the assassin with no regard for the lives she’s affecting. But not Ethan, it was never supposed to be him that faced down the darkness of her world and had to, somehow, come out the other side. Ilsa has already done that. Too many times to count. It’s made her who she is and she’s not prepared to be on the opposite side of that. Ilsa had been alone for so long before him and no one had ever protected her like this before - sacrificing themselves to shield her from her own mistake. She hopes it hasn’t destroyed Ethan. Taken away his loyalty, compassion, the ability to see goodness in everyone, or the desire to protect everyone. It takes every bit of her not to step forward and cradle his body to hers when another guard grabs his legs and the two men toss Ethan into the center of the room. 

Ethan hits the ground with a thud and multiple wet coughs. 

“Fucker tried to kill himself. Been a long time since he’s had that much energy.”

Fury, hatred, and grief all ripple through her at the words, but the man spoke in his native tongue, one she isn’t supposed to speak. She keeps her face and body language impassive. This isn’t a man she’s deeply in love with. He’s a job, a mission required in the course of her duties. Nothing more than the man her employers want her to hunt down and bring to them. 

If only it were that simple.

Ilsa steps forward and crouches in front of Ethan, fisting her hand into his hair. She pulls up harshly, detaching her mind from her body and what she is about to do. (Her mind is raking her eyes over him, unable to focus on one thing because her attention is immediately drawn to something else. There’s a thick chain fastened around his neck, tight to his skin and surrounded by some of the deepest bruising she’s ever seen. The end of it trails out from his neck, a mocking and sick impersonation of a leash. His hands are bound behind his back with rope that’s splotchy bright red with new blood and dark almost black of old, dried blood. She can’t see the skin of his wrists. She doesn’t want to. He’s shirtless and Ilsa can count his ribs where they protrude from his chest and the vertebrae of his spine down his scarred and bleeding back. She can identify where and what bones of his bare feet and hands have been broken and healed wrong because she’s done that, she’s broken those bones on prisoners before. She wonders what his legs look like under the ripped and torn tac pants he’s still wearing from the mission. Each breath rattles in and out across lips that are cracked and bleeding. Her eyes jump across him and she is seething, furious, ready to burn down th-) Ethan’s glare is still defiant when their eyes meet, and before he recognizes her he spits a wad of blood and saliva into her face. He starts to speak in a hoarse, raspy voice completely foreign to him “you might as well just kil-”

He cuts off as he realizes it’s her. Almost instantly his face collapses into the most profound display of grief and heartbreak and utter relief she’s ever seen. It’s an expression meant to be carved in marble, painted and displayed in a museum, or preserved in a book for all eternity but not on someone's face. Human beings aren’t supposed to look like that, especially not at her. Not for her, when she’s done so much wrong. There’s blood running from his bruised nose and congealing in the sparse hair on his lip. The smack she delivers to his face adds more to it. 

“Хуй!” She swears in Russian and wipes her face as she stands and pushes Ethan away. 

There is a simmering beast of rage burning within her. She has killed and tortured and maimed and done things that haunt her. Nothing will haunt her as much as the way his face instantly shuts off, all the emotion in his expression a moment before disappears. He doesn’t flinch or wince with the slap. Just takes it, and flops motionless to the ground. He’s nothing, a blank slate as if Ethan is gone, and here is his corpse. 

“This is the target.” Ilsa still speaks in Russian, accent perfect, with no hint that it’s not her native tongue. No hint of the swirling emotions within her. She nods to the prison warden. Alanna, face a perfect mask, passes the backpack stacked full of cash to him. 

“We can continue with the exchange then. I assure you, it’s all there. Couldn’t stay in the business like this if we didn’t ensure all terms were met on both sides.” Alanna says, perfect smile in place. Underneath it though, her skin has paled a shade. Shocked by the brutality Ethan has suffered. 

The man takes it, a slimy grin exposing yellow teeth as he hands it to another man who excuses himself to count it. 

“When my man confirms it you’re free to leave with him.” He rakes a dirty hand through his greasy hair and sends both women another nauseating smile. 

Only in your wildest dreams, Ilsa thinks as she nods to him again. She expected nothing less, to everyone else this is nothing more than a business transaction.

The room waits in silence, save for Ethan’s rattling breaths. She glances at the White Widow whose face has gone another shade paler as she looks more closely at Ethan. Her brother behind her looks grim but is no longer glaring at Ilsa. 

She refocuses on Ethan. He hasn’t moved since she slapped and pushed him back to the ground, hasn’t even turned his head so his face isn’t resting on the floor. His breaths begin to take on a wet quality and she steps over to him with less urgency than she feels. Ilsa pauses when she gets to him as if she’s considering, and carelessly uses her foot to push him up and onto his shoulder, the closest she can get him to the recovery position. 

“Can’t have you dying before my employers get their hands on you can we?” She says, her voice low as she crouches back in front of him, trying to meet his eyes and communicate with just a glance like they used to. His stare is dead ahead, eyes unfocused. There’s a small pool of blood where his face was just resting on the ground, more running from his nose and mouth. It’s concerning, but not enough to be immediately life-threatening alone. She’s not sure if paired with the rest of his injuries and the disassociation it’s a significant concern. 

She stays crouched by him, listening to his breathing and watching his chest rise and fall jerkily, winces as she can his broken ribs flex and expand under the skin that’s practically molded to them he’s so thin. 

Ilsa stands when the outer door opens and the man who counted the money nods. 

The warden looks at them, “It seems our terms have been met, the terrorist is yours. My men will move him to your vehicle. It’s a pleasure to do business with you, perhaps next time we’ll meet under more pleasurable circumstances.”

Ilsa wants to punch the man square in his smug face, maybe whip around his back and break his neck with her thighs. Instead, she nods and motions two guards forward. 

“Carry him. My employers will not appreciate any more damage to the goods.”

The warden translates, and there is a brief bickering back and forth before the guards begrudgingly scoop Ethan up by his feet and under his arms. It’s not a long walk to the roof of the compound, but it still concerns Ilsa that Ethan doesn’t move or flinch throughout the journey no matter how many times the guards carelessly let him bump into the walls of the corridor. 

Outside on the roof, the light rain from when they arrived has lifted, leaving the air damp and chilling to the bone. She instantly wants to shiver and pull her coat tighter around herself.

Ilsa points to the helicopter she arrived in, indicating where she wants the guards to set Ethan. They toss him in, none too gently. She dismisses them with a flick of her hand and they retreat back inside. She nods at Alanna and Zola, as they climb into their own helicopter.

Alanna has to shout over the sound of both helicopters spinning up, “I trust you’ll ensure he’s well healed by the time I need to call on the second half of my payment.”

Ilsa nods again, not needing another reminder of the other half of the agreement, “You have my guarantee.”

She nods to them in dismissal before ducking under the spinning rotors, stepping up into the helicopter, and sliding the door closed with a satisfying thunk when it latches. She reaches forward and taps Brandt, behind the stick of the chopper, on the shoulder, giving him the signal to fly to their first rendezvous point with Luther and Benji. His gaze is focused on Ethan, worry written in every wrinkle of his face. 

As gently as she can she rights Ethan, crouching on the floor and leaning him against the fuselage of the helicopter. He’s still out of it, gaze empty and unfocused. Ilsa blinks back sudden wetness in her eyes and swallows a choking feeling rising in her throat before dragging the first of the multiple medical bags towards her, fishing a pair of medical shears out of a front pocket. She begins to reach behind Ethan to cut the ropes on his hands when he makes an almost imperceptible sound of pain, barely audible over the sound of the helicopter as it lifts in the air. She’d have missed it if she wasn’t leaning over him. As quickly as she can she leans back, gently cradling his body to rest back against the fuselage. His eyes are red and bloodshot, one swollen, and the other already surrounded by bruising. But they are staring directly at her, locked onto her face, his expression a mix of fear and hope, an open book to her always. 

“Ilsa?” He asks in the same shattered voice as before. 

“Yes, it’s me. It’s me.” She drops the medical shears and cups his cheek with one hand, the other cradling the back of his head, her fingers tangling into his hair. 

Ethan is staring at her with so much intensity it’s almost overwhelming. Like she’s an oasis in the desert and he’s drinking her in, a dying man and she’s the thing he needs to survive. He leans his cheek into her palm, pressing into it and nosing into her wrist, eyes falling shut for the briefest moment before they snap open and he pulls his head up like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, eyes locked back on her. 

“You’re real? You’re alive? This is all real?” Ethan’s eyes are brimming with tears and he’s not even trying to blink them away, afraid she’ll disappear if he takes his gaze off of her for even a millisecond.  

She presses a kiss to his forehead, “It’s all real. I’m real, I’m alive. You’re alright, you’re okay.”

Ilsa swipes her thumb over the bruise under his eye, catching a tear as it falls and watching as his face crumples with relief. She pulls him into her, tucking his face into the side of her neck, pressing her own cheek on top of his head, one hand still tangled in his hair, holding. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. We’re both alive. You’ll be okay. The other arm wraps around him carefully, avoiding the worst of the wounds on his back and holding him close for the first time in five months, pressing them together, and wishing she could lay her claim on him. She’ll never be able to protect him entirely, but damn if she doesn’t wish she could. Soon she’s crying too, silent, as Ethan shakes in her hold. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. She thinks. 

They’re safe. Together. Alive. A weight she didn’t know was on her shoulders lifts, relief coursing through her so powerfully it leaves her feeling breathless, overwhelmed, and exhausted. There is a fine tremble running through her hands. She almost didn’t get this; holding him, kissing him, loving him.

The baby kicks, shifts inside of her and she holds back a gasp. The doctor who had performed the surgery on her leg had consulted an OB after confirming she was indeed pregnant. After the surgery, there had been conversations - what to expect and when, how often she should be coming in for check-ups, and more dietary and health recommendations for herself than she wanted to think about. The list had been endless, but she had been out of it with pain, grief over losing Ethan, and overwhelmed with shock that she was pregnant after a lifetime of being told she couldn’t conceive children. But now, thinking back, the doctor had told she’d start to feel kicks and movement around five months. Even with tears on her face, she smiles a bit. He’s already like his father with perfect timing. She presses more kisses to Ethan’s hair, making her way down his face with gentle touches of her lips to his skin, ghosting over his eye, trailing across his cheekbone, and collecting salty tears until she gets to his mouth. He surges up to meet her, pressing them together desperately and with more force than she thought he was capable of. Ilsa smiles into him, god she missed this. 

Meet your dad, little man, he’s the best of us. 

an: anyone catch the sneaky little line of dialogue i stole from rogue nation in there?? title of this fic and the lyrics at the beginning are from the war, by syml. also, xуй means dick in Russian

taglist (i made this from people who showed interest, please don't hesitate to ask to be removed (or added!!), absolutely no hard feelings): @valmare @thethistlegirl @alcafrach @izzypuppybutt

[radiationgroove]

Day to Day

I can finally share my piece for the second volume of the @falloutghoulzine Greetings from Gecko! Much like the first, the second volume was a dream to work on. We'll be having our extras sale soon, so watch this space! Be sure to give this some love over on AO3 too!

It’s almost impossible to pin down what Carol could be daydreaming about. The possibilities, Greta learned long ago, were nearly endless.

Most of the time it was Gob and whatever troubles he was in. The young visitor from Vault 101 to the Northwest told Carol that instead of Gob exploring the world, he’d landed himself in some scummy little dive bar well outside the city. Carols’ mind raced with possibilities: Gob somehow owned this bar, or he was the life of the party, the bartender everyone loved, or was this something more sinister? The Vault Dweller seemed to choose their words too carefully. Was Gob in trouble? Danger? Did he need rescuing? Those fugues were broken with bouts of nostalgia; Greta spent countless nights listening half-heartedly to stories about Gob and the years Carol spent with her adopted son. 

Sometimes she was trapped in thought and wandering centuries in the past. Those were the days Greta tiptoed around her partner, keeping any outside noise in their little hotel to a minimum the best she could. Those were also the days that more often than not began with Carol waking in the middle of the night gasping for air. She whimpered, sobbed, dropped her head into her hands and cried for her Daddy. Greta couldn’t imagine what Carol saw; her ghoulification had come after the Great War when she was old enough to understand what was going on. Carol watched herself fall apart unprepared. 

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Carol to just be sad. She drifted about the hotel like a ghost, face soft and distant. Greta caught her staring at the hallway painting in its gilded frame. Greta knew, once, who painted it, what it was called, but that had since been lost to time. These particular bouts of melancholy were sometimes too much for Greta and too hard to break. She spent longer on her smoke breaks, or tucked away in her kitchen. At the end of the day, separation was best for both of them. 

Greta hid behind her interactions, her abrasion. She didn’t hold back when it came to the quality of her food (for the few tender-stomached smoothskins that managed to linger in their doorway, anyway), or her malice towards Azrukhal and the not-so-friendly competition his bar held across the hallway. Her patience for indecisiveness was thin; you either knew what you wanted at Carol’s Place or you got the hell out. Free time was spent concocting something new to put on the menu, or at least make something more than palatable. 

She didn’t really do “friends”. At the end of the day all she needed was Carol and the little life they’d carved out with each other at Underworld. They’d been together so long it was hard to imagine a day spent without the other. Sometimes, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she wondered if they stayed this way because they always had been.

But, of course, that was nonsense. Love was a rare commodity in the Wasteland, and to have a love that lasted as long as theirs had was rarer still. 

Carol’s Place was quiet today. A few of their friends and neighbors wandered in for breakfast and lunch, but the hours ticked by quietly. Tulip stopped by briefly on her break for the special (nothing at all was “special” about the special) and to drop off her copy of Paradise Lost for Carol to thumb through. Even their full-time boarder, Mister Crowley, made himself scarce with little fanfare. It was quiet, and Greta was glad for it. 

Lost in the depth of her thoughts, Carol stood at the side of the bed she shared with Greta. She slipped a grimy pillow into a slightly less grimy pillowcase and fluffed. And fluffed. She fluffed again for good measure and centered the pillow on the bed. She bent to tuck the sheets into the mattress and smoothed the comforter over top…and paused. 

She was young again, a slip of a thing, all of twenty-six. Carol woke early that morning with the intention of going into town for…who knew? A day of shopping, of selfish consumerism? Sight-seeing, maybe, a stroll through the streets of Washington, DC and take in the Halloween storefronts? Either way, Carol was planning on looking her best. Every blonde lock was tucked perfectly in place. Though her father said she didn’t need it, that she was beautiful as she was, she did her makeup, balancing a face that was all high cheekbones and a strong jawline. Carol smoothed the sheets and comforter over the crisp corners of her bed. It was shaping up to be a beautiful October day. The grandfather clock downstairs in the foyer struck nine o’clock in the morning with distant gong. Her father came barreling into the house, slamming the door behind him. 

Father sped to the bunker. Chaos was still in the process of erupting around them. The streets didn’t feel any busier than normal, but people were pouring out of homes with duffle bags and suitcases. Sirens blared high above the city. The longer the sirens sounded, the faster her father drove. A crowd began to gather around the public fallout shelter; the car had barely stopped before Carol was commanded to run. Her father wasn’t far behind. 

Until he wasn’t.

Another siren. Carol stopped only a moment, turning back to check on him. A mother, a woman barely older than herself, was struggling with her twin toddlers and new baby. Her father stopped to help, to gather the children in his arms. An explosion shook the ground beneath her feet. A flash of light blinded her. Someone grabbed her arm; she screamed. The shelter door closed behind her and the survivors were plunged into darkness. 

It was too quiet. Greta wondered if this was what parents talked about before the Great War; if the children were quiet, there was usually trouble. Wiping her hands on the apron tied about her waist, Greta peeked around salvaged hospital dividers and down the little hallway. Carol remained frozen at the corner of their bed. 

“Carol?” Greta murmured, stepping slowly down the hall. Carol startled. “Hon, you okay?”  It broke Greta’s heart that the woman she’d spent decades with was so distant.

When they emerged once again, blinking into the sunlight, Carol was face to face with the blackened shape of her father scorched into the wall. She was sick all over the ground. The survivors from the shelter staggered about while DC burned. She just followed her feet forward. Always forward. The Museum of History, a place she treasured visits with her father, a place that would eventually become known to the Wasteland at large as “Underworld,” became a sanctuary. Then it became a home. 

It wasn’t until her skin began to peel that she knew there was a problem. Great chunks of it sloughed off all over. Carol spent panicked mornings in the museum restroom examining the changes; what sort of twisted puberty had the bombs brought? Then it was her hair. Her beautiful blonde hair was falling out fistfuls at a time. Between losing her hair and staring at a face full of exposed muscle, it was a wonder Carol didn’t lose her mind as so many did in those first few years. 

Carol blinked slowly. Greta didn’t look like Greta for a moment, just a mess of missing skin and clumps of hair that turned her stomach. It was like looking in the mirror in those early days when she was in pain and her body was falling apart. Panic swelled in her chest. 

“Hey…hey, you’re okay.” Greta kept space between them for fear of startling Carol further. She lingered some feet away from the bed. To Carol, “okay” couldn’t be further from the truth.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and eventually there was nothing Carol could do to stop the floodgates. They rolled down her cheeks unbidden. Her lips quivered and tension she didn’t know she was holding her shoulders released. Greta sighed and finally closed the gap between the two of them. Carol sobbed as she buried her face in Greta’s neck.

Helplessness was Greta’s least favorite feeling. More than anger, more than disgust, more than malice, it was helplessness. She couldn’t help Carol, not in any way that made a difference as far as she was concerned. All she could do was hold her. Greta carded her fingers through Carol’s hair while peppering her face with kisses. 

They sank into the freshly made bed, Greta pulling Carol into her lap. Across the desk, the door opened. The quiet creak was enough to draw Greta’s attention away. Winthrop stood in the doorway and suddenly felt very awkward. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Carol’s tears or…no it was definitely Greta’s glare penetrating into his soul that made him turn tail and close the door behind him. 

What had he come here for? Whatever it was he needed could wait.

The breath slowly returned to Carol’s lungs. The trembling deep in her shoulders and the knot in the pit of her stomach lessened. Her grip on Greta relaxed. Tears still rolled uneven tracks down her cheeks, but Carol was coming back into her body and her mind. Soon all they heard was the buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead and their own soft, synchronized breathing. 

“Carol? You with me?” 

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m here, Greta”

“Good.”

Greta pressed barely-there kisses to Carol’s forehead and stroked the back of her arm. “Do you need anything?”

Carol sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “No, I don’t think so.”

Another moment of long silence; Greta wasn’t going to pry as to what had brought this on. The options flipped through her mind once again: Gob, her ghoulification, just because? It was impossible to know what made Carol sad. 

All Greta knew is that her girl needed her.

[viperra1]

THEY TOOK BOONE.

The floor of his room in Lucky 38 was littered with bolts and screws, just waiting to be fixed into something more tangible. The Courier furrowed his brow, distracted by the frantic noises from the hall. Again. He had to hop through the trash to get to his door. "Hey, y'all, quick question – can a man have some fucking silence in his own damn house?" The noises stopped. Veronica looked at him, eyes wide and gaping from some sort of a mix between panic, pain and worry. "Six..." Ah. His guts felt like they were put in cold Siberian water. "No. Where's Boone? You were with him." The Courier paused, heartbeat quickening. He did not breathe. "He's still at McCarran?" Veronica could not utter another word. "Six..." The other people in the hall were quiet, standing around the corners, just... watching. Waiting, maybe. He did not know, and neither did he care. Finally, Gannon took the lead, laying a hand on devastated Veronica. He took a quick look at the back of her head. Injury? "McCarran was attacked by the Legion soldiers, Six. They... took captives. A captive." "...I see." Even though his palm now turned hot and sweaty, was still holding the door handle. He stood still, looking at every single person in this room – the people who's gone to battle with him, who took care of him, took care of each other and of the people that they all were oh, so tirelessly trying to save, day after day after day. The rage that he felt got nothing to do with them. He already has the crimson red look, so, well. With the level of burning, scorching, bloodlust rage he felt, this famous God damned Bull might as well be him right now. "Okay," he took a deep breath, exhale long and shuddering with anger. "Right... Get ready, folks. We're going to fucking war." He turned to Veronica, then. "You did good." If his smile was more murderous than thankful, well. His people would not hold a grudge.

details and grayscale!! i'm really proud of this piece :)

hewwo!! if any of you got to the end of the post – i am writing a fic with this courier oc x boone!! let me know if you'd be interested in reading it 🥺 i'm still too easily discouraged when in comes to writing, so support will be MUCH appreciated!!!!

[starlightwoofwoof]

Well, since you're taking some requests, how bout some CaramelPopcorn fluff after their Akumatization? Kinda like some comfort after the hurt (plus I'm a fucking SUCKER for the ship) X3 Also your art is adorable!!

H E C K Y E A H

(wasn’t sure which way to go around, so I did both ways lol)

and as I like to do for other posts for this AU, here’s some yapping lol

First of all, yes, I did forget Rad’s hat in the first one 💀 (Kevin is supposed to have his hat missing, due to it being the corrupted item-)

Second of all, since I haven’t done Radford’s/The Glitch’s chapter yet, here’s how I think after the defeat would go-

I imagine Rad would be pretty upset after he was defeated, cause y’know, he tried super hard not to become a victim, so Kevin decided to try to cheer him up by being silly with his now broken 3D glasses ❤️💙✨

……… also is it Caramelpopcorn?? I’ve just been calling it Caramelcorn for some reason-

[demodraws0606]

People complaining about Tsukasa5 already are pissing me off, because like, it's so unbelievably obvious what this event is trying to do and the fact that people are so hung up on "urgh dur tsukasa strong why can't he do a wall climb".

Like, first of all, a lot of Tsukasa's strength has been used as comedy before and also it's never been said that Tsukasa could specifically do a wall climb before so people calling this a retcon or a stretch is really dumb to me.

Sure we can make jokes about it, but this is not like a serious writing problem or anything.

Also are we just gonna ignore the fact this event is literally just a reference to his 3rd event in a silly trenchcoat. Or the fact that this is obviously meant to be WxS's downtime and training arc to prepare them to face the loose plotpoints in the future?

His inner dialogue when chasing the ninja is very clearly a reference to the whole Pheonix thing, how he can't reach it no matter how hard he tries.

The wall climb is like an extremely fucking on the nose metaphor to him climbing over his issues as an actor.

THERE IS ALSO THE WHOLE THING THAT HINTS THAT TSUKASA CAN ONLY OVERCOME HIS PROBLEMS IF HE HAS HELP FROM OTHERS (AKA tsukasa would've literally BEEN INJURED, if it wasn't for the fact the troupe's leader was there).

In fact this literally followed an event aka Tsukasa 4 where he FAILED to do his role correctly.

It's almost like this event is meant to be a transition point between Tsukasa 4 and 6, where Tsukasa builds up the knwoledge on how to face his problems.

But no this is just mid event because it's very silly and "wow plot is stupid why can't tsukasa wall climb".

WxS fans are slowly just turning into VBS fans in terms of how whiney they're being i swear

[oneluckydragon]

Twig enjoyed going for walks alone. It turned out she liked to go for walks with company even more.

Go read The Present is a Gift by @sincerely-sofie. Her lovely characters Ark and Twig are always on my mind.

[miquella-everywhere]

Fromsoft legit just made us the villain of the DLC huh

[coldercreation]

Life update (GOOD)<3

Heyy all! Just quickly dropping in with a lil note because I feel like I’ve been less focused on the writing-front as of recent, and more inactive here in general :’)

Thank you to everyone who’s been commenting on my writing and/or left me messages and prompts this year and recently, I absolutely adore you all. I have started many a draft based on the prompts I’ve gotten, and there’s plenty more I still want to get to. Thank you for sharing your ideas with me, they genuinely help me with motivation and writing (even though I haven’t managed to finish anything substantial in a while…)

I always say it but I really just appreciate you all a lot<3

As to why I have been more inactive responding or writing/updating in general, well…

Life has just been really, really good lately? Consistently. All the time.

I’m starting to tentatively trust that the worst is well over with my health stuff/treatment, and I’m feeling so much better compared to where I started that it baffles me daily?? I kinda feel like I have a new brain - and a new life. As in, I feel fully Alive for the first time since I was a kid, pretty much.

I have so much energy. / I just go and do things now. / I might actually be an extrovert??? (I’m having a culture shock rediscovering my own damn post-chronic health issue personality lol) / Anxiety and depression, who are they? Turns out I can feel a healthy amount of sad or upset, and it’s not all consuming. / I feel anger now! And it's great lmao! / Even bad days feel like decent days compared to my past days / I have always been interested in other people, but now I have the energy to show it better and engage, without burning out before I even open my yapper. / I feel like I’m connecting with people so much easier and better, and I’m having such a good time!!! / I’m actively trying to come up with new things to do with all the time and energy I now have. I’m still figuring this one out, because yeah, it’s a culture shock, after spending my whole adult life actively avoiding things just because I didn’t have the energy for anything (Tell me your hobbies and interests!! Indoor-outdoor-solo-social??) / I feel grounded in my own body and feel present / I finally feel a sense of ‘Future’ and I'm able look forward to things, instead of being in a constant survival mode and feeling stuck in it. / I’ve started to truly FEEL things, not just think things. I’ve started to want things. And not want things. And like things. And dislike things. Anything but the mild-indifference I am/was used to. / I can get through a work day without falling a sleep. Hell, I did a 13 hour shift the other week and still had the want and the energy to go for a run, after?! I felt possessed and a bit feral with power that day lmao! / AND SO MUCH MORE and BETTER and AAAAAAA 

I tear up regularly because I suddenly out of nowhere realise ‘wow, what the fuck, I feel so great??’

I really thought ‘better’ wasn’t in the cards for me after living literal decades feeling ‘not-good-at-all’. 

But mann, I think this is already better than the better I thought I’d never get to feel xx

[radskull-69]

Could u make a short one-shot about Bob Velseb x Y/n plz!! Also I love your work!

plot: Bob is your boss who has always sweet on you and does things he wouldn’t normally do for his employees, like defend them against a wild Karen or give them breaks for longer then an hour….blow up your messages every night.

You resisted the urge to even hav your eye twitch in agitation (hell, to not leap over this counter!) as the older woman across from you behind the counter was going off at you, they hadn’t even ordered yet.

something about us murdering animals when we should’ve been selling vegan meat.

honestly, you didn’t get it. If you don’t want meat in your food don’t come to a diner with MEAT!

“I am sick of you monsters butchering up poor defenceless animals! I wanna see your manager!” Her manicured hand slammed down onto the counter, her screeching voice ringing out around the shop and making other customers either give you annoyed glared or sympathetic looks.

yet no one came in to help, you’d give them the finger if you could. But your too much of a pussy to do that, and you value this job.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” The woman jabs a finger at you, making you lean back as she got more and more hostile. “Do you not care for animals? You disgusting-!”

“What’s all dis’ ruckus about? Heard someone wanted me.” A deep southern voice sounded out behind you, tilting your head up you were met with bob looming over you and casting a large shadow over the now (finally) quiet woman.

Oh great, one of the other employees must of went and got him for you. Awesome.. this is just gonna make matters worse.

“I-I.. yes! I wanted to tell you that your employee here won’t sell me any vegan burgers.” The woman finally fixes her scared look and with a stumble goes back to glaring, though no longer yelling.

“Hmm, well. If ya haven’t notice yet.” Bob leaned forward to rest his arm heavily on the counter, even though you were in-front of him. So now while he bended over to do just that you had to bend over slightly as well as to not get crushed from him, face beer red as you kept your eyes trained to the red counter

“This is a diner, not a front yawn where ya munch of grass.” Despite his usual large grin it was obviously strained and his eyes were wide and full of warning, you shivered. Glad to not be on the other end of the stick of that.

“Well- excuse you-!” Before the woman could even finish her sentence with a look of high offence she suddenly shut up, and it almost looked like the blood drained from her face as if a vampire sucked it out.

You wondered what kind of look Bob must’ve given her to scare her so because with a stutter she was out the door before you could blink.

You stood there in confusion and once again tilted your head up curiously to look at bob’s face but were only met with a much softer look and worry on his features, one of his large hands coming up to your shoulder and turning you to face him better.

”you doin’ alright darlin’? Sorry ya had ta’ deal with that witch longer then ya had ta’, saw her comin’ awfully close to ya though..” his brows furrow, creating a worry line between them as I looks you over. You only let out a nod and a ‘uh huh’ as he did so, painfully aware of the stares some of the customers where giving you at the moment still.

“I’m fine, just a bit spooked is all. But I’ve been working in customer service for years so it’s nothing I can’t handle” you wave off his concerns and gently grabbed the hand that was tugging on the collar of your uniform to check for any unhidden injuries, you didn’t need your boss of all people to accidentally look down your shirt.

“Hmm.. if ya say so, but I think you deserve a break. A thirty min- no, a full hour break. With me, in my office.” Bob nodded to himself and the worry was washed off his face and instead replaced with a look of satisfaction with his arrangement he made up for you.

“Oh no- it’s fine, really! I don’t want to bother-“ you were scooting away from bob with a polite smile but his arm wrapped around your torso and before you could say anything more he was already leading you through the staff door and to his office as he chuckled in earnest

“Nonsense! I made ya some lunch for yer’ break actually an’ I wanna have yer’ opinion on em’. Remember? I sent ya a text about it last night while I was makin’ em. There yer’ face food right?” He tilted his head down to you for affirmation as he shut his door behind him, his arm finally leaving your torso with a slight linger you didn’t notice

you sighed and nodded, he kept you a bit past your bedtime with his texts, like he did almost every night. You didn’t speak up on the matter of your sleep schedule being interrupted and instead sat at one of the two leather chairs infront of his desk facing towards it

“Mhm, thanks again Bob.” You shot him a genuine smile, grateful for the free food. And a added plus of bob being a damn good cook.

“Of course!” He strolled up to you from behind as you sat in the seat, hands setting themselves on your shoulders heavily as he leaned down to your level to chuckle lowly in your ear. The grip on your shoulders tightening just a fraction as you tensed.

“Anythin’ for my favourite lil employee~”

[radical-sky]

just a little bored, i'm feeling crummy ilsa/ethan one-shot. post dead reckoning part 2. nothing explicit, but very much so implied. no beta, just something i punched out quickly on my computer.

UPDATE: edited and posted on ao3 here

Ethan isn't sure what woke him up, but he's not complaining. Ilsa is warm and soft, tucked against him, face peaceful and relaxed in sleep. A strand of hair pulled from the braid she never took out has fallen across her face, breaking the line of her jaw, the soft curve of her cheek. He pulls an arm from where they're wrapped around her and tucks the hair behind her ear. She dyed it dark auburn, nearly the same shade as when they first met, before they settled at this safe house almost three weeks ago. His hand lingers on her face, fingers brushing over her cheek before moving to her neck, settling on her pulse point. He focuses on the steady beat under his fingers, the easy thrum of her heart pumping blood through her veins. He counts the beats, each one a visceral reminder that Ilsa is alive, here with him. The year of his life when he thought she was dead nothing more than bad memories now. He forgave her the moment she revealed herself to him, pulling him from the proverbial cliff and saving his life in more ways than one. They’d beaten The Entity, defeated the machine together, and killed Gabriel along with it. 

It’s been six months and Ethan is the most peaceful he’s ever felt. He’d been weary after Venice, exhausted in a way that settled deep in his bones and didn’t lift no matter how much he slept - or tried to. The grief of Ilsa’s death had weighed on him, haunted him in a way he never could’ve imagined. After the Entity, all he wanted was rest. Peace. Slow mornings, easy days, evenings wrapped up with Ilsa. A future without the fate of the world on his shoulders.

The safehouse they’re in now is remote, completely off grid. A cabin Ilsa set up early in her MI6 career, deep in Northern Sweden, nestled amongst steep mountains and well hidden in a dense forest. There’s no electricity except for a small diesel generator that powers the water pump and some lights if they need them. The single room is heated by a wood burning stove. It’s cozy, intimate, and domestic in a way he hasn’t experienced in almost 20 years. This is what freedom feels like. 

Ilsa is warm against him, bare skin pressed against his where they’re still wrapped together, touching everywhere they can. Even in sleep they both want the reminder that the other is there. The blankets trap their heat and keep them comfortable, but he can feel the chill of the air in the room on his face. They’d gotten distracted the previous evening and forgotten to fill the stove before losing themselves in each other. Ethan tightens his grip around Ilsa, pulling her impossibly closer and tucking his face into space between her shoulder and neck, kissing, tasting, always imprinting every bit of her to memory. 

As carefully as he can, Ethan extracts himself from her, slipping out of bed silently. He collects clothes as he makes his way across the cabin; soft sweatpants, wool socks, and an even softer flannel before he shrugs into his jacket, shoves his feet into leather boots and steps outside to grab wood and kindling for the stove. The air outside the cabin is cold enough to knock the breath from his lungs, and he quickly fills the canvas log carrier, the moon bright in the sky, forest around him muted and muffled under more snow. He slips inside, stepping out of his boots before making his way to the stove. It doesn’t take him long to fill the small stove, the little blaze warming the interior and quickly brightening the room with warm and soft light. He’s stacking the rest of the wood into the small rack next to the stove when he feels arms wrap around him from behind. In the past, he’d be raising into a defensive position, taking ahold of his attacker. His body doesn’t even tense, long relaxed, defenses shut down knowing Ilsa is the only one near him. Ethan smiles, looking up at her, and pressing back into her as she steps up and meets his body with hers. 

“I distracted you last night and the stove went out, didn’t it?” She asks, voice soft as she grins down at him. 

He brushes the bits of wood from his hands and brings them up to clasp her arms. She also picked up clothing as she made her way across the cabin and he rubs his hands across the sleeves of his own sweater she’s wearing before he pushes it up her arm. Gently, he kisses the inside of her wrist, finding her pulse yet again before he trails kisses up to her palm. 

“I’ll let you distract me anytime.” He stands and turns as he says it, slow as his knees and bad leg complain. She’s there as he rises, expression soft, happy. Ilsa takes his face in her hands, fingers already cold against his skin. He meets her halfway. The kiss is slow, gentle. Passion behind it but no urgency. They have all the time in the world. Ethan’s hand tangles in her hair, further messes up the braid, then other pulls her close, needing her body against his. 

“Come back to bed, darling, warm me up.” She’s barely pulled away from him, and her lips brush his still as she speaks. 

Ethan nods against her, hands still roaming, tucking under the borrowed sweater, fitting themselves around her waist. She works at the jacket he never took off, and he lets go of her only long enough to shrug out of it. It’s several minutes before they make it back the bed, lost and distracted in each other. 

They tuck together again, lips flushed but bodies still freezing, arms wrapped around the other, holding. Her face is tucked into his chest, and Ethan can feel her gentle smile as they settle against one another. Idly, he traces patterns on her back, working his way around her chest, and resting on the sweater where he knows the scar on her left shoulder is. 

“Ethan…” she begins, knowing where his head his going, a conversation they’ve already had many times. 

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you died Ilsa. I can’t imagine this without you. I don’t know if I would’ve walked away from the Sevastopol if you hadn’t been there.” 

Ilsa takes his hand, and moves it down, pressing it over her heart. 

“It’s in the past, Ethan. It’s not worth thinking about. I’m right here, I’ll always be here.”

Ethan leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. 

“This is all I want Ilsa. Life with you, whatever that means. I never want to wake up without you.”

She shifts against him, this isn’t the way this conversation usually goes. Normally he starts talking about the mission, blaming himself. Saying he should’ve gotten to the bridge faster, planned differently.

“Ethan, you know that’s what I want too, life together. Just us.” Ilsa pulls pushes her fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, tangling into the still too-long strands. 

“I love you Ethan.”

He pulls her closer to him. How did he get this? How did he almost lose this?

“I love you too Ilsa, more than you’ll ever know.” 

They hardly need to move to press their lips together, slowly opening up to one another, touch tender and revenant as they undress each other. Ethan is smiling, eyes crinkled at the edges but happy. Ilsa grins back.

God he loves her. He loves this. He is hers, she is his. He never could have dreamed of a future so complete, filled with so much joy. He doesn’t hurry, hands slow as he explores her body, they have their whole future together, and he intends to enjoy it.

[radiationgroove]

Commission: Gob

A Valentine's Day commission piece off Discord. Enjoy!

He needed out.

Gob spent too much time within the walls of the saloon while living in Moriarty’s servitude. He knew every spot of rust in the corrugated metal, every crack in the floor, every regulars’ order. Between the beatings and the beratements, he dreamt of sunlight and fresh air. His days consisted of little more than tending bar on few hours of sleep and trying to put the vision of Nova escorting a customer upstairs out of his mind.

Everything changed for him when the Irishman was found deader than dead in his bed. No one grieved for Colin Moriarty, and he was buried outside of town with little ceremony. No one questioned it. 

The bar was his, almost by default it seemed. Nova helped him barter for some paint and one obscenely large sign later, the two of them christened it “Gobs’ Saloon.” Little about his routine changed, really, except the unspoken freedom. Nova retired, as it were, put sex work behind her. Gob continued to tend the bar, but he was no longer looking over his shoulder for a shadow and jumping at every unexpected sound.  Well…less frequently anyway. Some habits were hard to break.

And he could leave! Whenever he wanted to! He could take walks through Megaton, which he did. He’d fill his pockets with caps, just in case, and wander. Somehow, in all the years he’d spent here since leaving Underworld, there were still people he hadn’t met. He explored all of the walkways, visited Moira at the supply shop, and, at his bravest, waded through the water surrounding the bomb, just to listen to the Children of Atom preach and soak up some rads.

Gob liked the Brass Lantern across the center of town. Jenny was nice enough, as was Leo despite his…difficulties. Andy didn’t care much for the ghoul, and glared daggers every time Gob sat at the lunch counter. Which, he supposed, was all right by Gob.. Jenny served him nonetheless. Gob must have tried everything on the menu at least once. So the Brass Lantern became a visit for Gob once, sometimes twice a week. He needed a new routine, he decided, a nice thing to do for himself after a long day.

Gob never really had the urge to venture outside the safety of Megaton’s walls. Yes, he missed Carol (and Greta, if he was being honest with himself) and Underworld dearly, but Megaton became home sweet home. Noodles were tonights’ dinner of choice. Jenny’d given him chopsticks; Gob gladly fumbled with them while he ate.

Somewhere in the metal framework of Megaton, a close, dull thunk. He startled, his noodles falling back into the bowl. Gob remained very still. Megaton was, largely, a safe place to live; surely nothing could be lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce. Gob sat at the counter at the Brass Lantern in silence. He dared not move a muscle. Somehow, the center of town was nearly empty; the Children of Atom preacher had even called it quits for the night. Across the street he could just barely hear Doc Church typing up records on his terminal from an open window. If Gob needed a hero he’d be screwed.

But something did indeed lurk.

A blurr of gray and white shifted out of the shadows. It ran across the roof of the restaurant and jumped from the awning of the restaurant to the first empty stool. 

“Mrrp!”

The sound landed beside him. A single glowing eye blinked up at Gob.

A cat.

When was the last time he’d seen a cat? 

“Uh…hi,” Gob mumbled, suddenly very self conscious that he was talking to a cat. It was a ball of dirty white and gray fur. That single eye was milky white and the other looked to be missing all together. “Where’d you come from? How’d you get way up there?” 

The cat gave its face a little wash with the back of its paw and looked at Gob expectantly. With shaking hand, the ghoul reached out…and the cat, this sweet creature, leaned into his touch. Rubbed its face into his palm. Gob allowed himself a smile and scratched behind the cats ear.

 “I guess we’re friends now, huh?” Gob offered with a shrug. “You wanna come back to the saloon with me?”

“Mrrp,” the cat chirped in response. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he decided with a little nod, “which wouldn’t be a bad thing. Not like we have pests or anything, which…I’m not sure you’d be big enough to take care of a rat or something…” Gob paused, head cocked to one side. The cat blinked. “You’re gonna need a name.”

The cat stretched and climbed onto the bar. Gob’s bowl of noodles seemed inviting. The cat sniffed at the chopsticks…and stuck a paw into the bowl.

“Get your feet outta there!”

[tswwwit]

How is the part fifth of the cult AU going?

Don't want you to feel pressure with the ask, feel free to ignore it. Take care❤️

It's currently just shy of 5k! I took a break for a bit, but momentum has returned. And I have some very fun scenes in mind I think people will like!

[noxturnalnymph]

Hand Model Joel has a choke-hold on me (pun intended)....

There's a reason that I have about two dozen of these watch-modeling photos downloaded to my phone and that reason is not because I like watches....... 👀

This story did things to me that I didn't expect it to... It might do the same things to you too.... that's your only warning. 🤷‍♀️

This story made my 2023 Fanfic Wrapped list (LINKED HERE). I urge you to check out this story and also peruse this writer's body of work to see what else might tickle your fancy (aka make your loins tingle). 🫶 Please Like/Reblog/Share the Love

'Get a Grip' (18+)

Watch Model!Joel Miller x Manicurist!Reader

Word Count: 3,8k

Summary: Joel Miller comes to your salon for a manicure, then he invites you to assist him during a photoshoot.

Tags: afab!Reader, hand kink, glove kink, finger sucking, fingering, p-in-v, creampie

a/n: this story came about during a brief discussion of Pedro’s watch modeling era a few weeks ago. Thank you to @xdaddysprincessxx and @iamasaddie for the inspo!

+++++++

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job.

Every once in a while someone will walk in with a nice set of digits and you admire them while they’re in front of you. While you push back their cuticles and clean beneath the nail. Add the acrylic and the polish. Then they’re out of your mind again as you wait for the next client to plop into the chair and request a full set or a simple repair. 

Your repeat clients usually want the nail art. That’s where you shine, to be honest. Delicately painted swirls. Boxes like Mondrian. Gold leaf. Rhinestones. Each nail a tiny little canvas for you to create something unique.

The male customers are different. The masculine ones, anyway.

They want simple hygienic maintenance. Maybe a massage. Maybe they just wanna flirt with a woman while she provides a service. And you appease them. It’s no bother to you.

It’s your job.

It’s just your job.

It’s the thing you do all the time every day and have done for years.

And yet no matter how many times you try to repeat those words in your head, you find yourself salivating over the man sitting across from you–with his playful baritone Texan voice and the beautiful steel and gold Cartier watch on his wrist. Not that you’re one to dig for gold. You simply admire fine craftsmanship.

Just like you admire the fineness of his hands.

The veins that rise on the top of his right hand, over his fingerbones, look like wandering rivers and you really wanna admire them with the tip of your tongue, tracing along their edges. His fingers themselves are long, thick rectangles that you wanna slip into your mouth one at a time.

In simple …admiration. 

“Not too smooth,” he says when you pull out your buffer. “They don’t want me lookin’ too clean.”

“Who’s that?” you ask, keeping your voice nice and even while your cheeks feel hot and your thoughts are a million miles away from ‘appropriate’.

“The… oh, whaddya call ‘em.” He hums. “The brand specialists, I guess.” He chuckles. “They hit me up about a month ago. Got a new line coming out that’s–get this–” he says with a flash of his eyebrows. “--’safari’ inspired.” He scoffs.

“Safari, huh?” You roll your eyes.  You can imagine the Cartier boardroom of pompous old Frenchmen glorifying the art and tales created during the French expansion of the 1800s—easily brushing past the eugenics-based mission of the violent nationalists. “Colonizers,” you mumble under your breath.

Joel laughs. “My daughter said the same thing.” He shrugs. “‘S no matter. I don’t mind takin’ their money if all I gotta do is have pretty hands.”

Your face burns immediately and keep your eyes and face focusing on the small nail at the end of his middle finger. “So, how’d you get started anyway?” You swallow thickly, trying to ignore the heat building between your legs. “No offense, I guess, but you don’t seem like the pretty boy-type.” Besides the watch on his wrist, he’s wearing plain Levi’s blue jeans and a black t-shirt that you can almost guarantee came from Target. You can tell his brown and grey curls don’t have any product in them and he’s got about two or three-week-old scruff on his face. 

He chuckles again and you glance up, watching the deep creases in his forehead soften. “Daughter’s the one to blame for it.” He shakes his head with a smile. “We were visiting Houston and she wanted to go shopping, so I let her pick the mall.” His brows go high. “This little 12 year-old picked a luxury mall and I didn’t realize it til we got outta the truck.” 

Your lips go between your teeth, imagining his embarrassment. 

“She was so excited, too. She hopped down out the truck and–fyoo!--took right off runnin.” He grins. “I had to chase her down and tell her not to touch anythin. I woulda had to take out a second mortgage to pay for it if she broke somethin.”

“I bet,” you smile. You finish buffing his nails and pull out the moisturizing oil. You begin to massage each of his fingers, one-by-one, rolling the flesh between your thumb and index finger, marveling at how long it takes you to get from base to tip. You were admiring the mathematics of it. 

The proportions. 

The number of fingers he might could get inside you.

“Next thing I know, she goes runnin into a Cartier store sayin that they can fix my watch ‘cause they got watches in the window.” He shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I was tryin to politely escort her back out, when some big wig saw me and started talkin to me.” He shrugs again. “They took a couple polaroids and got my info. And now every once in a while, they’ll call me up for somethin.”

You stop massaging and stare at him with your eyes big and wide. “I know women who would literally murder to have that happen to them.”

He chuckles and it gets your body even warmer. “Yeeaahh, that’s what I hear.”

You shake your head in disbelief, returning to your task. You can believe his story, too. You’ve only been staring at his hands for a few minutes and you are enraptured by them. Is it the hands? Or is it him?

Or is it all of it together?

You’re not sure. You’re just enjoying the muscle you feel beneath the surface of his nearly square palm, the thick round meat between the web of his thumb and the end of his wrist. You can’t help but admire the basin in the center where the heart and head line lie parallel. Not that you were a palm reader. But you couldn’t help but know a thing or two about the intuitive art.

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job, afterall.

“What do you do for work?” you ask, because hands like his were used. Too thick not to be. They couldn’t just sit pretty all day.

“I’m a contractor.”

You blink. You look up at him with your brows high into your forehead. “These are not contractor hands,” you say, stroking along his palm. You don’t see a single cut or abrasion. The few calluses he had could barely be considered calluses at all. More like small rough spots.

“I wear special gloves,” he says with a smirk. “It’s a special kind of leather that fits around ‘em real tight.”

“Oh,” you answer, heat fully overtaking your chest and face. You imagine how nice his fingers must look wrapped in a second skin, smoothing over all his contours and lines, making each appendage even thicker and his hands even broader. You imagine what they would feel like, sliding up your bare calves and pulling you apart at the knees. You imagine the soft, conditioned leather moving back and forth across your clit, driving you mad ‘cause your aching for his skin and his touch and his heat.

“You know, I uhh… got a shoot coming up in a couple weeks. I’d love to see you again.”

Your heart races in your chest.

He smirks, his eyes soft and hazy. “You know, since you’re doin’ such a good job takin care o’ my hands right now.”

“Absolutely,” you try to temper your excitement. “Just give me the date, time, and place.” You shrug in a way that you’re sure is very nonchalant. “I mean, I-I-I can come to you if you need me to.” The Pope himself could have an appointment scheduled, and you would cancel it without regret if this man is implying what you are desperately hoping he is implying.

“Well, alright then.” He grins.

—------------

You’re pressed into the door of the hotel room–the one right next to where Joel just finished his photoshoot. He’s got one arm wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling your face into his. His kisses are heavy and fervent. His tongue licks into you in a way that makes you want it even deeper–makes you wanna swallow him whole and keep him inside you. One of his hands is gloved–in one of the ‘special gloves’ he told you about. It’s a camel-colored leather, hand-stitched and form-fitting. And it is definitely not one he uses for work. They fit tight around the heel of his palm, like driving gloves. Must have gotten a new pair from Cartier themselves. 

His gloved hand is under your shirt, sliding up your mid-section and grasping your breast. You gasp and moan into his mouth when he starts pinching and plucking your nipple. 

“Open up for me,” he says after pulling away from you. 

And when you do, he shoves two fingers between your lips, the rest of his hand resting on your cheek, your head still cradled by his arm.

“Good girl,” he coos with a smirk. “Good girl.” He grinds his hardness into your side.

You’re melting into the door behind you, into him, into your own body. You close your lips and suck, not quite sure what to do or how to turn him on. You curl your lips beneath your teeth and slowly bob your head back and forth.

“No no no. Not like that,” he chides you. “This ain’t no cock in your mouth.” He shakes his head. “They’re my fingers.” His eyes are wide and serious. “And I don’t want you thinkin ‘bout anythin else but that. Alright, darlin?” He’s nodding up and down, waiting for you to mirror him.

You nod back the best you can and adapt.  You press the two fingers into the roof of your mouth and suck hard, scraping them along your teeth as you pull your head back. Your lips are wrapped tight around them. You rub your tongue back and forth between them as you engulf them again. You watch him as he watches you through heavy eyelids.

“Good girl,” he says again and licks his lips. His gloved hand moves to your other breast, squeezing it with a rough grip. “Good fuckin girl. Suck those fingers,” he says and you can feel him wiggle them in your mouth. 

You go weak in the knees and you’re not sure how you’re able to stay upright. By the grace of god, you’re able to reach up and grab his hand. You pull his fingers out and then take only one finger back inside. 

He watches you, curious, twisting your nipple in his hand.

Then you add the second finger back in, sucking it. Wetting it. Drool pooling around the edges of your mouth.

You pull those two out and then you suck three fingers in–not as deep and they’re scraping against your teeth more, but you try to give that third finger some extra attention, tracing along the bottom of it with the tip of your tongue.

“You want it bad, huh?” He looks like he’s scowling, but he’s still grinding against you–hard as ever.

You nod.

“You want my hands all over you, baby?” He applies the smallest amount of pressure to his bare, wet fingers in your mouth, causing you to gag. 

Tears tumble out the edges of your eyes as you nod.

He pulls his hands away from you and steps back. “I need you on that bed. Naked. Now."

You rush to do as he says, removing all your clothes in a flurry. You barely register the low hum of the A/C and the cool temperature of the room. You’re too focused on the towering man walking towards you, your legs spreading of their own accord.

His lips are tight and he sucks in a deep breath. "That is one good lookin pussy." He unbuckles his belt and rips it from the loops of his jeans. His eyes roam over your body as he tosses it to the side, the buckle thudding against the carpet. He tugs his t-shirt up his stomach and over his head. "Can't wait to make it mine."

Once his jeans are off and he's just as bare as you (except for the glove on his hand), he waves for you to scoot back before joining you. 

Joel settles himself on his side, propped up on his elbow. He makes no move toward his hardened cock. Instead, the hand you were sucking on before finds your face again–cradling it. And this time, his thumb tucks itself between your lips. 

You suck on it like a straw. 

"How many o’ these you think you can fit in there?" He says. But he’s not referring to your mouth. His gloved hand has found its way between your legs and folds. One lone finger is prodding at your wet entrance. He squints and looks down as he pulls it back out–only having gone in an inch or two. The tip of his glove glistens in the warm glow of the room's lamps. He looks back at you with a grin, sliding his finger in deeper. "Wonder if I can fit em all." He bites his lip as he stares at yours, plunging his finger in and out. "Fuck you with my whole hand."

You close your eyes and moan.

"Yeah? That sound good to you?" He adds a second finger, pushing both into you slowly.

You open your eyes and nod eagerly–humming in agreement. His thumb tugs at your cheek from inside your mouth. 

Joel chuckles. "Nah, not this time." He licks his lips. His eyelids are heavy. “My cock’s too hungry for it.”

 You pull his thumb out of your mouth. You lick his palm, tracing the deep creases with your tongue. "Whatever you want."

He curses under his breath.

His two gloved fingers curl and stroke your inner walls and while the sensation is high-pitched and pleasing, you're more focused on properly worshiping his bare hand. 

Your tongue leaves his palm and you turn his hand over so you can suck the knuckles. Fulfilling one of the many fantasies you've had about Joel since first meeting him. You swirl your tongue around the hill of bone beneath the skin before lowering your mouth and suckling. 

Joel groans. "You love it that much, huh?" He curls his fingers, scraping against your inner clitoris muscle. "Love sucking on me?"

"Yeah," you whimper as your hips jump. 

"Fuck, that’s what I like to hear." Joel removes the two gloved fingers from inside you. He glides them up and around your folds, spreading your slick and teasing your clit. 

It feels …different–how the hard and thin seams of the glove create an added sensation. A starker tease alongside the languid movement of his hand. 

You look down in time to see Joel adding a third finger inside you, the pressure growing too slowly for your taste. But again, you have another task to attend to. 

You suck Joel's pinky in your mouth and bob your head a few times before releasing it.  You suck it right back in with his ring finger alongside it.

He grunts and moans, his three fingers jerking inside you. Your pussy is wet and squelching. His lips go tight as he watches his glove shine more and more with your slick. 

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and holds your head in place as he kisses you, biting and tugging on your lips. His tongue pushing in so deep, it feels like he's trying to drink you. 

"Fuck, that wet pussy sounds fuckin good. You gonna let me put my cock in there?" He speaks into your mouth. 

Your stomach swoops and your body is on fire. "Yes, please, Joel," you moan. "Please fill me up with your cock." 

He pulls his gloved fingers out of you. His eyes are big and wide. "You think you deserve it?"

"What?!" After everything? After all the sucking and fawning and–how? How could he deny you? You panic. 

"Please, Joel," you whine. You wrap your arms around him and kiss him up and down his neck. "I sucked your fingers so good. I sucked you so good." You're desperate. "I'm so wet for you." You kiss him down his chest. "Never been this wet."  You grab his cock, aiming to put it in your mouth. "Please-please-please!"

His gloved hand, covered in slick, wraps around your chin and jawbone, stopping you. "That's not the wet hole I want," he says and pushes you back, flat on the mattress. He quickly settles between your legs. There's no need for him to spit on his cock or glide it through your folds–your leaking arousal on the sheets. He uses his bare hand to guide it to your entrance. 

He groans and curses as he pushes in. 

"Thank you thank you thank you, Joel," you whisper and whimper as he sparks all your aching nerve endings. 

His forearms are on either side of you–his broad shoulders and body cage you in. “Fuck, this pussy is heaven, baby.”

The slow moving roll of his hips is the opposite of your panicked desperation, but it feels delicious. Turning all the glowing embers into full-blown fire. “So good, so good,” you mumble.

“Yeah? You like that cock, baby?” he asks with a smirk.

“Cock’s so good, Joel.”

He thrusts harder, his speed only slightly increased. Each heavy, steady flick of his hips sends a shock wave of pleasure through you. His bare thumb finds its way back into your mouth. “Suck on this ‘til you cum, baby.”

You nod. You can’t imagine what you look like. The lower half of your face feels wet with your spit. Your eyes are barely open, but you can’t stop staring at the beautiful man above you. His furrowed brows. His tight lips. His flared nostrils as he pounds into you faster and faster.

“Good girl,” he says as he tucks his head down and presses his cheek into yours. “Good girl, suckin me so good.” His arm wraps around your shoulder and pulls your body closer. “Knew you’d take good care o’ me. Knew this pussy’d be so wet.”

The heat inside you is building faster than you expected. You’re meeting his thrusts with your own–your thighs slapping into his hips. 

“Love suckin my fingers, don’t you, baby? Don’t you?” His lips find yours again and he kisses you with his thumb still in your mouth. 

His hips slow down and a desperate groan escapes your lungs, punched out by your diaphragm. You plead, but your words are intelligible.

He pulls his thumb from between your lips. “Whatchu need, baby?” He's rolling into you again, languid and rhythmic. 

“Make me come, Joel. Please make me come.”

“You need to come, baby?”

“Please, please,” you whine. 

“Alright, alright.” He leans back, his bare thumb back in your mouth and his gloved fingers on your clit. He doesn’t thrust any faster and it drives you crazy.

You try to shift his pace, fuck yourself on him til he gets the point–but instead he stops thrusting altogether.

“You got this, baby, come on,” he says with a smirk, making you do all the work. “Come on.”

Well, except for his hand rubbing circles on your clit. You writhe and squirm on his cock, chasing chasing chasing that fiery, burning heat. It’s there. It’s so close.

“Good girl, good li’l thumb-sucker,” he says and something twists inside your gut so hard you immediately come with a loud whimper. Body pulsing and pussy contracting around him. He grunts and curls his hips–as if he didn’t have a choice but to push himself deeper into your orgasm. He pulls his thumb from your mouth and strokes your chin with it. “Good fuckin girl, comin all over me.”

He falls back on top of you and wraps you up in his arms.

Your vision is blurry and you’re trying to catch your breath when he starts thrusting again–hard and fast.

“Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d be so fuckin wet.” 

Your body jerks and trembles from the stimulation, and you’re too blissed out to do anything but take it. 

“Knew you’d love suckin me.” He speaks through panting breaths. “Knew this pussy’d be so fuckin good.” He pushes himself up onto his hands. “You wanna come one more time, baby?” he asks.

You’re not sure, but you think the noise that comes out of you is one of agreement. You nod your head, whole body bouncing from his thrusts.

“‘M gonna fill you up,” he grunts with his brows pulled tight. “Come with me while I fill you up.” 

You want to, you really want to come one more time. And he’s pounding into you so hard, your bodies are slapping again. And his eyes and his voice and the determination on his face.

“Come with me, baby, come on,” he chokes out. Then he groans, heavy and low, and you can feel it–you can feel his milky release spurting out and filling you up. He stays above you, trying to catch his breath. “Didja come again?”

You smile. “No, but that’s okay,” you say. God, he’s beautiful. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges and how his beard frames his face.

“Like hell it is,” he murmurs and pulls out of you. He falls to your side again and two gloved fingers dip inside of you, his come spilling out. “You want my thumb again, baby?”

You nod and he gives it to you. You suck on it, pressing the pad of skin against your teeth. He pulls his fingers out and spreads his seed around your clit in circles, making a big mess of your folds.

You’re still dizzy and still over-stimulated, but his eyes are so big and sweet.

“I’ll stay here as long as it takes,” he says as he alternates between thrusting his fingers inside you and rubbing your clit. His brand-new gloves likely ruined.

You grab his wrist when you feel yourself getting close. When the heat hotter than fire starts to build inside of you again. You pant through your nose, your mouth glued to his thumb.

“Took such good care o’ me, baby.” He leans over you and presses his cheek to yours. His voice echoing through you. “Lemme take care o’ you. Lemme make you come, beautiful. Lemme make you come. Wantchu comin on my fingers every day with this pretty li’l pussy. So good for lettin me fill you up. You sucked me so good. Lemme take care o’ you, baby. Lemme make you come.”

It’s less powerful than your first, but the pulse of pleasure your orgasm sends through you is strong and satisfying. You moan and tug Joel’s hand away now that you're starkly overstimulated. “Oh my god,” you sigh, barely able to open your eyes.

Joel chuckles as his hand slides up your body. “Knew you’d be good for me.”

++++++

a/n: It’s been so long since I’ve written just-smut that I really don’t know how to end it. ‘And then they showered and took a nap!’ lol!

[ashes2caches]

The sixteenth and final chapter of Rad Infinitum’s third arc, The Confucian Republic, is now on AO3 (It’s officially over 238k words now!)

If you like sentient robots, transgender themes, and theology that would get you excommunicated then I think you might enjoy this series I’ve been working on. The first and second arc have already been written and are up for you to read in their entirety. Go check it out if you have the time.

Also, I can’t thank y’all enough for the recent boost in viewership I’ve been noticing, I really love to see it! :)

Also, while I’ll likely take a break first, the fourth arc, Backwater Trismegistus, will be coming out soon.

[sillyandquiteawkward]

WNC: A Fallout Fanzine will be up for preorders on the 24th this month! We're donating proceeds to the Palestine Children's Relief Fund!! Follow the twitter to keep an eye out for preorders and see previews of some of the other artists' works, and in the meantime, here's a preview of my piece <3