#chewing through wires at this point

[celeryw]

i need to sleep with someone i need warmth i need an arm draped over my hips i need legs between mine

[thetimelordbatgirl]

Okay look, I love my cats. But holy shit I am beyond annoyed right now at what they've done to my headphones.

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: Mentions of drinking, drunk driving, dog penises, and more. 

A/N: FIRST CHAPTER OF A NEW SERIES HOES!!!

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P1: Dumb Dog Dicks

wc: 1100+

The screech of the tires scratching on the street sends a shiver down my spine, my clammy hands clenching together harder. 

“Assholes,” I mutter, dragging my dirty shoes along the cement. Even the laces are sticky, a bright, unnatural blue staring back at me as I watch the cracks in the sidewalk pass beneath each step. 

It was stupid. Tessa had invited me to the party. I had been excited to have fun, but it wasn’t fun. The vibrant stain on my shoes was definitely from some kind of jungle juice. I hate jungle juice. 

Well, I hate alcohol in general. But jungle juice? That's a different kind of hatred. The entire point of the drink is to mix it with so many add-ins that the alcohol is barely noticeable. Which is why so many people were throwing up at that damn party. 

My house isn’t far. It’s only a couple of streets away from the booze-infested mansion. But it’s far enough to be a different neighborhood. It wasn’t sketchy by any means, I enjoyed the suburbs. The neighbors were nice, but their dogs were even nicer. 

Especially this one. 

“Hi, girl!” I whisper-shout, crouching down to reach my hand through the metal cross-wired fence. A short laugh escapes through my lips as the small dog snorts, licking my hand enthusiastically. 

She’s adorable. I pass her every day on my morning walks. She’s always sunbathing, her eyes glowing like honey in the sunshine. And she’s just a sweetheart. This moment is exactly what I needed after tonight. 

The fence rattles as she tosses herself against it, desperate for more pets. The clatter echoes through the empty streets, making my eyes go wide. 

Looking around, I’m relieved to see nothing but a flickering lamp post. I know walking home alone this late isn’t smart, but it’s still better than letting a drunk guy drive me home. Even though Shawn had promised to stay sober. 

“So dumb,” I mumble, rubbing the dog’s ear–something I know she loves. Although I have pet her countless times, I still can’t get a hold of her collar to read her name. Not that it really matters–she liked being called Cutie. 

“Did you just call my dog dumb?” 

My whole body jolts at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. I quickly retract my hand from the fence, clutching my chest as I gasp for air. 

“Jesus! I–no, no, I was just…” I stand up fast, my eyes dropping to my hands as I smooth down my short skirt. Why does it have to be so cold? “I was talking to myself, sorry,” I huff, giving the dog one last glance before finally looking up. 

A lump forms in my throat as I meet his gaze. Even in the dim light, I can see how bright his eyes are–sharp, piercing. Intimidating. 

“She’s, uh… she’s really cute,” I add, nodding to the dog as I give an awkward smile. 

My forehead crinkles as I watch him cock an eyebrow, his arms unfolding slightly as he gestures toward the dog. “She’s,” he points, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, “-a he.” 

Oh. 

She’s a he. 

“Oh.” My mouth draws into an ‘O’ as I chew the inside of my cheek. I wrap my arms around myself, bracing against the cold breeze that cuts through the air. God, I wish this skirt were longer.

“Yeah.” He reaches for the fence gate, pushing it open and shutting it behind him with a soft clank. “Why are you petting a random dog at…” He glances down at his phone before stuffing it back into his coat pocket. “Nearly two in the morning?” 

The judgemental look on his face makes my fingers twitch. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was walking home from a party,” I grumble, my tongue pressing against the back of my teeth as I hug my arms closer.

His lips curl slightly. “This late? Are you stupid?”

I clench my teeth, a sharp breath leaving my nose. “I–well—you, ugh.” 

His head tilts, watching me like he’s waiting for me to form a coherent sentence. 

Annoyed, I cross my arms. “What are you doing out so late, hm?” I shoot back, my confidence wavering as he stares at me–completely unfazed. 

My feet shift against the pavement as I drop my posture slightly, glancing away. The flickering street lamp blinks in my peripheral vision, its erratic pattern drawing my gaze to the tall metal post.

“I went for a walk,” he says blankly. 

I slowly turn my head back toward him with a raised brow. “Without your dog?” I gesture toward the so-called ‘he,’ who is now cleaning himself. 

Yep. That’s definitely a boy. 

My shoulders shutter as I recoil slightly, disgust creeping up my spine. 

“Trevor's lazy,” he states.

My ears perk at the name. Trevor. 

A small smile creeps onto my face as Trevor stirs at the mention of his name, wagging his tail slightly. 

Trevour wags his tail half-heartedly before flopping onto his side, done with us both. 

I smirk. “Yeah, he seems real energetic.” 

The guy exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “He has more sense than you, at least. Doesn’t go wandering around at night like an idiot.”

My smirk drops. “Okay, rude.”

He shrugs. “Not rude. Just stating facts.”

I glare. “Well, fact: I’m fine. I walk this way all the time.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. That makes it so much safer.”

I groan, throwing my hands in the air. “You know what? I don’t need a lecture from some random guy who names his dog Trevor.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “What’s wrong with the name Trevor?”

“It’s just—” I glance at the dog, who’s now licking his own paw in oblivious contentment. “It’s very human.”

The guy crosses his arms. “Yeah? Well, Cutie isn’t exactly original.”

My face heats up. “It’s not his real name! I just—ugh, whatever.” I back up toward the sidewalk, rubbing my arms against the cold.

He watches me for a moment before sighing. “Chris.”

I blink. “What?”

“My name. Since you’re so desperate to call me something other than ‘random guy who names his dog Trevor.’”

I hesitate before answering. “Y/N.”

Chris nods once. “Cool.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence. Trevor lets out a loud yawn.

“Well,” I say, shifting on my feet, “enjoy your walk.”

“Enjoy not getting kidnapped,” he retorts.

I scoff but don’t dignify him with another response. Instead, I spin on my heel and march away, my shoes still sticky, my mood somehow worse than it was before.

Behind me, I hear the fence creak, followed by a soft, “C’mon, Trevor.”

I roll my eyes. Chris.

This neighborhood just got a whole lot more annoying.

[tikhondownichi]

My ask got eaten I think 😔

But no matter

Throws these headcanons about Prorva at you

- She’s very vocal. And when I say that, I mean screeching when she’s picked up, literally wailing when she falls and hurts herself, and when she learns how to talk, you better believe she was screaming random words

- ADHD to the fucking MAX, like you could not get her to sit still if you tried, nor is she good at paying attention

- When she asked where babies came from, her answer was “Don’t worry about it” and later figured it out herself when she saw another batch of eggs in the shop (poor father and daughter for that one)

- Made up an imaginary friend to blame shit on, like “My friend chewed the wires!” And pointed at air lol

- She can be cute when she wants something but only Sebastian can see through the bullshit

Sorry if this gets sent twice, Tumblr likes my asks as a snack

i have a VERY LOT of asks in my inbox and I physically cannot answer them all quickly. I do this to the best of my ability, so no offense :[

welp now I'd like to put in my five cents >:]

- totally agree, she has a talent for screeching disgustingly like a pig being squeezed by a gate 👹

- Seb won't tolerate her ADHD antics. He'll just give her lightly spank, a slap and ban her to the storage room (I mean, Seb is a maimed man with a lot of mental trauma and has been tortured for years. People like him don't make lovely and affectionate parents. On top of that, he gives the impression of being a terribly hot-tempered person);

- the egg story is an isolated incident. They're both going through enough. The less Prorva knows, the more she sleeps;

- too bad this imaginary friend won't save her from Seb's educational smackdown for chewed wires :c

- heh classic, that goes without saying!

[writersdrug]

Training for Two

Chapter 7. Motivated, Sir!

Masterlist

Summary: You struggle to keep up with your freelance work - Soap has the wonderful idea of bringing you and Riley to base.

Warnings: cursing, yeah.

Sure enough, Simon had requested your services about three days after you’d run into him in the café.

He had sent you an email the Tuesday following your run in. It was the same as before – short and to the point. leaving thursday at 0900. riley will need her meds at 1300. i’ll be on base for a few days for trainig, won’t be far. call if you need anything.

You showed up no later than twelve-thirty, your backpack hanging off one shoulder and a fresh bag of peanut-butter-bacon cookies in your free hand. You cooed and smiled at Riley as she all but attacked you as you entered through the front door. She seemed to have grown to miss you, which had your heart swelling with pride. People pleaser and a puppy pleaser, it seems.

After a dose of her medicine and a much-needed walk through one of the nearby parks, you crashed on Simon’s couch to do some freelance work. With your feet kicked up onto the coffee table (politely, with your socks on and your shoes by the front door), you tapped and clicked away at your laptop, fiddling with the edge of your sweatshirt as you concentrated.

You may have bitten off more than you could chew, as much as you hated to admit it. Prancing your skill online – boosting social media posts that boasted about your expertise in logo design and marketing had brought in more customers than you anticipated. Recognition was exciting, and you had taken on four clients at once; something you were currently and mentally kicking yourself for. The burnout had settled in quickly after you finished the first portfolio of logo samples, and you wanted nothing more than to take a nap with Riley as your blanket.

You sighed, sinking further into the couch cushions and running your hands over your face. You were dangerously low on motivation.

A few moments later, you were holding your phone, listening to each ring as you chewed on the edge of your sleeve. A bad habit, one that your mother had tried to break you of in your teenage years, but you stubbornly kept to it.

Soon, the phone picked up with a click. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi Tyler…” you said with a relived exhale. “You busy?”

“Eh-“ he grunted; you heard the sound of tinkering in the background, and the voice of the secretary at his main office. “I’ve got a moment. Everything alright?”

You sighed. “Yeah… nothing’s wrong, I’m just stuck.”

“How so?”

“Well” – you sat upright, crossing your feet under you and putting your laptop to the side – “I’ve finished the one project, and now I-“

“Which project?” Tyler interjected. You heard beeping, followed by one of his coworkers asking for a wire stripper.

“The logo design for that new attorney’s office off of main and thirty-fourth.”

“Oh! Yeah yeah, I remember.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, I finished that one. I have three other projects now, and one is due by the-“

“Three?! I thought you just had the one!”

A sigh escaped your lips. “I did, and then more clients flooded in, I just got ahead of myself-“

“Sweetheart- here, Max, hold this for a second- you got too much on your plate. You’ve already been house-sitting for that one guy, Sam-“

“-Simon.”

“Right, yeah. But, doll, maybe you need a break. Can you tell him that you need him to find someone else for now?”

You faltered. “You’re saying quit the house-sitting gig?”

“Not quit, I know Riley likes you – but maybe just have him get another guy to finish the week.”

“I can’t do that!” you said, a bit taken aback that Tyler of all people, Mr. Work-Till-You-Drop himself, would suggest that you let go of a project. “He can’t exactly find a different sitter right now, he’s not going to be home.”

“Alright, alright- what about dropping one of the logo gigs?”

“That would look bad for my business.”

“Well, babe-“ you heard someone call for him in the background of the call. “-give me a sec, Ron, it’s important- I don’t know what to tell you. You bit off more than you can chew, it sounds like.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach; why am I bothering him? He’s working, and this isn’t something he can exactly help with. “Yeah- I’m sorry. I’m just- I dunno. I need something to motivate me.”

“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart.” Tyler sighed; you could hear the pinch in his brow. “I’m not trying to be short with you, I… eh, I guess this wasn’t the best time, hmm? Tell you what: when Sam comes back-“

“Simon.” You said with a chuckle.

“Shit, sorry- when Simon gets back, and you’re back home, let’s have a day in, yeah? You pick a movie, I’ll get the takeaway, and have a look at your portfolio. Sound good?”

You smiled, the knot in your stomach easing up a bit. “Yeah, sounds like paradise.”

“Good.” Tyler said, and you could hear the smile in his tone. “I’ll make sure it is. Let your mind rest a bit, alright? And give Riley a kiss for me.”

“What, I don’t get one?”

“Yours are automatic!”

“Leavin’ me for a dog, are you?”

“I wouldn’t leave you for Aphrodite.”

You smiled. “I love you. But go back to work! I don’t want Ron to hate me.”

Tyler chuckled, the sound sending butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Alright. Love you too.”

You ended the call, tossing the phone onto the cushion next to you. Why did I call him? He was at work – I knew that. He doesn’t even know anything about design. I could have texted him – or I could have just left him alone. Why would I even bother him with this? How could he have helped?

You groaned, closing your laptop and moving it to the coffee table. Looking across the room, you saw that Riley was no longer in her bed, her blanket partially spilling onto the floor next to it. She whined; you turned your head to find her sitting at the door. She met your gaze, licking her lips and tapping her feet anxiously on the floor.

“Do you need to go out?”

She whined again, impatient.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you huffed, standing on your feet and stretching your limbs. She trotted over to you with a groan, then back to the door.

You followed her there, slipping on your shoes. You reached into the closet and grabbed her leash, leaning down to clip it onto her collar. She grunted and jerked her head back, taking a few steps away from you.

Confusion settled on your face. “C’mon girl, don’tcha want to go for a walk?”

She let out a few voofs, raising a paw and stomping it indignantly. You tried again, reaching out with the clip of the leash, but she darted away once more. She stood by the closet and barked shrilly, still staring at you.

This lasted for a few more minutes; you’d stand there, taking every woo and wuff that she threw at you. After a few moments of the following silence, you’d take a step towards her, holding up the leash with a cocked brow, and she’d huff and turn in a circle.

“I’m sorry I don’t speak awoowoo.” You said in frustration, putting your hands on your hips. “spreek je Nederlands?”

She huffed dramatically, lying down and resting her nose on her front paws. You sighed yourself and headed back towards the couch – she yipped, whining at you through her nose.

“What?” you asked, throwing your hands up. “I don’t know what you want!”

She barked back at you. Helpful.

You groaned. This wasn’t getting you anywhere. You went back to the couch and grabbed your phone, flopping stomach-first onto the cushions. Riley trotted over to your side and whined, sitting politely on the rug.

With a few clicks, Simon’s contact appeared on your phone; well, it was Riley’s face, her snout taking up most of the camera and her ears tucked back against her head as she had sniffed the lens in the moment. You chewed your lip. It’s not an emergency… but maybe he forgot to tell me about part of her routine? She hadn’t acted this upset the last time you were here… and she had certainly never indicated no when you got ready to take her outside.

You pressed the call button, putting your phone on speaker. Not half a ring had passed before Simon answered.

“Wha’s wrong? ‘S Riley ok?”

“N- hi, Simon – yeah, Riley’s ok. She-“

“Are you ok?”

You chuckled. “Yes, I’m fine. This isn’t an emergency.”

You heard him sigh, and quickly tried to deescalate the situation. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you-“

“Don’t apologize,” he said, “ya did nothin’ wrong. I know you wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”

You laughed again. “Well, I don’t really know if it is or isn’t – I’m trying to take Riley out for a stroll, and she won’t go,”

“No?”

“No. I try to put her leash on and she runs away. She’s yapping at me though, like she’s got something to say.” You looked at her, reaching a finger to boop her nose.

You heard the faint sound of gunshots in the background of the call. You had half a mind to ask if he was in battle- war- whatever they called it- at the moment, until you remembered that he said he was training this week. “Ya sure she needs t’ go out?”

“She’s acting like she does.” You said, rolling onto your side.

He grunted. “Pain flarin’ up?”

“She’s not limping.”

“Biscuit?”

“She’s had her first daily.”

He sighed. “Beats me. I’d think she was-“

“Oi! LT!”

You listened closely, suddenly drawn to the commotion beyond the speaker. “Simon?”

“One sec, luv-“ he said quickly. “I’m busy, Soap-“

“Cap needs ye back oan th’ feld. One o’ the Jimmies hud o’ nice fall.”

“Fuckin’ wot?”

“One o’ the rookies collapsed.” Soap was now closer to the phone; close enough that you could hear he was out of breath. “Cap wants ye out there.”

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“Tell ‘im yer feckin’ self, ye dry piece o’ shite-“

Riley suddenly barked, making you jolt. She stood with her paws on the edge of the couch and staring at the phone.

“Awe, tha’ mah girl?” Soap said from the other line. “Mah Bonnie, yea? She miss me?”

“’M on the fuckin’ phone, Johnny.”

“Ah know, I’m talkin’ to the pup.”

You thought for a moment, as Simon and Soap bickered in the background. Maybe, Riley misses Simon’s coworkers? She used to work with them… judging on her reaction – panting and ears perked up as she listened to the conversation – you’d guess you were right.

“Hey, uh… Simon?”

‘- hm?” Simon halted his bickering with Soap at the sound of your voice.

“Does she maybe want to see your- team? Or Soap, at the very least?”

“Aye, she does.” Soap chimed in, making Riley whine. “Ya hear tha’? She misses ‘er ol’ uncle Johnny.”

“Bugger off, mate.” Simon grumbled.

You suddenly felt like you made a mistake even voicing your thoughts. “Sorry if it’s not a good idea, I just heard how she reacted to Soap’s voice, and, y’know – how she used to work with you all…” you chuckled at yourself. “Now that I think about it, I probably couldn’t even get on base, could I?”

“It would-“

“None o’ that keech!” Soap said, cutting off Simon for the umpteenth time. “Ghost, ye can tell the gate guards you’ll be expectin’ er. Or cap, he’ll vouch for ‘er. Want tae see my girl.”

You felt a bout of excitement roll through your veins. “I think that would be great! And I’d get to meet you all finally. I should know who Simon travels the world with, right?”

There was a moment of silence over the phone, save for the distant gunfire and the cadence of orders being called out. You wondered if you had said something wrong; ‘travel the world…’ it’s deployment, not a vacation. Why did I say that?

“Don’t see why not.” Simon finally said, and you sighed quietly.

“You sure?” you confirmed.

“It’s jus’ what the pup needs.” Soap said. “Probably misses ‘er other friends, too-“

“Jus’ head towards the naval base, n’ I’ll send you the address to the gate.” Simon said with a huff. “Tell them you’re here for Ghost.”

“Ghost…” you repeated.

“’S my callsign. Oh, and, uh- put ‘er harness on. She wears that to base, probably why she won’t take jus’ the leash.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a bit at the information. “Great! I’ll see you soon!”

“Drive safe.”

You bit your lip as the call ended, that warmth still bubbling within your chest. A thousand, fleeting questions circled within your head as you rolled onto your side, clutching your phone to your chest. Does he call everyone luv? What gave him the callsign “Ghost”? I wonder what his team is like… I wonder what Johnny- Soap?- is like. I wonder if they’re all as attractive as-

Riley barked; you yelped, body tensing as you were torn from your thoughts. She pawed at you, still standing on her two hind legs and yowling lowly in your direction.

“Alright, alright- let’s go!” you rolled off the couch, equally as excited as she was. She happily obliged to sit next to you when you grabbed the harness from the closet, slipping it over her head and latching the leash to its back. She then eagerly trotted to the door, tapping her feet anxiously and whining.

You stuffed your feet into your shoes (you hoped that a sweatshirt, leggings, and rain boots would be appropriate for bringing your client’s dog on a military base). You stepped out into the overcast day, locking Simon’s door behind you and shoving the key into your bra; excitement boiled underneath your veins as the two of you headed over to your car, right as your phone buzzed with Simon’s text.

Simon watched as your contact photo faded from the screen. His eyes hardened as he turned to Johnny – the bloke had a cheeky grin on his face, staring right back at his lieutenant. Simon wanted to grab him by his mohawk and swing him into the wall like a discus.

“Wha’?” Soap said innocently, shoulders shrugging with irreproachability. “I miss ‘er.”

“Ya don’t have nothin’ to miss, you wanker.” Simon snarled, stuffing his phone into his back pocket. “You’ve never met ‘er.”

“The dog, ya git.” Soap sighed. His eyes narrowed in amused suspicion. “Yer awfully protective o’ the lass, don’t ye think?”

Oh, Simon could have launched the Scot into next week. He knew what he was doing, the bastard. He knew Johnny was either going to try and pair you with himself, sweep you off your feet and charm you with his stupid blue eyes and bright smile – or, he was going to pitch you with his lieutenant. Simon didn’t like not knowing how to prepare himself: to either cockblock you and Johnny, or to refuse any advances Johnny made to him on your behalf.

Soap huffed, not intimidated in the slightest by Ghost’s dissociative, angry stare. “Calm doon, LT.” he said, shoving his shoulder with two, sturdy fingers. “She’s got a lad, aye? I jus’ want tae see Riley. I’ll leave your precious house-sitter alone.” He held a hand up and crossed a finger over his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never in Boy Scouts.” Ghost grumbled.

“Does it make a difference?” Soap said with a quirked eyebrow.

Simon sighed, leaving Soap on the training field to find Price. He had to let him know you’d be coming to base, or you’d be stopped at the gate and turned away – or worse, dragged off by the military police. It would be a surefire way of keeping you away from Soap, but it was also rather unhospitable. Riley wouldn’t be too impressed, either.

Still, Johnny had a point. Why was he fretting? You weren’t his.

“Jus’ keep an eye on the recruits. Be back in a moment.” He said over his shoulder.

“Aye, LT.” Soap responded: Simon could hear the grin on his face.

Smug bastard.

Next ->

Taglist (trying this again): @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @jisungswiftie @sweet-tooth4you @kennyis-aloser @hyyyxr @lahniu @dory-98 @naradae @cum-tea-and-towels @boystepper @definitelynotaclown @your-wifes-boyfriend @ghostslittlegf @bossva @poppingaround @katzykat @mileyraes @chocolate-noodles @jupiternighties @sadlonelybagel @rorysbrainrot @reevesdriver @kingshitonly @ghost4love @lilyofhoon

[the-californicationist]

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

[wandassweetheart]

SOUR SWITCHBLADE!

currently playing… ‘sour switchblade’ by elita

pairing- toxic!rafe cameron x naive!fem!reader

warning!- toxic & manipulative behaviour, self-doubt, implied non-con, mention of drug misuse, brief mention of daddy issues, misogyny, oral (m receiving)

a/n- i love this song sm, makes me feel so slutty but so whimsy at the same time😵‍💫😵‍💫 also i hope this makes sense, enjoy! (creds to @anitalenia for the divider!)

your friends had warned you countless times about rafe, yet you kept seeing him. how could you not? he bought you gifts, spoiled you with good sex, made you feel special and with each time you let him you were just falling deeper and deeper into his trap. somehow this wasn’t even the first time, but it was the only thing you were familiar with.

was it really him you wanted or was it déjà vu?

you missed when it was just you and rafe against the world. you could always speak your mind, and he would listen. you’d both do stupid shit together and laugh about it after. watch the sun set at the beach in eachother’s arms. even if rafe never told you that he loved you then, you knew he did.

but now? you didn’t know if he loved you or your body.

sometimes he’d disappear for hours or even days. no explanation. no texts. you’d lie in bed replaying conversations, dissecting moments. had you been too much? not enough? should you have laughed less? smiled more? when he came back, it was like a drug hitting your bloodstream. “i missed you,” you whispered, crawling into his lap like it was your home. rafe never said it back, but he let you stay. you thought that was enough. after all, it had been you that drove him away for periods of time, wasn’t it?

all you wanted to do was please him, do things with him, do things for him. you wanted to return the favour for everything he did for you so that it was fair, even if it did hurt you in the process.

you wanted to talk to him about the things you could do. “we could just lay in bed and cuddle,” you murmured, craving for the affection you longed for. you snuggled into his chest further hoping for some comfort. rafe gave you a sleazy smirk whilst his hand slowly slid beneath the waist band of your panties. “or we could do something more fun?” with that, his lips reached your chest whilst his hand started to rub you and get you wet. you tried to relax into it, you’d take whatever version of him he gave you. maybe if you gave him what he wanted, he’d give you what you needed. if this was what he wanted to do then you would do it.

whatever he went through, you did too. he came home wired. you could tell before he even stepped fully into the room. the way the door slammed, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass, the way his eyes didn’t land on you, just flicked past like you were furniture. you sat on the edge of the bed, silent. waiting. “he thinks i’m nothing,” he muttered. sniffing hard, running a hand through his hair, then across his face. his nose red, his pupils huge. “always has. always fucking will.” you knew who he meant before he even said it. he always meant his dad. you bit your lip, feeling something shift inside you. a pain you knew too well. “rafe, that’s not true—” he cuts your sentence before you’re even able to finish. “what the fuck do you know, huh?” he spat. but you knew, you knew how he felt. you were always there for whatever he went through, he was never there when you’d had complications with your father.

you always stayed there for him, perfect and obedient just how he liked it. “you’re pathetic, you know that?” he’d scoff down at you with a smile on his face. he knew that you wanted to please him and he loved that. the way he could mess with your mind and you’d still run right back into his arms. somehow you felt appreciated when he’d degrade you like that. it was like he knew the efforts you took for him. but really he thought you were so dumb for still trying. his point of view was a lot to live up to.

you wanted to worship him, make him feel brand new. he leaned back, his shirt slightly askew, one arm casually draped across the back of the couch. his eyes met yours, dark and calculating, and a slow, almost predatory smile spread across his face. you knelt between the spread of his legs with his hand ruched in your hair. as you moved, you could hear him let out a soft sigh of approval, but it wasn’t the warmth you were hoping for. it was cold, calculating, like he was only tolerating you. “you’re so good at this,” he groaned. “always makin’ me feel good, right? puttin’ that mouth to use…” his grip on your hair tightened as he pushed further into your mouth. you sought for that validation, you wanted him to feel idolised because you loved him, you really did. at times it felt like he was doing voodoo on you.

you wanted to fuck with him, he could bring his friends too. topper, kelce and rafe were all hanging out in rafe’s apartment doing lines whilst you brought them drinks. rafe pulled you into his lap, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. “fuck, man, shit’s good tonight,” topper said, his voice a little louder than usual. kelce agreed with a grin whilst watching you and rafe. rafe completely ignored the other two, he looked like he was in his element, the drug giving him that relaxed, almost cocky air that made you feel like he was actually thinking about you. you rubbed against him slightly, needing his attention and rafe groaned quietly. “damn, i need myself a girl like her,” kelce chuckled, continuing to watch you both. rafe gripped onto your waist and started kissing at your neck. you felt cherished, you didn’t feel like a secret, like something rafe was ashamed of displaying to his friends. whilst rafe felt like he was fucking with you, he felt thrilled that he could exhibit you to his friends like something he owned.

in the end, his point of view was a lot to live up to.

[vikuo-kuma]

“I will always be one step ahead”

—Teacher assistant! Hero! Reader x Various! Invincible

Warning?: probably description of blood?

Prologue Chapter 1

—————————————

Chapter 2

“I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow Oliver!”, you shouted from the entrance of the Grayson’s house hold.

“What— where are you going?”, Oliver looked towards you with some sort of puppy eyed expression. You faltered just a bit before answering, “I just have a— doctor’s appointment I have to go to!”

Just hoping that he didn’t see through your lie. It is a pretty solid statement. “Oh, oh right. Feel better soon, Teacher”, Oliver sounded innocent, just how a child should be.

“Be good to your mom and brother now”, you commented, ruffling up his dark hair.

Dashing out the door, you didn’t see who you just passed by. But he did.

Mark looks at your running form while walking towards the door. But it seems like he didn’t really paid attention as he just walked into the door FRAME, rather than the door. “Ow! What?”, he finally paid attention to his surroundings, seeing Oliver raise a brow at his older half brother.

“You better not be falling for my tutor, Mark”, Oliver seems to scold at his own family member. “What— what are you talking about?”, Mark scrunched up his nose as he tried to rub away the pain from before.

Walking inside his house before closing the door behind him.

——————(｡-_-｡)

“Damn it, that felt like an inappropriate time for an alert”, hiding within the alleyway, you snapped your fingers causing a suit covered your whole body.

It was like you were logging into a server. The main host? Your one and only computer freak sister. “Lena, what’s with the disturbance?”, flying straight up to where people can’t see you.

“There’s strange dimensional ripples occurring near a certain warehouse, I’m sending you the coords now”, moving her fingers around as she was typing really quickly. “It’s sent, head there quickly, there’s other people currently moving there”, eyes focused on the screen in front of her.

Zooming forward, you use your hands to see from far away.

It was them, the people from the GDA.

“Shit. Lena, it’s the Guardians”, sensing hesitation in your voice. You didn’t know if you should complete the mission or not.

“The organization. They should be able to hide you, but it’s only for 190 minutes”, Lena quickly sends a signal within the large screen.

“That’s more than enough, thank you Lena”, diving in quietly as a force field started to cover your body with in an instant. You knew that was a lie. But you might as well make yourself known to the people that called themselves heroes.

————（╹◡╹）

“So you’re the one who’s been teleporting around the place”

You landed in front of an almost humanoid thing, it seems to be chewing up wires and sucking up all the electricity. Interrupting the alien by flicking an energy orb at it, making the alien flinch.

“Quit doing that”, sounding frustrated, you walked closer towards the alien. Reaching your hand out towards the alien, wanting to compromise.

The alien looked confused and reached its hand out towards yours. “There you go, now you can understand me”, the alien looked shocked hearing its own language from a human. “It’s nice to meet you, dear human”, a feminine voice spoke up, bowing its head.

“Whats your name, and why are you here?”

“I am Yuni, I crashed down into earth because of an unknown entity near your planet. I was eating up your planet’s electricity because I needed it to get back home”, the alien explained throughly, still keeping her head down.

“I can take you back home, but first what is this entity you speak of?”

“Like I said, it’s pretty unknown to me. However, it seems to wear the color blue”, trying to recall the crash from earlier.

“I see.” You slice open the space between you and the alien before speaking again. “This should take you back home, it will close as soon as you step through the rift”, pointing the towards the rift, the alien thanked you and walked through it.

“Thank you kind human”, the aliens voice slowly disappeared as the rift closed up.

“Well that was easy… too easy..”

Something had grabbed you by the waist below, sending you almost flying towards the building beside the warehouse. “What the shit?!”, your eyes look towards the thing that’s holding you down.

Blue clothing. Just as the female alien had said.

Before you could crash into the building, you had steady yourself. Floating in the air, forcing the entity to stop its movement. Just by the looks of this entity, it doesn’t seem to want to talk.

“You are strong. You ARE STRONG!”

“Ouh. How manic”, you made a face, holding back your displeasure.

“But who am I to complain about a longer battle”.

—————ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ

After the explosion, Mark stood up, surrounded by rumble still bruised up from the battle with the Maulers and their alternate versions.

The Guardians flew into the aftermath of the explosion, seeing the dead bodies and what’s left of the warehouse.

“Huh. I guess he really is Invincible”, Rex spoke up, getting out of the vehicle.

Mark looked at his hands, covered in a mix of his and the Maulers blood. Regretting what he had done. Rex tried to cheer him up, but it doesn’t seem to work.

“Listen to Rex, that’s what happens when you listen to my orders. They did this to themselves. We did good today. Head home”, Cecil commented through the ear piece.

Mark started to walk away from the scene with a face full of regret.

But that was interrupted by another loud explosion, kicking up dust around the team. They were on full alert, as the dust started to clear up.

It was them. The mysterious figure from the news report. And their visor seemed to look broken, exposing their eye to the Guardians. Under them was an entity covered in purplish blood, and it seemed to be knocked out for the moment.

———————

A/N: I think this should be taking place around the beginning of season 2, but Oilver is kind of older than the canon season 2 so yeahh. Also DAMN THIS IS LONG.

[abusivegymrat]

i know i promised y'all some freaky soap smut but this one ended up being finished earlier haha

this is kyle garrick being a huge jackass

writing angst was probably too big of a bite for me since my shitty skills are still in progress but anyyywayyy so might edit this a couple years later idkk

i kept fussing over how it was so short then said fuck it rambled some shit to finish it and posting it rn so as u can tell i got a bit lazy at the end

last part not proofread obv

wc is about 2.4k

warnings: cursing, attempted suicide, mentions of death, pregnancy, kyle being an ignorant jackass

you could call it angst if i wrote it well enough

And thanks @goatgoesmbe for injecting itching thoughts of toxic gaz into my brain that chased me and my hyperfixation around so i could finally finish this one

dk if this is what u wanted to this shit is downright terrible tehee

It’s been weighing down on you heavily like a wet cardigan you can’t shake away, your heart thumps with worry– what will he say? How will he react? Do you even care at this point? Your chest clenches, conceiving a double-layered barbed wire around your throat. The gaze of the gods above you watching you squirm only tightens it, and you’re left genuinely feeling like you can’t breathe.

From the moment you collapsed onto your knees after finding your own diary from when you were just a child, lying beneath layers of dust between old cardboard boxes, you clutched your past thoughts, hopes and dreams to your chest and fell asleep like that. He didn’t care, didn’t carry you and tuck you into your bed like he used to. You had it all, and an astonishing career. You threw it all away for his dreams of a family of his own, driven by your love for him, you never said no.

But he sits in front of you, eating calmly. His demeanor is a huge contrast to the hurricane of emotions rupturing within you: yet he’s the only one who’s unaware of the consequences of his actions, ironically. His presence is huge, it makes the walls feel like they’re clamping down on you each time you breathe. All you can do is to either stand up for yourself or wait patiently to be crushed.

Every bite is stuck in your throat, your own cooking feels like poison, burning your tongue as it dissolves on it, your body shivers with cold sweat, and you just can’t take this anymore. There used to be a string that pulled you together your entire life, the same string that held you back from going up against him every single fucking time, the same damned string that is making you hunch in your seat and appear smaller, weaker. The same string that just snapped, right about now.

“What the fuck!?” You slam your fork on the table, water spilling and plates clattering with the force of it. He looks up at you from his dish with questioning eyes, uninterested.

“You know I’m not from the UK!” You cry from the top of your lungs, only for him to continue his cruel silence. He’s torturing you. “I have nobody to look after me in this shithole, I lack a support system during my fucking pregnancy and you said ‘don’t worry about it–”

your chest suddenly heaves with an emergency breath, hitching as your lips quiver. You close your eyes and push through the lump sitting in your throat. “and told me countless fairy tales about how you were the only love and support I needed. What the fuck happened to that?”

You want to sound mad, and you want to sound intimidating. But you can’t. Not when your voice is breaking and trembling like a train off its rails. There’s nothing left for you to do as you let your tears flow, staining your cheeks with the stamp of weakness and shame. You sob, but he doesn’t react, as still as a statue. A wall would give more reactions than him at the moment, you think.

“I feel very… alone… when you’re gone for months. And if you meant what you said, that should really fucking concern you!”

Kyle’s chewing slows down as he swallows, “it does–”

His chopped answer is enough to ignite a fire within you, you scream. “You told me you were happy about me having your first child, you’re sure as hell not acting like it!”

He stares at you for a moment, silenced, thinking. He never stops, he always shoots back, what happened now? Did you finally manage to get him to listen? Is your life about to change, did he understand your pain? Your chest is filled with hope–

Then, the whisper of his ringtone hits your ears, and he picks up his phone without thinking, without questioning, without letting you question it. Your lips part, mouth agape, eyes wide with a rush of bewilderment at his audacity. Your previous thoughts collapse on top of you like a failed sand castle, your knees buckle, your hands shoot towards the kitchen counter to keep your balance. You’re devastated. He doesn’t see it. He never does.

“Wow. You answer right back to every side bitch except the person carrying your child. Wow.” You huff in disbelief.

“Side bitch? Don’t be stupid, ‘s my lieutenant text’n me.” And your jaw is rolling in an instant, and you breathe through your nose, knuckles whitening at your attempts to hold back from slapping him across the face.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Your lieutenant officer is not more important than–”

“Stop being dramatic. I’ll just take this call and leave for the airport ‘cause I don’t wanna make you more upset.” He talks as if he’s soothing you, his voice is a calming timbre. He gets up and leaves.

He leaves.

For the last time.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Your hands tighten on your phone, your tears paint the screen as the October breeze sends shivers through you. The cold drains the life from your face, you wait helplessly for him to pick up for the last time. The city lights shimmer beautifully before you, in fact, everything is more beautiful tonight for some reason. You can’t help but think it’d be even better without you.

Your mind reels back to how you sucked the soul out of everyone around you, exploiting their emotions and pity for you, just so that they could fill the crater in your chest your husband had left. You wanted to feel better about yourself, because he never made you feel like you were worth it. Maybe this is what you deserve.

The lady sitting near you at the office, the salesman, the cashier, everyone you met, you ruined their day. Just the way Kyle ruined your life. You thought it was fair, they can lose a day for you, is that too much to ask for?

“Hello?” His words break the silence, and no matter how much you think you hate him, you could still fall asleep to that voice on your deathbed. You had loved him, you really did.It doesn’t matter now, though. Nothing really does now that you heard of the only person you had left.

You part your lips to speak, but nothing comes out. You fight it, the weighty chunk of emotions sizzling in your throat. You choke and whimper around it, but no proper sound is heard.

“I fucking hate you.” You croak with the last bits of strength, and pray to god for the first time in decades he doesn’t ask for a reason why. You’re too weak to respond, but he was always too curious to not press further. At first, you thought it was because he cared. Now? Eh, does it matter?

“I can’t do this anymore,” you quiver, voice as hoarse as the whining of a dead goose.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on, it’s three in the morning– where are you?”

“Shut up! Shut up and stop acting like you care!” Words aren’t enough to hold your sobs back, so you clamp a hand around your throat, not sure if you’re squeezing harder or trying to lose the contradictions in your throat, but you’re sure as hell clawing blood out of your chest. “You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me!”

You swallow back at your courage, breath shortening.

“Tell me where you’re at!”

“You won’t care anyway, I’ll fuck myself in the head here, and over once you’re done with your stupid fucking pampering! I don’t want you and I don’t want your comfort! I don’t want your pity, I don’t want your love!”

“All I ask of you is to leave me the fuck alone!” Your voice falters, you beg. But you’ve begged your whole life. You wouldn’t be here if it worked.

“You don’t realize how serious this is, sweetheart– you have a baby in you!”

“So it was never about me, then…”

“Wha– w– love! Just back the fuck down and we’ll talk face to face, we’ll talk about this in person– I promise you we’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t deserve to have this baby, Kyle.” You interrupt him, demolishing the only and single moment of empathy and positivity between the two of you.

“Fuck you mean I don’t deserve to have that baby?” The first time tonight, he springs back to his old ways, just when you thought it was getting better. He’s screaming at you over the phone.

“You’re a terrible husband and an awful father, We will always hate you for it.”

“That is not your call!”

“You will never see your daughter!” You scream,

“I’ve always felt depressed and alone before I met you.” The old times appear behind your closed eyelids and you smile, words softening with a tune of fortune all over again. “Then you came into my life. And into me, if that helps… And I felt happy for the first time ever… I trusted you with everything. My virginity, my child, my career, my life.”

“My world changed, I was filled with hope, and all the dreams I crushed for you were replaced with new ones… Felt like I suddenly unlocked all my potential, like I was entering heaven’s gate and you were the key.”

“But you just had to come and fuck it up, didnt’t you! All of it! Look at me! I’m alone again! All because of you!”

“And now that I have a piece of the devil himself in me, I swear to god I will find one way or another, to get this beast out of me…”

“Forever.”

“Baby, don’t do this, I know i fucked up seriously, give me a chance–! I’m almost there, hold on, please. Don’t hurt yourself or the baby–”

“No! You can’t always get what you want! Not this time!”

“Goodbye, Kyle.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Hey, Jess.” You smile into the phone. “How’s Delilah?”

“She’s doing good, tucked in nice and well…” she sighs.

“I’m really sorry, could’ve never predicted mere debriefing would take this long.”

“It’s okay, this is what I get paid for. Should I expect you at 1 am?”

“Yeah, sure, ‘round that time… I’ll call you if anything goes wrong?”

“Fine by me. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Jess.”

“Oh and, one more thing…” she pauses, “take care.”

“You too.”

You stuff your burner phone into the pocket of your green cargos, pacing through the halls of the base to help Kate with something related to her laptop, she said. You know she’ll bat her lashes for tea on your way back, so your intent is to go prepared.

You turn a corner to enter the kitchen, before your figure hits a wall. Huh? You remember the tea house being here? You look up to see a giant figure hulking above you, taking up all the space in the entrance, hell, base. “‘scuse me.” the man(?) mumbles and goes his way, leaving the gate empty for you to pass.

Since when is wearing masks around the base allowed? A lot must’ve occurred when you were gone, It’s a blessing you didn’t completely retire, otherwise re-enlisting would be even more arduous than it is, and jesus– they let anyone in the military these days, at least it looks like it to you as you eye every soldier you see. It seems your (in)famous death stare hasn’t faltered, because they seem to shrink for every second your eyes are on them.

You’re glad you got to keep and continue from your previous hard-earned rank, the thought of training with these rookies sent a shiver through your spine, starting over aside.

You knock on Laswell’s door and twist the knob without being called on, ready to get this over with without much bother.

“Alright, what seems to be the problem?”

However, you seem to have failed to notice a certain sergeant the way he noticed you, staring at you like he saw a ghost until he tensed.

“Can I help you?”

Laswell clears her throat, pulling your attention back to her. Right, sorry.

And before you know it, he’s apologizing to Laswell and pulling you out of the room, insisting that you need to “talk”, like he ever listened.

“Thought you were a cop.”

“I enlisted.”

“Why, miss me?”

He turns sharply, “where the fuck have you been?”

“I’m not gonna answer that.”

“The kid?”

“I’m not gonna answer that either. If you’re done, I’ll–”

“Get the fuck back here!” You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his confidence.

“Excuse me?” You glare at him and tilt your head. “That’s my kid. You lost all rights to her the day you left me for dead.”

“I never left you for dead, ain’t my fault you tried to kill yourself.” He spits.

“Because of who, I wonder.”

“Look I’m sorry–”

“Look, I’m truly sorry for what I did and I will spend my entire life making it up to you even though I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness and I still see you as my wife and the mother of my child– well shove it up your ass because I already forgot about it. I know your empty apologies to heart.” You force a smile and smack his hand away from your wrist.

His eyes widen when you recite every single word he was about to utter. “So you forgive me?”

“Forgetting doesn’t mean forgiving, and I did it for my sake, not yours.”

“So you just… got used to it?”

“Pretty much.”

“What now?”

“Now, you will get out of my way so I can do my job by assisting my colleague.” You shove him away and stride back to Laswell’s door, he calls out to you when your hands touch the knob.

You normally wouldn’t do this, but you turn your head, curious about what different thing he has to say, or if he’ll say anything different at all.

“I’m sorry.”

You’d frown, or maybe put a pistol on his forehead. But you smile. His wording will never change, and his apologies will never end (as they should). But you have a feeling he, himself, will change.

“I’ll think about it.”

“One more thing…” he pauses, “I’m sorry you had to go through that, apart from what I did.”

“Tears dry on their own, Sergeant Garrick.”

[cheynovak]

American Sin

Soldier boy x Angel aka Y/N Female supe

Summary: set somewhere in the 70s. Before gunpowder soldier boy had another sidekick who he couldn't get along with... until one horrible incident.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Almost rape, Name calling,SB being SB, talk of virginity, ...

English isn't my first language.

Please do not copy my work. Sharing/likes and comments are appreciated.

**Chapter One: Hell’s Angel**

The club reeked of sweat, booze, and cheap cologne. Neon lights flickered, barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. The bass from the speakers thrummed in Soldier Boy’s chest, but he barely noticed. He was nursing a glass of bourbon, legs spread wide, one arm thrown over the back of the booth.

The bartender had sent some groupie over—a redhead with legs up to her neck and stars in her eyes. She giggled, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, but he wasn’t paying attention. He had bigger problems.

Like the girl sitting across from him.

Vought called her Hell's Angel, which was some real ironic shit, given that she walked in here with a damn rosary around her wrist.

Her outfit told a different story: a black leather mini-skirt, ripped fishnets, a cropped tank with “God Is Dead” scribbled across it in red. She had the look—Vought had made sure of that—but everything else about her screamed not one of us.

But the world and Ben would soon start to call her, just Angel.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Soldier Boy’s voice was rough, slurred slightly from the whiskey. He gestured at her, as if the mere sight of her offended him. “This is what they sent me?”

She stiffened, crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t exactly ask for this gig either, sir.” Her voice was clear, cutting through the noise around them. She had a little bite. He’d give her that.

“Then why the hell are you here?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Money.”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah? You don’t look like the type.”

She glared. “Not all of us get a fat check for pretending to be America’s hero.”

That made him laugh—loud and mean. “You got some balls, sweetheart.” He took another sip of his drink, then pointed at her. “Alright, Angel, what’s your deal? What do you do?”

Her hands clenched into fists on the table. “Electromagnetic manipulation.”

He raised an eyebrow. “English, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes. “I control electricity. Short-circuit things. Cause blackouts. That kind of stuff.”

Soldier Boy exhaled through his nose. “Great. So if I need a goddamn lightbulb changed, you’re my girl.”

The sarcasm didn’t seem to rattle her, which annoyed him even more. “You want a demonstration?” she asked, voice sugar-sweet.

Without waiting for permission, she flicked her wrist toward the neon sign above the bar. Sparks shot from the wiring, the glow flickering before the whole thing popped and died, plunging half the club into darkness.

Shouting. Chaos. The bartender swore. Someone tripped over a chair.

Soldier Boy just whistled low.

She smirked, satisfaction flickering in her eyes before she quickly wiped it away. “Can I go now?”

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” he said, leaning forward, his grin wolfish. “Vought wants us to be a team. That means we need to—what do they always say?—get along.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not here to be your friend.”

“Trust me, I’d rather chew glass.” He knocked back the rest of his drink, then slapped the glass down on the table. “But Vought’s footing the bill for your mom’s meds, right?”

She flinched—so quick he almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said, dragging out the word. “I know why you’re here.” He leaned back, stretching his arms along the booth. “So I suggest you play nice, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want them cutting you off.”

The hatred in her eyes was delicious. Good. This was gonna be fun.

--

Vought Tower was nothing like she’d imagined. It wasn’t just a building—it was a goddamn kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows, gold-trimmed decor, and a constant swarm of assistants, PR reps, and corporate types pretending the world revolved around them.

Y/N had been here for months now, long enough to get used to the bullshit.

She had learned two things fast:

1. The public liked her, but they *loved* Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess more.

2. She didn’t give a shit.

Vought could dress her up however they wanted—make her wear leather, throw her into staged bar fights, and slap a rebellious nickname on her—but the public wasn’t stupid. They saw through it.

Her ex-boyfriend hadn’t helped.

One interview. One smug asshole telling the world she was a prude, that he hadn’t been “allowed to touch her,” that she was just some Catholic good girl pretending to be something she wasn’t.

That was all it took. The media went wild.

“Hell’s Angel? More like Heaven’s Nun.”

“America’s Sweetheart? Or America’s Ice Queen?”

It was all bullshit, but she ignored it. As long as Vought kept her mom’s medical bills covered, she didn’t care what people thought.

The Twins, though? They thought it was hilarious. That’s how she ended up outside Soldier Boy’s room.

"He needs you. Urgent.” That’s what the twins had told her, all wide-eyed and serious. And like an idiot, she believed them.

The second she pushed the door open, she knew she’d fucked up.

Soldier Boy was naked. Completely, unapologetically, stark-fucking-naked.

Not alone, either.

Three girls—two blondes and a brunette—were tangled in silk sheets, their bare limbs draped over him like he was some goddamn king. The room smelled like liquor, smoke, and sex.

Soldier Boy barely even looked surprised.

She? She stood there frozen, mortified, her brain short-circuiting worse than the neon sign she’d fried back at the club.

One of the blondes giggled. “Well, well. Looks like someone got lost.”

Soldier Boy just smirked. That smug, lazy smirk that made her want to slap him. “Ah sweetheart, I'll be right with you, I'll finish Cathy..."

"Kate." One of them corrected him.

"Kate," He started over "I'll finish her and your next."

Her stomach twisted. Her face burned. She wanted to disappear. To run, to burn her eyes as he did what he said and just... get along with it.

The girls giggled and moaned.

Her jaw clenched. She straightened, forced her expression blank, and leveled him with a cold stare. “Vought says you’re supposed to be a role model. Guess that’s a joke too.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out. The laughter rang in her ears long after she shut the door behind her.

Inside the room, the girls were still talking, their voices muffled but clear enough.

"I read she’s a virgin," one of them giggled. "Guess she couldn’t handle you, huh?"

Another one chimed in, fake sympathy dripping from her voice. "Yeah, Soldier Boy, better stay with us. You need a real woman."

More laughter. More of that smug, taunting amusement, like she was some naive little girl who didn’t belong here.

She clenched her fists and walked on.

--

The smell of coffee and fried bacon filled the kitchen as Y/N sat at the counter, idly stirring her cereal. She wasn’t really hungry, but she had an early morning photoshoot, and skipping meals would just give Vought’s PR team another excuse to ride her ass.

She was halfway through a spoonful when he walked in. Y/N tried to focus on her breakfast, but her brain had other ideas.

Ben.

Fresh out of bed, looking like he didn’t give a single shit about anything.

His robe was wide open, showing off that broad, muscled chest, and the only thing he had on was a pair of low-slung training pants. The man didn’t believe in modesty. Never had. He strolled through the kitchen like this all the time, half-dressed, yawning, scratching his chest, stretching his arms over his head—like he knew people were looking.

Ben was right there, standing across from her, half-dressed like he always was.

Robe hanging open, coffee cup in hand, his chest on full display. And lower—her gaze betrayed her, flickering down to where his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips.

And. Well.

Jesus Christ.

Was every man blessed like that?

She had no frame of reference, no real experience outside of a few PG-13 make-out sessions, but something told her that what she was seeing was... above average.

Way above.

Memories of that night flashed in her head—walking into his room, seeing him in full glory, tangled up with those three girls. The sounds. The way he barely even looked surprised, just amused by her reaction.

She swallowed hard.

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to look away, staring down into her cereal like it held the secrets of the universe.

But it was too late.

She could feel his smirk before she even looked up.

“Something on your mind, Angel?” Ben’s voice was slow, thick with amusement.

Her stomach dropped.

Shit.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes, only to find him watching her with that cocky expression—like he’d caught her red-handed and was enjoying every second of it.

“Not at all,” she said quickly, too quickly.

His smirk widened. “Huh. Could’ve sworn you were staring.” He took a casual sip of his coffee, gaze never leaving hers. “Lotta thoughts running through that pretty little head of yours?”

She gritted her teeth. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckled. “Disgusting?” He gestured at himself lazily. “Sweetheart, I saw you looking. I get it. You got questions.”

Y/N’s face burned." I don’t have questions.”

“Sure,” he said, unconvinced. Then, just to be a bastard, he adjusted the himself in his sweatpants.

Her eyes betrayed her again.

His laughter was damn near sinful. “You’re adorable.”

She shot up from her seat, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her from electrocuting his ass right there. “I was not looking,” she snapped, voice high with mortification.

Ben leaned in, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Angel, if you’re curious, all you gotta do is ask.”

Her hands sparked.

He grinned. “Careful. Wouldn’t wanna short-circuit the place just ‘cause you got flustered.”

He grabbed a mug, pouring himself another coffee like he didn’t have a care in the world and sat next to her. “Big morning, Angel?”

That damn nickname. He only ever used it when he was feeling extra annoying.

She didn’t look up. “Photoshoot.”

He snorted. “Lemme guess—more fake ‘bad girl’ bullshit?” He leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip. “Think they’ll finally give you a miniskirt that doesn’t make you look like a Catholic schoolgirl trying too hard?”

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm. Ignore him. Don’t take the bait.

But he wasn’t done.

He smirked over the rim of his cup. “Or maybe they’ll just put you in a nun outfit. Wouldn’t want America’s Virgin to give anyone the wrong idea.”

Her grip on the spoon tightened.

He loved this. Ever since her ex went running to the press, Ben had made it his personal mission to tease her about it every chance he got. And in private? He was worse.

"Twenty-one and still pure as snow," he drawled, shaking his head. "Jesus, sweetheart. What are you waiting for, marriage?"

She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. She wasn’t going to give him one.

Calmly, she took another bite of cereal, chewing slowly before answering. “What I do or don’t do isn’t your business, Ben.”

He chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart—everything in this place is my business.”

Her eyes flicked up to him for just a second—just a second—and he caught her.

That cocky smirk spread wider.

He saw the way her gaze had drifted, how she’d let it skim over his chest, down to his abs, before snapping back up.

Shit

Ben leaned in, setting his coffee down on the counter beside her. Close enough that she could smell the faint traces of whiskey still lingering on his breath from last night.

“Careful, Angel,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Look too long, and people might start thinking you’re curious.”

Her face burned.

She inhaled sharply, grabbed her plate, and stormed out of the kitchen without another word.

Ben’s laughter followed her down the hall.

She hated him.

She hated him so damn much.

--

The studio lights blazed hot overhead as Y/N shifted in her pose, adjusting to the photographer’s demands.

It was supposed to be a simple shoot. Just another set of promotional images—leather, fishnets, smoky eyeliner, the whole rebel girl act Vought was still trying to push.

But from the moment she walked in, something felt off.

The photographer, some industry creep named Mitch, had barely looked her in the eye when they introduced him. Instead, his gaze dragged over her body, assessing her like she was just another prop.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Mitch called, circling her like a vulture. “Let’s see some attitude. Hands on your hips, chin up—yeah, that’s it.”

She adjusted.

He frowned.

“Nah, nah, let me—”

Before she could react, his hands were on her.

Instead of just directing her, he physically grabbed her waist, twisting her slightly. “Need you to angle this way.”

Y/N stiffened. She didn’t like being touched. Not like this. Not by him. She stepped away subtly. “You can just tell me what you need.”

Mitch ignored her.

The shoot continued, and every few shots, he found another excuse to touch her. Adjusting her stance, tilting her chin, running his hands over her arms under the guise of “fixing” her pose.

Each time, Y/N moved away. Each time, he did it again. Trying to get her into very intimate poses and stands.

Something in her gut twisted.

Then, when she tried to step back again, his grip tightened She froze.

The overhead lights flickered.

Mitch smiled like nothing was wrong. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re too stiff. Here let me help you relax..."

Her breathing picked up. “I said—”

Before she could finish, he shoved her back—into the wall.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Panic slammed into her, sharp and blinding. His hands roamed lower.

He yanked at the fishnets Vought made her wear, his fingers tearing through the fabric.

“No,” she choked out, begging. “Please—”

His grip was firm. He wasn’t letting go. Terror locked up her limbs.

Then, all at once— The entire studio exploded in light.

The bulbs burst in a violent flash. Sparks rained down from the ceiling. The room hummed with electricity, static crackling in the air like a coming storm.

Mitch yelped, stumbling back. That was all she needed.

She ran.

--

Ben was still at the kitchen table, halfway through his coffee, when the lights flickered. At first, he thought it was just her.

Angel had been moody as shit that morning—not that he minded, it was fun to mess with her—and when she got worked up, electronics tended to act up. But this?

This was different.

The entire building pulsed like a power surge was about to take out the grid. The bulbs in the ceiling buzzed, flickering erratically. For a second, he thought they might explode.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it was over.

Ben raised an eyebrow but didn’t think too much of it. Not until a blur of black and leather came tearing past the kitchen.

She was running, eyes wild, breath ragged, shoulders shaking.

The coffee mug hit the table with a sharp *clink* as Ben stood. He barely had time to process it before instinct kicked in—follow her.

She was halfway down the hall when he caught up, grabbing her arm. “Whoa, whoa—”

The second he touched her, she lashed out. She fought.

Not the usual way—no smartass comments, no playful shoves. She fought like she was fighting for her life.

Ben had seen her in combat, had watched her take down men twice her size without hesitation. But this? This was different.

She was panicked. Wild. Desperate to get away.

“Hey! Angel!" he barked, gripping her tighter. She kept struggling, arms flailing, her hands sparking dangerously.

Ben sighed, then hauled her over his shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes. She kicked. She screamed. She damn near electrocuted him.

He didn’t let go.

Back in the kitchen, he set her down on the counter, hands firm on her waist to keep her still. “Alright, enough, ” he snapped. “What the hell happened?”

She wouldn’t look at him. Her breathing was too fast.Her hands were shaking so badly she had to clutch the counter. She looked like she was on the verge of collapsing. Her face and eyes puff from crying hysterical.

And then—he saw it.

The ripped fishnets. The fabric, torn at the thigh. The bruises already forming on her legs.

Ben went still. Something inside him turned cold.

His jaw clenched. “Who?”

Y/N swallowed hard, still refusing to meet his eyes.

His grip tightened. “Who did this to you?"

--

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[kadwrites]

future mrs shelby | T.S

previous part | next part

or check out the series masterlist

summary ; the dreaded day arrives.

warnings ; arranged marriage!trope, anxious reader? , mommy issues, slow burn,

a/n ; shit will go down next part , but lmk know what you think of this one?

-

"mrs gray" your back is straight when you speak to her, truth be told you never got over the fear you have of her

"polly." she corrects you,

"polly." you repeat, you couldn't help but repeat it when she said it in that stern voice of hers

"so ya want to meet the in laws aye?" polly's smirk is there, as it always was.

"i told 'er she doesn't 'ave to." the smirk must be a genetic thing

"but i really want to." you add, with a nod

"she has manners, this girl." she points at you with her cigarette "almost too good for ya."

"almost?" he glares at you for a second after you spoke "i do 'ave a question for ya, polly."

she looks at you, nodding slightly

"tommy says they won't like me"

"they probably won't." she exhales the smoke before speaking again "we are not very accepting of outsiders."

"how can i make them accept me?"

"ya don't."

"what?" your brows pinch together "but i want to."

"i know" she nods again "but ya shouldn't, ya shouldn't go out of your way to 'ave someone respect ya. ya show them who ya are and they'll learn." she taps her cigarette against the ash tray "remember that backbone that i told ya about?"

you hated the way you were sometimes. you hated that you wanted people to like you , maybe it's because you were wired to. "a lady is always pleasant and always seeks to be loved." your mother always said. the thought of your own husband's family hating is making your head hurt

"yeah i remember" you're chewing the inside of your cheek, you didn't even notice that your feet were tapping against the floor

"why are ya so stressed about this? who fucking cares if they don't love ya?" tommy mutters as he lights up his own cigarette

"so what am i supposed to do now? wait till the party to meet them?"

"you'd be too stressed to care what they think of ya." polly adds, her eyes are making you squirm in your seat. no matter how often she did that, she still intimidated you.

"i think i'm going to be sick." your arm is wrapped around tommy's as you both walk through the long corridor that leads to the ballroom, where all the guests are.

everything feels overwhelming. your grandmother's diamond necklace that you insisted on wearing feels like it's digging into your throat. your dress feels too tight, the silk feels somehow hot. your shoes feel like they're going to slip off your feet. your hair feels like it's wound too tight, but feels like it might come undone at the same time.

he hold back a laugh and it's your turn to glare at him "it's not funny"

"never said it was." he's smiling though "it's just a party , relax."

"easy for ya to say, this is what ya lot do." you mumble , your eyes stuck at the end of the corridor

"us?"

"yeah, rich people i mean."

"i wasn't always rich, ya know." he looks forward as well as you both walk

"but ya were born to be rich." you didn't even think of those words, or even seem to care what he thinks, your words come out with a nervous breath laced around them, listening to the sounds of music and people celebrating

but he turns to look at you, and you didn't even notice that.

you take a deep breath, straightening your back and putting on the best smile you can muster as you walk into the party, people turn to the both of you. the greetings and congratulations start.

tommy speaks calmly, you envy him. he looks like he belongs there, between the aristocrats that fill the room.

tommy looks nothing short of dashing. his suit is perfect, not a wrinkle in sight. his demeanor is cool, in control, which he always is.

"mr shelby, congratulations!"

"congratulations thomas, it's a beautiful party"

"ya look gorgeous, miss. congratulations on the engagement"

"best of luck to the both of you!"

you just smile and nod, thanking them. you almost can't even see their faces, too anxious and too stressed.

"tommy."

that voice makes your eyes focus , your vaguely familiar with it.

it's his brother, arthur. you still keep your smile, though you can feel your hands sweating.

"arthur."

"so this the future mrs tommy shelby, aye?" he looks at you with a raised brow, you can't decipher the look.

"yes it is." you keep your voice at a steady tone , with that same smile "ya must be arthur , it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"ya speak too posh for a farmer's girl." his words seem a little slurred , now that you're listening well

"and ya speak too poorly for a rich man." your head is still held high.

tommy glances at you then back at his brother , he looks almost proud.

"did ya teach 'er to say that?" he smirks at his brother

"i'm not a parrot , arthur. he didn't teach me anything." you let out a chuckle, you pick up a champagne flute from one of the trays that the waiters carry "it's a party right? , let's celebrate, ey?, grab yourself a drink" you lift your champagne flute "cheers" you say before taking a sip, and tommy walks, dragging you with him

"is your whole family going to be like that?" your nervousness now shows as you throw back your champagne flute, drinking all of it

"yes" he looks at you with a smile , he takes the glass away, "don't get drunk, it's too early."

"right." you try to take deep breaths, you look around the venue.

it's perfect, it's everything you've ever wanted, everything you've ever dreamed of. the cake, the music, the drinks, the decorations. nothing is out of place, except for you, or that's how you feel.

how are you ever going to fit into this life? how many of those parties are you going to have to attend or host?

your train of thought is quickly interrupted by fiona and madeline who look like they might combust with excitement

"oh my god ya look gorgeous!" madeline hugs you and fiona is by your side

"ya look stunning!"

tommy clears his throat and madeline freezes

"madeline and fiona, right?" he raises a brow, how did they not notice him?.

madeline pulls back, and both of them look at eachother

you laugh, you feel as if all that weight was lifted off your chest by just seeing their faces

"madeline , fiona" you smile "this is tommy, in case ya're too drunk to recognize 'im."

"she talks about ya two a lot ya know."

"she does?" fiona laughs nervously "it's a pleasure to meet ya , sir."

"congratulations!" madeline says with a smile

"thank you," he smiles at them, and you think both of them might actually turn to dust.

"where is celest?" your question made them both look at you again

"she's......." fiona trails off

"um...." madeline chimes in, with nothing.

you close your eyes shut at that "fuck me."

she and your mother had a fight, is what that means.

"what the fuck 'appened this time then?"

"celest wore your mother's necklace." fiona says quietly,

the ruby necklace.

she had to do something, she just had to somehow do something to ruin this.

"where's is she now?" your voice is too quiet and it makes madeline squeak

"in one of the room , she's crying i think."

-

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[syoddeye]

down the hatch 5 / je ne sais quoi

141 x f!reader | ~1.8k | series page tags: spanking, anger issues, big emotions, bad jokes a/n: banner by @/cafekitsune.

somewhere between swats fourteen and fifteen, a thought interrupts the fuzzy broadcast of your brain to scream—this is what gaz was missing.

the je ne sais quoi. the hate.

gaz isn’t a fan, you think, but he doesn’t loathe you. john, on the other hand? it’s almost inspiring.

if you’re going to spank someone, you gotta mean it, y’know?

the pain and shock melt into a stinging numbness. from the ragged breaths above, it sounds like john’s losing steam with every swing. big idiot probably thinks you’ll come out of this all docile, ready to fall into line like his three stooges.

you twist your head, smearing your cheek through drool, and point a grin over your shoulder.

“put your back into it, old man.”

he winds up, arm high, and holds it. “you’re a brat.”

then it comes down harder than the others, and you screech.

spots flash in your eyes when you force them open, hissing and spitting at him. “and the sky is blue, at lease i think it still is, but i wouldn’t fucking know since you won’t let me out!”

john freezes, hand raised, but he doesn’t bring it down this time. his nostrils flare, his jaw tightens. “is that why you’re acting like this? feelin’ cooped up?”

you scoff. “for starters, i’m ‘acting like this’ because four commandos broke into my house and they’re holding me hostage.”

“we’re not keeping you prisoner.”

“why else would you keep someone on the door all the damn time, then? huh? you think i don’t know what’s going on? keeping me locked in here like some fucking animal.”

he laughs, like he can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. he tightens his grip on your wrist where it’s pressed to your tailbone. “so no one else comes in.” his eyes narrow. “you want to see the great fuckin’ outdoors? i’ll take you myself.”

with that, he releases your wrist, yanks your shorts up hard, and lands one last swat for good measure.

you roll over, ready to throw out a colorful comment, but he cuts you off, thrusting a finger down at you.

“no more hidin’ in here. i expect to see you at breakfast. at all meals. got it?”

you get why he’s in charge. the less-fun type of screamer. a permanently angry dad.

still. you won’t sit comfortably for a week.

you raise a hand in mock salute, throwing on a chipper tone. “yes, sir. understood, sir.”

john looms for a second longer, red-faced and breathing heavy. makes you think you’ve earned round two, but instead, he turns on heel. he flicks the light, stomps through the door, and slams it shut behind him.

someone snickers through the duct tape plastered over the vent. assholes.

the urge to cry wells up out of nowhere, tickling your throat and stinging your eyes. you choke it down. you haven’t cried since the early days, and you won’t start now. not over some egotistical, power-tripping has-been.

so, you take it out on your pillow. punches first. then screaming.

nobody laughs at that.

the next day, you slink into the kitchen. gaz elbows soap before he can say something stupid, and you grab your share of the canned corned beef hash. you eat at the end of the counter, ignoring them all.

when john finally shows, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. the bruises on your ass throb at the sight of him.

miserable fucker.

they discuss their plans. ghost and gaz are heading out on a scavenging trip with a list of parts to gather for communication equipment they apparently looted off of corpses. they’ll be gone a few days.

soap’s on maintenance. closest thing they’ve got to an engineer. figures. he’s the only one curious—or dumb enough—to stick his hands into wires and pipes. not a surprise, considering where else you’ve seen him stick his hands.

john declares he’s on ‘babysitting duty.’

you don’t look up. not even when all attention shifts toward you.

you stab a chunk of hash and chew instead.

as the others head off, john lingers. hovers. too close. invading your space, the wretch.

“when you’re done, get dressed. sleeves and jeans, if you got them.”

when you don’t respond, he bends and angles his face into your line of sight. that big, stupid smile stretches, lifting his cheeks and squishing his eyes. and ghost called you unsettling.

“if you don’t want to go outside, you can scrub the latrine. make yourself useful.”

you roll your eyes, hating the surge of interest. you didn’t think he was serious about that offer.

all you have for bottoms are leggings. your jortcraft apparently shortsided. you shove socks into the toes of a pair of men’s boots and dig out an atrocious ask about my wiener schnitzel shirt. 

john gives you one long, judgmental once-over that says everything. he would’ve thrived as a retail sales clerk in the before times. but he deems you ready.

the hatch is a sight up close again.

that first day, it took you hours to free yourself from the bunkroom where the austrian locked you up. of course, your first instinct had been to get the fuck out, but you’d felt the heat radiating off the bulkhead. decided you liked having hands. skin and eyeballs. you don’t think you could’ve opened it alone, anyway.

nerves. a mild case of bubblegut. too many feelings for just staring at a damn door.

john breaks a sweat turning the wheel, muttering under his breath about ghost closing it too tight. you bite back a laugh when his shoulder pops, and he groans like an old man.

the laugh dies when the first sliver of real light you’ve seen in months filters in.

it burns.

it only opens wide enough for the two of you to slip out, and just as you step forward, john stops you.

“wait here. i’ll whistle.” 

you hadn’t really noticed the firepower he was packing when you followed him to the entrance. too busy imagining how you could poison him with dehydrated eggs. the handgun looks small in his grip, almost like a toy, but his expression is anything but playful. you thought he was serious before, now he looks deadly.

he rounds the edge of the door, disappearing into the light and up the short flight of steps. his footsteps fade.

a minute stretches out.

then, a whistle.

shielding your face as you climb the steps, you figure this must be what astronauts felt like returning to earth. 

(shit. you hadn’t thought about that. was anyone still up there?) 

the crusty puddle that used to be your neighbor is easy enough to avoid. squinting ahead, you spot john waiting near the garden gate. you glance back, staring into the entrance of what’s been your home for months. and just like that, you can’t help but wonder how your actual home is doing.

you haven’t thought about your rental in a long time. like after a fire or flood, there came a point where you had to stop. let go. you were already going crazy, no need to add fuel.

so what if your beloved magnet collection is goo? your baby photos dust? your grandmother’s ring? your mom’s guitar?

it’s fine. dandy. peachy keen. what are physical belongings, anyway?

chin high, shoulders squared, so cool and unaffected, you approach john. that act crumbles the moment your gaze shifts. while the austrian’s house is as charred and wrecked as you expected, beyond it…

devastation. ruin as far as you can see. broken and burnt buildings. pulverized cars. rubble and debris everywhere. 

john carries on like it’s just another beautiful day in the neighborhood, quietly narrating his plans as he scans over the fence. “thought i’d take you a street over. saw a clothing store. could look for some things that fit.”

you don’t really hear him. you’re too busy marinating in the awfulness that surrounds your hidey hole. and even though you already know what to expect when you finally, slowly, turn toward where your block used to be, your jaw still drops.

all those stupid crunches and jumping jacks finally pay off. pure, unadulterated instinct.

you duck under john’s outstretched arm and break into a run. painful, considering your bruised glutes.

john’s yelling behind you—definitely obscenity-laced, probably a threat, he’ll probably kill you—but you don’t hear him.

doesn’t matter.

you only stop when your legs give out at the end of the street, collapsing into a jog, and that’s when he catches you. scruffs you like a dog.

you’re pointing, blabbering nonsense, brain short-circuiting as you gesture wildly at the fucking crater where your building used to be.

john doesn’t entertain your mental breakdown. his head’s on a swivel the whole time he drags you back. gaz and ghost are already there, standing with their packs. soap, too. he’s the one who hooks an arm around your middle to help john corral you inside.

déjà vu hits hard. big hand over your mouth. bad breath whispering in your ear.

you hope soap doesn’t take it personally when you knee him in the balls at the bottom of the entry steps before tearing off into the bunker. 

even if he doesn’t, john sure as hell does. 

because he’s hot on your heels, and he catches the door when you get to your room.

“what the hell were you doin’? you could’ve been seen, could’ve been shot at—”

your head’s a mess. a whirlpool, no—one of those shitty carnival rides that spin until someone pukes. you don’t even know where it’s coming from. you’ve been cool. good. kept your shit together for months. made peace with the fact the world was over. it’s not like the austrian scooped someone beloved off the streets. not like anyone would’ve been looking for you.

but seeing every trace of your little life wiped off the map?

that’s a different fucking story.

john’s on a rampage. blocking the exit, watching you pace. “you’ve compromised our location. we’ve been careful with our entries and exits, and you—”

it’s their fault. all of it.

if they hadn’t come along and cracked the bunker open, you could’ve died here. in peace. from starvation. oxygen deprivation. whatever the cause. maybe a month from now or years down the line. crazy, delirious, probably a full-time nudist, but at least ignorant. in the dark.

a hand touches your shoulder. you violently shrug it off, spinning on john.

his face is no longer red with anger but something else—concern? pity? gross.

there’s spit on your lips. you’re hoarse. so much for keeping your cool. you’ve been screaming at him.

three seconds of blistering humiliation. then you’re shoving him, harder than you should. must be adrenaline, because he goes with it. you slam the door.

then, silence.

you stand there, breath ragged, waiting.

waiting for him to knock. to kick the door down. to shout through the crack.

but nothing comes, just the shuffle of boots moving away.

you press your forehead against the door, fists clenched tight. your stomach twists with something unfamiliar. distant, almost forgotten. even before all this. 

regret.

[ur-mousey]

Cross My Heart and Hope to Die~

-Yan!Andrew Graves x F!Reader x Yan!Ashley Graves-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part 1, 3 (coming out soon)

chapter two The Doll prt 1

summary A doll's presence is all it took to cause a ripple effect to occur. warning familial neglect/abuse, quarantine trauma, hunger, implied cheating

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Porcelain dolls have eyes that notice the insignificant details. They settle on a freckle four cm to the left and a quarter inch above your cupid's bow. To anyone but the doll, it would go unnoticed. So, when one peeks at it through its glass confinements, its eyes won't meet them; instead, it'll linger on that minor imperfection. That fracture in a supposedly perfect mold. However, no one's face is prettier than a doll. Once they've noticed all that makes you human, then and only then- will they turn their gaze to the tacky florals patterning the walls.

Mommy had dressed you as such.

Then she yelled at you for seeing the wrinkles gathering around her brows. Adding with age and multiplying with substances.

Daddy left and it meant that Mommy blamed you for driving a wedge within their relationship. Father never wanted a girl. He reminded you each birthday he was present that only lesser men spawned pussies. You never shot back a retort, finding buttercream swirls more appealing than his face.

Then Jared ran away before you turned twelve. He loathed your doe expression. He wanted to cram you into a box to look at forever. The desire to snap your legs to keep you like a wingless bird ever-present in his thoughts. You were so pretty that he tried bruising your flesh to make you undesirable. But, it fueled his preadolescent hormones.

That's why Jared fled. His conflicts were written on torn-out pages of your favorite books, haphazardly strewn under your pillows.

By fifteen, all Mommy had was you and your porcelain eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You tensed over the checkered tile floor, which you've stared at all morning. The A/C whirled down the hall, sputtering out of sync; it hardly worked, and no repair man could be called. You toed at the roughed-up edges of wooden planes, meeting the kitchen flooring. You traced purple scribbles from a marker long discarded with the heels of your feet. You chuckled at your balance seeming off. Your stomach ached, but nothing could be delivered.

The last you've eaten to satiate the tiniest bit of hunger was a can of tomatoes warmed on the stovetop a half day prior. Unfortunately, it was split among three -the Graves siblings and yourself.

You paced on tip-toes from the sink to the front door -barred on the outside. You used to peek each morning through the peephole for a sign of life besides the security guard making his rounds. And each time, there was one pair of footfalls on the water-drenched carpet.

These days you felt like a marionette, stumbling through the motions on uneven limbs. Your right side lifted higher than your left, and your arms splayed parallel to your hips as if you held onto the wire strings itself. If you hopped off pointe, you felt limp and discarded. Worn out. As though the puppeteer decided a doll of more novelty deserved to breathe life.

And if you ever did stop moving then the TV's saccharine buzz would meld into your pores as it spoke its static language. Foreign if not for its monotony over your life. It reminded you that death remained your last resort.

You wouldn't survive this.

"You're up..." A voice startled your reverie. It was lithe and wooly in the air with hints of sleep attached to each syllable. Leyley stretched over the couch's mustard arm. "That burns calories." She gestured flippant at your display.

"Your point... We'll die anyways," You chewed on your inner cheek.

Ashely faced away. Any snide remark wrangled tight to her chest.

She shrugged, "Who's Andy on the phone with?"

You glanced over at Andrew, the only member of this dump who was fortunate enough to receive weekly check-in calls. "Probs it's Julia."

Who else could it be besides her? Julia this and Julia that. When the phone rang, Andrew pounced for the receiver, soaring head-first into her tales of a world outside. You had not bothered to listen except to the forlorn sighs breaching over the static. But your steps mimicked the rhythm of which he'd spoken -hushed and bothered.

Ashley wore a blank facade. Her pink eyes sparked devilishly against the paleness of her skin. "Oh?" She gritted through thin lips.

You brushed frigid fingers through your hair, which remained a hot-knotted mess. Leyley reached over pillows for the remote, and with speed, she muted the sound, before filtering through the television stations as if anything would pop up. However, she knew there was nothing but the news which had shut off an hour prior.

Andrew sneered at his sister. "Or I can try talking to them? But-- No or I mean yes. But that doesn't--... No, I'm not angry. I'm just--"

Pause. More shoutings of female rage sputtered over the receiver.

"No, I--... Can you let me talk?" Andrew snorted.

A female voice shrilled from the phone, "--'ve time to think---... just can't do it anymore."

"What else is there to say …Sorry?" Andrew stiffened. He pinched at the furrow of his eyebrow. "Although I don't see why I should be held accountable for--"

beep -- beep -- beep… CLANK

Metal smashed against itself as Andrew deposited the rotary phone back into place. "Who was it?" Ashley spoke. Her fingers stroked the gem dangling from her inked black chocker wrapped in a death vice around her neck.

"My ex-girlfriend. Apparently."

You hopped down, bare heels meeting the ground.

"Oooo, she dumped you? Why is that?" Leyley twirled her words together into a song.

A silence bloomed between the siblings.

The back tag of Andrew's sweater was flipped up, reaching toward the nape of his hair. "Why do you think?" He breathed out low.

"H-how should I know? Maybe… because you're a parasite-infested homebody, that's apparently perma-quarantined?" Ashley brought her knees to her chest, resting her chin above it. "Or, it's because she found somebody new? It's been a few months, buddy. Or maybe she didn't like you much in the first place."

"…Whatever you say, Ashley." Andrew dragged his feet to the balcony. The door slammed shut on this argument.

Leyley swiveled her gaze to you. "I didn't even tell him the worst of it. I could've brought up the fact that he's fucking you."

You puffed out a soft laugh. "It's because you tell me to."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"NOOOO!!!" Ashley welled. She had kicked her feet into the air, flailing them about like weapons with no aim. Anything and everything was a target in her blind fury. "I don't want her sleeping in my room."

You huddled on the top step to the second floor, head buried into the flesh of your arm. Andrew hobbled past your form with your bookbag in tow. You glanced at the rabbit toy nodding off towards the door. Its arm flopped over his shoulder.

Mrs. Graves tore sheets out of the hallway closet with haste. She had bags under her eyes and her groans were exaggerated. "Ashley! Stop. I told you, when she stays the night, she'll be in your room."

"No faaaaair-" The little girl drawled. "Let her stay on the couch!!!"

"And let that child have an accident on it? No."

"So, she'll pee in my room!" Ashley's cheeks pooled red with heat.

"If she so has to," Mrs. Graves rolled her eyes. "But, I assume she's potty trained..." She waltzed towards her daughter, depositing the linens over top of her head.

Andrew wrangled Ashley from underneath the covers. Her arms spun like broken windmills -knocking her fists against his head. "That's not the point!!! I don't want her here."

Mrs. Graves flattened the blankets out on the ground. "It's not about what you want."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading! Request rules are here! Follow my ig = lil.thoughts.xo! Sorry to have this come out so late!! Hope you all enjoy, part three should be out sooner. Next chapter will explore more of this "sleep over"

@aika-starlight @snackpaxk @jimmycest @moriwori

[a-cow-stole-my-username]

Gone with the sin

Chapter 1 Losing your life

HIM - Gone with the sin

Fox x reader

GN reader, canon typical violence, this starts (and takes dialogue, only in this chapter credits to Gatobob) after the 2nd show but will be more about time in captivity, not too much Fox in this chapter but trust me we'll get there soon 👀

If he said crawl I would crawl, if he told me to chew on glass I had to look him in the eyes. Everything but obedience was rewarded with punishment, he needed me to be functional but didn't mind the scars, each one like a signature of a name he never told me but everyone else saw. In the lonely nights he was drunk he showed a few crumbs of remorse, those were the only times i saw him human, clinging to that fake peace just to be a fool the next morning I was of any use.

Another show, another set of stitches. Your eye, your back and your insides are all sore. Barely conscious and sleeping through what felt like days. There's no way to tell the time in your cell. You had many dreams but most were about pain and teeth, those sharp pointy edges in you neck, on your back and eating you alive all around. You really can't tell what actually happens in them, you most likely won't remember them awake. It doesn't matter.

You feel a weight in your head, a hand petting you.

"Did I wake you?"

You don't think of your desires and only feel the need to keep sleeping, your eyes are heavy and the other limbs don't want to move but something makes your eye open, on the back of your head you remember that detail, the other eye won't wake up. You can see him now.

"There you are" You still breath slowly "You've been sleeping so long, I was a little worried you'd slipped into a coma" you looked at him, panic rising but not enough to say anything yet, just a weak attempt at standing up, maybe running away.

"Shh. Relax" he said calmly "No show today" those words letting you rest on your "bed" again.

"I've gotten you all fixed up ♡" he said smiling "They couldn't save your eye, but it's been prepared for a prosthetic" the mention of it made you touch it and gasped as you felt nothing there.

"Don't fiddle with it. It needs to heal more" A prosthetic? Why would he help you?

"Why would you even bother fixing my eye if you're just going to kill me?" It had been a while since you had spoken so it came out slightly croaked. He took a moment before he answered.

The rest of the conversation didn't include much talking from your part, he seemed pleased from doing most of the talking and spending time with you. Little did you now the actual weight of the words you made. The drugs did their part and yet again fell into the arms of your little death.

Your last show proved to be best you're sure, he must be so proud. So why did he stop you? Knife still inside, you waited for your next instruction. The room went dark and you heard the sound of the knife be thrown to other side of the room. He took the wire and the shackles and pushed you to the floor.

"This one is mine now" and he also said he wanted you alive, for the longest time you repeated those words to the point the memories felt fake. They came back to you in pain, while making excuses, anniversaries and through emotional punishments.

His chat wanted to see more, he was the one in charge of the ending and you wish to ask Fox about it. That's not his real name, you have a new hole and burns to prove it, it's a persona. The kind that pleased his audience in very dark desires in which you are not the first victim, but hopefully the last star.

You remember the words he said before the third show and you realize it's almost funny how all that medical work was indeed torn apart anyway. Maybe the painkillers stopped you from feeling the true the state of your wounds. Burns, cuts, the infection in your eye, your foot, his teeth, your teeth in your arm... All in different stages of healing that currently condition your mobility.

Your new concerns are scars that you can't bear to think about now, not when he's looking at you in pieces from your head to your toes or maybe it's more about the silent declaration of his name when Fox marked your body.

You are more conscious now, the light gives you a headache, to avoid the bright light of the room, you look down and the bandage on your arm is the most interesting thing in sight "But only I can smell you" is what you mentally hear looking at it. The room was dark in shows and you wonder if his eyes stared like he does now, you remember there was a camera in your cell.

"How are you feeling?" The author of your pain gets close to you now and sits beside you, there's no point in lying. "It hurts" because there's no other way of explaining it to which Fox chuckles "Well, that was the idea. I have seen them myself, you're healing well" he said while placing his hand on your head trying not to hurt you.

The moment feels tender but you still feel anxious around him, the man must notice and he takes a moment to decide before he tells you "no more shows" he looks at your covered belly and you follow. It doesn't help much but he's the closest thing you have to comfort so you get your head closer to him. It reminds you of the touch of his mask mimicking a kiss to your forehead.

"Why did you stop me?"

_______________

Fox doesn't now the answer to that question without letting Ren talk to you. Life taught him he can't get pretty things unless he works and bleeds for them, from the beginning Ren was weak to the point Fox had to take his place in front of the world.

"Why would you help me?" "Who did that to you?" "Are you going to kill me or not?" "I thought you were the one in charge..."

For a person with more illegal chemicals than blood in their veins you managed to pull some of the most important memories that led him to that point and it made him wonder if Fox's strength was another facade in his search of approval. Fox was in charge until he wasn't, Ren was so close to letting you die.

He had wanted you to die, to some extent. The warmth of your blood, the smell of your meat burning and the sound of your cries were something he missed from his shows. Just from the auction his star started to surprise him enough to feel his heart racing in excitement, this single action however didn't change the usual course of events.

He still get shrivers from the memory of your mouth on the gun, how you chose to meet him instead of the choke chain and the pretty smiles you made when trying to please his cruel demands.

It's all in the details his audience didn't properly enjoy as much as he did, it's the shine of the tears getting in the way of you tasting your own blood while looking unintentionally at his eyes. He knows you saw him touching himself and yet you kept going. It's also how you felt around him after doing more than necessary to avoid the sharp ends around your neck. It's the beauty of your trust when he only wants to hurt you.

Ren knows saving you will bring problems, in his youth seeking to fill his heart Ren learned not to trust and entertain the idea of someone who would stay. Maybe, maybe it's the lust of taking your rightful place between the living into appearing dead like a doll of his collection. Life draining out of you like the electricity flowing out of a battery. He savours the idea of orchestrating such an event. The thought doesn't scare him anymore, Fox revels in his perversion.

Thinking of the present, he knows he wants to keep you healthy and that he wants to hurt you again. He should be honest then "I want you to stay"

________________

To stay implies being already somewhere, in your case is difficult to know your place in his play. It's impossible not to fear him when you're not safe yet. Not having a clear view of the future it's easier to let him fill the blanks during this exchange. But by not answering he almost seems nervous, as if you had something over him. Your fear him and decide to have mercy. In an attempt to sit properly and get away from him his eyes turn slightly cold.

"For how long?" and you see the window in the room, how the warmth it gives it's lost to you.

"As long as I want, we'll have enough time to know each other" he said, even without directly looking you heard a smile "Don't think too much about it, you need to rest now" Fox said, placing his hand over the heart shape in your chest. It feels different, because apparently they removed the stitches that held it together.

"Maybe it's time for me to go, don't stay up too late" the placing in his hand changed to yours, his claws are cold.

He stood up, gave you a last smile as wide as in between shows and after a moment of what could be mistakingly interpreted as hesitation he closed the curtains. This time, sleep didn't save you on time.

Moving again to get a better chance at sleep, each wound screamed it's origins, it's echo formed a choir with the increasing sound of your heartbeat. At least tomorrow you hope to see the sun on your skin again.

And you do, you see the sun but your hands are cold. You also see nurses and doctors that have little interest in conversation, it wouldn't make sense Fox would let you here without trusting them not to help you. Having an opportunity to see more people still boosts your morale.

The day the doctors gave you your prosthetic Fox was there to see the procedure, it matched your eye color. Later that day, you saw yourself in the mirror before taking your first bath alone.

Naked in that bathroom the first obvious thing you saw was your head, your eye with and without the prosthetic. The movements didn't properly match in speed, making you feel strange, you looked all around the bathroom to see them move. It could've been sad, but you had a little fun with it, you saw your smile. It took a while to get comfortable using it.

Then you saw your neck, the faint little dots of the chain acting as a necklace, there used to be a mark of the wire too. Giving the size of the mirror the last piece of reflection was of your heart between your chest, the lines were not shaky or too curved they gave prove of his experience. You place your hand there, feeling it like the possessive way in which he touched it both times. You had already been given enough time to see your arms once they took the bandages so further down you saw the mark of the stabbing in your belly, your sex, your legs and your feet.

Being nude now is harmless and innocent, you have seen yourself so many times since forever and this look is prove that you have lived. The cuts in your thighs are healed, the sole of your foot feels normal to walk on now too.

This is you, the things that made you self-conscious before are unimportant now.

You remember the days of taking baths as a kid. You were someone's loved baby once and somehow now you are lonely with no opportunity be with your family again. What would they even think of you now?

A few days went by, nothing memorable in them. Pain, sleep, boredom, simple conversations. That window was a reminder of what you would not be again.

After that, he finally took you home with the same boring methods of transportation because you wake up in a different room again. You finally stand up from the bed and see the surroundings.

First thing to notice is there are no windows, it's mostly bare of personality and smelling like bleach. In a way, like the recording room.

The walls are all white, there is a big wood wardrobe and a bed that would have been inviting if it wasn't for the countless days you have already lost to being unconscious. You also notice you're wearing different clothes, unlike those feminine "outfits" this is more simple and somewhat close to the clothes you were wearing the last time you were outside. There are two shackle like things on your wrists and ankles too, they have a ring on the back but are not connected to a chain, they're also a bit heavy. Remember: he had said no more shows.

Speaking of the devil, he enters the room smiling as always.

_________

I'm already working in the second chapter so no worries, there's a general layout of the entire story and all the plot points I want to add, if for ANY reason I decided not to continue I will 100% tell you what I had planned stay safe ❣️🫀🦊

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[sinisterexaggerator]

Summary: Nick Valentine hardly ever leaves your thoughts, but you're barely on his radar. Your infatuation takes a rather interesting turn; you're caught red-handed in his bed, wearing candy apple lipstick and a freshly laundered dress. What is to become of you? Will you be able to confess your feelings, or will you run away instead?

Warning: NSFW / 18+ for masturbation/being caught in the act, kissing, cunnilingus, fingering, mild wire play, angst, drama, "love" confessions, and sass.

Word count: 5.9K

Notes: I may make a part two for this after "you" get to know each other a little better. I don't see Nick letting just anybody play with his innards all willy-nilly, but I had a lot of fun writing it!

Read on Ao3

It wasn’t an eyesore, and neither was the Synth who owned it, luminescent neon laid out in letters, an arrhythmic fluctuation in voltage causing a delay in current every three point five seconds—you had counted.

How could a man with the last name Valentine—whose brand was marked with a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow—not see the underlying machinations from which your attention spurred?

He was a detective, no less, unable to work out your motivations, not understanding that every nuance—every quirk of your lips, every gleam in your eye, every smile—was for him, because of him, and that you had long ago fallen for his wit, his charm, his mind, and for his heart.

A man who wasn’t a man—thrown together in some lab—though that needn’t be your concern. It mattered little if he was flesh and bone or biomechanical, though his kind was greatly feared and for good reason.

Nick was different, he was a diamond in the rough of Diamond City, shining more brightly than even the Valentine Detective Agency’s ostentatious signage. A do-gooder who never tired, a being whose higher purpose rested not with himself, but with others, giving more to the people of the Commonwealth than they rightfully deserved.

For all the hate, intolerance, and ignorance Nick dealt with on the daily, he dished out love, empathy and acceptance in equal measure, though he was not one to take an insult lying down.

He was also passionate; fiery beneath a calm and collected disposition, his habitually stoic makeup a steadying force and welcomed counterbalance to the restless biome that flourished within these walls.

It was when he spoke to you the first time that you became enamored with his personality, whether artificial, finding him to be bold and charismatic. He had asked what brought you to the neighborhood—you were a trader who lost your caravan, your guards, nothing left but the caps in your pocket. 

Luckily for you, a man named Arturo Rodriguez had been contemplating the idea of extending his hours for quite some time, his competition employing a salvaged Mister Handy named Percy to sell goods even in the dead of night—it was a case of being in the right place at the right time, one you were thankful for.

It became engrained into his subroutine, these evening visitations, Nick sharing bits and pieces of his history with you for a lack of customers, though oftentimes short and sweet as he kept himself busy. There was always a new crime to be investigated, or a new case to be solved.

Truth be told, the detective was worried about you—a solitary woman—being out there by your lonesome at such late hours. All kinds of riffraff ushered themselves in off the streets, not caring what time of the day it was.

Diamond City was a safe haven as much as it was a magnet for undesirables, those men and women of ill repute that made life difficult for hardworking people just trying to get by. Security could only do so much; it was common for slime to slip through the cracks, portions of the city less fortified than others.

Still, Nick felt Arturo ought to be ashamed, getting a broad to do his dirty work. Little did he know this job had been a godsend, or that you were tougher than a two-dollar steak and twice as hard to chew.

Call him a gentleman, but Valentine, on more than one occasion, had gone out of his way unbeknownst to you, changing his route home simply to check in on your stall. 

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” Nick had inquired, the corner of his mouth creeping upward to indicate his offhanded chiasmus was merely a good-natured tease. 

“You know me,” you had answered back, “total slacker.”

“Stickin’ it to the man, glad to hear it,” he would drawl, voice dry and deadpan yet soothing to the ears. Even though Nick was cordial with Arturo, he didn’t mind having a joke at his expense.

“Doing my part,” you replied, wishing he’d step closer, wishing he would stay and chat a while.

“Stay out of trouble, doll,” he’d warn, tipping the brim of his hat; you were in awe at how a single monosyllabic word could drive you toward such filthy imaginings as you were then, reveling in that passing instant he had paid you mind.  

Mission accomplished, Nick would wander off to park himself at the Agency, unaware that for the rest of the night your mind was wholly occupied by impure thoughts—and it was all his fault. It was ridiculous that a simple term of endearment expressed so casually could nearly short-circuit your human brain, yet here you were.

Could he make love to you if you asked? Would he touch you if you begged him to? 

You supposed his existence was an adventurous one, wishing you could participate in something other than this humdrum life, though you assumed you ought to be grateful you were alive at all.

But it unnerved you—angered you to no end— to hear the drivel that oozed like poison from out the mouths of bigots when they spoke of Nick Valentine in his absence. They declared he was not sentient, that an intelligence such as his was naïve to think of itself as self-aware, as if they were any more autonomous than he, choosing to act of their own free-will by way of insults and disgraceful slurs.

Arturo had been accommodating, allowing you the top floor of his home until you could get on your feet. Such things were heard from rooftops, echoing beyond thin strips of sheet metal to leech its way into your ears. You roosted, enjoying the wide-open view of the sky and the clouds drifting by, only for your mood to sour, tempted to shout obscenities at the offender—usually Myrna— from your place in the dark.

You valued Nick’s company despite the rumors or the gossip about the Institute, ignoring the fact he was a Synth. You wondered if something was wrong with you, finding your short exchanges to be a thousand times more stimulating than any discourse with your neighbors—Valentine’s smile alone was worth more than all the caps in the world.

You often daydreamed about his cybernetic eyes looking down at you from your place atop his mattress, bright as sunbeams, imbued with radiant golden light. They were the windows to his soul—and you were convinced he had one— no one could tell you otherwise.

Then, more questions came. Could man love machine? Could machine love man? Ethical quandaries that knew no bounds. Those of narrow minds might call it an abomination in the eyes of God, while for others it might cause confusion, or effectuate ridicule.

Somehow, none of that would matter, not if Nick returned what was undeniably blossoming into not just admiration, but desire. Could Synths feel desire? Could androids dream?

And the man did flirt, if only feigning attraction, but not with you—you did not assume you were boring or undesirable, but you carried yourself the opposite of Piper, or even his assistant, Ellie. These women were always present in his life, women you tried not to be jealous of, though the ease with which they spoke, the familiarity of their years together ate away at you, knowing you might never reach the level of intimacy you so craved.

Besides, nothing good came of getting close to someone in this day and age, yet you wanted to be—scared of heartbreak, of them being stolen from you too soon, or of being sorely disappointed should they show themselves to be something other than what you thought them to be. There were risks at every turn; you had to decide—would you ever be brave enough to tell him how you felt?

Then, one day, you heard about the love between Ms. Edna and Mr. Zwicky, a robot and a human getting married of all things—it’s what prompted you to stand outside Nick’s door right this very moment, staring long enough at the glowing, heart-shaped outline for it to be burned into your retinas.

The sun was sinking just beyond the wall, Diamond City winding down as its citizens took shelter in their homes or closed up shop—it was thankfully one of your nights off.

You couldn’t get it out of your head, the very idea of a single touch, a single kiss—an affectionate word shared, a smile meant just for you. To make him smile would be the most gratifying thing of all. Too often Valentine looked glum, his thoughts weighing on him, dragging him down along with all the horrors that came with living in a post-apocalyptic society.

To kiss it away, to ensconce him in your embrace—to make him forget he wasn’t human, if only for a few minutes—your heart raced at all the possibilities, all he had to do was let you in.

You assumed a knock was in order, deep, slow breaths doing little to calm your nerves. You had adorned a dress for the occasion, something someone had traded for extra ammo. It was soft blue in color, and in relatively good condition. Ultimately, it was clean, and that was all that mattered to you. Arturo had no use for it, so it had wound up in your possession. Now you would wear it to confess, though you were nervous, a wellspring of anxiety having burgeoned behind your ribs.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” you had asked yourself, fingers curling as you raised your arm. After a few more seconds delay, you made a move to rap against the door, painted red to match the sign out front. There was just one problem—it opened before you could, Ellie’s eyes widening as she jerked a step backward, the woman obviously on her way out.

She said your name, denoting her surprise. You would quickly apologize, already on edge.

“Sorry, Ellie, I—” You paused, averting your eyes to stare at the ground that had suddenly become so interesting. “I was hoping to see Nick,” you bashfully admitted.

The woman quirked a brow, amused for some unknown reason, as if she was in on your little secret just by the way you carried yourself. You attempted to straighten up, offering her a smile to throw her off your scent; you weren’t sure that it was working, though she was kind enough not to comment.

“He stepped out a few hours ago,” she informed you, “but he should be back any minute. You can wait here if you like, but I promised Cathy I’d go have a drink with her.” Ellie gave a halfhearted laugh, “apparently she needs a night out away from her husband.”

“Al-all right,” you managed, supposing Nick was hardly ever “home,” what with being hired for everything under the sun from finding missing cats to tracking down murderers—you only hoped for his safe and swift return.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” she offered, holding it open; you timidly stepped forward, Ellie giving you a small wave on her way out.

It was not until that moment you realized you had never stepped foot inside Valentine’s Detective Agency, something you felt ashamed of—maybe he assumed you had no interest in his work. The thought caused a frown to form, but you didn’t want to lose track of why you were here, though finding no harm in taking a look around.

You were respectful, not having it in you to snoop or pry, no matter how many folders lay open or scattered about his desk. There were copies of old newspapers, the latest from Publick Occurrences, rusty filing cabinets, overloaded cardboard boxes, and clipboards with scribbled notes attached.

You spied holotapes of unknown origin, scraps of memorabilia from times long since passed. Items you could only guess at—clues, maybe? Not to mention an assortment of tools, perhaps left over from Nick’s days as a handyman—he’d told you stories, though the idea made you uncomfortable, somehow—the Synth reduced to making household repairs when he was a being of such remarkable intelligence.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, having found yourself sitting at the man’s cluttered workspace. You stared at the painting before you, a tranquil forest scene that had been tarnished by years of grime and dust. A half-smoked cigarette in a nearby ashtray caught your eye; you surprised yourself by picking it up, placing the filter between lips painted a pretty candy apple red, having decorated yourself with a little lipstick for the occasion—you could hardly think of a better time to wear it.

The stale scent of nicotine invaded your nostrils, its taste pungent on your tongue. You struck a match against its book, wanting to experience something that had graced Nick’s synthetic lips, if you couldn’t do so firsthand.

Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, diffusing in loose curls above your head as you exhaled, feeling yourself becoming aroused by your salacious daydreams. You leaned back in Nick’s chair with a faint smile, closing your eyes to more clearly picture his face.

Your free hand groped your own breast, teeth biting down on tender flesh, imagining what it might be like for Valentine’s mechanical fingers to touch you; would it feel cold like metal, or warm like machinery? Sharp like the point of a knife, or smooth like purified silver?

You sighed with longing, chest rising and falling as you stared at the ceiling. You took another drag, finding the burn to be unpleasant as the cigarette reached its end. You bent forward and extinguished it in that same ashtray—Nick would never know the difference—forgetting your lipstick would leave a stain behind.

You normally weren’t one to smoke, feeling slightly buzzed upon standing, riding the tiny high the nicotine gave you as you spied a small space off to your right; you had yet to explore it. There was nothing to keep you out, no locks, no warning signs; you tiptoed forward, as if committing a crime that warranted the use of stealth, peeking around the corner to find a staircase, and a bed.

You glanced upward through the cracks in the floorboards; another mattress was positioned above you, but the personal effects scattered about on the bottom floor let you know this was Nick’s corner, the file folders and spare fedora on his nightstand giving it away.

You snatched the hat, twirling it over in your hands. It was one you hadn’t seen him wear too often, but that was in better condition than the one he sported on the regular, having the bold idea to place it directly on your head.

Of course, there was no mirror to admire yourself in.

You would just have to use your imagination, skimming the rim with two fingers, just like Valentine. You tipped the brim to no one, spinning once to let the full skirt of your pre-war dress swirl around your calves. Feeling pretty, you plopped down gracefully on Nick’s bare bed, wondering if Arturo might have a spare set of sheets you could gift him—did Synths sleep, you wondered? Did Nick lie here awake at night, staring at this same ceiling as you were now?

You sighed, tipping the hat lower, catching onto the unusual scent embedded within its fibers. You pressed your nose against faded leather, inhaling deeply of this strange fragrance, idly twisting bits of clean cotton, not used to wearing something so delicate and fancy; it felt odd, but the texture, the softness of the dress suited you.

This hat smelled like tobacco; ozone; coolant. Like a musty bar mixed with cigarettes. Like metal; like something organic; like wet earth after a radstorm—all things that in combination were uniquely Nick. It pulled a sigh from your lungs, loins aching for the Synth worse than ever, wishing that Valentine might show himself before you chickened out.

You thought to leave the bed; unpredicted were the moves you made to hike your dress up, legs spreading open as you gathered the excess bits of skirt into a fist. You held it to the height of your navel, exposing yourself before you had any real grasp on what you were doing, sliding the palm of your hand past your waist and hips, introducing two fingers to the elastic hem of your panties.

You grinned a little grin, feeling unlike yourself; naughty, for lack of a better word, inching your way beneath its thin layer to brush against your clit. You cooed a little sound, hips gyrating gently as you got comfortable, one of your two fingers gliding down, taking up a measure of your slick.

You massaged that part of you just begging for it, pinpricks of pleasure causing your nerves to tingle as the sensation traveled, extracting a subdued moan from bowed lips. You had the nerve to giggle, entertained in more ways than one, letting Nick’s hat fall flat against your face as you breathed in deeply, working that excitable nub in slow circles, taking your time.

You were just getting started, body reacting in tandem with your touch, exhilarated beyond comprehension at this singular act of bawdy desperation. You were where you always envisioned yourself to be, though now you conjured up something else—what some might call an abject fantasy, one where you explored the body of a robotic man to your heart’s content.

Smooth, hard flesh, or pliable and soft, warm against you, or cold like ice. Exposed wires and eyes stolen from the crown’s of angels, twin halos you would kill a man to see up close. Lips too kissable for one who wasn’t human, tongue and teeth all there, or between your legs. Metallic fingers, dexterous and nimble, the other good for groping all your biologic parts.

You were so close already, wondering if you might in some way be able to please him back. Would he have a cock you could stroke or suck? Could you dig around inside him? Could you find a button, or perhaps a jumble of loose wires to fondle, one that would make his machine-parts whir?

You covered your face more thoroughly with one arm, the fedora hiding you from your own shame. You pushed your hips into the bed as you felt the onset of an orgasm building in the seat of your belly, almost there, almost—

“Say, am I interrupting something?”

You practically screamed, throwing the fedora off with such speed it hit the bed and bounced. You shoved your dress down, embarrassed beyond belief, mortified as much as you were frightened, your heart racing as you pushed up off the Nick’s mattress and ran for the stairs. He had been so quiet—maybe there was a way out of here, up there. You would never live this down.

“Hey, now,” Nick chided, his voice taking on an austere quality that caused a bout of horripilation, the micro hairs on your arms standing at attention; the Synth had locked the fingers of his good hand around your wrist, pulling you back down to his level before pressing your body against the wall of his abode. He tilted his head, studying you with rapt attention and an almost morbid curiosity—he doubted you were some kind of adrenaline junkie, or even an exhibitionist for that matter.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use my bed to pleasure yourself without some kind of explanation? I’ve seen some things in my day, but this takes the cake.”

You could not face him, averting your eyes. His accusatory gaze was powerful, the catalyst for your tears, tiny droplets threatening to roll down your cheeks as you stammered a reply. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—”

“—You didn’t mean to masturbate?” Nick questioned, a sardonic tone lacing his old-world, Midwestern accent. “I find that hard to believe.”

There was a pause, Nick’s metallic fingers grasping you by the point of your chin. He gently guided you to face him, tears and all, his voice softening as he realized how sorry you seemed to be, though he was still skeptical.

He called you by your name, addressing you calmly, “at least be honest with me—this how you get your rocks off, or is this some kind of special occasion? If Ellie was here—”

“—she was the only who let me in,” you whispered, Nick so tantalizingly close, yet you were beside yourself in self-abasing horror at your own actions—how could you have been so stupid!? Of course he would find out, sooner or later—he was a private eye, a damn good one! Not to mention this was his place of business, his assistant trusting you well enough to behave yourself. You suddenly felt worse than before; you were sure he had seen everything.

“Huh,” Nick snorted, the gears of his artificial brain beginning to turn toward another direction. “Why the hell would she go and do a thing like that?"

You took a breath and gulped, finally having the courage to look, to get lost in the depths of  those parhelic circles he called eyes, wishing to speak, to find the right words, yet it was nearly impossible with the way he had so easily ensnared you.

“Cat got your tongue? Beginning to wonder just how many lights are on upstair—"

You steeled yourself; you kissed him rather than giving an explanation, wondering if this was another thing you would come to regret, though sparks danced behind your eyelids—worried for one moment they might be real, some side effect of physical contact—Nick forcing you off to where your back was returned to its spot against his bedroom wall.

They had been warm; his lips were warm.

“Oh, I get it now. You came here thinking you’d shoot your shot, but when I wasn’t home you got carried away in some sick fantasy, is that it? Decided to rub one out,” he derided, laying your sins out before you so coldly that your lip trembled; you struggled to break free.

“Valentine, please—"

“Could have just waited for me,” he offered; you froze with bated breath, his words having taken an unexpected turn—could he be serious, or was he simply toying with you as punishment?

“Gal like you isn’t exactly hard on the eyes…”  

“You’re not upset?” you asked breathily, chest heaving, wide, round eyes searching his for confirmation.

“Upset you thought you could get away with this,” he muttered, brushing his mouth against yours, Nick’s skeletal hand holding your chin steady. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine that he would indulge you, feeling yourself melt against the solid brick of his Diamond City home. “Not exactly a secret you fancy me; can read it all over your face, just never thought you’d have the guts to do a thing like this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you pleaded, your own hand lifting, exploring the texture of his tattered coat, rising higher to caress the portion of his flesh still intact just below the fissure that extended beyond the brim of his hat. “Then why didn’t you say something? I only meant to tell you how you make me feel,” you whispered, eagerly returning that kiss, introducing your wet human tongue to his.

“How’s that?” he asked, ignoring the first part of your question—he wasn’t about to tell you you’d have to make the first move, he didn’t have to—his inviolate hand sliding down the dip in your waist to rest against your hip. He gave it a squeeze, aware of his own strength, applying just enough pressure to excite you, no more, no less.

“Ravenous,” you exclaimed, hiking your leg, encircling him to draw in close like you were playing the part of some wily seductress in a pre-war film. You emitted a dulcet moan, digits inching across the back of his head, taking the time to kiss Valentine more deeply in your lust.

Nick was quick, supporting your ass in his firm grip, securing your leg as he pressed his inorganic frame against yours that was supple and pliant; he met your hunger head on. “Good thing I know a trick or two.”

You shivered with anticipation, despite the Synth being almost hot to the touch. Silicone fingers disappeared up your long, flowing skirt, but only after he was sure you were both comfortably entangled.

Valentine kissed a question up the side of your neck toward lipstick-laden lips. “You wear this for me?” he asked, motioning his head toward your bartered dress.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, grasping his tie, feeding your words directly into his smug mouth. “Wanted to look pretty for you,” you conceded.

“Only thing more lovely than a bird in blue is a woman who wears her confidence like a second skin. Tell me you didn’t walk in here thinkin’ you could pull me, or are you just a nightingale pretending to be a peacock, flaunting your feathers, yet too afraid to show me your true colors?”

You were floored; you could not answer, having hoped that you could sway him, but doubting your plan from the get-go. You dare not tell him, too shy to admit your shortcomings, and too proud to acknowledge he had hit the nail on the head. Instead, you stared unabashedly, even as your cheeks burned, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you remained transfixed on eyes that glowed like candles in the dark.

“Too bad,” Valentine teased, rousing you from your stupor by way of calculated movements beneath your dress, “Suppose I’ll have to find out the hard way.”

Your breath hitched as the tips of faux fingers thoughtfully guided your panties to one side, Valentine expertly trailing his forefinger through your excess to the top of your slit. The Synth grazed the swollen sheath of glands pulsating adamantly between your legs, finding his rhythm, administering just enough friction to get a rise out of you, as intended.

“Nick,” you gasped, the fingers of one hand still cinched around his tie as the fingers of the other clawed into false flesh. He slid back down, following that happy little trail of slickness, its viscosity registering as wet against microscopic sensors, Nick’s index finger delving into something so moist, so soft.

“Speak to me, sweetheart. Tell me how long you’ve dreamt of this; tell me this isn’t some dime-store hookup you’re using to scratch an itch; tell me this means somethin’, I dare you,” he growled darkly into your ear.

You could only whimper as he worked you, aiming for the seat of your pleasure, Nick’s thumb running concentric circles around your turgid clit in perfect unison with that part of him that was introducing pressure to your G-spot. You had the gall to rock your hips, balancing like a flamingo on one leg, though he held you close between himself and the wall, not once allowing you to think you might stumble and fall.

“Always think of you, where you are, what you’re up to,” you breathed. “Never leave my mind.”

“What else?” he asked, brazenly steeping another finger, your soaked cunt riding both together as you shamelessly kept undulating your pelvic arch, already so near to climax.

“Dreamt of kissing you, making love to you. Wanted to know what touching you might feel like, warm, co-cold,” you moaned. “If you could ever want me back, if y-you knew just how much I adore you, how much I wish to be the one to make you smile…”

“Is that right?” Nick titillated you toward orgasm without any extra effort, feeling yourself spill out all over him as you vocalized to the heavens, Valentine not relenting until you were spent. Then, he retracted as simple as that, lifting you up, the Synth forcing you to wrap that other leg around him in order to carry you the few feet between him and the bed.

“And did you ever think of what you’d do if I didn’t have the parts?” he began, tossing you carefully onto the mattress. You watched in longing as he shucked his trench off for it to slide down the length of his arms, gathering in a pile at his feet.

“Fuck. It wouldn’t matter,” you insisted, sitting up on the palms of your hands. “It wouldn’t matter,” you repeated more urgently, adjusting to crawl forward, unable to keep yourself from him now that you had a taste.

“And what you’d do if I didn’t reciprocate?” The hat was next, tossed haphazardly off to the side.

You gaped at him, unable to come up with a satisfactory response, scouring his pleasing form from head to toe with your eyes, admiring his shoulder holster, his weapon of choice, and the suspenders that dug into his shoulders.

“I’m more machine than man; typically… disappointing to dames like you. But I’ve got nothing to hide, and I mean that literally,” he quipped, loosening and discarding his tie. What he did next surprised you, Valentine placing one knee on the bed. He pushed you backward, fitting himself right between your thighs.

“Never stopped me before,” he muttered, coercing you to lie back. In the blink of an eye, he had slipped your panties down and off, flipping the tail end of your skirt up and over your lap, exposing the soft mound between your legs.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” he commented; how to go down on a beautiful woman was not something he would soon forget, no matter he wasn’t in the body he was born with.

You gasped before settling into a melodious moan as he swiped his tongue across your sensitive bud, Nick noticing you were tuned to the key of C, a low-frequency tonal sound that made his robotic brain buzz with something akin to happiness.

Before you knew it, he had buried himself, embedding his articulate tongue in your tepid core. Responsive biosensors did their job of transmitting physiological data concerning the presence of chemical compounds that happened to be coming into contact with his face; the detective was well aware of what that meant without having to overthink it, appreciative of the way you writhed against the bed.

“Valentine,” you mewled, arm reaching, fingers stretching to caress a hinged jaw made of filaments and wires, more unbidden tears finding their way to your eyes.

“Kiss me,” you implored, exploring the sharp contours of his inhumane face, the actuate planes and angles, the rough textures, the smooth remnants, the electrical undercurrent that hummed beneath the surface of his pseudo-flesh, causing you to cry out as he obliged, but not in the way you had expected.

Nick lapped at your cunt like it was a second mouth, attentive to every little move your body made as it wriggled and quivered, spasming with each long lick. He showed no mercy, relentlessly fucking you with his spongy tongue at a slow and steady pace, brushing the back of an alloyed finger along the cut where hip met thigh.

“Please,” you tried again, though in your heart of hearts you did not want him to stop. He refocused on your clit, being oh-so careful as he slid a single metallic digit into your wet pith, tensile fibers remaining elongated so as not to maim and injure, but to experiment, your pelvic muscles clenching around him as he began to suck.

“I can’t,” you professed, unable to elaborate, to stop your mounting orgasm. Your back arched as your hips bucked upward to meet his all too talented mouth, forcing a sound out of you that was reminiscent of pain but indicative of pleasure as you came a second time that night, Nick withdrawing his hand, his carbon-ferrous finger, pulling back to look you in the eye.

“Sweetheart, did I—”

Valentine flexed his unsheathed digits, composed of bare metal, his forefinger saturated and glistening, yet he was worried. His painted brows quirked upward as he rose to meet your face, his palm fitting itself around the curve of your waist, as gentle as can be.

He stared into your soul with those penetrative, aureate eyes, wishing you hadn’t of done that. Wishing he hadn’t of done that—it had been just plain ignorant on his part, but he didn’t figure you’d go and move so suddenly. And truth be told, you were beautiful, a thing too good to pass up. He wasn’t exactly a hot commodity these days, though a part of him—the inhuman part—didn’t think he was worth it.

Still, it was a difficult thing to just give up when he had urges, needs, wants, desires—or at least he thought he did. It was hard to tell where the real Nick began and Synth Nick ended, but for now he was experiencing an emotion that was real enough to give him pause.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his mood turning toward something serious, Valentine wondering if he had caused anything irreparable. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he’d gone and hurt an innocent—especially like this—despite the fact he wasn’t exactly alive to begin with.

You did not answer, studying the change in his demeanor, observing as his tough guy persona disappeared to be replaced by the sweet, caring man you had grown to cherish over the past few months.

He was two sides of the same coin, but you had known that going in, purposefully trailing your fingers across denuded metal toward a gathering of thick red wires, caressing the coils between the gap in his neck with the utmost tenderness.

“I’ve never been better,” you promised, appraising the look of quiet bliss that overtook him, realizing this sort of thing might be his little secret—he came back to himself just in time to put a halt to your investigation, the Synth oddly silent as he searched for something deep within your eyes.

“But I want to make you feel good,” you offered with a genuine pout, but Nick held fast to your wrist, going back to how this whole game had started. His apprehension was clear, the detective reading like an overdue library book. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad, a little disappointed, instead climbing onto his lap, draping yourself over his sound thighs.

“I don’t let just anyone poke around inside me—what makes you think you’ll make the cut?” he asked, slipping a stray bit of hair behind your ear in a gesture so human it made your heart ache.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Nick.” It was the truth.

He’d redirect you for now, but you couldn’t blame him— you were surprised that you had even gotten this far.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he replied. “Tell me something about yourself. What do I need to know besides exactly how you taste?”

You smiled, assuming that one day he might trust you well enough to return the favor.

Baby steps. You could be patient. The only thing that mattered was that at that moment, you had him to yourself.

“I once killed a Yao guai with my bear hands,” you joked, taking the time to notice just how many kiss marks you had left all over him—time to add one more, just to play it safe.

“There they are.”

“What?”

“Your true colors.”

Your lips spread into a mischievous grin.

“On second thought, I think I’m going to need a drink for this.”

At least he hadn’t kicked you out yet.  

“That’s fair,” you said.