#do machine shops even do hardening

[bloodonmybarbieshirt]

The bad part about having a cute little invention idea is that now I have a Creation itch and I need to acquire a fuckin lathe or something now. Or maybe just borrow one. Comission some. Something.

Where do I get a really small lathe that can still do threads? All the small ones are normally wood lathes...

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A profoundly stupid case about video game cheating could transform adblocking into a copyright infringement

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Here's a weird consequence of our societal shift from capitalism (where riches come from profits) to feudalism (where riches come from rents): increasingly, your rights to your actual property (the physical stuff you own) are trumped by corporations' metaphorical "intellectual property" claims.

That's a lot to unpack! Let's start with a quick primer on profits and rents. Capitalists invest money in buying equipment, then they pay workers wages to use that equipment to produce goods and services. Profit is the sum a capitalist takes home from this arrangement: money made from paying workers to do productive things.

Now, rents: "rent" is the money a rentier makes by owning a "factor of production": something the capitalist needs in order to make profits. Capitalists risk their capital to get profits, but rents are heavily insulated from risk.

For example: a coffee shop owner buys espresso machines, hires baristas, and rents a storefront. If they do well, the landlord can raise their rent, denying them profits and increasing rents. But! If a great new cafe opens across the street and the coffee shop owner goes broke, the landlord is in great shape, because they now have a vacant storefront they can rent, and they can charge extra for a prime location across the street from the hottest new coffee shop in town.

The "moral philosophers" that today's self-described capitalists claim to worship – Adam Smith, David Ricardo – hated rents. For them, profits were the moral way to get rich, because when capitalists chase profits, they necessarily chase the production of things that people want.

When rentiers chase rents, they do so at the expense of profits. Every dollar a capitalist pays in rent – licenses for IP, rent for a building, etc – is a dollar that can't be extracted in profit, and then reinvested in the production of more goods and services that society desires.

The "free markets" of Adam Smith weren't free from regulation, they were free from rents.

The moral philosophers' hatred of rents was really a hatred of feudalism. The industrial revolution wasn't merely (or even primarily) the triumph of new machines: rather, it was the triumph of profits over rent. For the industrial revolution to succeed, the feudal arrangement had to end. Capitalism is incompatible with hereditary lords receiving guaranteed rents from hereditary serfs who are legally obliged to work for them. Capitalism triumphed over feudalism when the serfs were turned off of the land (becoming the "free labor" who went to work in the textile mills) and the land itself was given over to sheep grazing (providing the wool for those same mills).

But that doesn't mean that the industrial revolution invented profits. Profits were to be found in feudal societies, wherever a wealthy person increased their wealth by investing in machines and hiring workers to use them. The thing that made feudalism feudal was how conflicts between rents and profits cashed out. For so long as the legal system elevated the claims of rentiers over the claims of capitalists, the society was feudal. Once the legal system gave priority to profit over rent, it became capitalist.

Capitalists hate capitalism. The engine of capitalism is insecurity. The successful capitalist is like the fastest gun in the old west: there's always a young gun out there looking to "disrupt" their fortune with a new invention, product, or organizational strategy that "creatively destroys" the successful businesses of the day and replaces them with new ones:

https://locusmag.com/2024/03/cory-doctorow-capitalists-hate-capitalism/

That's a hard way to live, with your every success serving as a blinking KICK ME sign visible to every ambitious person in the world. Precarity makes people miserable and nuts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

So capitalists universally aspire to become rentiers and investors seek out companies that have a plan to extract rent. This is why Warren Buffett is so priapatic for companies with "moats and walls" – legal privileges and market structures that protect the business from competition and disruption:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/warren-buffett-explains-moat-principle-164442359.html

Feudal rents were mostly derived from land, but even in the feudal era, the king was known to reward loyal lickspittles with rents over ideas. The "patents royal" were the legally protected right to decide who could make or do certain things: for example, you might have a patent royal over the production of silver ribbon, and anyone who wanted to make a silver ribbon would have to pay for your permission. If you chose to grant that permission exclusively to one manufacturer, then no one else could make it, and you could charge a license fee to the manufacturer that accounted for nearly all their profit.

Today, rentiers are also interested in land. Bill Gates is the country's number one landowner, and in many towns, private equity landlords are snappinig up every single family home that hits the market and converting it to a badly maintained slum:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

But the 21st Century's defining source of rent is "IP" – a controversial term that I use here to mean, "Any law or policy that allows a company to exert legal control over its competitors, critics and customers":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is in irreconcilable conflict with real property rights. Think of HP selling you a printer and wanting to decide which ink you use, or John Deere selling you a tractor and wanting to tell you who can fix it. Or, for that matter, Apple selling you a phone and dictating which software you are allowed to install on it.

Think of Unity, a company that makes tools for video-game makers, demanding a royalty from every game that is eventually sold, calling this "shared success":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

Every time one of these conflicts ends with IP's triumph over real property rights, that is a notch in favor of calling the world we live in now "technofeudalist" rather than "technocapitalist":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Once you start to think of "IP" as "laws that let me control how other people use their real property," a lot of the seemingly incoherent fights over IP snap into place. This also goes a long way to explaining how otherwise sensible people can agree on expansions of IP to achieve some short-term goal, irrespective of the spillover harms from such a move. Hard cases make bad law, and hard IP cases make terrible law.

Five years ago, some anti-fascist counterdemonstrators hit on the clever idea of blaring top 40 music during neo-Nazi marches, on the theory that this would prevent Nazis from uploading videos of their marches to Youtube and other platforms, whose filters would block any footage that included copyrighted music:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/07/23/clever-hack-that-will-end-badly-playing-copyrighted-music-during-nazis-rallies-so-they-cant-be-posted-to-youtube/

Thankfully, this didn't work, but not for lack of trying. And it might still work, if calls for beefing up video copyright filters are heeded. Cops all over the place are already blaring Taylor Swift songs and Disney tunes to prevent their interactions with the public from being uploaded:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/07/moral-hazard-of-filternets/#dmas

The same thinking that causes progressives to recklessly argue in favor of upload filters also causes them to demand that web scraping be treated as a copyright crime. They think they're creating a world where AI companies can't rip off their creation to train a model; they're actually creating a world where the Internet Archive can't capture JD Vance's embarrassing old podcast appearances or newspaper editorial boards' advocacy for positions they now recant:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

It's not that Nazi marches are good, or that scraping can't be bad – it's just that advocating for the use of IP to address either is a cure that's not just worse than the disease – it's also not a cure.

A problem can be real, and still not be solvable with IP. I have enormous sympathy for gamers who rail against cheaters who use aftermarket hacks to improve their aim, see through buildings, or command other unfair advantages.

If you want to tell a stranger how they must configure their PC or console, IP ("any law that lets you control your competitors, critics or customers") is an obvious answer. But – as with other attempts to solve real problems with IP – this is a cure that is both worse than the disease, and also not a cure after all.

Back in 2002, Blizzard sued some hobbyists over a program called "bnetd." Bnetd was a program that provided a game-server you could connect to with the Blizzard games that you'd bought. It was created as an alternative to Battlenet, Blizzard's notoriously unreliable game-server software that left gamers frustrated and furious due to frequent outages:

https://www.eff.org/cases/blizzard-v-bnetd

To the public, Blizzard made several arguments against bnetd. They claimed that it encouraged piracy, because – unlike the official Battlenet servers – it didn't check whether the copies of Blizzard software that connected to it had a valid license key. Gamers didn't really care about that, but they did respond to another argument: that bnetd lacked the anti-cheat checking of Battlenet.

But that wasn't what Blizzard took to the court: in court, they argued that the hobbyists who made bnetd violated copyright law. Specifically, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, which bans "circumvention of access controls to copyrighted works." Basically, Blizzard argued that bnetd's authors violated the law because they used debuggers to examine the software they'd paid for, while it ran on their own computers, to figure out how to make a game server of their own.

Blizzard didn't sue bnetd's authors for pirating Blizzard software (they didn't – they'd paid for their copies). They didn't sue them for abetting other gamers' piracy. They certainly didn't sue them for making a cheat-friendly game-server.

Blizzard sued them for analyzing software they'd paid for, while it was running on their own computers.

Imagine if Walmart – one of the biggest book-retailers in America – had a policy that said that you could only shelve the books you bought at Walmart on shelves that you also bought at Walmart. Now imagine that Walmart successfully argued that measuring the books you bought from them and using those measurements to create your own compatible book-case violated their IP rights!

This is an outrageous triumph of IP rights over real property rights, and yet gamers vocally backed Blizzard in the early noughts, because gamers hate cheaters and because IP law is (correctly) understood as "the law that lets a company tell you how you can use your own real, physical property." Hard cases make bad law, hard IP cases make batshit law.

It's more than 20 years since bnetd, and cheating continues to serve as a Trojan horse to smuggle in batshit new IP laws. In Germany, Sony is suing the cheat-device maker Datel:

https://torrentfreak.com/sonys-ancient-lawsuit-vs-cheat-device-heads-in-right-direction-sonys-defeat-240705/

Sony argues that the Datel device – which rewrites the contents of a player's device's RAM, at the direction of that player – infringes copyright. Sony claims that the values that its programs write to your device's RAM chips are copyrighted works that it has created, and that altering that copyrighted work makes an unauthorized derivative work, which infringes its copyright.

Yes, this is batshit, and thankfully, Sony has been thwarted in court to date, but it is steaming ahead to the EU's highest court. If it succeeds, then it will open up every tool that modifies your computer at your direction to this kind of claim.

How bad can it be? Well, get this: the German publishing giant Axel Springer (owned by a monomaniacal Trumpist and Israel hardliner who has ordered journalists in his US news outlets to go easy on both) is suing Eyeo, makers of Adblock Plus, on the grounds that changing HTML to block an ad creates a "derivative work" of Axel Springer's web-pages:

https://torrentfreak.com/ad-blocking-infringes-copyright-ancient-sony-cheat-lawsuit-may-prove-pivotal-240729/

Axel Springer's filings cite the Sony/Datel case, using it to argue that their IP rights trump your property rights, and that you can only configure your web-browser, running on your computer, which you own, in ways that it approves of.

Axel Springer's war on browsers is a particularly pernicious maneuver, because browsers are the best example we have of internet software that serves as a "user agent." "User agent" is an old-timey engineering synonym for "browser" that reflects the browser's role: to go out onto the web on your behalf and bring back things for you, which it displays in the way you prefer:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/07/treacherous-computing/#rewilding-the-internet

Want to block flickering GIFs to forestall photosensitive epileptic servers? Ask your user agent to find and delete them. Want to shift colors into a gamut that accounts for your color-blindness? Ask your user-agent:

https://dankaminsky.com/2010/12/15/dankam/

Want to goose the font size and contrast so you can read the sadistic grey-on-white type that young designers use in the mistaken belief that black-on-white type is "hard on the eyes"? That's what Reader Mode is for:

https://frankgroeneveld.nl/2021/08/24/most-underused-browser-feature/

The foundation of any good digital relationship is a device that works for you, not for the people who own the servers you connect to. Even if they don't plan on screwing you over by directing your user agent to attack you on their behalf right now, the very existence of a facility in your technology that causes it to betray you, by design, is a moral hazard that inevitably results in your victimization:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

"IP" ("a law that lets me control how you use your own property") is a tempting solution to every problem, but ultimately, IP ends up magnifying the power of the already powerful, in contests where your only hope of victory is having a user agent whose only loyalty is to you.

The monotonic, dangerous expansion of IP reflects the growing victory of rents over profits – income from owning things, rather than income from doing things. Everyday people may argue for IP in the belief that it will solve their immediate problems – with AI, or Nazis, or in-game cheats – but ultimately, the expansion of a law that limits how you can use your property (including your capital) to uses that don't threaten neofeudalists will doom you to technoserfdom.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/29/faithful-user-agents/#hard-cases-make-bad-copyright-law

[egg-but-with-style]

Butcher ghost 3

1 2 3

You and Simon had been going on a date every week for the past month, and things couldn't be going better. The first date was a little awkward, he seemed a bit flustered, and you were too. After that though, you too hit it off.

He'd talk about butchering sometimes. How to get the best cut from any butcher store you go to, even though with him around you'd never need to go anywhere else.

You'd talk about your work and he'd listen intently. Looking at you with those big brown doe eyes. He was kind of like a dog in that respect. When you two were together he was right at your heel and never wanted to leave.

He made you feel special, like you were the only person on the planet he'd ever want to be with. He'd trace his finger on your stretch marks around your upper arms and shoulders whenever you two would wait in line somewhere.

It was maybe going just a little bit fast, and he was really observant, like he knew exactly what you wanted, but you were just happy to find someone who fit you so well.

Tonight would mark your 5th date with Simon. Of course you guys talked outside dates, but it always felt better when you could spend the day together.

You were standing outside his flat, the one above his butcher shop. Holding chocolate in cheese in a little grocery bag, he had said he had a little fondue machine he got from a very thankful customer he always wanted to try out. Plus who didn't love chocolate and cheese?

You knocked gently on his door, noting the absence of a doorbell. You heard him walking to the door, a man that big always made noise. Then you assumed he stubbed his toe based off the muffled "fuck" he just uttered, then he opened the door and smiled at you.

"You look good luv, I mean you always do, but especially now." He looked at you like you hung the stars above his head. You didn't know how he could get this deep this fast, but you were happy, and he was happy. "Oh stop it, I knew what you meant. You're looking very handsome too." He blushed just a little, or atleast you think he just did, he had rosacea so sometimes it was hard to tell. He then motioned for you to come in. "C'mon, it's getting cold out there."

You did as he said, stepping into his flat. It was decently big, you assumed being a butcher and having your own shop would probably pay enough to cover rent.

You went over to the kitchen counter and set down the cheese and chocolate near, what you assumed to be the fondue machine. He came over and plugged the machine in, confirming your assumption, he then picked up the chocolate that your brought. "I hate to admit it, but I got a real bad sweet tooth. Almost as bad as my taste for meat." He refrained from saying you satiated both his cravings. You giggled. Everything about Simon seemed to contradict his size sometimes.

"I do too, I also like cheese, like the little baby bells? I love those. Man, I should've got those for the fondue."

"There's always next time."

You smiled. Feeling that warm feeling spread in your chest. He wanted to invite you over again. He was just too good to be true. You realized you had kinda zoned out and stared at him for a minute, so you spoke up, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Yeah, next time." You looked away for just a second, his gaze could be a tiny bit overwhelming sometimes. He let out a sigh of content, then put the stuff in the fondue machine. Watching it melt in the pot. It was actually a pretty sight, colors swirling around.

He then went to his fridge and pulled out strawberries. Placing them down on the counter, along with some skewers. "Dig in." He hated to admit it but some part of him did like watching you eat, like right now as you skewered one of the strawberries, placed it in the molten pot of fondue. Watching you blow on it to cool down and harden, and once it did, you took a bite. Then you looked back at him, a bit confused. "Aren't you gonna eat some too?" He kept looking at you until he noticed some chocolate on the side of your lips. Which he wiped off with his finger, then licked it.

That was way hotter then you were expecting. "Yeah..yeah I will." You just giggled.

After you two were done with the fondue, with slightly burnt tongues because neither of you were patient enough to wait for it to cool. He suggested a movie, to which you agreed to, and the implications.

Now you to were sitting on the couch, watching some movie you put on without looking. He was so warm, his arm pressing you into his side, your shoulder laying in the crook of his neck.

It felt so peaceful, so right. Like the rest of the world could fuck off. As long as you too got to stay right here in this moment. Eventually he got distracted from the movie, instead looking at you.

His fingers moved on their own, cupping your cheek. He seemed so enthralled as he stroked his thumb up and down. Eventually putting his lips to yours.

His lips were a little chapped, so were yours honestly, but whatever bad texture there was, was made up for by action. His tongue slipping into your mouth, the lingering taste of fondue. It was slow, careful, like a pair of virgins exploring eachother, trying to make sense of what it meant to be intimate.

Then your bladder protested and ruined the moment, you sighed and Simon got off you, worried. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" He was so sure he didn't do anything wrong. You just shook your head, alleviating his fears. "No it's not your fault, I just...I gotta pee." He looked instantly relieved, was he always this wound tight? "Oh, okay just making. The um..the bathroom is down the hall to the left"

With a small noise of disapproval, he let go of you, but he knew you'd come back. "Be quick, or else" he said in that tone that made you know he was joking, which took a while to get for the record. You just scoffed and rolled your eyes "I will, don't worry."

You headed down the hallway where he pointed, you reached the end and saw two doors. He said the bathroom was on the left but..you were kinda curious. Simon was so kind, loving, you felt his phantom touch on your skin, the lingering taste of his tongue in your mouth, and as much as you wanted to get back as soon as possible, you couldn't help yourself.

You took a quick glance back down the hallway, he seemed really into the movie you put on so you figured a quick snoop wouldn't hurt.

You slowly, quietly opened the door and looked inside. Seemed normal, then you tip toed in, taking a quick glance around, it seemed pretty normal. A bed, a night stand, a lamp, and a couple book shelves. Though he had a knife collection, made sense for a butcher. You turned to leave the room, feeling a little bit bad you invaded his privacy, but as you went to the door you saw something on the wall.

Photos. So many fucking photos. They weren't of your dates, oh no. They were taken of you while you were going about your day, usually around early morning or dusk. You eating breakfast, or going to work. You leaving work and walking home, you going out with your friends. Most of them focusing on you face, or your stomach, some were even dedicated just to your stretch marks, rolls and curves, All of the pictures having been taken from atleast a hundred feet away.

You should've been terrified. You should've been feeling your heartbeat out of your chest, you should've been running out of the house. Escaping and reporting it to the police.

But you weren't. You were just in awe. It felt.. romantic in a way. The photos, the angles, like he saw you as something above the normal person. It felt like worship.

He was calling you now, but you stayed put. What was wrong with you? Why were your cheeks flushed instead of pale and drained of blood from fear? Why did your heart soar instead of drop to your stomach?

Why did you smile when he came in and saw you looking at them? "It's..it's beautiful, Simon." He looked stunned, you were stunned too. You didn't think you were sick like this.

You should've seen a stalker when you looked at him, but all you saw was your loving boyfriend. "You..you like them? You aren't..scared?" You just shook your head. Taking his hand and giggling. You felt some shame, but all of it floated away as you felt his warm hand against yours.

You were so happy he liked you this much. To the point where he'd clearly spent hours following you. It made you feel more loved then you ever had, and you'd tell him as much. "You really like me, huh? Like really, really like me." He just nodded. He really wasn't sure what to say.

He was trying to see if you were lying, but you were so genuine. He thought he was gonna have to kidnap you if you saw the photos but instead you were hugging him and putting your mouth to his ear "I love you, Simon." He hands found a place on your lower back. He let out a deep breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Pressing his forehead onto yours. "I love you too, my girl." You're his. His girl. It made your heart jump up and down in excitement.

"You don't hate me, right? You aren't gonna run away if I don't tie you down?" He had pulled back just enough to see your face, and your elated expression. Watching you shake your head

"I literally just said I love you. You don't have to tie me down to get me to stay, but..I'd like it." You giggled, being a slight tease. He groaned in response. Relaxing at last. You were just as crazy as him. "Maybe another day, tonight I just wanna..go slow." And for the first time in his life, he did.

After that day, you and Simon were even closer then ever. About a year later, he got down on one knee and asked you to marry him. To which you said yes. Now the butcher shop was run by two big freaks. You both couldn't be happier.

Authors note: AHHHH okay, first series done!!! In just this week I've learned a lot about writing and I think I'm feeling some type of improvement?? I know this series kinda sucked sometimes, and I might come back one day to redo, better then ever, but I think it was decent for a first time. Also, yeah, readers a freak. (Like everyone here) I have another WIP I should probably get through, but then I might start another series, who knows. Anyway, thank you for reading, and bye bye!!!!!!

[justmeinadaze]

Little Girl Gone Part 4 (Steddie X You)

Warnings: Officer Steve harrington/ Gangster Eddie munson & Doctor fem submissive Y/N, SMUT, degrading, some spanking, LOTS of dirty talk, handcuffs, slight overstimulation, after care of course.

ANGST, Jason causing problems before the meeting with his dad. Mentions of explosions and shooting. Eddie being sexily intimidating <3, Steve's dad makes a cameo and undermines the readers profession like a dick. Slight cliffhanger ending...I guess. Idk lol

Word Count: 5993

Last Chapter Here

“Last chance, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Your hold on Eddie’s arm tightens as you exhale out your nerves. This entire week had been rough not just on you but them as well. You were ready for it all to be over so you could just enjoy being with the new men in your life. If this is what you needed to do for that to be done so be it. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

As you smile up at him, he leans down to kiss your lips making you laugh as you quickly wipe away the lipstick that lingered on his mouth.

Both your demeanors hardened as the door to the venue was opened and Eddie led you inside. 

***

The gangster ran into the hospital room with you trailing behind, glancing at the chart that was attached to the wall as Steve stood by Chrissy’s bed side. 

“What happened?!”

“Witnesses say they don’t know. Just, suddenly, her store was fire.”, the officer relayed with a sigh. “It’s all gone, Ed.”

“It says here she should be fine…physically at least.”, you add as your sad eyes shift towards the unconsciously girl in front of them. 

“We-we can rebuild her store. That won’t be an issue—”

“EMS found a note pinned to her sweater.”

Steve handed him the slightly charred piece of paper that Eddie read aloud.

 “No, Kiddo, this moment…this is me at my most masochistic.

Three.”

“The fuck does that even mean?”

“It’s a quote from Kill Bill. Everything but the three. I don’t know what that means.”, you answered, trying to hide the fear and worry.

Placing his hands on his hips, Eddie begins to pace. 

“I really think you two should stay in my apartment until we get this resolved.”

“You and I both know I can’t do that.”, Steve murmurs as his face scrunches in thought. “And we both know she’s not because of her patients.”

A knowing smirk flashes along your features as you shrug. 

“I don’t like this. I still think—”

“I know what you think, Ed, and I’m telling you no.”, the officer cut him off. “You already went and attacked him once and look what’s happening.”

“I feel weak, Steve. Like I’m letting him get away with this bullshit.”

“You’re not weak. If anything, he’s weak for reacting this way.”, you respond as you wrap your arm around his waist and in response he kisses your forehead. 

“I just… I’m still going to have some of my guys watching over you two. Y/N, Gareth will be in the clinic with you and Steve, Jeff can linger out of the way so he isn’t seen.”

######### 

“Jesus, ALL of Hawkins High Society is here.”, you murmur as you two enter the garish ballroom style area where extremely well-dressed people had gathered. 

Eddie had taken you shopping and bought you a beautiful (expensive) red evening dress that flowed to your ankles but had a slit up to just below your hip. He had bought you some equally expensive jewelry to match except for the bracelet around your wrist. 

“I know it’s not as lavish as what Tony Montana here got you but I saw it in the store and it made me think of you.”, Steve blushed as he hooked the bracelet to you and spun it around. It was a simple silver chain but in the middle was what looked like a heartbeat reading you see on ECG machines at work. “Since you, ya know, stole the other half of my heart.”

“Wow, Steve Harrington. That was smooth.”, Eddie chuckled. “Um, here. Here’s MY other half as well.”, he grinned softly as he slides one of his rings onto your finger. 

“Yeah like you said before, ‘rich people trying to make themselves feel better.’.”

Eddie insisted you both should stand out so not only would people see you together and know you’re his but it would draw the eye of Mr. Carver so he’d hopefully come talk to you two. His suit matched your outfit with a red button up but every other piece on him was a crisp black that made him seem even more handsome. 

While your hair was down around your shoulders, his was up and pulled back so you could see his face a bit more. Occasionally during the car ride, you would lean over and kiss his cheek just because you could making him beam over at you as he squeezed your hand. 

Leading you to the bar, he ordered you both a glass of champagne making you giggle as you watch him chug it down and ask for another. 

“Nervous?”

“Uh a little but not for the reason you might think. I’ve never met Steve’s parents. I’ve heard stories and of course they don’t know about us but for some reason I still want them to kind of like me.”, he playfully winces making you laugh harder. 

“That’s normal, baby. You love him so you want them to like you; to approve.”

Grinning in your direction, Eddie leans down to kiss your cheek while you were taking a sip from your glass.

“What was that for?”

“I’m just so glad we met you. I wish it was under different circumstances but—”

“One bourbon, straight, please and thank you.”, Steve sighs heavily as he leans over the counter waiting for his drink. “My parents are on their bullshit tonight.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”, you whisper with a smile as he thanks the bartender again and knocks back his drink. 

“Steven, I thought you were bringing everyone back something.”, a man practically whined as he came up behind him. 

“I was. Dad, this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N and—”

“Edward Munson, sir. Nice to meet you.”, Eddie greeted as he enthusiastically extended his hand for him to shake. 

As the officer turns to grab the drinks and hide his smirk, you subtly bumped him with your hip.

“Hm. I’ve heard your name around town. Very prominent young man. What do you do exactly?”

“Management you could say sir.”

“And you young lady? Are you a real doctor or just one of those professor types?”

“Um, I own my own clinic and treat patients.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“It’s Hawkins Virtue Clinic on the lower west side.”

“Ah on the crime riddled side of town where people can’t even afford napkins from a restaurant let alone healthcare.”

Your gaze shifts to Steve who tilts his glass towards you in a cheer gesture with a little smile as he knocks back its contents. 

“I guess you could say that. That’s why I don’t charge them more than they can afford.”

“How do you make money then?”

“It’s not always about money. For me, all that matters is people can live long healthy lives.”

“Not in Hawkins, honey, but it’s a cute dream. Come on, Steve, your mother is waiting.”

“I’ll see you peasants later.”, he teases as he winks and follows his father. 

“Well, that was a good test run.”, you joke as you turn to face Eddie. 

“Yeah, hopefully George isn’t that cynical.” 

#############

“Thank you for keeping an eye on me these past few days.”, you beam at Gareth as you both walk to your car. 

“Of course. It’s actually been oddly exciting. I learned that green is never really a good color especially on or IN your skin unless its vegetables, obviously.” He grins when you laugh. “I also learned that sick kids are VERY loud and nurses deal with way too much. 

“They really do. I try to give them raises as much as I can to show my appreciation but it’s hard with my lack of funds.”

“I’m sure Eddie could help if you asked.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose.”

Your guard paused, holding his arm out to stop you as well.

“Stay here.” Drawing his gun, he slowly walked forward towards your car, scanning the interior and around the side. Noticing a note tapped to the door handle, he carefully pulls it off and reads the contents before his wide eyes meet yours. 

“Y/N RUN!”

As he starts sprinting your way, you suddenly feel heat and a strong wind that knocks you off your feet as your car explodes.

***

Eddie’s tires skid as he slams on his breaks when he arrives at your clinic. Bypassing all the fire fighters and EMS, he entered the building hunting for you. 

“What happened?! Baby, are you alright?”

Silently, Steve grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him off to the side. Digging into his pocket, he handed Eddie the note that was taped to your car.

“I'm not gonna kill you. Your job will be to tell the rest of them that death is coming for them, tonight. Two.”

“I looked it up, it’s a quote from another movie involving revenge. And I’m assuming—”

“He’s counting down.”, Eddie interrupts. “I’m going to fucking kill that son of a bitch.”

“No, hey. We have a plan, remember? Right now, she needs you.”

After coming back around the corner, Steve shoos the EMS people away as he sits beside you in your waiting area with his pencil and pad pretending to take your statement while the gangster takes a seat on your other side. 

“Princess, look at me. Are you ok? Did you get hurt?”

“Uh, no. Gareth, he, um, he did though.”, you respond as your tear-filled eyes meet his. “I tried to do what I could, Eddie. H-He was badly burned. I-I-I don’t have stuff here for those kinds of burns.”

Tilting you against him, he presses your head to his chest as you sob.

“EMS said that he will most likely be ok and if you hadn’t been there he would have died. Honey, you saved him.”

“H-He saved me, Steve.”

“You’re both staying with me. No arguments.”, Eddie announced as you nodded.

“I have to go in and fill out my report—”

“Steven…”

“I know, I know. I’m probably next but there’s nothing I can do, Eddie. I have to go in and do this. Plus, I have Jeff and a station full of cops. I’ll be ok.”

############

“I’m going to go smoke a cigarette, sweetheart, ok? Don’t go far.”

You nod as you watch him reach into his pocket and pull out his pack as he disappears out on the nearby patio. Glancing at all the people around you, you suddenly feel extremely isolated completely unsure of what you should be doing. 

“Don’t let them see you crumble.”, an older man chuckles as he steps closer to you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I know what it’s like to walk into this sea of rich people and feel completely out of place. When my father and I moved here, we had nothing but a few pennies in our pocket but he knew how to finagle. Networked his way to his first 100K and used that to start an empire.”

“That’s amazing. My, uh, my grandparents were the same. They said personality goes a long way in any business. My grandma opened a tutoring center on the east side and helped so many underprivileged kids go on to college. My dad thought she was ridiculous. ‘You’re barely making ends meet, ma!’”, you roll your eyes.

“Ah, one of those.”, the man smiles. “I inherited my father’s company and then gave it to my son. Did your grandmother do the same?”

“Oh, no. She got sick pretty early on in her life and I moved in with them to help take care of her. It’s what actually sparked my interest in medicine. I’m a doctor and I run my own clinic, Hawkins Virtue.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of that place. You help a lot of people who are struggling.”

“I try.”, you grin, happy to meet someone who seems to genuinely find interest. 

“Do you need funding? I’d love to come by and see what you do.”

Shifting your gaze, you notice Steve watching you intensely from beside his parents.

“I would like that very much. I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.”, you introduce as you offer him your hand that he takes and kisses the back off.

“George. George Carver.”

***

Steve sighs as he heads out of the police station to go home. Placing the ear bud in his ear, he taped his phone to immediately call Eddie. 

“What’s going on?? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m fine. I’m on my way now.”

“Ok, stay on the phone with me till you’re almost here.”

“Heh. I love when you get protective.”

Eddie listens to every footstep with anticipation as the officer heads towards his car.

“You’re my Paladin, babe, but I’m the Master. I can take care of you to.”

“You’re such a nerd.”, he chuckles, pausing at the sight of the note on his windshield.

Trying not to startle his boyfriend, he carefully removed it as he backed away from his car.

“Killing's got to be accepted. Murder was the only way that everybody stayed in line. You got out of line, you got whacked. Everybody knew the rules. One.”

Something suddenly whizzed passed him, shattering his driver’s side window.

“Fuck me.” As soon as he hit the ground, multiple rounds of gunfire went off around him. Steve could barely hear Eddie in his ear as he crawled behind a nearby vehicle and waited.

“STEVEN! ANSWER ME GODDAMN IT!”

“I’m ok! I’m ok!”

Pointing his gun towards the car, he fired a few rounds before it disappeared around the corner. 

***

Eddie paced as you cleaned the cuts on Steve’s hand he had received from all the glass on concrete. The gangster was on edge since he had to wait for police to scope the scene and take the officer’s statement. 

“Fucking asshole. Steve, I’m sorry but I can’t let this slide. Two of my friends are in the hospital and he almost killed you two.”

“No. He wants to kill us in front of you remember. This was just to toy with you and us.”

“I don’t like the casual way you said that.”, Steve teased as he pokes your nose with his free hand. 

“Excuse me. Not a joke here!”

“You’re right, baby. Talking with his father won’t be enough. He crossed a line but we need to focus on this first to keep Y/N safe. After we handle that, then we can handle him.”

“I may have an idea that won’t upset his father IF we get that approval and will get your message across.”, you announce as they give you their attention. 

############

“Mr. Carver.”

“Ah, Mr. Munson or should I saw Edward. We don’t want to confuse you with your father now do we?”, the man laughs light-heartedly as your gangster circles a protective arm around you. “Do you know Dr. Y/L/N here?”

“Oh, please, sir. You can call me Y/N.”, you beam trying to remain as calm as possible.

“Yes, sir. I met Y/N when she saved me from a nasty wound I got. I had heard of all the things she’s done for the community so, of course, I had to get to know her better.”, he grins as he pulls you closer.

“That ‘nasty wound’ wouldn’t have been inflicted by my son per chance?” Eddie stiffened a bit beside you as the man gave him a once over. “Yeah, I know you and Jason don’t get along but that doesn’t give you the right to invade his turf and kill his best friend.”

“If I may, Mr. Carver, is there a private place we can talk?”

“No, you may not. Whatever is going on between you and him doesn’t involve me. You two are in charge now. Handle it.”

As he starts to walk away, you reach out to grab the man’s bicep.

“Please, sir. So many innocent people have gotten hurt just in this week alone. Your son is throwing a tantrum over something he started and is upset because Eddie didn’t let it go like his father used to. Please, just listen to what he has to say. We don’t want anything in return or anything like that. Just…listen.”

Jason’s father sighs as he glances you over.

“You would even decline the generous donation I was thinking of giving to your clinic? That’s a lot of funds that could help a lot of people.”

“This will help more.”

At your sentence, he blinked and stood up straighter. 

“Ok. Ok, Mr. Munson. Let’s talk.”

***

Jason exhaled as he took off his tie and laid his gun on the kitchen counter with his keys as he headed towards his living room. 

“Long night?”

“Jesus Christ, dad!”, the man jumped as he clutched his chest. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I thought you were going to the fundraiser event tonight.”

“I was busy.”

“I hope you weren’t busy with anything involving the Munson crew.”

As his father rose to his feet, Jason stood up straighter.

“I told you. That asshole killed Andrew—”

“After you broke into his girlfriend’s house and pulled a gun on him?”

“He killed Patrick and my friends!”

“AFTER you kidnapped his friend WHO IS A COP and beat him up! You stupid idiot!”, his dad growls as his son flinches. “What’s this I hear about you starting fires, blowing up cars, and doing shootings outside of a police station?! And leaving these moronic notes like this is some gangster movie!”, George shouts as he grumbles the papers he was given and tossed them his way. “This is not how we run our business, Jason.”

“Edward Munson needs to be taken out.”, he seethes. 

“Edward Munson will be left alone and so will his crew. That includes Steve Harrington and Y/N Y/L/N. Do you understand me, son?”

“Are you kidding!? He just gets away with killing my friends?!”

“BE GLAD I DON’T KILL YOU! Sit down!” Jason cowers at his father’s anger as he sits on the couch. “If you weren’t my son, I’d have gotten rid of you for how sloppy you’ve been. That being said you still need to understand that there are consequences to your actions.” Looking past him, George addresses the darkness behind his son’s ear. “He’s all yours.”

Something sharp stings the gangster’s neck as his world begins to spin. 

“I trust whatever you come up with, Mr. Munson, the punishment will fit the crime.”

As you and Eddie come into view, Jason’s world goes dark.

#################

“Good morning, sunshine.”, Eddie jests as Jason’s eyes flutter open. “I wouldn’t wiggle too much if I were you. The view up here is pretty great but not when you’re falling down eight stories.”

The rival gangster’s eyes finally adjust to see the other man in front of him with you and Steve on either side. He tried to move but soon realized he was bound to a chair with duct tape over his mouth, completely at your mercy as he was perched near the edge of a tall building. 

“You know, I’m a fan of movies myself. The one thing my father and I could connect on was The Godfather trilogy. Did you ever see those, Jason?” The man’s only response is trying to tug at his restraints. “No? That’s ok. The third one is utter garbage but that second one. Oof…so good. There’s one line in there that always stood out to me. ‘Chiedi di me ai tuoi amici del quartiere. Ti diranno che so come ricambiare un favore.’”

Stepping forward with his hands in his pockets he continues. 

“It’s Italian. ‘Ask your friends in the neighborhood about me. They'll tell you I know how to return a favor.’”

The rival gangster’s eyes widen as Eddie kneels to his level, balancing on his heels as he speaks to him again is a soft tone laced subtle venom.

“You crossed a line, Carver. If it were up to me I would have killed you and your entire enterprise after hurting Steve and threatening Y/N. After the stunts you pulled this week, I almost did. You can thank this young lady here for talking me out of it.”

Jason’s eyes flick to your angry ones before looking at the other man again. 

“She also suggested we talk to your father which was a brilliant idea. He’s very levelheaded and kind of funny. Right, guys?”

“Hysterical. He thought what you did at the police station was so amusing he recommended I take you in and throw you in a cell with Allen since you miss him so much.”, Steve quipped with a smirk. 

“After blowing up my car and breaking into my apartment, he thought I should use some of things I learned at medical school as a punishment. Oddly enough, castration was the first thing to came to his mind. I told him I didn’t think you had any balls to remove since you were acting like a five-year-old.”, you add making Eddie’s smile widen. 

“He also suggested we make the punishment fit the crime thus you’re ours for the next week, buddy!” As the gangster lightly taps his face, Jason starts to cry. “But, Carver, I’m not going to do that. Do you know why? I’m not my father and I’m not like you. I don’t kill for pleasure and I don’t like hurting people. I want this to stop. But make no mistake…” Eddie reaches for Jason’s throat and squeezes it between his ringed fingers. “If you ever threaten or hurt these two again or even fucking think of coming on to my side of Hawkins, I will burn your side to the ground and make you regret ever being born let alone taking your father’s mantle. Am I being clear?”

Ripping away the tape his lips, the gangster squeaks as he continues to cry. 

“Yes! I understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Eddie.” After tapping his cheek again, Eddie turns taking your hand in his as you three head for the door to leave the roof of the building. “Hey! What about me?!”

“Oh, we’ll call the building super in the morning. Just…don’t lean back.”, Steve answers with a sarcastic thumbs up as the door closes behind him.

##################

You giggled in Eddie’s arms as he held you to him, kissing your lips with vigor as he carried you up the stairs with Steve trailing right behind. 

“You…are…amazing.”, he cooed between each breath as he fell with you onto the bed. 

“You really are.” Steve added as he threw himself beside you and began sucking on your neck. 

Ringed fingers glided hastily up the slit in your dress, moving the silk blocking your core, and effortlessly pushed into your entrance, pumping in and out so quickly the sound of your arousal filled the room. 

“Fuck, Eddie.”

“You got me so hard, sweetheart, watching the way you took control talking to George. Jesus and in that beautiful fucking dress.” Your hand floated down to cling to his as his digits inside of you moved at a relentless pace. “I had to keep telling myself to focus because all I wanted to do was push you against that wall and fuck you till you couldn’t walk straight.”

Steve gripped your chin turning you so your lips could meet his as the gangster’s head fell into the nook between your head and shoulder. 

“You’re a bad girl now, baby. OUR bad girl.”

“Tr-treat me like one.”

The officer chuckled at your needy tone as you panted into his mouth. 

“Yeah? You want us to show you how bad girls get treated?”

“P-Please…please. Fuck I’m gonna cum.”

“Ask nicely, Y/N.”

Leaning your head against the gangster’s, you murmured consistent pleas, begging for relief that he granted as the coil snapped and you practically screamed his name. Offering his fingers to his partner, Steve licked them clean before leaning over you so their lips could mingle together. 

After digging in one of his drawers, Eddie produced some handcuffs and passed them over to Steve who took hold of your wrists restraining you to the headboard. 

“These are my own set so they should feel more comfortable on your skin than his steel ones.”, Eddie grinned as he kissed your lips.

“Babe, you forgot to take off her dress.”

“Fuck, silly me.” Grabbing the slit in the fabric, he yanked it apart tearing it up the middle till it split in half and fell away. “There we go.”

“No bra, honey? Definitely bad girl behavior.”

“Eddie told me not to wear one.”, you whine as Steve’s gaze shifts his way. 

“What? I like her tits. Sue me.”

While Eddie removed his suit, the officer yanked down your panties and tossed them onto the floor while he kissed your lips. 

“I bet you want to suck my cock, don’t you dirty girl?”

“I do. Please.”

“I like that. Keep beginning me like that.”

Jumping back into bed, the gangster took hold of one of your legs and lifted it over his shoulder before guiding his cock into your entrance.”

“Oh my god.”

Fingers circled tightly around your neck as your eyes met Steve’s anger filled ones. 

“I said beg me for my dick, little girl.”

“P-Please, Steve. I wanna—fuck, Eddie—I wanna choke on your cock. Please! I need it!”

Quickly, he unbuckled his belt and shimmied down his pants enough to free his length, allowing it to hover over your lips. 

“Tap three times loudly if you need to stop, ok?”

“Yes, yes sir.”

“Oh, look at that, Eds. Little girl found her manners.”

Eddie smirked as he continued to slam his hips into yours at a rough pace, his thick fingers digging into your thigh as he used it for leverage. 

Opening your mouth, you prepared for some the things they had been teaching you. Flattening your tongue you waited, mewling when he finally gave you what you were begging for. As his cock slid down your throat, his fingers tangled in your hair and you focused on the feeling as he slowly thrust his hips. 

“Good…good girl. That’s it. Shit, baby. That’s it. You’re almost taking all of me.” Feeling your body tremble, Steve holds you still, allowing you choke and gag around him as you cum. “Yes! You’re ok, baby. Just a couple more seconds.”

Tapping once, you signal you need air and he immediately pulls out to pet your head, murmuring praises as Eddie slows his rhythm to almost a complete stop as he caresses your leg comfortingly. 

“Good girl, honey. You did so fucking good. It took all my energy not to cum to but I want to cum inside your tight pussy, pretty girl. So beautiful. What color are we at, Y/N?”

“Green, baby. Green.”

At the word, the gangster lifts your other leg, pushing them together as he slowly thrusts his cock deep inside you. 

As your eyes roll back and you moan, Steve kisses away your tears before murmuring against your lips, “Do you still want my dick, baby girl? Do you want me to fuck your pretty little throat? Feel us both deep inside you. I wonder if I can feel myself here.”, he coos as he gently places his hand on your neck. “I know I can feel Eddie fucking you so good. Right, honey?”

His large palm trails down your skin till you feel him press on your lower belly making you whimper louder as your back arches and you tug on your restraints. 

“Yeah, he’s right here, nice and deep.”

Eddie grunts as his pace hastens, his partners words amping him up as Steve smiles. Lifting up on his knees once more, the officer holds his tip just above your lips, chuckling as your tongue needily reaches for him. 

“Don’t forget what we talked about. Tap if you need to breathe or stop, baby. I’m gonna fuck your throat hard, ok?”

“Y-Yes. Please—fuck—please.”

Sliding his dick into your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut as he did what he said, constantly hitting the back of your throat over and over as the obscene sound of you gagging and drooling filled their ears. Both men became almost feral at the noise, Eddie shaking the bed as he pounded into you and Steve tugging harshly on your hair while mumbling under his breath. 

“That’s it, little girl. Jesus. Your mouth feels so fucking good. Atta girl. Choke on my cock, you dirty little whore making a fucking mess. Mmm!”

Your legs abruptly hit the mattress as Eddie fell on top of you, wrapping his arms around your back as he rolled his hips into yours. The officer pulled back, stroking himself with his hand as he watched you both cum together. The gangster laid still trying to catch his breath as Steve reached down to play his hair.

“Fuck me. This pussy is too good.”, Eddie groaned as he sat up and lightly spanked your behind. “I’m glad it’s ours.” 

After pulling out of you, both men shared a passionate filled kiss as they switched places, Steve wiggling underneath you so your back was on his chest. While the officer ran his palms over your breasts and along your sides, Eddie took hold of his partners cock, spitting over the tip before running it between your folds, teasing you both as it grazed your clit. 

“Please.”, you whine.

Smirking, he did what you asked as the two of you groaned. Steve’s hands gripped your thighs, holding your legs open as he planted his feet into the mattress and thrust up into you. 

“Fuck.”

“God, sweetheart, I wish you could see you both from my angle.”, the gangster moaned as he watched his boyfriend’s cock disappear inside you as he stretched you open. “Fuck me. Stevie didn’t even have the patience to take off the rest of his clothes.”, he chuckles, faltering the man’s rhythm as Eddie tugs his pants that had been pooled at his ankles the rest of the way.

Dropping your legs, one of Steve’s hands pulled your hair back as his other roughly kneaded your breast. 

“Move your hips.”, he growled as you mewled, trying your best to bounce and roll your waist. “Harder, little girl. Make yourself cum again.” He continued to grumble with a rough tone in your ear, commanding you to move faster repeatedly while smacking your tits with his palm. Screaming his name, you stopped moving as your body shook against him and you pulled hard on the cuffs above you. “Atta girl. Fuck, I can feel your pussy quivering around me. You’re gonna give me one more and I’m gonna cum with you.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Color, princess?”, Eddie whispers as he presses his nose to your cheek. 

“Green.”, you mumble as the tears stream down your face. 

“Yeah? Fuck you look so beautiful like this with your make up running down like this. Fuck, baby. You can do it. You can give us one more.”

Steve starts moving again with purpose knowing he won’t last long and you most likely will spent after this. After licking his fingers, the long-haired man places them on your clit, rubbing circles into your nub as your sweaty head leans back while the other man clings to your waist.

“There you go, Y/N. Come on, baby! One more. You can do it!”, Eddie encourages, both men moving so fast you don’t even realize it’s coming till your orgasm hits you like a freight train. “Good girl! Good fucking girl.”

Circling his arms around you, Steve’s pace becomes sloppy till you feel him warm your insides as he grunts in your ear. 

“Please…please…no…no more. I can’t.”

“No, sweetheart. You did so good. I’m going to uncuff you ok?” You nod as the gangster releases you from your binds and you wince at your sore muscles as you slowly bring your arms down. Steve carefully turns you both onto your side before pulling out of you, mumbling soft apologies as he tries not to hurt you. “Whenever you’re ready, we’re going to take a bath, ok? It will feel good on your body.”

After a few minutes of them smiling tenderly at you as they caressed and kissed parts of your skin, you signaled you were ready and Eddie lifted you into his arms as Steve ran the water. Doing what had become the norm, the gangster lit a cigarette as he sat behind you on the edge of the tub with his feet in the water as he began to clean you. What was new was when the officer pulled a wet wipe from a bag and kneeled beside you to clean your face.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, um, makeup remover. I bought it a while ago before all the bullshit happened for when you spend the night with us. Chrissy said this was a good brand for girl’s skin but if you have another just let me know.” It took him a moment to realize you two were staring at him with small smiles on your lips. “What? Hey, I’m a nice guy!”

“Yes, you are, pretty boy.”, Eddie coos sassily as he leans over to give him a peck as the man rolls his eyes. 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

His eyes remain downcast as he throws it away and places the bag on the counter. 

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. WE want to…want you to be comfortable…and happy. Are you? Happy I mean.”

Tilting his chin, you kiss his lips as well making his smile grow. 

“I am happy. Thank you for everything. It means a lot to me.”

Eddie’s already prepared when you lean your head back to kiss his lips as well making you giggle when he lingers making a loud mwah sound. 

“Just because we settled the stuff with Jason doesn’t mean I’m out of danger does it?”

Both men freeze in place as they blink before Steve climbs into the bath in front of you and Eddie slides in behind you.

“No, it doesn’t. There’s always going to be people that want to challenge me and just because we scared Carver doesn’t mean he won’t fuck up again.”

“And like I told you before, now that people know you’re with Eddie, it may cause some ears to perk up with the police which may put more eyes on you than you’re used to.”

“But, sweetheart, we promise you we will do everything we can to keep you safe. I’d hurt or kill to protect you just like with Steve.”

“And, honey, I would hide evidence or lie to anyone in the department to protect you. Not just from people but any kind of jail time.”

“You’re ours, Y/N, and we will take care of you no matter what.”

You can feel their eyes penetrate you as your own remain off to the side as you absorb what they are saying. 

Gently, fingers grip your chin, turning you to meet Steve’s soft honey hues.

“You can still leave if you want to. We can come up with a story to explain the party if you still want to have some…semblance of normalcy.”

“Whoa. Steve Harrington is breaking out the big words.”

You laughed at Eddie’s joke as the officer narrowed his eyes in playful annoyance.

“I don’t want to leave. I…”

You want to say it so bad. You want to tell them that you love them. But it’s only been a couple of months and they’ve been together for almost a year. No. You don’t want to scare them away after everything they just did to keep you safe. No…

“I…I trust you both.”

When you flash them a smile both men grin back as Eddie hugs you against his chest and Steve kisses your forehead.

##############

@5tud10-54r4h @munsonzgf @eddiesguitarskills @supraveng

@lilaclazer @ima1986 @micheledawn1975 @foreverminliv @corkadymu

@lemme-slytherin-that-dick @joannamuns9n @dashingdeb16 @sashaphantomhive @corrodedcoffincumslut @aactuaaltraash @nailbatanddungeon 

[thus-spoke-lo]

cw: suggestive/18+; afab!reader

“What do you think, Sanji?”

Sanji glances up from his sink full of dishes and his meandering thoughts, and his eyes widen at the sight before him—you stand before him in the dining room, looking absolutely resplendent in a soft blue sundress, the shoulder straps tied in bows that sit perfectly on your skin, a row of glimmering pearlescent buttons running down the front of the garment from the neckline all the way to the hem. A gaps catches in his throat as he almost inhales his cigarette, and he grips the plate in his hand just a little too tightly as he tries to contain his reaction.

“You look…angelic, my sweet,” he finally manages to utter, every word dripping in longing. “Is—is it new?”

“Nami and I did a little shopping.” You laugh softly and shrug. “Well—Nami did a lot of shopping. I got this.”

“Well it’s lovely, ma chérie.” He swallows hard, and tries to ignore the tingling at the base of his spine as you move the skirt back and forth to show off how well it sways, every swish revealing just a little more of your bare legs, his lustful gaze catching a glimpse of your inner thigh. “You look simply ravishing in blue. In anything, really, but especially that.”

“You’re always so sweet, Sanji,” you coo as you hop up on the dining room table and perch, swinging your legs. “I’m glad you think it’s so lovely, I did too.”

He glances back down at the dishes, a sly grin on his lips. It’d look a lot lovelier on the floor, he thinks, picturing the thin straps sliding down your shoulders, the way he could easily pull that bodice down over your breasts without even unbuttoning it—or perhaps he’d sit back and ask you to undo each shiny little button, one by one, just to tease him a little, make him wait for his prize. He shifts a little in place, feeling himself harden with every sweet image that plays like a dirty movie of you on your knees with that dress pulled down, seeing how it pools around your legs while you—

“Sanji? What did you say?”

His cigarette drops from his parting lips and into the sink full of water with a quiet plop. “I…didn’t say anything, my dear.”

You hop down from the table and take a few tentative steps towards the kitchen, your sneakers squeaking on the wood floor, the machinations in your mind seeming to turn as you tilted your head to one side. “No, you definitely said something.”

“I-I think you must be mistaken,” he stammers, feeling the heat rising in his face. Merde. The words he had said in his head—just a small selection of the many, many depraved words he says about you a hundred times a day in his mind—must have tripped off his tongue without realizing.

“Mmm, no,” you say, almost tauntingly, one hand now resting on the counter just mere feet from him, the other pressing against your hip. “I am almost one hundred percent certain that I heard you say this dress would look ‘nicer on the floor.’”

“I would never say such a thing!”

“Oh really?” you grin, stepping closer, closer still, until you’re nearly against him. “Then why’s your nose bleeding, cook?”

Sanji touches the heel of his hand to his nose and pulls it away, his pupils blooming as he sees his skin stained red.

“It’s—it’s just so dry in here,” he stammers as he can almost feel the heat of your body radiating against his skin, his body beginning to succumb to that desire that pulses within his veins.

You smile sweetly, and blink, gazing at him through your lashes. “You know, I think you might actually be right.”

“About what?” he asks, turning his lower body to shield the ever-more obvious interest in the front of his slacks.

“About this dress.”

“H-how so, angel?”

A whimper leaves his lips as he watches you untie one of the straps of the dress, then the other, the fabric strings now dangling loosely, the top of the bodice beginning to wilt forward, exposing the soft skin of your décolletage.

You offer him a smile as you bite your bottom lip. “I’m starting to think it would look nicer on the floor. Shall we find out?”

[gachagon]

Recently, I've been playing a game called Wanderstop that released just this week. It's made by the same dev team behind The Stanley Parable with music composed by C418, the musician behind Minecraft's OST. Wanderstop has been really been a welcome change of pace for me inbetween all of these big budget gacha releases, Kodaka projects like Tribe Nine and Hundred Line Defense Academy, and lengthy RPGs.

I've been wanting a new "cozy" game to play. I tried Fields of Mistria and it's fine but to me it's in the same vein as Stardew Valley. I have this issue specifically with new Cozy games where they're not exactly "cozy" or slow paced at all. They're tycoon games pretending to be "Cozy" imo lol and that's fine by me, but every once in a while we get an actual game that really lets you immerse yourself in the cozy little atmosphere it's trying to create.

Wanderstop is a cute 3D storytelling game where you play as a woman named Alta who is a hardened warrior who has never lost a fight, until she lost two battles in a row. Determined to get back on her feet, she searches for an old warrior named Master Winters, but instead comes across a tea shop run by an eccentric little guy named Boro.

The game primarily focuses on Alta making tea for both the customers that come to the shop, and herself as she tries to get into the right headspace and figure out "what's wrong with her".

My favorite thing about this game aside from the way there's no real rush to do anything, is the characters themselves. Particularly Alta is a really great main character, and while she is a deeply troubled person, I find a lot of her struggles relatable to my own average life.

I enjoyed hearing a lot of Alta's personal thoughts and slowly unraveling her backstory as I made different kinds of tea. Even though Wanderstop presents itself as a game where "there's nothing to really do", there was always something to do in regards to Alta and wanting to know more about her as a character.

And her voice actress does a really great job at portraying her character! A lot of the scenes are filled with so much emotion that I really felt for her most of the time. Honestly, I think Alta's the best part about Wanderstop because she's not at all a flat unemotional Main character for you to project yourself onto. Even though her whole "occupation" as a warrior is pretty generic and isn't easily defined through the game, there's enough of her personality to separate herself from the player and cement Alta as a character to be read about, rather than to be an avatar merely for the player to experience the tea shop.

My other favorite thing about this game is just how free it is, and how there's no rules, restrictions, or punishments for doing whatever you actually want to do. As I said before, a LOT of cozy games are just tycoon business games in disguise. Wanderstop isn't like that all, there's no big huge goal for you to work towards, you can serve customers completely at your own pace, make tea at your own pace, and garden whatever you'd like at the moment. You get to decide your schedule for that play session, and I enjoy that aspect very much.

And making the tea is also really fun. You can pretty much chuck whatever you want into the giant tea machine and then serve it or drink it to learn what new reactions the characters will have. If you're not the kind of person who likes a slow pace to their games, then I don't think Wanderstop will really be for you.

In my opinion, Wanderstop is similar in vein to Spiritfarer. They're both great games, but with heavy narrative and a VERY slow game progression with "not a lot to do" and a lot of freedom to do what you want for that game session.

So yeah, check out Wanderstop I've really been liking it so far and it's been great! I actually want to do a second play through once I'm finally finished just so i can see what i missed or if I can solve some customers problems haha.

[mariacallous]

Last Saturday night, I went clubbing with friends. Once upon a time, this wouldn’t have been a remotely odd sentence to type, because it was what I did pretty much every weekend. But a lot has changed since then – let’s just say that in my peak raving years there was a Labour government in power, only it was actually popular – and like most people whose happy place was once on the dancefloor, inevitably with time comes the feeling that you no longer belong. Deep down, you still come to life when the bassline kicks in. But you morph from hardened raver to the kind of person who’s always up for dancing at parties and weddings, and then finally into the kind of person whose friends aren’t getting married any more and who spends their Saturday nights giving their children lifts to parties. So eventually you tell yourself sadly that those days are over now, and that clinging on would be a bit mutton-behaving-as-lamb.

Well, not any more. Enter what was almost certainly the cheeriest thing about an otherwise lousy 2024: the rise of what is now regrettably known in my house as Old Lady Clubbing, AKA daytime events specially laid on by music promoters for the over-30s. It’s like going back in time, but better: partly because this time round you have learned to wear the big coat, instead of going without and shivering glamorously to death in the queue, but mostly because it starts in the afternoon. The secret of middle-aged socialising, it transpires, is to do roughly what you always did – but earlier: hitting the club at 3pm means being home in time for the 10 o’clock news, and blissfully asleep by last orders. (Though the truly multitasking could do as one of the DJs at Day Fever, the over-35s night set up by the actor Vicky McClure and her promoter husband, Jonny Owen, reportedly sometimes does and cram in a big supermarket shop on the way back.) Even the bar staff love it, one told me, because unlike most nights there’s no hassle: everyone’s just too thrilled to be out of the house.

You could think of it as clubbing, but for people who still need to be up early to walk the dog. Or you could see it for what it really is, namely one last giddy chance to let go of everything for people whose lives no longer allow for much of that.

There’s a reason gen X has gone wild for Abba Voyage, refused to give up on Glastonbury, and proved suspiciously keen to escort their tween daughters to Taylor Swift at Wembley this summer; a reason too for the rise of nights such as Day Fever, or the veteran DJ Annie Mac’s Before Midnight, or the peerlessly named Age Against the Machine (with its tagline “come and have a go if you think you’re old enough”). It’s not just nostalgia or some misplaced delusion that we’ve still got it, but more an acute sense of exactly what we no longer have.

By middle age, most of us are carrying around some form of loss, some weighty responsibility, some measure at least of exhaustion, disappointment or dread. This year, I’ve been to three funerals and a wedding, a fairly average midlife ratio of grief to joy, which has left me with the overwhelming feeling that life is too short not to go to all the parties. Any residual guilt over muscling in on what feels like a young person’s game, meanwhile, is long gone given the desperate state of the nightlife industry.

Last summer, I interviewed a string of disconsolate club promoters bemoaning the fact that gen Z don’t party like their parents did. They’re too skint, for a start: they’d rather stay in and save up for the occasional splurge on festival tickets. But they also don’t need to go out on the pull when dating apps let them hook up from the comfort of their sofas, and many of them don’t drink with sufficiently wild abandon to reach that messy stage when finding somewhere else to stagger on to when the pub shuts suddenly feels imperative. Throw in lockdown and a cost of living crisis, and about a third of nightclubs in the UK have shut since 2020, according to the Night Time Industries Association – while the survivors now face a painful budget double-whammy of rising national insurance plus an otherwise welcome hike in the minimum wage.

Though clubs have deliberately moved up the age range in search of punters in their late 20s and early 30s with more cash to spend, even that won’t be enough to keep some much-loved venues open, or to stop some towns potentially withering into places where everything seems to shut long before midnight.

Hence the sudden surge of commercial interest in an older crowd, who took a break from going “out out” while the kids were growing up but could be redrafted to preserve British nightlife for posterity: a gleeful flotilla of the middle-aged and definitely not done yet, riding to the rescue like some kind of mad sequin-clad Dunkirk.

It’s the job we gen Xers – the generation everyone forgets, to the point nobody can even be bothered to hate us properly – were frankly born to do. You can thank us when we’re dead, kids, which thanks to all this unexpected midlife exercise will almost certainly be later than you think.

[geekyglimpses-nest]

8. Treading the Edge

Warnings: +18 minor don't interact, slow burn, graphic language, humor, sexual content, physical trauma, blood (gore), bodies/corpses, death, drug use, guns, murder (atempted), PTSD, violence, english is not my first language.

Summary: Delaney is faced with an impossible decision: to trust S.W.O.R.D., an organization offering the resources she desperately needs, or to risk everything for the pursuit of knowledge that could alter the fabric of reality itself. As she grapples with the weight of her past, the echoes of a fractured world, and the ethical consequences of her work, Delaney steps into a world where ambition, power, and trust collide. But with every promise made, the line between saving humanity and destroying it becomes dangerously thin.

Word Count: 6,555 words (40 min)

notes at the end.

I hang up the phone and let my hand fall limply to my side. A dull ache pulses in my right leg, likely from being in the same position for too long, I massage it in an intend to activate blood circulation again, I start doing my physical exercises. I rub my temples, the motion slow and deliberate, my fingers pressing into the persistent tension in my skull. Closing my eyes, I lean back into the chair, its frame creaking under the shift. A sharp pull in my lower back reminds me of how long I’ve been sitting here, hunched over. The discomfort gnaws at me, but I stay still, too drained to shift position. The chair spins lazily beneath me as the weight of everything bears down.

I gaze at the dwindling lights of Enumclaw, a town that once pulsed with life. The lights that usually turned on every night have decreased with each passing month for three years now. The town overflowed with light and sound during the night.

Now when I go to town to buy groceries, it seems like an old west ghost town. The streets are abandoned, shops shuttered and blanketed in dust. The coffee shop Layla used to work at—her second home—closed a few months after the blip. Many small family owned businesses followed too. Many people left after a year, and the number just kept falling after that first year.

The population of Enumclaw has fallen by half ever since.

Before the Blip, these streets thrummed with life—people coming and going, exchanging smiles, sharing small talk in grocery lines, cracking jokes to brighten someone’s day. Enumclaw felt like a community in the truest sense, a rare balm for someone like me, hurt and hardened by the world. But now, it’s a miracle to see anyone at all, and those you do encounter won’t even meet your eyes.

What once felt alive now feels haunted, a ghost town collecting dust. The warmth of this place, its humanity—it’s gone, reduced to whispers of what used to be.

Facing a coldness that isn’t my own has shattered whatever hope I had left. The sadness runs so deep it has drained even my tears. I cried them all in the first three months after the Blip. Now, there’s only anger, simmering beneath the emptiness.

I get up to refill my coffee, waiting for the machine to brew the third black cup of the day. As the warm scent fills the air, my mind drifts to my conversation with Ron.

He told me S.W.O.R.D. has been reaching out to astrophysicists worldwide—some of the brightest minds on this planet and, apparently, others. Their goal? To assemble a team capable of cracking the secrets of time travel and building a machine to make it possible. But so far, most have turned them down. They’re still searching for someone to lead the project, and those they’ve asked have refused.

The reason? Time travel isn’t just improbable—it’s catastrophic. Without exhaustive research, rigorous testing, and the right team, any attempt could obliterate what’s left of the universe. It’s extinction-level dangerous.

And I know it. Too well.

Which is why I lied. Partially.

The research is almost complete, it was interrupted after Elodie… after the blip.

There are two main problems. First, Elodie’s part of the research is incomplete because quantum mechanics isn’t my strong suit. I’ve had to become an expert on the subject, which has significantly slowed progress. The second problem? Trust. I can’t share this information with anyone unless I’m certain it won’t be misused.

When I first met Elodie, her dissertation immediately intrigued me. Few, especially women in the science field, have the determination to tackle such a controversial topic for their doctoral thesis. And when they do, they often face far more backlash than their male counterparts. I’d experienced the same when I presented my own thesis on using wormholes to open portals to alternate realities and universes. As soon as I read Elodie’s paper and heard her presentation, I knew she was the only person I could trust to start this research with.

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The auditorium at Princeton’s Quantum Mechanics Department was packed with some of the brightest minds in science. As I sat in the middle row, I reviewed my notes, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the research I’d skimmed—the kind of groundbreaking work that would make anyone sit up and pay attention. I had to be here, in person, to hear Elodie Wallace’s doctoral thesis on time manipulation.

When Elodie entered, she carried herself with a quiet, almost serene determination. She set her notes and slides on the podium, and I could see her eyes light up with the passion of someone who’s devoted their life to their work. “Good morning, everyone,” she began. “Today, I want to talk to you about how quantum mechanics can influence time manipulation…”

Her voice was steady, but I noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders, as if she knew what was coming. As she spoke about quantum superposition, entanglement, and their potential to affect time itself, I could almost feel the weight of the room’s skepticism pressing in on her. Some of the more seasoned academics exchanged glances, muttering softly to one another. There was that familiar air of doubt—a typical response when a woman tackles such an abstract, controversial subject.

I couldn’t help but sympathize. In my own experience, when I presented my research on wormholes and alternate realities, I faced not only ridicule but also condescension. And for a woman, especially in this field, the backlash was tenfold. We had to prove ourselves more, and when we chose topics like Elodie’s—ideas that strayed too far from the conventional—it only intensified the judgment.

The room’s response was mixed. Some listened intently, others skeptically scribbled notes, clearly dismissing the notion of time manipulation as fantasy. A few even chuckled under their breath, as though the idea of a woman making waves in such a male-dominated field was laughable. But Elodie, unfazed, continued. The way she spoke, with such clarity and conviction, left no room for doubt. I could see how hard she had worked, how much she had endured to get to this point. It was a battle, and she wasn’t going to let anyone undermine her.

Elodie’s presentation was brilliant—a mix of theoretical physics and innovative experimentation that pushed the boundaries of what we thought was possible. As she described her research on quantum entanglement and temporal shifts, I couldn’t help but admire her. It was the kind of work that would have inspired awe in any seasoned scientist. But for women like us, it often felt like we had to fight for that respect.

After the presentation, the room buzzed with questions. As I raised my hand, I could sense the collective breath of the room. Elodie’s expression shifted when she saw my name, but there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes, and a sense of respect passed between us. “Dr. Kingsley,” she said, a little hesitantly, but her smile was warm. “It’s an honor to have you here.” I asked, “Have you considered integrating astrophysical phenomena, like wormholes, into your research on time manipulation?”

Her response was immediate, though I could see her mind working, calculating how to balance humility with the excitement of a new idea. “Yes, absolutely. Wormholes are a fascinating possibility. Your research on cosmic singularities has already inspired some of my hypotheses on temporal shifts.”

I nodded, impressed by how well she understood the broader implications of her work. After the session, I approached her, but she was deep in conversation with a woman who looked strikingly like her—her mother, Ella. I introduced myself, complimenting Elodie on her presentation, and suggested the possibility of collaborating on future research. Elodie’s excitement was palpable, and she quickly agreed. “That would be fantastic,” she said, a bit nervously, her eyes shifting between me and her mother. “Let’s grab a coffee and talk more.” I say

As we walked to the café, I found myself drawn not only to Elodie’s intellect but also to the warmth of the relationship between her and her mother. Ella’s eyes never left her daughter. She smiled whenever Elodie made a joke, hanging on to her every word with a kind of admiration that was rare to see in academia. There was a joy in their interaction, a bond that seemed unspoken yet deep. It was clear that, no matter the pressures Elodie faced in her career, she had a rock-solid foundation in her family.

I couldn’t help but notice the difference between their dynamic and my own relationships in science. Most of us focused on accolades and the race for progress, but Elodie and Ella reminded me of something far more important. It was a refreshing change.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Without Elodie actively involved, continuing this research has been nearly impossible. I’ve run out of resources, and my attempts to reach out to every contact I have have yielded no responses.

Back when I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., there were annual events where high-profile figures—government officials, billionaires with too much money and too many secrets, philanthropists, and self-proclaimed elite scientists—gathered to see S.H.I.E.L.D.’s latest projects. They’d pick the ones with the most potential for investment. Most of them didn’t care about science, only about the recognition or the profit. But every now and then, there was a small group of genuine investors—people who actually understood the work and wanted to see it succeed. Those were the people I’ve been trying to reach.

I should’ve known better. Most of them are still mourning their losses, too consumed by grief to even consider investing time or money into a time travel project—especially without any guarantees.

Even I’m not sure if this could work, or if it would just make everything worse.

There was a time, before the blip, when Elodie and I questioned the ethics and morals of what we were doing. We stopped when we realized the potential consequences. That list of concerns only grew after the blip.

The thought of what people could do with a time machine… it haunted me. Imagine if someone could change the past. They could manipulate historical events, creating a domino effect with unimaginable consequences that might not be visible within our timeline, but it could create a new branch in time where this one decision could change everything. Those paradoxes—logical inconsistencies—would challenge everything we think we know about causality. Time isn’t a toy. If it were misused, it could unravel everything.

And the ethical implications are overwhelming. Inequality in access to the technology could create power imbalances the likes of which we’ve never seen. What happens if only the rich, powerful, or influential can travel through time, while the rest are left behind? Would time become another tool of oppression? And if we succeed in altering history, we might also devalue the present. People could stop caring about their actions in the here and now, knowing that they could just undo their mistakes. Laws would become irrelevant—how do you govern something so complex, where every action could have consequences beyond imagination?

It’s not just about righting wrongs—it’s about what happens when power falls into the wrong hands. What if a corrupt government or organization gained control and altered time to reshape the world for their own gain?

I can already hear the justifications: “We can fix things. We can make it better.” But those who manipulate history don’t always know what they’re playing with. The ripple effects of one small change could destroy everything—families, entire societies, maybe even reality itself.

But that’s not even considering the existential risks. What if the very fabric of reality were threatened? Could we, in our attempt to control time, end up destroying everything—past, present, and future?

It’s no wonder so many in the physics community reject the idea of time travel. The risks are too great.

Yet, S.W.O.R.D. is right there. Desperate, it seems, but what really worries me is the why. I’ve already been through the experience of working for an organization I thought had the right intentions, only to watch it become something completely different. I trusted them once—too easily. Now, I can’t help but question every move they make. How do I know S.W.O.R.D. isn’t just another version of what I’ve already seen? Another group with their own hidden agenda, willing to manipulate everything for their gain, even if it means sacrificing everything else? How can I trust them with something this dangerous?

They claim they’re doing it for the good of humanity, but I’ve learned the hard way that those justifications are often the loudest when they’re hiding the worst truths. Are they even aware of what this could cause, or are they too blinded by their own desperation to see the risks?

But then again, no one else is willing to finance the project. We were so close—closer than anyone else. And they know it. They wouldn’t have reached out if they didn’t already see that we’d gotten farther than everyone else. It’s a terrifying thought: that this is the only option, and maybe the wrong one.

Most of my days since the Blip are consumed by the lab—devouring every piece of research, string theory, quantum mechanics, high-energy physics, and whatever else I can grasp, trying to make sense of it all. But then there are days when the darkness takes over. The thoughts spiral, the voices grow louder, and the nightmares become more vivid.

Ever since the Blip, the masked face of the Winter Soldier haunts my worst nightmares. The last I knew, he fought in Wakanda before the Snap. I know he’s gone now—not James Buchanan Barnes, the soldier, the survivor, the best friend. The Winter Soldier was destroyed by Dr. Shuri, princess of Wakanda.

But he still lives in my mind, visiting me in the cold of night when I’m alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that darken the longer I stay awake. When I see him in the corner of my room, I freeze. We stare at each other—waiting. For hours, it feels like a battle of wills, waiting to see who will strike first. Then, I blink, and he’s gone.

Before the Blip, I thought his letting me live was a blessing. Now, it feels like a punishment—living, breathing, but trapped in this endless torment.

The mere thought of HYDRA still breathing down our necks plagues me constantly. Ron and I have stayed in touch, doing everything we can to make sure that nightmare never comes true again. So far, we’ve got nothing.

But still, the dreams come—recurring, vivid, and sometimes far too real to be just nightmares. In these dreams, I feel like I’m actually living them. The same one, over and over again, with only slight variations. Small details shift, but the terror remains unchanged. I’m left with the chilling question: what if the Winter Soldier had succeeded in bringing me to them?

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

The darkness is absolute, impenetrable. The air is thick with an acrid, metallic smell, like rusted iron mixed with chemicals. My head throbs, each pulse pounding in my ears as I try to understand my bearings. Touching as much as I can, the cold metal meeting my touch. A certain relief to my overheated skin. Suddenly, a metallic screech breaks the silence, the sound of a steel door opening with a prolonged groan. Heavy footsteps echo in the distance, slowly approaching. Each step is a deep thud, like boots dragging across a concrete floor. I hear screams, male screams, followed by an almost electric sound, like an electrical current but way louder. They’re not in the same place I am but they sound very close to me. And then it goes quiet.

A male voice, cold and sharp as a knife, can be heard a few meters away. He speaks German, the authority and disdain in his tone is unmistakable. Other murmurs follow, quick and hushed conversations between several people, all with the same severe tone.

A strong smell of disinfectant fills the air, perhaps some kind of gas or industrial solvent. It burns my nostrils and I try to move, but my hands are tightly bound with something rough and biting, like rope or wire. The sound of metal against metal rings out again, followed by the click of what seems to be a syringe being prepared. A chill runs down my spine, making my skin prickle. The footsteps stop right next to me. A firm, gloved hand grabs my arm, and the smell of old leather mixes with the metallic scent of the place.

The sharp voice says something else, this time in English, with a marked and menacing accent “Don’t struggle. It will only get worse. Just let the pain in.”

All I can do is listen and smell, each sound and scent etching itself into my mind as I wait for the inevitable. I feel a sudden sharp prick in my arm, a cold liquid spreading through my veins. I hear the clanking of metal pieces being assembled. The scent of freshly oiled machinery and cold steel fills my nostrils. I try to lift my head, but it feels like a lead weight. Rough hands grip my face, forcing my head still. A metallic clang echoes as something heavy and cold is placed over my head, encasing it completely.

The interior of the metal headpiece is lined with harsh, industrial rubber that presses tightly against my skin. It hums softly with an ominous electrical vibration. The male voice speaks again, now muffled but still menacing: “This is just the beginning. Welcome to HYDRA.”

Memories from my past life are played on a screen like a fucking movie.

Then blood, so much blood everywhere, bodies, lifeless bodies are everywhere I walk. I’m barefoot. The place shakes and the lights go out.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Every time I try to push past that moment, I wake up, drenched in sweat and tears. My heart pounds like it’s about to break free from my chest, and an electric shock jolts through every limb. Sometimes, I relive the dream from a different perspective. I’m one of the doctors now, looking down at a body—its face covered. I try to pull back the white fabric, but once again, the dream ends before I can see anything more.

I can’t keep living like this. Sleeping only when my body forces me to, drowning in coffee and energy drinks to stave off the pull of exhaustion. I spend relentless hours in the lab, staring at a computer screen or a whiteboard filled with scribbles, numbers, and formulas. My eyes burn from the strain, unblinking, as I push through research that never seems to lead anywhere. I torture myself by listening to Mrs. Durmaz and Layla’s last voicemails every day—something deep inside me makes me listen, as if it’s punishment for not protecting them.

Now, the house has stopped smelling like Layla. Her scent—once clinging to the pillows, her clothes—has completely vanished. At first, it faded slowly, but now it’s gone entirely. Years have passed, and it feels like she was never here at all. The same happened when I visited Mrs. Durmaz’s apartment—everything left just as she’d placed it, but all her essence, gone.

Last week, while attempting to clean the house, I found a ball of Brixton’s hair. I sat there for hours, staring at it. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear his paws running through the house, his panting, his presence so vivid it felt like I could touch his face.

This week, I was tempted to call the people from my past—those I once called family, friends. But I couldn’t figure out who to call first. When I finally did, most of their numbers went straight to voicemail. I couldn’t, or didn’t want to, face the possibility that they’d blocked me or, worse, had been taken by the Snap. So, I’ve been left with only memories to console me. But even those are starting to fade. Their voices barely echo in my mind anymore. When I picture their faces, they’re blurred, like smudges in a photo. I can still feel their hands, touch their bodies, but their faces are gone.

When someone you love becomes a memory, those memories become treasures. But I have nothing left from that life. I left it all behind, did my best to burn it. And with it, I left pieces of myself.

I regret it now. I regret so much about that life.

So many decisions that led only to pain, fights, suffering, and loneliness. Looking back at those arguments now, they seem almost comical—so stupid, so childish. The hurtful words that should have never left my mouth. And the worst of it all? The way I abandoned them, as though they were strangers. When in reality, they were everything. The coldness with which I looked at them and last spoke to them.

I let my pride make the decisions.

And now, years later, I’m forced to live with the consequences. I’m still too proud to go after them, too proud to say I’m sorry. Because deep down, I know how badly I fucked up

◎ ─━──━─❖─━──━─ ◎

♪The sun will rise - Rhys Lewis♪

I close the door of my car and approach the memorial slowly. Today, it feels busier than usual. Families, young couples, and people alone stand in front of the large marble slabs, their eyes fixed on the hundreds of names engraved into them. We call it the Wall of the Vanished—a memorial for the citizens who turned to dust or went missing after the Blip. The first one was built in San Francisco, and soon, other nations followed suit.

Enumclaw has its own in the main plaza. D.C. has one too. I visit them whenever I can—it’s my way of remembering Layla and Mrs. Durmaz. Sometimes, Arturo joins me when I visit Mrs. Durmaz. It’s become a tradition between us. Every few months, we meet at the memorial. He brings wine, I bring Mrs. Durmaz’s favorite food—köfte, a Turkish dish made of meatballs or meatloaf. We eat, he sips wine, and sit in front of the slab engraved with her name. We laugh, reminiscing about her, recalling our favorite memories. But then, the laughter fades. The bitter sadness creeps in, and a heavy silence settles over us like a blanket.

Arturo feels it too. He smiles, then begins talking about his family—how fortunate they were. No one in his family, except for Mrs. Durmaz, was blipped. He and his family built a refugee and mental health center for those affected by the Blip, whether from the loss of loved ones or from the difficulty of reintegrating into society after such a profound tragedy.

I try to visit whenever I can. It keeps my mind occupied, away from dark thoughts. It silences the voices in my head. And when I’m there, reading stories to the children who either visit or live at the center, I feel safe.

Arturo’s phone alarm goes off, and he tells me he needs to pick up one of his nephews from school. He offers me a ride, but I decline.

“I want to stay here a little longer before I go back to Enumclaw,” I say.

We say our goodbyes, and as always, Arturo asks me to keep in touch if I don’t want him to come looking for me in Enumclaw. I watch him approach the slab, resting his head briefly before whispering something in Spanish and pressing a kiss to Mrs. Durmaz’s name. I watch as he gets into his car, following its movement with my gaze until it disappears from sight.

I shift my focus to my surroundings. A few meters to my left, a woman kneels, perhaps praying for her loved one. Behind her, three young children play a game of tag, their laughter ringing through the air. The woman looks up and joins them, her joy evident. The scene is sweet and endearing, and I realize I’m not the only one watching. Others, like me, look on and smile. Those who aren’t distracted by the children’s laughter stare at the slabs, crying in silence. The only sign of their grief is the occasional movement of their shoulders.

How can I sit here and do nothing with the knowledge I have? Every day, I feel the urge to scream, “I can try to fix this!” But I can’t, not without also saying, “But it could destroy what’s left of our planet—or even the universe.”

I can’t sit here anymore, just watching the world crumble to loneliness and sadness—myself included. I need to know if what S.W.O.R.D. is offering is real. So far, no one else has reached out, and according to Ron, no one has made a move to change things either. Not even the Avengers, or whatever is left of them.

I dial the number and wait for her to pick up. The line rings three times before she answers.

“Agent Reid,” she says, her tone flat.

“It’s Delaney Kingsley.”

“Doctor, I didn’t expect to hear from you again. I take it the project is finished?”

“Ha,” I laugh dryly. “The project hasn’t even started, but the research is in a decent spot to begin.”

I stand and start walking to my car.

“My boss would like to meet with you, so you can be sure we’re the right people to give this to. We’re aware of your past with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“One of S.W.O.R.D’s HQs in D.C. Will tomorrow work for you, doctor?”

“I guess.”

“Good. I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

She didn’t even ask where I was, which only confirms my suspicion: they’ve been following me, and they know I’m already in D.C. I glance around before getting into my car and spot a black SUV with two men in civilian clothes. Both wear sunglasses, despite the overcast sky and the rain about to hit. As I start the engine and drive off, I watch them climb into the SUV, and after a few turns, I realize—yeah, they’re following me.

◎ ─━──━─❖─━──━─ ◎

I stare at the bookshelf in front of me. It’s almost entirely bare, save for a few architecture and art books, encyclopedias, history books, and some black-and-white photography collections. A few crystal figurines are scattered across the shelves, filling the empty spaces. It looks like the kind of bookshelf you’d find in a store display—sterile, impersonal. The desk is immaculate, with nothing but a computer on it. The whole place feels clean, organized, but cold, devoid of warmth.

Is this what my house looked like before Layla decorated it? No personality. It speaks nothing of the person who works here. No framed pictures. No color. Just stark black-and-white décor, if you can even call it that.

The sound of the door opening pulls me from my thoughts.

“Dr. Kingsley, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. You’ve got quite a few fans around here,” a voice greets me.

I stand, turning toward the source. A man extends his hand. As I reach out to shake it, I’m hit by a jolt of electricity.

“I’m Director Tyler Hayward. I was pleased when Reid told me you’d agreed to meet with me.”

“Well, I do need to know who I’m entrusting my research—and Dr. Wallace’s—with, to ensure it won’t be used to destroy what’s left of the world.” I look him over carefully, then offer a faint smile. He smiles back but doesn’t respond.

“Allow me to show you around, Doctor.”

The first place he takes me is the Space Monitoring Room. It’s a vast, almost overwhelming space, filled with screens and workstations, each one attended by technicians and scientists absorbed in their tasks. The screens display real-time data, tracking information from countless solar systems, anomalies, and celestial events. Satellites, space stations, and even deep-space phenomena are monitored with precision. This is where potential threats, as well as opportunities the cosmos may present, are detected and analyzed with a level of expertise that seems otherworldly.

Leaving the monitoring room, we head towards the Research and Development Laboratory. Advanced equipment fills the room—some of it beyond my immediate understanding. The energy in the lab is palpable, the air humming with a quiet intensity. Scientists work feverishly, focused on their breakthroughs.

One device in particular catches my eye: a sleek, angular piece of technology unlike anything I’ve ever seen. As I lean closer to the holographic display, a faint hum vibrates beneath my feet, the power of something otherworldly coursing through the floor. Hayward notices my interest and casually remarks, “Kree origin,” but I catch the gleam of pride in his eyes. He’s showing off, yet there’s a tension in his posture that sets my nerves on edge. Is it excitement or fear? The researchers around the device handle it with a mix of awe and caution, as though they know the stakes of even the smallest mistake. This is no ordinary piece of equipment; it’s a relic of a technology so advanced that it feels more like sorcery than science.

Finally, we arrive at a large window overlooking the Transport Hangar. The sheer scale of the space is enough to take your breath away. Several ships and vehicles are housed here, but one stands out. It’s a sleek, silver craft, its smooth contours and shimmering surface reflecting the dim light. The ship is capable of reaching the Moon in less than six hours, and I can’t help but marvel at the elegance of its design. The promise of its capabilities fills me with a mixture of wonder and dread.

As we continue the tour, I spot a door at the end of a dimly lit hallway. It’s unlike the others—no windows, no signage. The door is solid, reinforced, almost ominous, as if designed to keep something—or someone—inside. My curiosity spikes, and I step toward it, but before I can get any closer, Hayward is there, blocking my path.

“Over here,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice is friendly but firm, and the way he says it makes it clear that this section of the facility is off-limits. The air around us thickens, and I can feel the tension in his stance. There’s something behind that door, something important, and he doesn’t want me to see it.

I try to mask my growing interest, but my mind races with possibilities. What’s being kept behind that sealed door? What secrets are they hiding? I hold back my questions, deciding not to push him, but I can’t resist casting one last, lingering glance at the door as we walk away. It gnaws at me, the unanswered question. The alarms start in my head. Strike one.

An hour later, we’re back in his office. He smiles at me and gestures to the chair across from his desk.

“Please, Dr. Kingsley, take a seat.” I do, and he follows suit, his posture relaxed, but something about his demeanor still puts me on edge.

“So, what do you think? Will you join us in our mission to bring everyone back?”

My question seems to catch him off guard. “Why do you want everything to go back to normal?”

He hesitates, as if he’s digging for the right words, but after a long pause, he responds with a heavy sigh. “Every single day for the past three years, I’ve seen the pain on people’s faces. The lost look in their eyes—their sense of being adrift, unsure of where to go next. Our race is known for its resilience, for overcoming anything thrown our way. We’ll rebuild whatever’s been lost.”

He leans back in his seat, hands folded in front of him. “Look, Dr. Kingsley, I can’t sit here and do nothing, knowing I could be doing something for the people who are suffering out there. We have all this technology at our disposal, and I want it to be used for good. If what we have isn’t enough, then we’ll build it. Whatever it takes.”

I don’t answer right away. His words are smooth, but something doesn’t sit right with me. It feels rehearsed, too clean. He talks about the people, about rebuilding, but there’s no mention of what he’s willing to sacrifice, what he is personally invested in. It’s always “we” and “them,” never “I.”

I raise an eyebrow, keeping my voice steady. “That’s a beautiful sales pitch, Director, but that’s not what I asked. Why do YOU want everything to go back to normal?”

He hesitates again, and for a moment, I see the cracks in his facade. A flash of vulnerability? Or is it just calculated? He leans forward, almost too eagerly. “Isn’t seeing people’s pain enough of a reason, Dr. Kingsley?”

“Everyone lost someone,” I reply, my voice sharp, matching his sudden shift in tone. “What did YOU lose? What is that one thing or person that was taken from you, pushing you to insist on bringing me into your organization? You must know my history with organizations like this, Director. I no longer believe in them, so I need you to give me a real reason.”

He leans forward too, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though he’s trying to gauge me. “Life,” he says, his voice strained. “I lost all joy for life. I barely have a reason to wake up anymore. And I’m done living like that. Every day, I wake up with this heavy guilt that I have all of this”—he gestures to the room, his hand sweeping the space as if it will somehow solidify his sincerity—“in my hands, and I’ve done nothing with it to help. Every day, I wake up with this sinking feeling, knowing I have the privilege of being alive and yet haven’t used it for anything worthwhile.”

His confession hangs in the air, but it doesn’t land with the weight it should. Something is missing in his words. That urgency, that rawness—it’s too polished. Too controlled. It’s the right answer, but not the real answer. I’ve seen this before. Too many people hiding behind the right words, promising change, claiming to care, all while lining their pockets or hiding darker motivations beneath the surface.

I stare at him, studying his face, watching for any shift, any flicker of something more genuine. But there’s nothing. Just his rehearsed, practiced sincerity. And I don’t believe a word of it. I force a tight smile, leaning back in my chair. I feel his eyes narrow in response, the faintest tension creeping into his posture. But I don’t break eye contact. I can see through the cracks now.

There’s something he’s not telling me. Something darker than he’s willing to admit. And if I’m going to play this game, I need to be sure I don’t end up as one of his pieces.

“Why me, then?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. If I’m going to step into this quagmire, I need to know I’m not a pawn.

Hayward exhales sharply, rubbing his temples, a weariness in his expression that feels almost too practiced. The weight of responsibility—or the pressure of desperation—seems to hang on him. I can see the edge in his movements, the subtle but unmistakable tension in his jaw. His eyes flicker just for a moment before he answers. “Because you’re the best we’ve got left. The world doesn’t need someone cautious; it needs someone who can see the lines we’ve been too afraid to cross.”

His words should flatter me, but they land like a warning, and a deeper unease settles in my gut. There’s something off about him—his urgency, the way his voice doesn’t quite match the calm exterior. Desperation seeps through the cracks, and that makes me question everything.

I lean forward slightly, my eyes never leaving his. “And when those lines lead to disaster?” I challenge, not giving an inch.

He smiles, but it’s tight, controlled—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s why we have you,” he says, his voice too smooth. “To make sure we never step too far.”

I pause, weighing the gravity of his words, but something about the way he says them makes my skin crawl. His smile is sharp, unsettling, like he’s playing a game, and I’m just another piece. But I can’t afford to walk away. Not now. Not when the resources he offers could be the only chance I have to make this work.

I know better than to trust him, and I don’t. But I need them. For now, S.W.O.R.D. is the only lifeline I’ve got. I’ll use them until they can’t provide what I need anymore. After that? We’ll see. I’ll watch my back every step of the way.

I pause for a moment to weigh my options. I can’t afford to make the same mistake again. His speech might have resonated, but I know better now. I’ve heard promises like this before, and they always came with strings attached. I won’t fall for it.

“I don’t want you or the government interfering with anything that’s not absolutely necessary,” I say, my voice steady but firm. “I don’t want my timeline or methods questioned. I’ll choose my own team, and I don’t want anyone scrutinizing them. All the information my team needs will be provided—no secrets, no denying access, no special clearance. None of the bureaucratic nonsense you’re used to. Until this project is completed—if it’s even possible—I don’t want the media anywhere near it. And even when it’s done, I won’t let the work be used as a political tool. Not for anyone. Not for the president. No one.”

His polite smile never falters, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I won’t allow this research to be exploited for anyone’s gain,” I continue, my words becoming sharper. “If the risks outweigh the potential reward, this project stops. Right there. I won’t be held responsible for a catastrophe—if this thing goes south, I’m not going down with it. I’ll use every resource at my disposal to test if this can work, but if it doesn’t, you need to make sure your organization walks away. And I’ll make damn sure we’ve exhausted every possibility, human or alien, before we make that call.”

Hayward stands and extends his hand, his smile colder now, almost too practiced. “When do we start, doctor?”

I shake his hand, the grip firm, but I’m already thinking ahead.

“I’ll send you my contract with everything we just discussed,” I reply, my voice clipped. I turn to leave, then pause at the door, looking back at him one last time. “One last thing… Get your agents off my ass. I don’t want them following me—or anyone on my team—around. Understand?

─━─━─━─「✦」─━─━─━─

“Tried every single type of power supply under the sun, when all we needed was a little energy directly from the source”

White eyelids open, a dull and cold bright icy blue eyes are revealed.

─━─━─━─「✦」─━─━─━─

Previous chapter | Series Masterlist | Next chapter

Notes from the author: Hihi. Been gone for a while because of work and school, and well... life, but finally found some time to actually publish this chapter, I just had to edit it. I believe this chapter should feed my absence, I'd least I hope it does because it's a long one. Hope I won't take an eternity again to post the next one. As always, please remember to interact with the story if you like it, I'd love to read your thoughts about the series and this chapter. Comment, like and share it.

Until then, geekyglimpses-nest out 💖💖

[widmakenametal]

How Vertical Turning Lathes, 5-Axis Turnmills, and CNC Grinding Machines are Changing the Manufacturing Game

When you think about modern manufacturing, it's impossible to ignore the role of high-precision machines. Today’s industries, whether it’s aerospace, automotive, or energy, need more than just speed — they need absolute accuracy, consistency, and smart automation. That’s where machines like the Vertical Turning Lathe, 5-axis turnmill, and CNC grinding machine step into the spotlight.

Let’s talk about why these technologies matter — and why companies like Widma are helping shape the future of precision engineering.

Getting Big Jobs Done Right with a Vertical Turning Lathe

If you’re dealing with massive parts — think turbine housings or heavy-duty industrial components — a Vertical Turning Lathe (VTL) is your best friend. Unlike the horizontal setups you might be used to, VTLs hold the workpiece vertically. This simple shift makes a big difference.

Why does vertical matter? Gravity is on your side. It keeps heavy parts steady and supported naturally, which means better accuracy and less machine stress. Plus, these machines save valuable floor space — always a win when you're managing a crowded shop floor.

Manufacturers love VTLs because they deliver:

Serious stability when machining heavy components

Higher precision thanks to natural part support

Greater space efficiency for workshops juggling multiple big jobs

In industries where a millimeter can make or break a component, you simply can’t compromise — and that’s exactly where Vertical Turning Lathes shine.

Why a 5-Axis Turnmill is Every Manufacturer’s Secret Weapon

If you could combine milling, turning, drilling, and even tapping — all in one machine — wouldn’t you? That’s exactly what a 5-axis turnmill does.

Imagine machining a complex aerospace part with angles and curves you can barely measure by hand. Now imagine doing it in a single setup, without flipping the part over five times. That's the beauty of 5-axis technology: fewer setups, less room for error, and a finished product that's ready to go faster than ever.

Here’s why more manufacturers are investing in 5-axis turnmills:

All-in-one machining for complex parts

Incredible time savings — no repositioning needed

Flawless precision on even the trickiest geometries

Especially in industries where custom, low-volume parts are common, having a machine that adapts to anything you throw at it is a real game changer.

CNC Grinding Machines: The Unsung Heroes of Precision

When we talk about manufacturing, it’s easy to overlook grinding — but ask anyone in quality control, and they'll tell you: if the surface isn’t perfect, the part isn’t perfect.

CNC grinding machines take precision to the next level. Whether you’re finishing a hardened steel shaft or fine-tuning a mold insert, CNC grinding ensures every micrometer counts.

What makes CNC grinding machines so essential?

Consistent, repeatable accuracy — no operator fatigue issues

Automated processes that cut down manual labor

Higher tool life and better surface finishes that save time and money in the long run

In sectors like automotive and medical, where even tiny imperfections can cause big problems, CNC grinding isn’t just helpful — it’s mandatory.

Where Widma Fits Into the Picture

Now, having great machines is one thing — but having the right partner backing you up is everything. That’s why manufacturers around the world trust Widma.

Widma offers world-class solutions, including:

Vertical Turning Lathes built for handling oversized, heavy-duty work

5-axis turnmills that simplify multi-operation machining

CNC grinding machines designed for the tightest tolerances

What makes Widma different isn’t just the hardware — it’s their deep understanding of real-world production challenges. They’re not just selling machines; they’re offering smart, engineered solutions that help businesses produce better, faster, and more reliably.

With decades of experience, cutting-edge R&D, and a customer-first mindset, Widma continues to be a trusted name for companies looking to stay ahead of the curve.

Final Thoughts: Precision You Can Build On

Manufacturing is evolving — and success now depends on having the right tools for the job. Whether it's the strength of a Vertical Turning Lathe, the versatility of a 5-axis turnmill, or the pinpoint accuracy of a CNC grinding machine, today's manufacturers need more than just speed. They need precision they can count on.

With Widma’s advanced machining solutions by your side, you’re not just keeping up — you’re leading the way.

[suhasinikirloskar1]

Precision Machining Essentials: Carbide Drill, Burr Bits, and More

Cutting-Edge Performance: A Complete Guide to Carbide Drills and Bits

When it comes to working with hard metals, high-temperature materials, or demanding applications, not just any tool will do. That’s where carbide tools shine — especially carbide drills, burr bits, carbide bits, carbide cutting bits, and carbide cutters. These tools are known for their exceptional hardness, heat resistance, and long service life, making them indispensable in modern machining, fabrication, and finishing.

1. Carbide Drill: Built for the Toughest Materials

A carbide drill is engineered to penetrate hard metals such as stainless steel, titanium, and hardened alloys. Unlike conventional drills, carbide drills maintain sharpness at high speeds and under intense heat. They are often used in industries like aerospace, automotive, and die-and-mold making — where precision and tool life directly impact productivity.

2. Burr Bits: The Finishing Touch

Burr bits, especially when made from carbide, are essential for detail work like deburring, shaping, and surface smoothing. Commonly used with rotary tools or die grinders, carbide burrs offer unmatched durability and accuracy. Whether you’re refining welds, finishing cavities, or engraving intricate designs, these small tools deliver clean, professional results.

3. Carbide Bits: All-Rounders in the Workshop

The term carbide bits can refer to a range of tools — from drilling and milling to engraving and grinding. These bits are versatile and can be found in virtually every machine shop. Their strength lies in their ability to maintain cutting performance over time, even when used on hard or abrasive materials. For machinists, they’re a staple for everyday precision work.

4. Carbide Cutting Bits: Clean Cuts with Extended Tool Life

Carbide cutting bits are specifically designed for high-speed cutting operations. Whether you're turning, milling, or routing, these bits offer superior edge retention and resistance to wear. They’re ideal for use in CNC machines, lathes, or routers — where consistency, surface finish, and dimensional accuracy matter most.

5. Carbide Cutters: The Industrial Workhorses

Carbide cutters come in many forms — including end mills, inserts, and rotary files — but all are designed to handle rigorous cutting tasks. Thanks to their hardness and heat resistance, carbide cutters are the go-to choice for high-volume or high-precision applications. They reduce downtime caused by tool changes and deliver faster, cleaner cuts.

[tri-poke]

It takes a bit of wrangling and roping but with the twins' help he manages to not just get the herd all back to one piece but also all lined up right by size so there is a downright syncopation to their steps, a steady drumbeat rolling down the valley.

It's a darn impressive accomplishment if Zach had to say it his own self.

And the Professor seems pleased as well, as it isn't but a few minutes after Zach has it down to a walking stomp you could dance to its so steady that Professor Jagidishor starts up his mad genius forge hammer sounding machine in his mad shop on wheels.

It's like an odd echo, the rhythm of the hammer and the rhythm of the trihorns moving in and out of sync as the Professor tries to adjust the speed of his machine by ear.

And then it matches. One single bang. Lift. Bang. Lift. Bang.

It's so strong that Zach feels almost like his own heart is trying to shift to match that intensity of rhythm.

Lift. Bang. Lift. Bang.

Demon-Tooth is sure affected by it. She starts hopping in her lope along with the herd so she is coming down with the Bang herself, springing forward with the Lift so she strikes back down with the bang as well.

It's almost a repeat of last time but it's like the ground is rolling with them, hardening under the pressure of all those feet when they Bang down and then rolling up after them in a wave, tossing everyone into a springing Lift before it all rolls over again down to that synchronous Bang.

The air above them scatters to blue every bit of dust exploding away in a rising wind centered on the Professor's shop. Spreading out and out... and then the rain comes again clear out of the clear blue sky, hot and quick and the whole sky is shimmering now like a mirage, like somehow the southern sea has poured up over them.

The red flare of warning up at the herd's head almost seems hesitant, like it isn't sure if there is a problem or if everything is going exactly according to plan as it spins and sputters and its smoke trail whisps away in moments, back to clear sky and an arc of hot rain whipping back on the herd.

Up ahead, from whereabouts they spotted the Professor, is a new little column of dust, new riders maybe about a dozen Rex's if Zach was to guess from the look of the column's size - revealed waveringly clear in the falling rain.

And that's about when Zach notices that the Bang is not so much desyncing as trying to sync even more - the ground or whatever might be under it trying to join along when it ain't got no space to lift into and no place to bend with the bang so it has to make do with a rising rumble.

The wheels on the professor's wagon start to wibble under the massive weight as they roll alternately across the bang but can't lift, and it's like they're trying to plow through deep mud, ripping up the earth in an oozy sludge.

Another red phosphor bolt flares into the sky where Cookie's wagon must be going through the same thing. The flare sputtering like the sky has had quite enough filth flung at it and has had enough, the light guttering and dying only a quarter as high as it should fly before it is whipped down along with the increasingly hot shower of rain.

The rumble of everything grows as the herd and the Rexes are bounced from Lift to Bang before being thrown up again, getting louder than the rhythm of it.

Another pair of phosphor shots off to the right, green to signal itself accurately as drivestep and red for warning and if Zach weren't fairly close to the signaler, which he has to guess is Revolver, he doesn't think he would have seen either as the sky strikes them down not more than twice the height of the herd.

But that's enough for Zach to not only see the signal but what the signal is warning of. As what at first looks like more rain sleets down the canyon walls. But even in that first moment, tiny geysers spit from the rock wall, breaking it apart, so the rain turns to wet pebbles, and then wet stones, more water erupting from the wall and atomizing into the rain, the entire canyon quaking as the Professor's machine draws the water out of the dirt and stone like a gianr compass picking up every metal filing no matter the barrier.

[isles-of-man]

Erik watched Emily make her way around the shop, her movements graceful despite what they'd just done. He couldn't help but smile, feeling a mixture of satisfaction and disbelief. Ten years. Ten years of wanting her, and now she was his.

Once she disappeared into the back room, Erik adjusted his clothes and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. His phone buzzed—a reminder that he had papers to grade. Reality crashing back in.

"I'll text you the details," he said, adjusting his clothes and running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But fair warning, I might get distracted thinking about what just happened and send you something inappropriate instead."

Back in his office an hour later, Erik found it impossible to focus on the stack of undergraduate essays. Every sentence he read dissolved into memories of Emily's moans, her taste, the way she'd whispered "come hard" in his ear.

"Fuck it," he muttered, pushing away from his desk. The papers could wait. He pulled out his phone and opened his voice messages. Something compelled him to record his thoughts while they were still raw, still burning in his mind.

"Em," he began, his voice low and intimate. "I'm sitting here pretending to grade papers, but all I can think about is how you felt wrapped around me. How wet you were. For me. Ten years is a long time to wait, but Christ, it was worth it."

He leaned back in his chair, lowering his voice further. "Tonight, I want to explore every inch of you properly. I want to taste you, feel you come against my tongue. He hesitated, then decided to push further. "I've always had this fantasy of you bent over my desk while I spank you. Just hard enough to leave my handprints on your perfect ass. Would you like that, baby? Or maybe you'd prefer my tie around your wrists while I taste you until you're begging me to stop."

He paused, feeling himself hardening again at the thought. "I never told anyone this, but I've always had a thing for light restraint. Nothing extreme—just the idea of you tied to my bed, completely at my mercy while I worship your body. Or maybe you'd prefer me tied up, completely yours to command?" He laughed softly. "God, I sound like a teenager. You do that to me, make me lose all my professor composure."

Erik shifted in his seat, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "I want to take you in every room of my house. I want to fuck you in the shower, bent over my kitchen counter, on top of my washing machine. I've had ten years to imagine all the ways I want to please you, Emily." He groaned. "Fuck, Em. I'm getting hard again just thinking about it."

He cleared his throat. "For tonight, though, I've made reservations at Marcello's at eight. Wear something you wouldn't mind me slowly removing later. Something that makes you feel beautiful, because you are. You always have been."

He paused, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "And Emily? Thank you for waiting for me, even if neither of us knew we were waiting. I'm not letting you go either."

He ended the message and sent it before he could second-guess himself. Then he reached for the papers again, a smile playing on his lips as he imagined Emily's reaction when she listened to it.

his words echoed like the sweetest melody in her mind. emily just rested her forehead against his as she just panted hardly.

"come, baby..." she whispered, her eyes closing. she wanted him to seal their love for each other, to make it official that they weren't friends anymore: they were lovers. "i want to cherish this memory for the rest of my life. this corner will be my favorite from now on." she smiled at him and kissed her lips deeply, feeling all of a sudden incredibly happy.

feeling his vigorous thrusts, emily moaned louder. she was worn out, but loving those thrusts he was giving to her. he was full of passion, making her feel so desirable, so beautiful. she kissed him deeply, finally feeling complete with him by her side, ready to have this dreamed life she often imagined with him.

as he reached his own orgasm, emily felt him emptying himself deep into her. her face showed her ultimate pleasure as she watched, admiring him coming into her. "that's it, baby... come hard..." she whispered, loving being now full of his cum. this felt right, he was finally claiming her as his for good.

emily held him tight into his arms as she just kissed his neck, almost rewarding him from this incredible effort he made. not only he carried them both, but he made them both cum hardly. she smiled and caressed his face tenderly. "let it out..." she whispered, kissing his lips tenderly.

hearing him panting, the woman rested her forehead against his and just tried to recover her breath. this was the most beautiful sexual encounter she had in her whole life. she smiled as she looked at him in the eyes, her green ones looking exhausted. "i won't forget this either..." she promised, this time having her arms wrapped around his neck as she hugged him tenderly. she laughed at his words and whispered: "and i will be thinking about this constantly." she added: "this corner is where our story starts. it will be our corner."

she chuckled and nodded. "it was more than worth it." she kissed him tenderly before whispering: "i love living dangerously. we almost got caught but this was hot." she laughed and sighed. "good that all your students are away, though." his kiss made her moan gently, her tongue caressing his as she couldn't get enough of him. not after ten years. she smiled as he slowly pulled back and cleaned them both. she bit her lip, thinking how she wanted to introduce her pussy officially to him later. so he can admire it and enjoy it.

his words made her laugh tenderly as she shook her head. "you don't need to apologize.. this was incredibly hot, erik. and nothing stops us from having dinner." she said sweetly, slowly landing back on the floor and pulling her panties back on. happy to hear that he wanted to take her out tonight, emily nodded. "i will be more than happy to go on a date with you tonight, erik." she kissed his lips tenderly before resting her head on his chest for a few seconds, still recovering from this wonderful orgasm.

"i must run an errand this afternoon." she said, knowing that she had to see her doctor. looking back at him in the eyes, emily kissed his lips deeply. "i will close the shop now and run this errand. text me where you want me to be and at what time. and what i should wear." she smiled sweetly before adding: "i am not leaving your side, ever again." her tone was genuine as she slowly walked around the shop, shutting down the shades and getting ready to wrap up. with her phone, she made a quick appointment for her doctor, who told her she could come in 30 minutes.

closing the shop, emily kissed erik one last time. "i have to run to my appointment. but please text me." she bit her lip, knowing she wanted to know more about him, about his kinks, fantasies and dreams. "i can't wait to see you tonight." she squeezed his hand tenderly, looking at him one last time before reluctantly leaving to the direction of her doctor's practice.

[everythingmaker]

random thing from my brain #1

la la la la 

nanomachines 

it's the way to get it done 

nanomachines 

it's effective and it's fun 

If you want to make them fall

And bend a knee at your command

Bow their heads and swear

That you're the leader of the land

State your wishes in a language

They all understand

With nanomachines, that's the plan!

If power's on your shopping list

Then harden up your abs and fist

Pummel them until they get the gist

Just take out a sample of

A proper example of

why most dissenters will be missed!

You can beat them up by any means

Or or even punch them into smithereens

A favorite of my wonderful machines

Never mind the fatalities

Where there's municipalities

To crush a set of

With the threat of

nanomachines 

will inspire the populus

nanomachines 

to bow down to us 

if i gonna be a conqueror 

and get the people's cash 

i'll take it to the people 

with the eagle and do it fast 

if one thing i can't sing enough praises of 

though i don't mean to be crass 

it's N-A-N-O-M-A-C-H-I-N-E-S nanomachines

they kick asssssssss

[thevampiremarie]

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and…  would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

-

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs. 

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

[msgexymunson]

hi :) i wld love to see your take on eddie sitting in on reader’s tattoo appointment, i just got my foot n ankle done and my lonely little rat brain was overrun w the idea of him reminding me to breathe, being encouraging, taking care of me after (i had to limp outta there lol)

Congrats on the ink bestie!! 

Warnings: none I don't think, a bit pine-y, very praise heavy, happy ending

A/N: I wish I had an Eddie Munson by my side at each of my tatt appointments! (Though, on second thoughts, if I did I don't think I'd have any bare skin left!) Not sure if this is where you wanted this to go but I got a bit carried away haha

1.6k words

Masterlist 

As you approach the shop you feel your limbs jangling like windchimes. The breath you take in is gulped and shaky, doing nothing to calm your quaking nerves. 

Eddie strokes your hands, each held in his ironclad grip. 

"Hey, hey, look at me." 

Your eyes travel to meet his, heart leaping at the concern etched on his face. Bold, wide eyes meet your gaze with every ounce of care one look could give. 

"You know you don't have to do this. Just say the word and we'll walk away." 

His concern makes you want to cry, trying hard not to focus on his unending gaze. 

"I know, I want to do it." Taking a big breath, you harden your shoulders. "Let's go." 

Eddie smiles at your bravery and opens the tattoo shop door for you, giving you a little bow. 

Smirking at his gentlemanly antics you take your first steps in and walk over to the counter, gaze being met by a smiling woman with a shaved head and a neck tattoo. 

“Hey there, how can I help you?” Her grin’s infectious, all teeth and warmth. 

“I’ve got an appointment with you, I think? Are you Miranda?” You give your name and you're led through, Eddie hot on your heels. As you walk past a couple of stations Eddie gives a salute to another tattoo artist, who waves and grins at you both. 

As you’re filling out the paperwork, Eddie’s hand finds your forearm, thumb rubbing encouraging circles into the warm flesh. 

“It’s gonna be fine, it’s not even that bad, trust me. I’m here.” 

As you smile back at him, face warming at his words, you bite back the lump in your throat that always appears when your best friend looks at you like that. Handing the form back to her, the words “First time?” surprise you from your revelry, and you turn to look at the grinning tattoo artist. 

“Yeah, it’s my 21st, so it’s a present.” Eddie waves half heartedly with his fingers, indicating he was the one who bought the appointment. 

“Cute. Well at least you’ve got your boyfriend here to look after you.” 

You cringe inwardly at that, wishing that her words were true. 

“Oh he’s- we’re not- “ 

“Oh this princess is far too good for the likes of me, ain’t that right?” Eddie’s lopsided grin tugs at your heartstrings as he lands a playful punch on your shoulder. A soft frown pulls your bottom lip into a small pout, wanting to say that he is good enough, that he’s everything, but the words never leave your lips. 

Miranda’s voice cuts through the awkward tension. “Shame. You guys make a cute couple.”

Your face flushes magenta as you remove your sneaker and sock, grateful to be looking anywhere but Eddie’s face. 

As the artist preps the area you risk a glance at Eddie. If he feels awkward, he doesn’t show it, just giving you that cheeky grin of his you’ve grown to love, a permanent etch of mischief lined in his features. 

She peels off the stencil and invites you to check out the design. It’s an orchid; roots, leaves and beautiful flowers run up the side of your foot to your ankle. 

“Oh, it’s perfect, thanks!” You smile at Miranda and she begins prepping the inks and tattoo machine. As soon as the machine turns on you clench. It must be visible as Eddie grabs your hand forcefully, squeezing your fingers. 

“It’s OK, it’s just noisy. Don’t focus on it, focus on me.” You will your eyes to open as you gaze upon his face. 

Miranda lets you know she’s going to start tattooing. Your gaze never falters, staring at Eddie like your life depended on it. 

The first touch of the needle shocks you, but only a little, and after the initial wince dissipates you continue to look into Eddie’s eyes. 

“That’s it sweetheart, doing so well. You’re doing better than I did on my first go!” 

You hear a deep voice from a few feet away. 

“That’s true, he started crying!” A hearty chuckle follows it. 

“Yeah, thanks for that Mac!” Eddie throws the words over his shoulder as you giggle. You don’t believe it for a moment, but you appreciate everyone wanting to distract you. 

As time progresses, the sting of the needle begins to feel like more of a burn, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore. As you flinch for the fourth time, nerves spasming in your foot, Eddie squeezes your hand. 

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s OK, you’re nearly done. Doing such a good job. So brave. I’m proud of you.” 

“Eddie, speak to me, tell me something.” You say through clenched teeth. 

“OK, er, how about…” then his face lights up. “How about I tell you about the three battle bards who wandered upon a clearing and discovered a fire dragon’s egg?” 

“Yeah? What were their names?” You smirk. A bubble of love threatens to burst in your chest. 

“Oh, you don’t know? They’re like, really famous.” 

“So, what are they called, Eddie?” Your smile widens at his stalling. 

“Easy. They were called Ragnar, er, Galduf, and, er… Lemmy.” 

“Lemmy??” You giggle. 

“Yeah, Lemmy the Gambler, famous battle bard.” Eddie nods sagely. 

“Did he sing about a certain playing card by any chance?” 

“Oh, so you have heard of him!” Your laughter rings through the shop, making Eddie beam with pride. 

He continues to talk you through the adventures of Ragnar, Galduf and Lemmy the Gambler, hands gesticulating wildly, until the colour portion of your tattoo is nearly finished. You were almost lost in his story. Almost. 

The burn begins to become unbearable. 

“Eddie, shit, I- I can’t!” You tense every muscle, flexing your pain outwards. 

Miranda the tattoo artist asks “Hey, if you want to stop we can, just finishing up with the purple though, and then it’s just white highlights, then we are done.” 

You see Eddie glance down at your ink. 

“Seriously, princess, it's so close now, you can do it.” He looks up at Miranda. “She can do it. Trust me. I’ll get her through.” 

Your mouth hangs open at his words. 

“Hey, princess, you trust me right? You can do this, I promise. Trust me.” 

You nod, unable to focus on anything but Eddie. 

“I trust you. I can do this.” 

“Atta girl. Being so good for me sweetheart.” Blood blooms in your cheeks at his praise, breath catching in your throat. 

It’s the last hurdle. The final touch ups, and everything in you wants to leap out of the chair and run. Eddie’s warm palm presses to your jaw, thumb rubbing comfort just by your ear. 

You’re barely aware that you’re speaking. 

“Eddie, I can't, I can't, that’s it, I just- no more, I- “

Suddenly, Eddie’s lips are on yours. You don’t have time to think, just feel. They are soft; a delicate, hesitant pressure being applied so chastely as if they were afraid you’ll break, or run. Your eyes widen immediately, caught entirely off guard. Then, you melt. Your eyes flutter shut as your hand reaches into Eddie’s hair, pulling him in softly. Eddie exhales a relieved breath through his nose that fans across your face, as you both kiss each other. Mouths pressing against each other; not opening, but inviting. A teasing promise of what could be to come. You inhale that particular perfume that is Eddie; all sweet snacks, weed, and the spell of his skin. 

A noise outside of your kissing bubble draws you back to reality. 

“So… I’m done.” 

You whip your head around to Miranda, who's blushing, looking a little like a third wheel. 

“What?” You gasp, still not entirely on the correct plane of existence. Not when Eddie’s hand is stroking softly at your jaw. 

“I’m done! Take a look in the mirror!” 

You jump up and hobble your way over to the full length mirror on the opposite side of the shop. 

“Oh, oh it’s beautiful! Oh my God, it’s better than I imagined. Thank you!” You hide your face in your hands, trying to snuff out the emotion. Eddie walks over to the till to complete paying for your present. Once your tattoo is wrapped, and you’ve managed to hop outside on one foot, you finally risk a glance at your best friend. 

“So.” you struggle out, heart in your throat. 

“So.” Eddie mirrors you, fear in his eyes. “I was just trying to help, you know? I thought it was the thing you’d least expect and if you want to pretend it never happened I totally understand and mmph” 

The rest of Eddie’s ramblings are muffled as you press your lips against his. 

“Do you wanna, erm, go back to your trailer, and we can talk about this? Or just kiss some more?” You smile up at him. 

“I vote for, kiss some more.” He grins and lifts you up bodily to your surprise, carrying you to his van. Your laughter rings through the car park, delight and surprise rippling through it like a sunbeam.

If you want to be added to my Eddie tag list please give me a shout, I kinda lost it after Rumour sorry everyone! I've got the following so far:

@munson-blurbs @eddiesprincess86 @munsonology @manda-panda-monium @tlclick73 @bookshelf-dust @needylilgal022 @tiannamortis @simple-lovebot

[staticl0ve]

Baby It’s Cold Outside [2] - Connor x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Connor/Female Reader Rating: Explicit/NSFW 18+ Chapters (AO3): [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ] Words: 4.7k Warnings: Smut, dear god so much smut, oral sex (both receiving), VnP sex Summary: Superhero AU. WandaVision vibes. After a spontaneous set of events, a virtual machine: RK800, was granted a real body. Luckily for him, he’s given a spot on a superhero team. Life’s pretty easy as a super but when Connor develops a crush on his teammate, things take a turn. Notes: Having a bit of seasonal fun with a superhero twist to a DBH universe.

Part 2/2 - All I Want *

It was peak holiday season, or as the tradition had become: a shopping season.

Shoppers buzzed around a busy downtown, weighed down by bags full of goods. Ice, gray and hardened with salt coated the edges of the roads. Taxi cabs honked at pedestrians too caught up in a snowball war to notice they were stalling traffic.

The most absurdly decorated building in downtown was Kamski Tower. Ropes of garland wrapped up the railings with bows, pine cones and candy canes embedded in the plastic pines. A tree, tall enough to reach the fifth floor was covered in sparkling red and gold tinsel and orbs of shiny metal and glass.

There was a celebration at the cafe along with a steady supply of warm beverages, some spiked with hard liquor to boost morale. People held their glasses up, sweet and spiced liquor sloshing together in a hero’s welcome for your return to The Nine.

“To Scarlet!” they cheered.

“Aw, guys,” you cooed.

In your hand was a mug of buttered rum, half filled and cooling. You had given the team quite the scare, nearly dying on an operating table. Groups of supers had come to talk and reminisce on their days of near death experiences. Some money was exchanged between those who participated in the bet, gallows humor from people too powerful to die of ordinary circumstances. You found Connor after the celebration, waiting patiently for his chance to speak.

“Hey, uhm…thanks for helping me out there,” you said.

“Of course,” he replied politely.

He was doing his best to seem like he didn’t spend the past few days anxiously pacing outside your room. Hank was there too, although he spent most of his time reassuring Connor. The first day was the worst, sitting in blood caked clothes, his tall frame hunched over a chair. Hank had ensured he’d be unbothered by work until you were fully recovered. A few other supers came by to drag Connor away, claiming a bar run would ease his mind, but he stayed like a guard dog outside your door.

A few days later, you were whole, back to laughing and joking with the team and ready for the next mission. But he was observant, very little got past his sensors. During gaps in conversations, your fingers wandered and stroked where the gash once was, the wound now closed into a tiny five pointed scar.

“It’s kinda nice being the damsel instead of the hero,” you said with a soft laugh. “Once you’ve been a super as long as the rest of us have…it’s easy to forget we’re not invincible.”

“I am relieved to see that you’ve recovered fully.”

The air thickened as your eyes met. There was so much more Connor wished he could say but his tongue was a lead weight. In the days that passed, he had time to reflect and peruse error logs. His desire for companionship was tinged by animal wants creeping into machine neutrality. There was no more denying it, he had it bad.

Connor wasn’t the kind of person to impose or demand but for the first time, he intended to. Even now, as your hands nervously fidgeted, he wanted to soothe you in a way best left in private. Damn it all. He was going to do it.

“Oh!” A short squeak slipped through your lips when a pair of arms engulfed you, pulling you close until all you saw was the white of his button up. The steady rhythm of his hardware drummed against your cheek. His nose brushed a line through your hair and he sighed, visibly relaxing his shoulders. His breath fanned over the back of your neck, warm lips ghosting over the shell of your ear and his voice, was low and richer than the drink warming your stomach.

“Will I see you at the party tonight?”

It was an innocent question from a coworker, one that you’ve been asked all afternoon. But the hand on your back and the proximity of his body wrapped around yours made your voice catch in your throat.

“Y-yeah.”

-

If there was one thing supers did best, it was throw a party. Models, celebrities, millionaires, anyone with a name and a pretty face got to mingle with the best. The penthouse floor was as rowdy as a metro station in rush hour. Drinks were flowing, mouths were running off and challenges accepted.

Your dress was thin and silky, cascading over your curves like a second skin. It was red to match the holiday theme and you knew some people would get a kick out of it.

“Ow! Scarlet in a scarlet dress!” A super you were close to, Nat, short for Natasha, lingered around you like a smug mother hen. She had hair as firey as your magic and it made you wonder why she got a spider themed code name instead of Scarlet. “Come to keep me warm?”

“Mhm,” you teased back. “As long as your green beast of a boyfriend doesn’t mind.”

“I’m sure he would not.”

The small talk was pleasant, a few other supers came by for photos and chugging down drinks together. But you sensed she had a top secret objective in mind.

“So,” she said with a long drawn out “o”.

You followed her eyes flicker from you and a certain adorably dressed android in a snowflake knit sweater.

“No,” you replied and failed to hold together a stern expression. A laugh broke through you when she elbowed your ribs. “Whatever you’re cooking up, no.”

“Why not? You have been eye fucking him all night.” She swirled her drink and sipped. Her lashes fluttered menacingly behind the glass.

“W-what? I have not! I was…curious about his sweater. Do you think he knits?”

“Who knows? Let’s ask.”

You could barely squeak out another “No” before she grabbed your wrist and tugged.  For an agent, she was incredibly strong. It was no wonder that she could handle her boyfriend. You stopped your scrambling as soon as Connor turned from his conversation with a look of intrigue and surprise.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hello.”

“Okay. Bye,” Nat added with a wave and vanished back into the crowd.

Oh god, it wasn’t this awkward before. That hug seemed to have completely turned things upside down for you. If Connor noticed, he played it down, asking you about the party and complimenting your dress. You learned the sweater was a gift from Hank which was rather sweet. It was all going a lot more smoothly until a drunken outburst startled you apart.

“Yeah! You can do this!” a deep voice shouted.

The noise came from a crowd around a low table. Between the masses was a smug looking thunder god as guests took their turn at lifting his hammer.

“Shit! It totally moved an inch!”

That was unlikely, as very few could be considered worthy enough to wield Mjolnir. Thor’s grin grew while he coaxed Kamski into giving it a shot. The inventor wrapped a metal arm around the hammer base. Miniature jets sparked and hissed, knocking over drinks. Suddenly, something blunt came flying in your direction and you ducked. Without thinking about it, you grabbed Connor’s arm, tugging him gently away from the commotion and towards a balcony.

“Trust me,” you said with a shake of your head. “You don’t wanna stick around to see how this ends.”

His cheeks lifted, tinting visibly pink in the dim light. “I was hoping for a turn.”

“Mmm…you might just be the guy who can do it but last time someone broke the table trying. Come on, let’s go.”

He chuckled, following you out into the cool air. No detail was spared in the seasonal decorations outside of the tower. Golden fairy lights lined the railings, adding a warm glow to the plush garland wrapping around the metal. Snowflakes dusted over your heads, the clouds light and parted enough to reveal bits of a starry sky.

“Wow, pretty night,” you said in awe.

“It is,” he replied with a quick glance over to you.

In the distance, the party was only beginning, glass shattered and people cheered. But the noise didn’t reach either of you. Snowfall had a way of soaking up the commotion of a sleepless city. Leaving two people, not quite coworkers and not quite friends, to stare awkwardly at anything but each other.

It was certainly too cold for you to be on the balcony in your thin attire. Connor knew that and yet, he was busy arguing with a voice in his head instead of offering you…oh, the shirt off his back. He should have brought his jacket.

“Are you cold?”

When you glanced up, he was much closer than before. Shadows fell around his doe like features, sharp lines forming around his pointed nose and cheeks. His hand snaked up your arm, running up goose-bumped skin.

“A little.”

“I…” he began, dipping his face to yours. He hesitated, stalling just inches from your lips. He couldn’t just offer body heat, could he?

You made a hand wavy gesture and a plant appeared, hovering over your heads with a red plume of magic. “Would you look at that? Mistletoe.”

“Does this mean…” His eyes brightened, full of anticipation.

Nodding, you leaned into him, hands digging into his wool sweater to pull him closer. You barely caught a glimpse of his lips stretching into a smile at your impatience. His nose brushed the tops of your cheeks, colliding lightly against your nose until his lips finally met yours.

From the moment you moaned softly into the kiss, Connor knew he was ruined. Your fingers buried into his hair, lightly gripping the soft strands. A little part of him wanted you to pull harder. He lost his mind when you did, coaxing your lips to fall apart and greeting your tongue with light flicks. You were trying to keep up with him as he explored the velvety texture of your cheeks. At the slightest shiver on your part, he closed the gap by wrapping his arms around your back, fingers kneading into your shoulder blades.

This was getting far too heated for a holiday party. One glance outside the glass walls and anyone inside could see. You had to wiggle a palm between your bodies to plant it onto his chest and he reluctantly broke the kiss.

“We s-should…get back…to the party,” you suggested between drawn out breaths.

“Is that what you’d like to do?” His canines glinted, teeth catching his lower lip. A fox grinning in the snow.

“No,” you replied with a smile that matched his grin.

“Then…we should go.”

With a flick of your wrist, a seam of red light tore into the space behind him, opening up into a portal. The makings of a bedroom could be seen just beyond it. He took a few steps back, dragging you with him. Gone was the chilly and snow dusted city, replaced with a warm, fire lit room.

You kicked off your heels and he did the same with his shoes, mindful of not knocking snow all over your room. As he took in his new surroundings, he noticed a thin layer of dust coated the surfaces. The sheets on the bed were undisturbed and the closets and dressers devoid of fingerprint smudges.

“It doesn’t look like you come here often,” he said. He regretted the comment as you tensed, face falling into a thoughtful, far off stare.

“Yeah. I meant to move here when—if I ever left The Nine. They’ve got plenty of bedrooms back at the tower and I…I forget to come back here.”

Especially since trouble didn’t sleep and you, the glutton for punishment, didn���t mind being on call.

“It’s like I clocked in and…forgot I could…leave,” you sighed.

The last time you left was ages ago. You visited home to see friends and family.  And they were shocked to see you unchanged after so many years apart.

“Dude, you’re like a vampire.”

“Wait…Is that why they call you Scarlet?”

It was all fun and games. You had missed them. But as they laughed, you noticed the lines on their skin ran deeper than before. Their children giggled and screamed as they ran circles around the room.

Time was not a thing you could place in a box and check on later in the hopes that it would be exactly as you left it. Change had to happen. Change was natural as many would say.

Still…you haven’t been back since.

Your arms crossed defensively over your chest. While you shrunk back, Connor did the opposite, drawing in closer and placing his large palms over yours.

“You are not a machine,” he said, head dipping until his nose rested on the crown of your head.

“Says the ma—”

“And I, am not a machine.”

His hands loosened yours apart, moving one of your palms to rest on his chest. Your skin tingled from the gentle thrumming and rhythmic pounding. Slowly, you looked up at him and his honeyed eyes poured over yours.

“I can feel and when I close my eyes….” He did, long lashes kissing his cheeks. “I see that I am more than the magic that has bound me to this body.”

His eyes fluttered open, brimming with adoration.

“I see it in you, too,” he added.

The scar on your belly itched, the skin not nearly as healed as you played it off to be. Exhausted, you sank into him, shoulders sagging and arms wrapping around his narrow waist.

“You are not alone. We’re a team. As long as you want, I will be here.”

You smiled up at him, chest swelling with a warmth you haven’t felt in years. “I…hope you know it’s the same for me.“

Your lips met in an urgent kiss. You muttered something against his cheek, barely inaudible but he heard every letter.

“I need you.”

He cupped your cheeks, squeezing them before slowly lowering them down your neck. The straps of your dress slipped down your shoulders. He snaked an arm around to find the zipper. In an agonizingly slow pace, it fell apart with his fingers occasionally dipping between the fabric to trace the skin beneath.

“C-Con…”

“You feel nice,” he replied in a husky voice.

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread to your cheeks, as starved eyes drank in every inch of your skin. He kissed down your neck, gently massaged your chest as he pulled the silk past your waist. It fell gracefully, slipping down your skin in a slow reveal.

“I like seeing you like this…you feel…so soft.” Warm lips pressed on your scar and an even hotter tongue licked it. He glanced up when he reached the apex of your thighs.

“I’ve always wondered…” he mumbled.

“Oh…!” you gasped. His tongue fell out of his mouth to lick a stripe up your laced panties. You heard him make a noise of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting you to be so drenched there. He hooked a finger under the lace, tugging it to let his tongue slip under. Small, teasing nudges probed at your folds. That was all it was, a bit of teasing. He pulled your underwear down, rising to his knees with a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Want these off,” you hissed impatiently at his clothes and he chuckled. You reached out to him, nimble fingers working his sweater over his head. His slacks followed suit, his belt hitting the hardwood with a loud clatter. You had a faint memory of his naked form. Your palm followed the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his lightly toned abs to a set of freckles that trailed down his hips like a map leading to treasure.

“You know, you’re not half bad yourself,” you said playfully and pushed.

Connor sank backwards into the bed, elbows propping him up as his legs draped lazily over the edge. From down in the sheets, he could see the glow of night kissing your curves. A pink tongue wetted his lips and his cock twitched in interest. His eyes were bright, a bit too eager in a strangely naive manner. A stray thought cut through the fog of lust.

“Wait, Connor,” you huffed out a nervous laugh. “Is this…is this your first…”

“It’s alright. I have adequately researched this.”

He held a hand out, teeth sparkling in an encouraging smile. You let him pull you closer until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

“I might feel better about this if you told me what you liked and didn’t?” you asked.

As he nodded, you began to straddle him, your knees digging into the mattress below. You flattened your palms down his chest. His muscles had a surprising amount of give as you drew little swirls over the skin. It reacted to your touch, retracting to the android skin you’ve seen before. Accidentally, your thumbs grazed his nipples and his hips jolted from beneath you. You had to hold onto his shoulders to keep from falling off.

“Mmph…!” he said while biting down a moan. “S-sorry.”

“It’s okay. How does that feel?”

“G-good. Really good.”

You made a sound of acknowledgment, giving the pink flesh some attention before grazing your fingers down his abdomen. Instantly, his muscles tensed and flexed in anticipation. You barely touched his cock when he whimpered.

“Should I keep going?” you asked.

“P-please, touch me,” he replied with an eager hand covering yours, bumping the tip against your wrist. He pleaded again, silently with large and desperate brown eyes. As you enclosed your hand around him, his hips rose in encouragement. It only took a few languid pumps before your palm was coated in his slick. Breathier, louder moans rushed out of him and he knew he wasn’t going to last very long, not when you felt so good. rA9, and this was just your hand. A fire burned behind his closed eyelids, a coil wrapping tighter in his abdomen. He could feel the precipice of letting go, like snow teetering on the edge of a branch.

“Fuck, Connor…you’re so…” Your words came out breathy, and another moan escaped him. You brushed your lips against his cheek, smearing lipstick on the pale skin. “So perfect.”

He grunted, using a free hand to cup the back of your head, pulling you into a sloppy kiss. You lost your rhythm momentarily, only to tighten your grip on him, swirling his slick from his tip and down his length. His tongue broke past your lips, thrusting into your mouth with a roughness that was demonstrative of what was to come. He hardened in your hand, tensing and expanding as he spilled between your fingers.

“Oh!” you exclaimed. There was so much on your hands, his spend dripping everywhere and somehow he was still rock hard. He slumped backwards, panting with a glazed look over his eyes.

“Connor? You okay?”

The hand on your head twitched, gently pushing you lower in a not so subtle direction.

“I…can y-you…” he muttered in some post orgasmic stupor.

You grinned a little, relieved to see he hadn’t short circuited. He gasped as soon as your hands went back to stroking him.

“Think you can handle it?” you mused, licking your lips just inches away from his face.

A deep, rough sound broke out of his chest. Your eyes widened marginally before narrowing challengingly back at him. You were both supers, hard to kill and impossible to maim. It meant he could be a little demanding.

Connor sincerely didn’t know what came over him, pure need infecting his limbs, causing him to push your head down to his lap. Obediently, you opened your mouth, greeting him with a wet tongue. A sweet and salty taste coated your senses. You lapped at him for a bit, cleaning the mess he made. His regulator pump nearly leapt out of his skin when you shoved him down your throat and suckled him like a candied treat.

“F-fuck…” he hissed. At this rate, what was left of his politeness had vanished between your lips. A warm palm tenderly stroked your swollen cheeks. “Your tongue is…ah!”

When Connor said he had done some research, he wasn’t kidding. Thousands, maybe even millions of hours of porn condensed into the quickest marathon a machine could attempt. He consumed content of every category and had come to the conclusion that nothing held a candle to the real thing. Sex was animal, noisy in ways that didn’t always sound sexy, messy and clumsy. But it was also incredibly hot, your moans vibrating down his length and lips wrapped around him. He could feel himself disappearing down your throat, feel you choke a little and strangely, he liked it.

“May I move?”

Your fingers tapped his thighs and tugged at his hips. Message received. He started thrusting his hips and you were more than eager, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing over him at an increasingly faster pace. A hand dug into the back of your head and he began guiding you along his length. You could feel him getting close, his cock growing heavier on your tongue until he flooded the back of your throat. He moaned your name, repeating it as he slowed his thrusts.

You freed him from your mouth with a small pop, but before you could speak, he lifted you off your knees. In a blink, he adjusted his position, lying back and pulling your hips towards his face.

“W-what are you—“ you chuckled while trying to not smother him. It seemed to be what he wanted as his fingers dug into your hips. With parted lips, his tongue slipped out, licking up your inner thigh.

“Come, sit.”

“If I sit, I’ll probably drown you,” you joked.

“You won’t.” He grinned and winked. “You can’t hurt me, I don’t need to breathe.”

Using your hands as leverage, you placed your palms on the mattress and leaned forward until your hips hovered above him.

“Okay—ah…!”

Connor wasted no time, lifting his head off the mattress to close the gap. His tongue curled around your folds, massaging them between his lips. Shocked by a new discovery, he traced the line of your slit as your muscles pulsed just beyond it. He groaned, resting his face in your leg.

“I can…I can feel you,” Connor murmured on your skin. Blinded by need, he dove back in, holding you in place as his tongue pushed past your folds.

“Connor! God…!”

Your back arched, teeth biting into your bottom lip. His tongue stroked your silky walls, pumping into you as you clenched around him. While his taste buds were nonexistent, he still found enjoyment from your slick coating his tongue. Even better were the moans you made, for him. And when he glanced up, he had quite the view of your muscles pulled taut, chest heaving and thighs trembling as he crushed his nose against your clit. That seemed to be all you needed as you came with a sob.

He heard your quiet whimpers when he removed his tongue out of you to lap at the nerves above. After a few swirls, you no longer humored him and moved off his face. Collapsing backwards into the sheets, you let out a pleased sigh. You stroked his thigh, running it up to his length.

“You coming?”

With renewed vigor, Connor abruptly sat up and settled between your thighs. His palms rested flat around your head as his legs pushed the backs of your thighs further open. He planted a tender kiss on your lips, your tastes swirling between your tongues. The head of his cock was achingly close, his hot skin only grazing over your folds. He broke the kiss, glancing down at where you were almost joined.

“I-I can’t seem to help myself,” he confessed as he ground against you.

“This may be a lot for you. Go at your own pace.”

He was touched by your words and began to move. His mouth was on your shoulder when he began to push in slowly. His tip was barely in, stretching and holding you open as his hips stilled. “Y-you’re so tight. It’s like…”

Your muscles swallowed him further and a force beyond him drove his hips forward. His shoulders pressed down your open legs, keeping you firmly in place. You called to him, encouraging him between moans. He slipped halfway out, only to nuzzle his hips closer, pressing as deeply as he could go.

His gasps were sharp in your ear and his eyes pinched shut. It was as you said, a lot. He wanted to work through it, hear you fall under the same spell he was under. You followed the same rhythm, hips rising to meet his every push and pull. Your nails raked up his back, your moans hot against the shell of his ear. He could feel you everywhere: your skin beneath his teeth, your pulse on his tongue, the same beat hammering around his cock.

You cursed when his fingers worked its way to your clit, drawing swirls as his hips snapped more violently. A smattering of dots sparked in your vision as you shuddered and clenched tightly around him. He groaned, mouth clamping on your neck as a spurt of something hot spilled into you. In his excitement, he slipped out and more of him coated your stomach.

“I’m going to be drenched by the end of tonight and it’ll be all your fault,” you teased.

He pulled back, eyes blinking innocently. His fingers swirled the mess on your skin, collecting it before plunging it all past your folds. Something about seeing you covered in him struck a deep and insatiable need in the machine. Biologically, it didn’t even make sense to him why his body bothered with anything at all. It was just…he didn’t expect he’d like it so much.

You found yourself flipping onto your stomach with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. He waited briefly to scan for any signs of discomfort. Your hips rose, face turned to the side as you presented yourself.

rA9, he was going to lose his mind.

His chest crushed your back, hips colliding with yours as he pushed himself in. Without the restrictions and mess of limbs bent around each other, he felt bigger and deeper at this angle. A large and possessive palm slowly lowered between your thighs to work a set of nerves that made you choke on a sob. His weight on your back was a comfort, a faint reminder of a shield.

“Connor…”

“Please—“ he barely groaned out. “Again.”

“Connor!”

He cursed and rolled your clit faster between his fingers. “W-want to…feel you.”

You gasped as the hand slipped lower, a finger pushing in. It was a tight fit as he thrusted in time with his hips. He ground his palm on your clit, curling his finger to stroke a spot that had you screaming into a pillow. Bed sheets filled your clenched fists. He was relentless, never leaving you empty. 

“Yes, like that,” he growled, feeling you pulse around him. His thrusts grew frantic, and desperate. He buried himself like it would become permanent, mark you as you’ve marked him. He held you close as you shook and he once more emptied himself deep within. Moments elapsed with his breath on your neck, his lips trailing loving pecks down your spine. You softly groaned and shifted. As gently as he could, he eased himself out and brought you to his chest. Absolutely spent, you flattened your cheek on the strong muscles below and let out a deep sigh.

“I feel like we’ve gone through half of a magazine of sex positions,” you said.

“Actually…”

“Nope,” you joked, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

“Another time then,” he laughed.

The room had calmed as you both laid in bed. Snow lightly battered the windows and frost coated the glass, masking out the cerulean delight of evening. The wood in the fireplace crackled and popped, orange streaks dancing across the walls of the room. Connor’s hands wandered up and down your back, following the flickering light over your skin. As he wrapped his arm around your body, his fingers grazed over the scar that still ached.

“Hank might have been right about the whole…rest day thing,” you huffed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it might be nice doing non-superhero stuff. Go on a sabbatical, visit a different realm and ride a Pegasus. But maybe I should start with something closer? I haven’t been home in a while. I dunno, it’d just…it’d be nice to go somewhere.”

“If I may, would there be an android present on your journey?”

You hummed, sitting up to kiss him once more. A strange set of circumstances brought Connor into your life and another set almost took you out of his. There was something about his infectious bright outlook that was rubbing off on you.

It was time.

“Only if he would like to come along,” you said.

Warm palms cupped your face. Connor’s face broke into a soft smile.

“I would.”

A life beyond The Nine.