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not-neverland06 · 7 months ago

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How About a Nuke?

Part I / Part II / Part III

The ghoul x fem!reader A/N: Part three is going to be when it gets juicy, this is just them becoming reacquainted. You’ll get the good angst in the next parts. Summary: Your dreams of stardom and fame have been blown away. Your old life is lost to the sands of this new world and you find yourself utterly confused. There’s a man who looks an awful lot like Cooper yelling at you, but it’s not the man you remember loving. Not anymore.

For two days he’s been following the sound of sirens. With no new bounties, he hasn’t got much else to do with his time. Plus, he’s hoping that maybe if he figures out what’s been causing all this noise he can shut it the fuck up. Didn’t matter how far he walked, the blaring wail was echoing across the whole damn wasteland.

A cough started up in his chest, itching into his throat and rattling his whole body as it ripped its way out of him. He tried to walk through the discomfort but it wouldn’t let him. He leaned over, hands braced on his knees, and coughed so hard he could feel ass jerky coming back up from his “dinner” last night. He clamped a hand over his mouth and forced the bile down. Frantic hands dug through the bag on his side, shaking as he ripped the box open and grabbed his inhaler.

It took a minute before the drugs had the desired effect, and even then he was still fighting back nausea. He’s got to find a new dealer, that bitch in Filly was watering down her supply and he knew it. Not just that, she was overcharging too, on account of his being a ghoul.

Even in the apocalypse money still managed to rule the world. Even if it was in the form of Nuka caps. He walked a little further before leaning against a boulder for a break. He wiped spittle off his lips and surveyed his surroundings.

There was a faded old billboard sunken into the sand, only half of it sticking out. The paper was curled and browned from age and the sun, but he could make it out well enough. Quench Your Thirst, it wasn’t one of hers, though. It was the girl they’d replaced her with. He contemplated shooting it, just so he wouldn’t have to stare at the girl anymore, but it was a waste of bullets.

Instead, he pushed off the rock and forced himself to keep going. The noise was unbearable now, rattling around his brain and making his ears bleed the closer he got. He must be right on it, only a little while longer and he’d finally turn the damn thing off.

He lifted a leathered hand to block the sun out of his eyes. He kept squinting, disbelieving in the sight before him. Vault 111 was sitting pretty among the skeletons and dunes of sand. It’s big white numbers upside down as the door was slid open, alarms ringing out and red flashing lights dancing around within the vault.

He couldn’t believe it. Vault dwellers were practically extinct in the Wastelands, nevermind actually getting into their vaults. But here this one sat, open and ready for the taking. Normally, he wouldn’t risk it, even just to turn off those fucking alarms. But he had just used his last vial and if he didn’t get his hands on some good shit soon, well, best not to imagine it.

Hand on his holster he started forward, eyes darting back and forth to make sure this wasn’t some sort of trap set by raiders. He didn’t imagine they were smart enough to do that, but apparently Muldaver’s been on the move, this could be her people’s doing. He’d rather not have to listen to someone whining on about a better life and a kind society.

He’d believe it when he saw it. All people were capable of was greed and lust, it’s been the same before the bombs and it will be the same after.

He stepped inside, eyes pained as they adjusted to the stark contrast of the glaring sun outside and the soft fluorescent lights within the vault. He spotted a big red button and slammed his palm down on it. The sirens, thank fuck, shut off, but the lights kept going.

There was a gap between his platform and the next. The control panel clearly needed a Pip-Boy to be operated but he didn’t see any nearby. He sighed and took a running leap, just barely making it to the other side.

He took another suspicious look around, still not quite sure he was completely safe. His chest tightened with the irritating feeling of an oncoming coughing fit. “Fuck it,” he muttered, starting through the open doorway without a glance back.

Whatever had happened in here had been messy and recent. He kneeled down next to a puddle of blood and dipped an ungloved finger in, still warm. He popped open his holster and tugged out the gun, better to be safe than dead.

He had been following the direction the lights had been pointing this whole time, hoping maybe he’d stumble across an infirmary. These vault fucks had to have left at least one bag of radaway behind. So far, though, he didn’t have high hopes. Everything was ransacked. The bodies that were left behind had been stripped naked and beaten to unidentifiable pulps.

So far, the vaults had at least been air conditioned. If nothing else he was getting a break from the sweltering heat that trailed him on the surface. He’d already tested out one of the sinks down here, their water was still functioning. Maybe he could get some of the blood caked under his nails cleaned out.

While the air conditioning had been nice, the breeze that was coming from the door across the way would have had goosebumps rising on him if he was still capable of that. His head tilted in contemplation as he stared at it. Above every door was meant to be an indicator of what went on in there.

There wasn’t for this one, though. And despite knowing better, he had to admit, he was pretty curious. He strode forward, tucking the gun back in his holster and slamming the button on the right side of the door. The second it slid open, whatever had been sealing the noise inside broke.

He flinched away from the sounds of sirens and covered his ears, cussing up a storm as he slammed the button once more. It clicked uselessly but didn’t send the door down again. “Fuck,” he hissed, stepping inside and grunting as the cold bore down on him ten times worse than before.

Cryogenics, well, the temperature made sense now.

He stared at each of the pods, the windows frosted over with cold and making it impossible to see the people within. He took his time examining them, trying his best to see if anyone he knew was in one of them. Despite it all, he held a little hope that he might see Janey, maybe even Barb.

Without any luck he headed towards the terminal, he could probably get the sirens to shut the fuck up this way. Or maybe just get this door closed again.

In neon green a warning sign flashed over and over across the screen.

LIFE SUPPORT: CRITICAL FAILURE.

He glanced back over his shoulder and scoffed. Rich fucks hadn’t thought to have a back up, or did they really think their buddy Vault-Tec would keep them safe? He shook his head and clicked away the warning. He peered through the list of commands but couldn’t find anything except a list of who was in the pods.

He figured he might as well see if he spotted a familiar name. If they were alive he might be able to get some information off of them. It wasn’t until the bottom of the list that he saw anything helpful. Your name stood out bright and bold and beside it the message:

LIFE SUPPORT FAILING

RISK OF ASPHYXIATION:

The colon blinked a few times and he drummed his finger impatiently on the sides of the terminal. Finally the risk analysis loaded and he let out a rough exhale.

RISK OF ASPHYXIATION: IMMINENT

REMOVE SUBJECT IMMEDIATELY

His eyes widened and without thinking he clicked the little button. A moment later he heard something creak open, the seal of the pod broken as air rushed out. He turned around and faced your pod, of course it was the one right beside him.

He ran forward, catching you just as you slumped out of the seat. Your skin was like ice, your lips blue and face purple from choking. It was all swollen, like you’d been struggling to get air in for a while before he came. He frowned down at your limp form, shaking you slightly as he waited for you to take in a breath.

“Hey,” he brought a rough hand down on your cheek, the leather striking loudly against your skin.

Your lips parted and you took in a deep breath, gasping as your hands flew up to your throat. You turned over, falling out of his arms and landing roughly on the metal grates of the floor. He took a step back, watching as you hacked yourself back to life, your lungs nearly coming out with how hard you were coughing.

His head tilted as he observed you. You looked damn near the same as the last time he saw you. The only real difference being the slutty little black slip you had on. He scoffed and shook his head. So that’s where you’d disappeared to, sold yourself out to Vault-Tec for some apocalyptic protection.

Lot of good that did you.

You clawed at your throat, air feeling like razor blades as you greedily inhaled. You’re not sure where you are, you can barely feel your extremities, you’ve got an uncomfortable draft on your backside. You wince as you sit up, wiping your blurry eyes in the hopes they’ll clear up, metal digs into your skin as you do.

It’s like when you get too cold during winter and your eyes frost over a little bit. Except, this doesn’t feel like a little bit. You can’t even see your own hand right now. All you can make out is faint outlines of everything, blurry little clouds of color.

“Hello?” Someone was here, you could tell that much. You just didn’t know who. Metal creaked in front of you and you scrambled back. They weren’t saying anything. Why weren’t they saying anything?

You wracked your brain for the last thing you could remember and felt tears building along your lashes. Oh god. “Tom?” You called out hesitantly. Maybe they’d changed their minds. Maybe the men who’d grabbed you had dumped you off somewhere.

You didn’t want to think about what they’d done while you were asleep. You were slowly becoming more aware of your surroundings and very aware of the skimpy slip you had on right now. Not even close to what you’d been wearing when they grabbed you. You wrapped your arms around yourself in a meager attempt at comfort.

“That who you fucked, sweetheart?”

Your brows turned down. “Cooper?” He sounded a little rough, his accent more pronounced, but you’d know his voice anywhere. It was as familiar to you as your own. “Cooper, where am I?” The tears were spilling freely now the longer he stared at you in silence. At least crying was starting to thaw out your eyes.

You could more clearly make out his form now, looming overtop of you like some sort of dark omen. You always felt safe with Coop. When someone pushed you too much or got a little too aggressive, you could go to him.

Right now, though, you felt like prey in front of a wolf. There was no kindness in his words and only a cruel accusation in his tone. Dear god, where were you? And why would he think you would ever fool around with any of these sick fucks behind his back?

“Cooper, please, what happened?”

He barked out a laugh and you flinched back, “What happened? Well, lets see what the fuck happened.” You heard more than saw him pace across the metal floors, the spurs on his boots clanking loudly. Had he been at a party and come looking for you?

“You told me you’d be back for lunch and I didn’t see you for another two hundred years.”

Your stomach dropped to the floor, “What?” You whispered.

He knelt down in front of you. “Your eyes still foggy?” You nodded your head mutely. “Well,” he chuckled but it wasn’t the one you knew. This was something mean and sharp. “When those clear up, I’m not gonna look like you remember me, darling. Should probably get out of here before you realize what you’re talking to.”

He made to get up but you shot forward, blindly groping at the dark form of his torso until you latched onto his duster. “Cooper, please, I’m confused. I-” you looked around blindly, hoping to find something to explain how the last thing you remembered was eating pancakes with him. There’s no way in hell it’s been two hundred years.

“I went to Tom’s to get the script. He made me come in for drinks. There- there were all these men there, they grabbed me and I don’t remember anything after that. Cooper, please, I wasn’t wearing this when they snatched me. What the hell happened to me?”

There was a moment of silence before he let out a sigh. “You didn’t leave to find some safety in Vault-Tec?”

You frowned and let him go, shoving him away from you with as much force as your frozen muscles could muster up. “Fuck you, you think I’d do that to you? How little do you think of me?”

You reached out for the pod beside you, using it to get to your feet. You felt about as graceful as a newborn foal right now, all gangly limbs and stilted movements. You leaned over, catching your breath as you tried to walk forward.

“If I were you, I’d get back in that pod and let the world rot away. You’re not gonna do well on your own out here, honey.”

You heard his spurs moving past you and then made out his form as he walked through the doors of the room. “Cooper?” You called out, but you knew it was pointless. He was gone. The man you knew was gone and you had no clue what the fuck had happened.

He managed to finally find the infirmary, lucky enough that a few bags of Rad-Away had been left behind. They’d only had IV bags, so he’d spent a while trying to find a spot where his skin wasn’t so tough a needle could actually get through.

She had to be lying.

He felt himself trying to look at the door, like she’d step through, and forced his head down. He flicked at the IV bag, hoping that maybe it would speed it the fuck up. He needed to get out of here. The longer he stayed, the more he wanted to talk to her.

He’d changed a lot since they’d last seen each other. Whatever he had once felt for her was gone. The man he had once been was dead. There was no point in hurting the girl by giving her false hope. He sighed and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to relax some.

He’d finish this bag, pack the others, and then he’d leave this vault behind. She could figure out what she wanted to do on her own. He didn’t have time for strays or old flames.

You stumbled around for a while before you finally got your bearings. You managed to make your way into what looked like an office and sat behind a curved desk. A terminal on top sat blinking bright green letters at you. You went through each of the logs, your dread only getting worse the longer you read.

Tom wasn’t in this vault, that’s for sure. The other names you only recognized from the credits of some movies you’d watched a while back. The men who had taken you from Tom’s house.

According to the scientist using this terminal, they’d wanted to ensure they had some fun before they went underground.

You weren’t the only one Tom had sold out. Your entire cryogenic chamber had been filled with other women, each of them dead because of a life support failure. You were meant to be their entertainment while they waited for the world to be ready for the taking.

You took a break, forcing your eyes away from the screen and staring down at your hands.

Well, Cooper hadn’t been lying at least. Two hundred years you’d been frozen, you hadn’t even known it. It was bizarre, what felt like only a few hours ago was over two millennia. You’d only just kissed Cooper goodbye and now he was acting like some asshole who wouldn’t even stay to help you to your feet.

Feeling yourself getting angry and panicked you went back to reading. There was nothing you could do. You’d been screwed over by someone you trusted, you were stuck here. No point in pouting about it.

The scientist wrote more about the men’s intentions and you forced the bile down as you read. Then he got to what Vault-Tec’s real intentions were. Something about experimenting with cryogenics, seeing how long a body could last, what all it could preserve. You didn’t understand most of it, the language far above your education.

The men were just guinea pigs, same as you. It brought you a modicum of satisfaction. Barely, though.

The lead of the whole project gets more cryptic and paranoid the further he writes. Something about Vault-Tec never sending the all clear signal to get the fuck out of here. Security was getting antsy the longer they stayed and supplies were running low.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together when you looked at the blood splattered walls and the white coated corpse across the room.

Underneath the last entry was a fail safe. In case the experiment was going wrong and there were no other options but to abandon it.

TERMINATE?

The green pointer blinked as you stared at the question. Your mind traveled to the way they’d swarmed you. How ruthlessly they’d taken you like you were nothing more than cattle. The other women they did it to. You could only imagine what had happened while you’d been knocked out.

That familiar feeling of anger, disgust, and shame welled up in you. You had always been typecast. The sexy bombshell with nothing else going for her. It bled into other aspects of your life, people treating you like you were nothing more than a walking doll, for their enjoyment and nothing else.

You’d be damned if you let these men survive what the other women couldn’t.

You hit the button and listened as the sirens quieted down the hall, the hiss of oxygen as the pods killed their inhabitants. You didn’t allow yourself to linger on what you’d just done for very long, you went clicking through the rest of the terminal.

Most of it was password locked, you only gleamed enough information to figure out what had been going on while you slept. Bombs dropped, the world went to shit, just like you always thought it would. You’d never considered that you might survive it.

Maybe those men had done you a slight favor, just barely.

He sighed as he ripped the needle out of his arm, pulling his sleeve down he moved away from the wall he’d been leaning on. He’d definitely been getting cheated out of his caps. Next time he saw that bitch Ma June, he’d show her what he thought about her watered down bullshit.

A shadow passed by the doorway and his hand drifted down to his holster. He slipped out of the room and took a peek around the corner. She had her back to him, but he’d recognize her anywhere, even with that ridiculous vault suit on.

“Hey!”

She jumped and whirled around on him. For a moment he forgot that this was a completely new reality for her. She didn’t know what a ghoul was, she’d never seen one before. Her last memory of him had been his prime. When he’d had a fucking nose.

Her eyes widened and his grew cold while he waited for the inevitable disgust. He was used to it by now, but he was pretty sick and tired of hearing about it. Especially when the few people who managed to get their hands on his old movies would recognize him.

The disgust never came, just obvious shock and disbelief. She took a few hesitant steps closer, her eyes darting across his face while she did. He nearly missed her hand coming up, like she wanted to touch him. He caught it at the last second, bringing his hand up to swat hers down.

She winced and backed up a step, the wonder on her face gone and replaced with hurt. “Cooper-”

He darted forward and snatched her chin in between his gloved fingers. “Now, darling, I’m gonna need you to get this through your fucking head,” he hissed, eyes boring into her terrified ones. “That’s not my name anymore, I’m nothing but a ghoul. I’m not the man you know and I’m never going to be. Let it go and if you know what’s good for you, move the fuck on.”

He could see the tears welling up in her eyes and grinned, she had always been pretty when she cried. “Understand?” When she didn’t respond fast enough for his liking he shook her roughly, “Speak!”

“Yes,” she shouted, clawing at his arm and wincing when her nails scraped across the leather of his skin. “I understand.” He took a moment, looking into her eyes, before he nodded and released her.

She stumbled back, choking on a sob and glaring up at him. “So, what? Am I just supposed to call you an asshole?” He scoffed, barely laughing. Everything that happened to her today and she could still get a fucking attitude. It was nearly impressive, if not stupid. She didn’t watch who she spoke to and she was going to get killed before the day was up.

“You’re not gonna call me anything. We’re not working together, you’re on your own.”

She glared at him and rubbed her jaw where he’d grabbed her. Her cheeks were already changing colors, bruises blooming where he’d snatched her. His eyes darted away from her hands and back to her. “Why’d you stop me then?”

He looked her up and down and grinned at the way she shivered, seemed he hadn’t lost all his charm just yet. “That tight little suit of yours is gonna get you killed. People up there don’t take too kindly to people from down here.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, glaring at him. “So, what? I’d be safer walking around in what they had me in?”

He shook his head and started walking back towards the door of the vault. “No.”

He heard her huff and race after him. “You’re fucking infuriating, you know that? What the hell am I supposed to do, Co-” He shot her a warning glare but she’d clamped her mouth shut before she could finish the sentence. She still had that stupid hurt look on her face, like he’d kicked her puppy. It kind of made him want to just shoot her.

“I don’t have any supplies, all I have is this stupid suit. Please, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He sighed and stopped. She stumbled forward, nearly ramming into his back in the process. “Go to Filly, I’m sure you’ll find something there.”

“I’m supposed to just know where that is?”

He didn’t bother responding to her, there was no point in it. She would be dead soon, anyway. This world wasn’t made for pretty girls like her, especially not on her own. If she was smart she’d just starve herself down here, at least she’d have running water.

You watched him walk off and felt like your chest was going to cave in. You couldn’t handle this, he was just Cooper an hour ago. Making you breakfast and kissing you goodbye. And despite the odd deformities, you could still see him. Sure, he was missing a nose, but he was still there. Your Cooper.

Except he wasn’t.

You couldn’t quite believe he would be so cruel earlier. He was always mean when he was hurt. You figured maybe he was still sitting with the fact that you hadn’t actually left him behind for Vault-Tec. But his eyes gave him away.

They were cold, devoid of anything you used to know. The man you had known was no longer there. And if he was, he was buried far deeper than you were interested in digging. You watched him walk away and felt your chest squeezing painfully.

This was not the fucking time to start panicking. If the carnage around you was anything to go by, then the surface had to be so much fucking worse. Cooper seemed to think vaults were safer, but right now you were staring into the gouged eyes of a corpse who’d been killed by a friend. Clearly, nowhere was safe.

You couldn’t afford to pity yourself or cry. You’d have to keep moving, process it all later. You pushed off the wall and leapt over the corpses blocking your path. Cooper must’ve stepped in a pile of blood because you could clearly make out his footprints. He seemed like he was going to leave, you bet if you followed him you would find the way out.

You followed the prints up a set of stairs, but they had faded out completely by the time you got up to the vault door. You winced, blocking your eyes from the bright glare of the sun. Barely a second out of the vault and you felt like your skin might already be peeling.

Whatever had happened while you were out, this was not the world you remembered. The sun seemed bigger, brighter, more violent. If the skeletons littered throughout the sand were anything to go by, everything was more violent now.

You tripped over a particularly deformed skull of a beast and scrambled up to your feet. You glanced around, spotting a figure in the distance and ran after it. You hoped it was Cooper you were following, but he was already so far ahead of you that he was barely a dot on the horizon.

You followed the footsteps he left in the sand and prayed he didn’t notice you trailing him. You couldn’t very well stay down there with all of those corpses. There had been no supplies to protect yourself with except a bloodied scalpel. You wouldn’t make it down there on your own and you certainly wouldn’t make it up here.

You planned to just follow Cooper until you found something resembling civilization. He didn’t want you around him and you got the message, you’re not exactly eager to share his company. He’s a stranger, the only part of him you recognize is his name, and you’re not even allowed to use that.

You kept your distance as long as you could. Keeping him as far away as possible so if he turned around he wouldn’t be able to realize he was being followed. But you’re already struggling. He’s not showing any signs of slowing anytime soon and you can barely see anymore.

Your lips are peeling, throat raw and aching for water. Your eyes are completely coated in sand and being damaged by the sun. You wished you had been better prepared for this but it’s been at least four hours and you’re about to keel over.

You wheeze, dragging yourself over to a fallen billboard and slumping against it. You’re not paying enough attention to your surroundings, or you just don’t care anymore. You find yourself drifting off and you don’t stop it. You’d prefer if the heat stroke took you while you were asleep, at least then you wouldn’t be aware of it.

Your eyes drift closed and your head slumps forward, the sun bearing down on your neck and burning away at the skin there.

You cough and splutter, frantically brushing sand off your face and spitting it out of your mouth. Cooper’s standing over you, frowning and glaring, which seems to be his go to expression now. You glance down at his outstretched foot and realize he kicked the sand in your face. “What the fuck?”

“You know,” he tilts his head and rests a hand on his holster, grinning at the way you shrink away from his gun. “I thought you would have lasted at least another hour.”

You wipe your face off and struggle back onto your feet, nearly teetering over as you did. “You knew I was following you?” You groused, glaring up at him. You’re not sure your anger translates well, though. You can barely hear your own voice, your throat too dry to produce any proper words.

“‘Course I did, sweetheart. I’d be a pretty shit bounty hunter if I didn’t recognize when someone was trailing me.”

You finally manage to get to your feet and glare at him. “Congratulations, you want a prize?”

His smile drops and he darts forward before you can move away. His hand clamps around your arm and he drags you behind him. You’re stumbling, barely able to keep in stride with him. Mercifully, you notice the sky is starting to turn pink in the distance. Soon, the sun will be down and you’ll get a moment's reprieve.

“Where are you taking me?” You demand, tripping over a rock and wincing as he jerks you back to your feet. He turns around to glare at you like he isn’t the one dragging you around.

“Filly,” he grunts. He finally comes to a stop, you ram into his back wincing as your nose slams into him painfully. He doesn’t even flinch and you wonder if he felt it. If he can feel anything with how crisped his skin is.

“I thought you weren’t going to help me.” Maybe you shouldn’t be pushing your luck. If he is helping you, and that’s a pretty hesitant if, you’re sure he’ll be quick to change his mind. Still, you can’t help but push him. You’ve always had that problem, except before he took it in stride and teased you right back.

Now, your eyes dart down to his gun, you’re not sure he wouldn’t just put a new hole in you.

“Changed my mind.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes, “Yeah, I’m aware. I’m asking why,” you cut yourself off sharply, mouth clamping shut because you almost called him Coop again. Your jaw is still aching from the last “warning” he gave you. You’re not looking for another.

He whirled around on you and you didn’t even realize his gun was in his hand until it was digging into your throat. “Why don’t you stop asking me so many fucking questions, hm.” He sneered and you winced at the sight of his yellowed teeth. Finally you nodded and backed away from him, he kept his eyes on yours for a moment before he holstered his gun again. “Let’s go,” he started walking and you couldn’t do anything but follow him.

At least this time you weren’t trying to track a dot in the distance.

The sky was getting dark quick and the temperature was dropping even faster. You hunched into yourself and ran your hands up and down your arms to try and keep warm. It seemed everything was done in the extremes now, even the damn weather.

Cooper whistled and you hurried to catch up with him. He stood in front of a decaying old house, nearly all of the roof gone. The walls looked like they might cave in soon and it had clearly been unoccupied for a very long time. He opened up the door and walked inside, letting it slam back into your face.

You caught it and huffed. You followed after him and saw that he was already setting up his spot for the night. He leaned against the half-rotted couch, his hat over his eyes and his arms tucked under his coat. You glanced around for a clean spot to curl up and laid down on the ground. You winced at all the dirt on the floor but figured it was better than sleeping out in the sand.

Despite your oh-so comfortable sleeping arrangement, you found it hard to pass out. Maybe it’s because you’d just taken a two hundred year nap or the man across from you. Your eyes refused to stay shut and you couldn’t stop staring at him.

You told yourself you would process your emotions later but apparently your mind had decided now would be the best time. You could feel the tears trickling down your cheeks again and you tried to wipe them away.

Too much had happened for them to be so easily dismissed. You were struggling with the thoughts of what those men did to you. You’re certain your imagination is worse than anything that happened, but not knowing was killing you. You felt violated, just being knocked out like that and being left vulnerable to them.

And Cooper.

Cooper was practically dead as far as you both were concerned. You felt like you were grieving for someone who was lying right across from you. You were staring right at him and he was just out of your reach.

You sniffled and wiped your nose. A loud sigh came from the man in front of you and he spoke without bothering to tilt his hat back up. “I’m gonna take you to Filly and you’re gonna help me with some business there and then we’ll go our separate ways.”

“What?” Your voice was an embarrassing croak and you winced.

“They don’t take too kindly to my folk down there-”

“You mean zombies,” you interrupted, propping your head up on your hand.

He finally lifted his hat up and glared, though it was half-hearted at best. “It’s ‘ghouls,’ sweetheart. Never knew you to be racist.” You rolled your eyes and he dropped his hat back down again. “You’ll get me what I need and I’ll have delivered you to, well, not safety, but as close as you can get out here.” He leaned forward, arm outstretched and grinning at you. “Deal?”

Well, it wasn't like you had any other options. You leaned forward, grasping his gloved hand in yours and shaking, “Deal.”

SERIES TAGLIST: @pixelatedprofilepic @o0mellowdramatic0o @bisasterbisexual @julianmarie @v3n1x @weakling-grace

#the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #The ghoul #fallout x reader #cooper howard #fallout tv series

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divorceblogger · 9 months ago

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hey love of my life, you've read dune right? can u explain the kwistaz haderach scheme like im 10 years old

I willll <3 people aren’t wrong when they say that the ‘kwisatz haderach’ is just a very, very special boy that a white guy was writing about in his silly sci-fi book before he decided to write more seriously about the dangers of imperialism and colonialism in the subsequent sequels. but really, the kwisatz haderach’s most narratively important role in the story is as the messiah-ruler figure of a despotic, genocidal empire; and he’s still a victim of the story he creates, a helpless product of his bloodline’s imperial ambitions and generations of political scheming.

where the definition of kwisatz haderach gets more complicated is when you start to pay more attention to the worldbuilding side of things apart from just looking at the role he plays in the larger story.

in the books, the bene gesserit essentially begin a breeding program to develop a biological product who’s supposed to have superhuman capabilities - capable of training in the bene gesserit way & developing the ability to peer into ‘male avenues’ which are beyond a bene gesserit’s ability - as well as ‘female avenues’ (which the bene gesserit are restricted to). the ‘female avenues’ referred to here are probably mostly in reference to the inherited biological memory of the past, and the reverend mothers (who inherit the memories of previous reverend mothers) probably possess the most heightened state of a bene gesserit’s powers. I suspect the male avenues refer to the ability to peer into the future although it’s never clarified - but to summarise, a kwisatz haderach is supposed to have mental powers that enable him to explore time, access the past and sort through different possible futures which can enable him to shape/choose what form it takes (dune messiah deals with the tragic consequences of losing your free will and expands more on the concept). spice and its various forms are the drugs which enable bene gesserit to train and develop these powers. the significance of the kwisatz haderach to the fremen is more complicated, although you probably already understood what was happening there - the bene gesserit plant ‘prophecies’ and superstitions through its branch of the missionaria protectiva to develop a mythology and faith that a trained bene gesserit - ideally the mother of the kwisatz haderach - can exploit to her advantage to protect the product of several centuries of breeding in case the necessity arises. and jessica and paul do actually exploit the fremen to their advantage in the books and the movies, if more explicitly in the latter.

the movie obviously simplifies this concept more to its benefit. the bene gesserit, with their own political agendas, vaguely describe the kwisatz haderach as someone capable of leading the universe into a better future, which sounds too good to be true for a reason. jessica tells paul that the bene gesserit tried to develop a mind capable of bridging space and time and those are words also used in the book - the movie just does away with most of the weird, inane gender stuff.

#alia and paul are actively the worst things to happen to the empire. it is also fully possible for them to be sympathetic figures #and I think a lot of people can’t wrap their head around that fact. well. more of you should read julius caesar by shakespeare :/#text #dune #asks #sansacule #also helloooo I’ve missed you! it’s nice to see you again ❤️❤️

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virginiaoflykos · 1 year ago

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What to read after Light Bringer? (Series similar to Red Rising)

August 2023 update!

Red Rising is my favorite series of all time, and since I first read it, I have sought series and books similar in both spirit and execution. Some of these recs are books I haven’t read personally, but have often come up in discussions with other users!

1. The Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson

Status: ongoing, expected 10 books in total, 4/10 out at the moment

Book 1: The Way of Kings. The Way of Kings takes place on the world of Roshar, where war is constantly being waged on the Shattered Plains, and the Highprinces of Alethkar fight to avenge a king that died many moons ago.

2. The Craft Sequence by Max Gladstone

Status: finished, 6/6 books out.

Book 1 (in publication order): Three Parts Dead. Comprised of 6 standalone books set in the same universe, the Craft Sequence tells the tales of the city of Alt Coulumb. The city came out of the God Wars with one of its gods intact, Kos the Everburning. In return for the worship of his people, Kos provides heat and steam power to the citizens of Alt Coulumb; he is also the hub of a vast network of power relationships with other gods and god-like beings across the planet. Oh, and he has just died. If he isn’t revived in some form by the turn of the new moon, the city will descend into chaos and the finances of the globe will take a severe hit.

3. Hierarchy by James Islington

Status: ongoing, 1/3 planned books out

Book 1: The Will of the many. The Will of the Many tells the story of Vis, a young orphan who is adopted by one of the sociopolitical elites of the Hierarchy. Vis is tasked with entering a prestigious magical academy with one goal – ascend the ranks, figure out what the other major branches of the government are doing, and report back. However, that isn’t quite as easy as Vis or anyone else thought it was going to be…

4. Suneater by Christopher Ruocchio

Status: ongoing, 5/7 books out

Book 1: Empire of Silence. Hadrian is a man doomed to universal infamy after ordering the destruction of a sun to commit an unforgivable act of genocide. Told as a chronicle written by an older Hadrian, Empire of Silence details his earlier adventures and serves as an introduction to the characters and the setting.

5. Dune by Frank Herbert

Status: completed, 6/6 books out

Book 1: Dune. Set in the distant future amidst a feudal interstellar society in which various noble houses control planetary fiefs. It tells the story of young Paul Atreides, whose family accepts the stewardship of the planet Arrakis. While the planet is an inhospitable and sparsely populated desert wasteland, it is the only source of melange, or "spice", a drug that extends life and enhances mental abilities.

6. The Expanse by James S A Corey

Status: completed, 9/9 books out

Book 1: Leviathan wakes. Set hundreds of years in the future, after mankind has colonized the solar system. A hardened detective and a rogue ship's captain come together for what starts as a missing young woman and evolves into a race across the solar system to expose the greatest conspiracy in human history.

7. The First Law by Joe Abercrombie

Status: completed. 3 books in the original trilogy + 3 standalone books + 3 books in the newest trilogy

Book 1: The Blade Itself. The story follows the fortunes and misfortunes of bad people who do the right thing, good people who do the wrong thing, stupid people who do the stupid thing and, well, pretty much any combination of the above. Survival is no mean feat, and at the end of the day, dumb luck might be more of an asset than any amount of planning, skill, or noble intention.

8. Cradle by Will Wight

Status: completed, 12/12 books out

Book 1: Unsouled. Lindon is Unsouled, forbidden to learn the sacred arts of his clan. When faced with a looming fate he cannot ignore, he must rise beyond anything he's ever known...and forge his own Path

9. Hyperion Cantos by Dan Simmons (one PB’s favorites)

Status: completed, 4/4 books out

Book 1: Hyperion. The story weaves the interlocking tales of a diverse group of travelers sent on a pilgrimage to the Time Tombs on Hyperion. The travelers have been sent by the Church of the Final Atonement, alternately known as the Shrike Church, and the Hegemony (the government of the human star systems) to make a request of the Shrike. As they progress in their journey, each of the pilgrims tells their tale.

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screamingcrows · 4 months ago

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Start Carvin' Darlin' - Dottore x f!reader

Note: I've never suffered this much anguish just to make a single bad pun. I do want to write their first encounter buuut we'll see if it ever happens. Bear with me, I know it makes little sense. By all that is important- please heed the tags.

~7k words

Tags: dead dove do not eat, nsfw, dark content, fem!reader, cannibalism adjacent thoughts, manipulation, coercion, noncon, drugging, medical malpractice, power imbalance, age gap, somnophilia, sexualised dissection, fingering, needles, blood, gore, dacryphilia?, drowning, no aftercare, thoughts of death, thoughts of murder, brief choking, no pleasure for reader, Il Dottore centric MINORS DNI - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH

There were few things, and even fewer people, Dottore would consider faithful companions. The world had made clear that nothing could be trusted and any gesture of kindness was bound to come at a price. The rest were blind to their perils. After all, so long as it was woven tight enough, even a tapestry of lies would be beautiful.

Hunger was different in that regard. Its claws had always nestled deep within his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew to carve out a space for itself. He'd known every flavor it had to offer, from light tingles creeping down his spine to the dagger that had been lodged and twisted between his ribs, unbearable when he'd dragged himself through the scorching dunes that refused to be a home.

His eyes flickered to the scalpel held loosely in his gloved hand, the light reflected in the metal devoid of warmth. There was no real reason to wear them, the broken husk atop his table served no threat, and contamination from himself was a wholly irrelevant concern to the present analysis.

Force of habit was what he reasoned, the motion of putting them on coming almost as naturally as shushing the commotion in his, their, mind. There had been quite enough of that lately, only worsened by his own souring mood. Cutting the link off for the day would be best for them all.

That torment and the hunger accompanying it was but a faint memory now. Much more vivid were the tendrils that had coiled around his gut so long ago and punctured the fragile organ, leaving holes that would never be filled no matter the knowledge he devoured.

Every form of craving was a base need that Dottore had long since catalogued and archived in the back of his mind, giving him control whenever they surfaced. Desires were a potent tool when wielded right, something to use and then push away, a drive he'd discovered far more difficult to replicate mechanically.

What good was fear of decay to something that had never truly been alive?

It wasn't before you entered his life that Dottore understood what it meant to be truly starved. Four weeks. That was how long you'd been gone, a speck of dust compared to his solitary existence. It would likely be another two before you returned. Living as a famished man had been all too easy before the taste of sunsettia lingered on his tongue in the dead of night, the sweet fragrance in the air cloying despite every window letting in the frigid Snezhnayan air.

Ichor poured forth from the incision, rich in color as it stained everything in its path. Light reflected across the surface of the syrupy liquid, creating millions of constellations one second and replacing them the next. How would it feel on his tongue? Look running down your throat? It enveloped his fingers in a welcoming embrace, spilling over the edges as it made way for curious probing.

Crimson eyes refocused under the mask, shattered remnants of crystalline mimicry laying separated from the sharp casing. Rarely did a delusion crack. Even in death, the poor thing still clutched it with fervor. Each delusion was a testament to progress, every shard a strict reminder to never grow complacent. In time, he'd examine the shards for impurities, but for now, the cold flesh bearing the consequences was his priority.

Selfishness ingrained after hatred burning too brightly, his recklessness had long since settled into carefully calculated moves. Still, the temptation of your flesh had been too much. By no means were he a weak man, yet the promise of warmth in the otherwise cold halls had caught him unaware.

It's lungs were expanding almost desperately to accommodate the growing pressure of death upon the air. That was another faithful companion, silent and ever watchful, no doubt waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. The ashen skin was beautiful and had he known no better, it would've seemed obvious to write off the limbs as carved from stone. But there was no reasonable way to make that assumption, not with how the remaining muscle still moved under his touch. How it stretched when tugged. As tenderly as a lover, the sharp metal severed a piece to call it's own.

It hung from his palm, no longer part of anything that could have held importance, the tempting pink that was so familiar tainted by a vulgar discoloration, no doubt caused by the elemental energies it had been forced to absorb.

It bordered on obsession with how his thoughts would always circle back to you. He'd seen that color in the bruises he left on your body, in the plums you so enjoyed, pearly whites ripping through the skin and piercing the soft flesh underneath. You were always messy, with juices running down your chin while you perched so prettily on the cold metal tables of his workshop, nodding along to anything that left his lips. His eyes focused on a single drop running down his arm, deceptively anonymous in origin if seen in isolation, it might be a believable substitute for licking sweet nectar from your lips. He wondered if you were still as sweet as your favorite fruit. If it would sate the longing that gnawed at his insides the same as your presence did.

"Lord Harbinger? I- please excuse my intrusion, I'd been led to believe you weren't otherwise occupied."

You'd come to him as a wide eyed recruit, having had the misfortune of being made a cog in their machine. Such had become the fate of most, ironic that all they would see accomplished in their lifetime was trading who held the reins of their suffering. His wooden doors had creaked on their hinges as you tried to be discreet, trembling and clumsy with the salute, clearly still trying to come to terms with this new fate. You were everything he'd despised; weak, helpless, naïve, and so willing to throw yourself at whatever would have you and keep you safe. It fed something selfish.

"I am always busy. Quit wasting my time and state your purpose."

"I'm supposed to report for a health examination before they finalize the recruitment…"

Under normal circumstances, he'd have punished a disturbance like that, especially when paired with such ignorance. A medical exam. That was what you inquired about, and while he knew it to be true that every acquired asset must be examined, it was laughable that you'd fallen victim to some superiors directing you to his space.

Dottore had been in a good mood, finding himself willing to entertain the misunderstanding, if nothing else, it had provided a good distraction from the failures that had haunted him. Not even an hour after you'd left had he requested your transfer to his command, deeming you suitable for a few impending projects.

There was nothing sentimental left in him, all that had been forsaken, turned to dust when he broke himself into pieces. That was the truth as he willed it.

Another chunk of red left the body on his table, nimble fingers peeling back a layer of epithelia to trace the vessels that permeated it. They too had been contaminated, their walls glittering preciously in the sharp light. Steady hands held a syringe filled with water, letting it perfuse the artery before he gingerly collected it. A sample of blood for purification would be necessary as well. A pity the body had been left long enough that tracking the spread of energy would be useless through the crimson liquid, tissue damage would be the most reliant evidence.

Nothing remained of his past self, the parts that still clung to a desire for belonging, not satisfied by only the unity of ambition. It had been your eyes that revived it, looking upon him as if he held the sun in his palm and brought forth the dawn. As if he held all the secrets that would bring salvation.

Undoubtedly, you were one of the healthiest subjects to find themselves on his tables. And that was the justification he'd used that first time his hands had roamed the expanse of your skin, checking for any deformities and writing down scribbles on a sheet of parchment. It was both to placate your nervous mind, betrayed by the wobble in your lips and fidgeting hands, and to record your initial state, in case an opportunity to bring you back regularly and monitor any changes presented itself.

His fingers pushed inside, pliant flesh parting around his digits and swallowing them whole. It was a mesmerizing sight, his free hand twitching briefly before mindlessly wandering to unclasp his mask, as if the removal of it somehow made the wetness now coating his fingers glisten all the more. A shuddering breath passed his lips, forced out by the growing pressure in his chest as he remained unable to pry away his eyes. How utterly beautiful a sight it was. Unable to hold back, his fingers spread out to better stretch the opening, viscous liquid slowly oozing out as he engaged his other hand.

"a-ah I don't think that-"

"Good, keep it that way, there's no need for you to think. The more you squirm around, the longer this will take. Although, from the sounds you're making, it almost seems as though you are enjoying yourself?"

"No I'm.. Hurts.."

"Relax for me then."

Dottore had wondered since that day whether you were truly that clueless, or if you'd excuse yourself with the anxiety he'd seen choke your thoughts so often since. While he could grant you the benefit of doubt concerning the implications of his title, surely you'd know that a Harbinger had far more important obligations?

Entertaining whims had a habit of bringing more trouble than the brief euphoria indulgence could ever warrant. That had been his first mistake pertaining to you.

A flick of his wrist and the liver was easily removed, threads of adipose tissue clinging to the engorged mass as if unity would somehow save it. How tragically still it all was, the clockwork driving it forward had long since ceased operating, leaving only obsolete parts in the wake. The liver had been discolored, electro particles having seeped into the matter, it was made even more noticeable by the crisp white fabric it came to lay on. One of the segments could prepare biopsies from it, check if the energies had disrupted or otherwise changed the structures.

They already had an understanding of elemental overloading in organic matter, but it was a rare chance to observe internal damages caused by high loads over a short time rather than the prolonged use cases of their regular agents. Dottore had come to understand that no matter his insistence and want for knowledge, the soldiers wouldn't carry their dead with them, and he hardly had time to waste collecting material himself, no version of him did. Not with how close they were to their objective.

You had understood his desires and promised to try. The distaste had been palpable in the slight twitch of your eyes and wrinkled nose. It was the desire to try that fed his hunger. The silent promise of wanting not to understand, for how could you ever, but believing when he said the benefits were worth the hassle.

That he was worth the hassle.

Ah, how lovely you were. Keening moans and gasps of his name feeding into his budding obsession. The sounds had been enough to distract him from the churning feeling in his gut, barely able to handle how warm your insides had been, how tightly you squeezed his fingers. The feeling reminded him of reaching into a bed of roses, thorns puncturing his being and forcing his breath heavier.

It had been nothing but slow, languid movements, meant to explore and not fulfil, the sweet pleas that left your lips were simply a tacked on bonus. Dottore could only hope that you were left aching and wanting far more than him and that you hadn't seen how his cock had strained against the front of his pants, throbbing in tandem with your mewls. It was unbefitting.

"Two doors down the hall, on your right. You should fix your attire, it wouldn't do for a recruit to look as disheveled as that on their first day."

"I will, Lord Harbinger, and thank you… Did you fill out a form or something I should bring?"

"Consider this a preliminary inspection, the actual one will be done by a physician two doors down the hall."

How unfortunate that those The Mayor promised a better future were also the ones who would never see it come to fruition. They gave their lives, some more willingly than others, for a reward they could never reap. It had already caused a disease to run through Snezhnaya's people, unrest and distrust filling the veins of their nation instead of the wealth and prosperity they'd been assured would come. Dottore had found it most useful in handling you, a little taste of false certainty accompanied by the promise of power to protect yourself. Your gaze had rested upon him with nothing but devotion.

Another chunk left the body on his table, almost tossed aside without the faintest hint of grandeur, the heart was of no use to them This was far from his preferred medium, more durable constructions would always be at the forefront of his interest, yet there was still appreciation behind his mask at the delicacy. It had stopped the moment a flash of electro singed the nerves. He briefly wondered how its now blighted lifeblood would feel atop his tongue, would it prickle? Burn the roof of his mouth?

How he longed to taste yours again, feeling the tension in his jaw at the memory of biting a little too hard, that's what he'd called it anyway, an accident. In truth, he would not hesitate to drain your blood in seconds, the thought of your reliance on something apart from him made a feeling better left unidentified carve a path through his lungs, leaving the structures to collapse without air.

Every time his hands had touched you, tears had been rolling down your cheeks. How long before you learned that compliance was the logical path, that he wanted to gag every time his hands were forced to harm you?

Threats of missions far above your qualifications kept you in line for the most part, pliant enough that the restraints kept for livelier subjects rarely saw use.

Despite his best efforts to keep everything under wraps, Tartaglia had grinned brightly, not a care in the world when he'd approached, having the gall to simply barge in, to inquire about what promising new people he'd taken on. 'It had barely been a week' was what he argued, commenting how surely you must be something special to rouse The Doctor's interest so. Any reaction to his taunts would simply play into the ginger's hands, a game he was always surprised the young man knew how to play.

Something wet slid down his wrist, immediately drawing his attention back as he pulled his hands from the bloody mess. His lips curved downward, observing exactly where the edge of his glove had been pushed down, leaving the marred skin beneath vulnerable. With a huff, Dottore stepped away and discarded the gloves, letting cool water rinse away the icky feeling now writhing under his skin.

"Come now, Doc, why won't you let me have a friendly spar with you newest acquisition? It's so rare for you to take a special interest in anyone, surely you can understand why I'm curious?"

"That is exactly why. She shows promise, and I cannot have you breaking her prematurely."

"That's a promise then! When the time is right!"

"Get out, Tartaglia."

"I heard she's been coming in for regular 'inspections', you have to admit, that sounds a little unsavory. Does she actually think you're a real physician? Oh I know, tell her you studied medi-sin."

"That was an order. Out, now."

The water in Snezhnaya had an edge to it, as if pieces of glass were contained within. It left one feeling raw and aching despite no physical proof persisting. If it did, his hands would've been torn open days ago. There had been too many small mishaps lately, too many times he'd needed to cleanse himself after his mind had wandered. Despite how clearly the words echoed in his mind, no part of him would admit to their truth.

You'd done this to him. You'd instilled in him a weakness, a beast that wouldn't let him rest when you were gone.

A soft knock followed by the click of a lock behind him cleared his head in a flash, clean gloves swiftly tugged into place with newfound anticipation bubbling under his ribs. None of his segments knocked. No one else had a key. His body remained still, awaiting an announcement from the intruder, willing patience to persist even if the idea of feeling your skin under his uncovered palm was clawing at his muscles to move them.

"Doctor, I don't feel so good," weak and pitiful was the voice that reached his ears, it should've made him recoil.

Instead, Dottore found himself struggling to keep his movements languid, the image of a predator barely conserved in the slow turn of his head. He had no doubt you'd be scared if you could see how his eyes lingered upon your silhouette.

"You're making a bad habit of returning in a state of disrepair, there is only so much I can do to keep you patched together. Disrobe while I clear a table."

It would be a shame to discard the rest of the opened body already, there were still so many secrets to be pried from its cold grasp. Perhaps he could get you to-

No.

You would adamantly refuse, already he could sense the unease rolling off of you in waves at the putrid stench of death. Instead, the remains were wrapped tightly and brought to an adjacent room, the air misty from the cryo applicator installed inside, ensuring it could rest unaffected by decay while he tended the living.

A chuckle passed his lips upon seeing the way you were eyeing the metal surface as if it'd dissolve skin and bone. The sound alone was enough to stir your body, movements stiff as you sat on the edge. Such obedience was an admirable trait, one that would make the investment well worth it when he would one day enhance your form. He would. That's what he had to tell himself, even if the thought of peeling back your skin and rewiring everything inside was tied so intimately with an odd sense of loss.

"Finally…" his words had no real bite, only mild impatience.

Still, you hid yourself from his gaze, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around your chest. As if he hadn't seen it all already. Dottore let himself take a moment to simply rake his eyes down the shapes constituting your body, careful to let none of the flames eating away at his insides show. Would you be able to discern it in his eyes should he discard the mask? Light fingers traced down the mock beak, briefly contemplating if he should let you try, it would be nothing but torture no matter what.

Being able to put a monstrous form to everything you'd heard about him, everything he'd done to you, it coiled in the pit of his stomach and upheaved anything on its way. He would never admit to being afraid, but the thought of being regarded with repulsion by you sent a shiver down his spine.

The injuries you'd sustained were minor, shallow and located at safe distances from anything vital. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to play a little, the table had already been cleared and he might as well take the break. Lips set in a scowl, his hands found your shoulders and pushed you back, already relishing in how perfectly the curvature fit against him, how little resistance there was in the movement. Made for him. That's what he would make of you. Scarlet lines had been drawn along your skin, urging his fingers to trail along the wetness.

"Do explain what, precisely, led to you looking like this," he kept his voice frigid for now, knowing how much more responsive the thought of having upset him made you.

"We were on our way back from taking care of-"

"I'm aware of your assignment, do not forget who signs off on your outings, give me the specifics."

A curious finger brushed over your hardened nipple, hearing the words catching in your throat.

"Treasure hoarders. I failed to block a strike and-" your body tensed as it wrung out the words.

"You failed to block a strike from such vermin?" He tutted, hand squeezing a little tighter around the soft flesh of your chest, seeing it spill out between his fingers, "That hardly warrants returning all cut and bruised, clearly, you lack the perseverance I thought I'd observed in you. Soon enough, you'll be nothing but nutrients for the wayside flora, is that what you'd like?"

Dottore wanted to laugh at your pitiful expression, a kicked puppy laying at his feet and wordlessly pleading for forgiveness, unknowing that it had already been granted. It was deliberate that you were never sent away far or for long, but there was no reason for you to know. Fear fostered obedience and your obedience was always pleasant, speeding up the process of cleaning the wounds you'd sustained with minimal squirming.

That didn't mean one hand wasn't constantly splayed over your sternum, pressing down to keep your body pinned. Already, a faint buzz was crawling along his bloodstream, months of conditioning catching up in the most frustrating manner as the front of his pants tightened. He had to swallow hard, forcing his fingers to relax before he left bruises. How would it look, he mused, if his nails could dig into your flesh? At the mere thought of those red crescent, a wave of heat washed over his body, accompanied by images of what other marks he could leave upon the canvas of your body.

Could he replicate and improve how pliant your thighs were under his grasp, would new vocal cords make sweeter sounds, added nerve endings would no doubt make for interesting results, if your muscles were synthetic the force they could exert would be greater meaning-

Not yet.

Dottore willed his focus to return, threading a needle as his disinterested voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

"Do I need to strap you down?"

There was no need to look, knowing you were already oh so bravely shaking your head. An amused smile graced his lips upon seeing your teeth sink into the dirty uniform. Such foresight deserved praise, a small nod of his head accompanied by a finger rubbing along your collarbone in an almost soothing motion.

Having done it countless times before, the needle went effortlessly through your skin, thread pulling the flesh tightly together whenever he tugged. A hand kept returning to your no doubt soft locks of hair, carding through it and pushing back the urge to give a tug. The few tears that had fallen were swiftly brushed away by his fingers, the taste almost cloying upon his tongue.

Dottore sighed softly, tapping your side to get your attention back to the present, seeing your glassy eyes and the small shivers that ran down your body. He could already smell your arousal in the air, the scent growing in strength every time your hips shifted.

"That's it for now," his hand skimmed along your bare stomach, ending atop your sternum and keeping you down, "however, some of the lacerations appear to be in early stages of infection."

How he'd missed the little hitch of your breath, the stutter of your heart underneath his hand. Unceremoniously, Dottore put more weight into the hand, feeling your pulse echo throughout his own body and letting every beat slowly fill the gaping pit beneath his ribs with hollow promises.

There was no infection, of course, but he needed something to placate you before an injection. And the sedative would be invaluable. After weeks of being famished, there was no guarantee your comfort would be at the front of his mind, and it was so much more pleasant when you didn't struggle. Last time had bitterly taught him as much.

"But you can make me okay, right?" There was a sweet tremble to your voice, always so scared of death.

"The mere question is an insult to my abilities," he practically purred, excitement bubbling as his chosen objective for the day moved closer, "it'll just be a little prick and then you're safe. Now, sit up for me."

He'd already turned around, hands aching to return as he rummaged through a few drawers, eventually pulling out both a vial and syringe. Your body came into view reflected in the clear liquid, barely having sat up and already exploring the stitches.

All it for your eyes to lock on the syringe was two taps to the glass, unease so plainly written across your face while he pressed the plunger to clear excess air trapped inside.

His hand encircled your arm, tugging upwards and tutting at the grime that clung to you. With the syringe between his teeth, he wiped the area down, satisfaction flooding his system when goosebumps spread. It had been so long since he'd had you properly.

"There. Now, you need to stay here a little so I can ensure that there are no immediate adverse effects. The blanket is in the usual spot."

It would have been far more practical for you to put the uniform back on, but Dottore trusted that you'd follow his directions regardless and without fuss. When he caught the rattling of metal buckles, he wanted to laugh at your naivety, were you truly not accustomed enough by now to know what he wanted?

"I said; the blanket is in its usual spot," the icy sneer left his lips without a second thought, and oh how beautiful your widening eyes were.

"Well, I know, but it was just-" your voice was already a pitch higher, the irrational fear further irking him.

"Should I consider this insubordination?"

Already, Dottore had crossed the distance and wrapped a large hand around your jaw. It was no secret what happened to cross subordinates. He was well aware that your little slip hardly warranted this reaction, but it was difficult to hold back when the urge to sink his nails into your skin screamed and begged, fighting to drown out every other thought.

"N-no, please…"

It would be all too easy to squeeze a little tighter, hear the crack of your mandible as it would threaten to give out. His fingers stretched to move further up, pressing against the condylar processes, feeling around the joint as images of you with your jaw agape crashed over him.

Dottore knew how little force it took to break. And how a replacement could be crafted and implanted in less than a day, stronger and sturdier than what occupied the space now.

"Remember your place, and be thankful I don't leave you to wilt," the words were spat out with more disdain than anticipated, his fingers giving a last wanton squeeze before releasing your jaw.

With a small scoff, Dottore returned to one of the workbenches that lined the walls, feigning disinterest as his hands automatically began tinkering with the closest contraption, barely willing to divide enough attention to ensure it wasn't something that required further protective equipment for handling. Of course you'd know there were proper medics within the ranks, the most accessible ones located a few rooms away, but they couldn't offer what he did, and the reassurance that you always came back for him to lick your wounds with his barbed tongue, it was enough to pacify any frustrations with your brief moments of hesitation.

Five minutes of pretending to be distracted and Dottore found himself a little impatient.

Ten minutes and it had built to irritation, glassware scraping along the surfaces as he pushed it around, mindlessly 'reorganizing'.

By fifteen something would have been thrown were he a lesser being.

Sweet relief came at the quiet sound of your voice shattering the thick air, the words slurred as if you couldn't quite make out the correct shapes with your lips.

"Am I s'posed to feel tired?"

A small chuckle wormed it's way from his lungs, nonchalance fully restored now that he could turn to gaze upon your slumped body, fingers tightly clutching the fuzzy blanket that enveloped you in a flimsy haven.

"You've just returned after weeks in the field, having sustained injuries and all," Dottore spoke calmly, betraying none of his greed as he gestured to the trace remnants of blood on the table, "it is no wonder that exhaustion would begin to take hold now that you are safe."

The question was plainly written in your eyes, making Dottore incline his head in silent motion to continue, preemptively stepping closer to catch what would no doubt be a whisper.

"Should I go back to the barracks?"

"Would you prefer to go?"

You wouldn't be given the opportunity to go, of course not, but there was no need to be forceful when he could already see how valiantly you fought to keep your eyes open, how your body seemed drawn downwards. It couldn't be more than a few minutes now.

Irritation briefly sparked in Dottore's chest at the little shake of your head, it would've been far more fulfilling to hear you say it.

No attempt was made to make your way through the laboratory to reach the modest cot that stood tucked away in a corner, crates of supplies and projects on hold usually hiding it from view. How ethereal you looked, head lolled to the side and the blanket slowly slipping from your shoulders as a false slumber curled its gnarled limbs around you.

Whatever conclusions you mind would reach were of little consequence, the sedative would take care of that, countless tests indicating that it always left the recipient's memory riddled with inconsistencies, making it easy to dismiss any unpleasantries as imagined.

Dreams.

The risks associated with using the modified Akasha were still too great, even if the possibility of directly rewriting the barrier between truth and fantasy was a tempting one. This way would be more satisfying in the end, having had to put in a little work and flex muscles that had been allowed to atrophy since his days in The Akademiya.

Dottore showed extra care when he hoisted up your unconscious form, grip unyielding as he closed his eyes to revel in the weight against him. In a past that mattered little, others had sworn the ego he carried around was inflated enough to see him ascend in any way but the desired, perhaps this would've been enough of a tether to their reality. For this alone would he allow himself to be held down.

Perhaps things could have been different had that lone island in the sky not decided for his fate to be nothing but misery. Thus logic dictated that you too would be lost. A soft tremor reminded his fingers to relax, gently stroking over the crescents they'd left.

Your breath warmed him far more than it had any right to, coaxing forth memories of a soft summer breeze, rose petals velvety between his fingers as they were plucked from their stem and plummeted to their inevitable demise. And an inviting sound, bubbly and sweet that had, for just a night, filled his veins with the toxin your presence had reignited.

Having you clean would be preferable. The emergency shower would hardly be sufficient, not with how the filth seemed to have embedded itself in your skin. With you unconscious, there was no reason to school his expression, the notion only serving to exacerbate the scowl his face set in.

A soak would be easiest.

There was nothing pompous about the washroom attached to his quarters, and a pang of regret had the idea of bringing you to The Regrator's briefly surfacing. The sentiment didn't linger, an unwillingness to be indebted quickly reigning in the myriad of thoughts cluttering his mind in much the same way towels and clothes were currently strewn around the room.

It made a pretty picture, your body curled up against the side of the tub, a few rays of pale light slithering through the lone window to caress your face. A feeling that had never quite been within his grasp lingered in the rays of light, coaxing something painfully unfamiliar to tug at his shriveled heart.

Just a little longer before the tingling in his fingertips would be sated.

Quick work was made of disrobing himself, a watchful eye making sure your head remained above water. Dottore let a weary sigh hang in the otherwise empty silence, hating the hesitation that riddled his movements as his clothes fell to the floor. There was no reason to be reserved about the results of a life lived, the chances of you regaining consciousness would remain negligible for a while.

Finally settling with your weight in his lap was undoubtedly the closest to rapture Dottore had found himself. Arms securely around your midsection, your back flush against his heaving chest, had every uncertainty draining into the water.

Dutifully, one hand tore itself from your form to reach for a clean cloth, struggling for a moment before muscle memory took over, fingertips gracing the fabric without the need to tear his eyes from your parted lips. It was nothing short of tranquil, letting the cloth scrub away the remnants of your excursion with meticulous care.

Dottore saw how your skin turned red from the continued friction and consciously ignored it, some small voice wanting to rub it off completely and leave you a blank canvas.

He looked instead at his reflection in the water, vermillion stare drawn to its counterpart, noting briefly how it wasn't nearly as comfortable as being under your gaze.

At least his subconscious mind had the decency to have left the few areas he'd stitched together alone, not that they mattered in any practical sense, but you'd be distraught if they were gone when you woke. With time, would you be as broken as him?

Only once you'd been scrubbed clean were thoughts of his own desires acknowledged, cock throbbing against your back as soon as attention was diverted to the feeling. A small hiss mingled with the steam from the water, Dottore easily repositioning you to let his length slide between your thighs.

Already, satisfaction rumbled in his chest, vision engulfed by white for a moment upon repeating the soft motion of his hips. Your thighs easily gave way when tugged apart, body every bit as pliant as previously. Having made peace with his impatience long before, his lips were immediately descended upon the crook of your neck, stifling the groans that spilled forth as he aligned himself.

The water provided additional friction, a slight burn dancing against his sensitive tip upon breaching your tight entrance. Soap met his tongue, disgustingly sterile as it danced along his taste buds, only spurring him on to mouth at you with renewed vigor, desperate to taste the sweetness he knew lay buried underneath.

His hips snapped up as the familiar taste invaded his senses, eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being buried to the hilt. Had his faith been intact, a prayer to the archons for your silence would have tumbled from his lips. Warm droplets carved out paths alongside old scars, gathering at his chin before being caught in the soft locks of your hair. Dottore felt his skin crawl as traces of a pained howl bubbled in his throat, body trembling in time with every squeeze of your insides.

If time would remain forever frozen as the land just outside the walls perhaps everything would be more bearable then. Would it banish both the threat of separation and the burden of remaining what he'd made of himself in spite of reality?

Another sound crawled from his lungs, foreign and intrusive when it met his ears, wanton in a way that caused nothing but dissonance. Dottore curled his body around you, panting heavily against the nape of your neck as he sought out some form of relief, his muscles straining with the increased pace.

Stagnating would be of no use, pleasure was fleeting, worthless without contrast.

Dottore felt euphoria flood his system, spine tingling mercilessly as his sharp teeth tore into the pliant flesh beneath. It was a thoughtless action, driven only by the need to claim and consume, satisfying the desperate desire to be whole. Water sloshed against the edges with every rut of his hips, driving himself deeper into the warmth you so selflessly provided.

How much time had passed felt secondary, the only thing truly worth attention being the rapid tightening in his abdomen, pleasure steadily building with every movement. Seeking more, Dottore found his hands had moved down to grasp the curve of your hip, easily hoisting you up to twist your body around.

With a ferocity that should by all means have been concerning, his lips sought a home against yours, relishing in how they had already parted for him. A hand in your hair was all that was needed to stabilize your head enough that he could delude himself into thinking you awake.

That the little puffs of air that passed into his waiting jaws were instead keens and broken moans spilling forth. His tongue pushed into the waiting heat, wanting if he could to explore deeper, have your throat squeeze around his tongue as your body did his cock. Before he could hesitate, the curve of your nape rested in his calloused palm, the appendage twitching with budding excitement.

A light press was all his mind would allow, knowing all too well how little it would take to snap such a precious thing. As intoxicating as holding the fate of another in his hands were, this was wrong, without reason.

It was the way your thighs quivered around his hips that brought order to all those thoughts, tugging your head away for a breath of fresh air to stifle his burning lungs. Only a single breath afforded, diving back in for more as all else lost meaning. He needed more, needed to hear you beg him, needed your hands to tug at his hair, needed-

Water splashed over the edges as he pushed forward, hands grasping for the back of your knees to push them against your chest. His chest heaved at the sight underneath him, growling like a wounded animal as he reaped what he'd cultivated, one hand keeping a leg pinned while the other covered your nose and mouth.

He was so close.

Close enough that every clench of your slick heat choked his thoughts. Close enough that he threw back his head, willing the image of your eyes briefly opening from his mind, focusing instead on the water soothing his burning skin as he gave a last few thrusts, cursing as the thread snapped and released washed over him.

It would've been no surprise if the tub had cracked from the force, even less if you had cracked, his body still shaking from the force of his release, milky white leaking out into the water and dispersing. Your body was swiftly pulled above the surface as Dottore sat back, once more cradling your head to his chest, trying to ignore the emptiness that wanted to force itself along the clarity that came in the wake of euphoria.

He laid your no doubt exhausted frame onto the cot, hastily tossing the grey blanket over your form. The harsh light of the laboratory did little to hide the marks that littered your body, blooming purple along your thighs, fierce red at your shoulders, already tempting him to reach out and touch again. It was a matter of creating distance, unwilling to let attachment fester and consume more, already now the gnawing had returned, weaker than before but far from sated.

By all means, he should've swung the door shut with more force, knowing at the back of his mind that the lock never clicked. It did nothing to stop his body from collapsing onto his unmade bed, pushing at the covers before crawling further up. He didn't find himself opposed to having you drape yourself against his body, rest in his arms.

Would you seek him out by yourself once the sedative wore off?

Would that finally stave off his hunger?

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bitterkarella · 10 months ago

Text

Midnight Pals: Desert Planet 2

Frank Herbert: hey man Fitz James O'Brien: hey Herbert: so uh Herbert: you got any more of that Herbert: special stuff? O'Brien: maybe O'Brien: why don't you sit down and play some mariokart with me for a while

[later, at space coven] Frank Herbert: [manic, nose running] so there's a special drug that makes you hallucinate so hard you can fold space Herbert: its made out of worm shit and it will turn you into a salamander

Herbert: also they have to use the space cocaine to fly cuz computers are haram Herbert: hey is anyone eating this san pedro cactus? Jules Verne: what? no Herbert: anyone mind if i…?

Verne: you know, frank, people usually process that before they eat it Verne: you know to get at the Herbert: [chomping san pedro cactus] yeah the mesaline i know Verne: maybe take the spines out at least Herbert: no no the stabbing gets it into your system faster

Herbert: everyone wants to own this drug Herbert: cuz whoever controls the spice Herbert: controls the universe Herbert: shit, that's pretty good Herbert: quick, someone hand me a pencil, i gotta write that one down

Jules Verne: alright hot shot Verne: so you say whoever controls the spice controls the universe Verne: well answer me this Verne: this spice Verne: does it flow? Herbert: [desperately patting pockets] for the love of christ someone hand me a pencil!!

Herbert: so like everyone is fighting over arrakis Herbert: to get the spice, you know Robert Heinlein: yeah! Yeah!!! fighting!!! yeah! Herbert: that's right Herbert: POLITICAL fighting Heinlein: Herbert: ooo there's so much intrigue Heinlein:

David Lynch: the dark in the deep, the eyes in the snail Herbert: really? a movie of my book? Lynch: the dark in the deep Herbert: oh yeah it's called dune

Herbert: you know, arrakis, dune, desert planet Herbert: and here's the important thing-- Lynch: the eyes in the snail Herbert: exactly! Herbert: NOT A DROP of water Herbert: NOTADROP!!!

Lynch: the dark in the deep the eyes in the snail Herbert: thanks for all coming to this screening of lynch's dune movie Herbert: i'm sure you'll all- Jules Verne: SHOW US THE WORM! Robert Heinlein: WE WANT THE WORM! HG Wells: WORM! WORM! WORM!

Herbert: everyone just wants to see the worm Herbert: maybe they'll be more tuned in to my vision over at midnight society [at midnight society] Poe: WE WANT WORM! King: GIVE US WORM! Lovecraft: WHERE'S THE WORM? Barker: SHOW WORM, COWARD! Koontz: [banging pot] WORM! WORM! WORM!

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #dean koontz #hp lovecraft #frank herbert #hg wells #jules verne #robert heinlein #fitz james o'brien #david lynch

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acapelladitty · 6 months ago

Text

gotta firefight, gotta cool the bad

Pairing: Cooper Howard/Lucy Maclean

Summary: After a marketplace fight, Lucy purchases a gift for Cooper and finds her generosity repaid in kind. (5.3k words)

(warnings for: physical violence, oral sex, mild blood, gun violence, cunnilingus, handjobs, drug use, orgasm)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

"It fucking stinks out here."

In the hustle and bustle of the small marketplace, it wasn't hard for Cooper to find the culprit causing such a nasty violation of his senses. A nearby vendor, their large barbecue hosting rows of neatly sliced and diced mutated fish, was slowly cooking the snacks atop the heated coals and the scent of the roasting fish was enough to even make Lucy's nose twitch as she stood in silent agreement with Cooper.

Glaring daggers at the stall owner, a short woman with greying hair that seemed to defy gravity as it stood on its end, Cooper sauntered past with a disgusted grunt as his eyes cast over the other available wares.

Supplies were low and his long memory had served him well as he recalled this busy little shopping district only just off the path which he and Lucy were treading on their dogged path towards her prick of a daddy.

A quick search of an old barn the previous day had yielded a sweet find; a case full of caps had fallen right into their hands and the sudden flushness marked with the low supplies had forced them to stray from their goals yet again as they chose to make a pit-stop. In the wastelands, good fortune didn't come around often so it was always the better choice to strike while the iron was hot and use their findings for immediate benefits.

Lucy was just looking forward to the distraction.

It had been three days since they'd fucked and nothing dramatic had changed between them outside of Cooper's mean-spirited teasing taking on a more physical edge as he grabbed at her and took more opportunity to brush against her with greater regularity. He hadn't brought up their little roll in the dust and sex to her was as casual as playing a game of cards so she didn't see the point in being the one to mention it.

A dreary sign hung over one of the stalls, offering a limited deal on anyone who required both dental work and haircare, the dental barber lounging beneath his advert with predatory eyes as he watched the handfuls of people slip amongst the varied goods and wares. To his side lay another rickety table, this one housing various pieces of tech and trinkets which Cooper could immediately tell were scavenged from the remaining wreckage of Dusty Dunes.

One of the stalls boasted some pretty decent looking vegetables, the stark green standing out against the muted browns and oranges of the surrounding desolation and Cooper found himself latching his fingers to Lucy's elbow as he all but dragged her over to have a closer look.

The man who owned the stall, his right hand missing a thumb, watched them approach with hateful eyes but Cooper ignored the obvious tension as his gaze zeroed in on his goal.

"How much for the lettuce?"

"Fuck off, mutant."

Smiling dangerously, Cooper took the insult in stride, unbothered by the attitude. People hated ghouls and he was more than happy to meet their disdain with his own.

To his side, Lucy was not quite so calm.

She wasn't ignorant to the way people reacted to Cooper, her eyes and ears were quick to pick up on the whispers and outright nastiness which people afforded him before he could even open his mouth.

"Hey! What's your problem?"

Equality in the vault was an absolute rule. No job or ruling position was limited in who could hold it and all an individual had to do was speak their truths and hope that they garnered enough votes or interest to succeed. Skin colour, gender, sexual persuasion, all irrelevant as they each saw past these things to choose the best person for the job.

To see actual discrimination in the flesh, so to speak, was an aspect of her travels with Cooper which needled her with just how unnecessary it was. That and all the other shit they had to deal with. This at least, she could control.

Regarding her with less open hostility, there was still an edge of disgust in the stall owners features as his gaze roved over her.

"No try before you buy, lady. If you see something you like then I'll tell you a price."

"And what about my friend here?"

Content to let her steam ahead on her one woman crusade to bring some class to this shithole marketplace, the amusement which Cooper hid behind his stoic features was laced with a dangerous warmth that she even gave enough of a shit to speak up for him over such a thing.

"I'll play nice with a pretty lady looking to buy, but I ain't looking to play nice with a fucking mutan-"

His insult cut off by the fingers of Lucy's right hand as they collided across his cheek, the immediate ruckus caught the attention of more than one passer by as numerous guns were pulled free and triggers clicked.

"Don't be so mean!" Lucy exclaimed, righteous fury burning in her veins as she stood her ground, unaware of the growing attention her actions were pulling. "You take that back and say sorry right now."

Spluttering furiously, the humiliated man squared up to her in a moment - his hand raising in the air to meet her in turn with a harsh slap until he found his wrist captured in a punishing hold which dragged a pained squeal from his lips.

"Bad move, buckaroo."

One hand an inch away from snapping the wrist in his iron grip while his other hand held his pistol to the man's nearest thigh, Cooper pulled the trigger and offered up a vicious grin as the prick screamed bloody murder while dropping to the ground.

Cooper whirled in position as he held the attention of the gathered crowd, more than one having trained their own guns on he and Lucy as their little violent show drew an interested crowd.

"Nothing to see here folks." Cooper announced, hands sweeping outwards in a placating gesture as his pistol hung loose from his trigger finger. "Just a fella defending a very pretty lady from a fucking dumbass with a big mouth."

Said dumbass continued to yell on the ground, his leg dripping blood to the dust as he curled his hand around the wound.

By his side, Lucy matched Cooper's placating gesture as she called the crowds attention to herself with a clear of her throat.

"This man," she pointed down at him with a stern finger, her voice carrying as easily as it had across her classrooms as she considered her argument for the crowd, "started it."

A lame finish and one which Cooper barely held back a groan at as he side-eyed her with disgust. With a swift kick, he knocked the screeching man unconscious and told control of proceedings once more.

"Now, as I said, we're not looking for trouble but if trouble wants to find us then we're more than happy to meet her half way."

A vague look of recognition dawned in the features of some of those gathered and it quickly morphed into uncertainty as no one was really prepped for a full on shoot-out with a ghoul who looked comfortable with taking the kill where necessary.

With mutters of disinterest and the holstering of weapons, the few brave members of the crowd who were considering some retaliation appeared to think better of it as they rapidly upped and dispersed back to their own business.

As Cooper helped himself to a fresh head of lettuce, his other hand dropped appropriate payment to the table. His shoulders remaining hunched as the tension of potential violence refused to allow him to truly relax himself, Cooper tore the outer leaves from the lettuce before bringing it to his lips.

The crunch of his bite vaguely repulsing her, Lucy found her eyes drawn to the long line of trinkets which lay off to the stall by her side. Some looked ancient while others had the tell-tale shine of a recently-stolen object and she gazed across the collection until her eyes landed on something which sparked a firm idea in her mind.

Speaking from the side of her mouth as Cooper continued to enjoy his makeshift meal while his legs started up on a fresh journey, Lucy pointed out the object with her replaced finger.

"How much for that?"

This vendor, a one-eyed woman with filthy, matter hair which had been scraped back into a messy bun, offered little more than a casual shrug.

"Eh, eight."

"Done."

Handing over the caps and pocketing the small gift before Cooper could see, Lucy whirled on her heels and followed her ghoulish companion as he continued to devour his lettuce and stroll towards a nearby building; an advert for available rooms hanging over the double doors.

"We'll spend the night, vaultie. Daylight is fading and there's no safe place for camp nearby."

x-x-x-x-x

Payment given and room for the night secured, Lucy glanced around said room with a scrunched nose as she took in the mess.

"Wow. And they charged us for this?"

"Bed, no breakfast, vaultie." Cooper exclaimed with false cheer. "Just be thankful there's no radroaches between the sheets waiting to take a bite of your ass."

"It's not the radroaches I worry about."

The space barely fitting the large cot which functioned as a bed, Lucy shimmied around the side of it as Cooper openly chuckled at her comment and she lifted the sheets to check out the accuracy of his words - just in case.

Cooper continued, his amusement open on his features as he pulled his cowboy hat from his scalp and dropped it to the end of the bed.

"Now, a gentleman would offer the lady the bed and offer to sleep elsewhere. But I ain't no gentleman, and you're not the kind of lady to let a man get a bad back from sleeping like a dog. So, let's agree to share without argument."

Having already fucked him, Lucy shrugged her shoulders - the concept of sharing the space any other way not even having crossed her mind.

"Okay dokay."

It wasn't often Cooper removed his hat for any length of time and Lucy enjoyed the view while it lasted. The shadows of the hat tended to hide the curves of his head, from the way his cheekbones sunk into his skull to the leathered appearance of his scalp, and she narrowed her eyes slightly as she committed them to memory - her fingers itching to run across them.

So distracted, it wasn't until Cooper let out a loud sigh as his clothed body dropped to the bed that Lucy recalled her earlier purchase.

"Hey, I have something for you."

Keeping his eyes closed, Cooper tilted his lips into a smirk.

"Unless it's allowing me to snort a line of chem off a part of you of your own choosing, I ain't interested, sweetheart."

"Nasty." Lucy retorted but kept up her insistence as she nudged the bottom of his shoe with her elbow. "But really, put your hand out and I'll show you."

"Nope."

"Hand out!"

"No. Last time you got a hold of my hands you ripped half my finger off with your teeth like a feral bitch. Ain't falling for that again."

"Shut up and do it. You'll like it."

Giving a weary sigh and mumbling something about her being a nagging mare, Cooper relented and held his hand out as his arm propped his head up to allow him to watch her movements.

"I bought you something down at the market."

Dropping her hand into her pocket, Lucy pulled free the small item and placed it gently into Cooper's extended hand. "It's for your chem. It holds each vial perfectly and it'll stop them from jerking around and smashing in your jacket."

The metal component was light but sturdy enough that Cooper rolled it in his hand to test how much force it could take. His expression was blank, a strange series of emotions flitting through his chest as he considered the last time he had received a gift.

Straining his thoughts, he genuinely couldn't remember a time he hadn't had to fight or bargain for every piece of kit he owned.

It was a surprisingly thoughtful gift and one he immediately put to use as he sat upright and dropped his hand within his side pocket to pull free a few loose vials of chem. Slotting them into place, the little container held each one perfectly and Cooper's lips quirked into a hidden smile before he schooled his face back to a typical smugness.

"Bout time I got some recognition for all the hard work I've been doing here. Working myself like a pack mule to keep your stupid ass alive."

"Well, you're welcome, Cooper." Lucy rolled her eyes but her sarcastic tone dropped into something more earnest as she gazed down at him. "But I think the way that man spoke to you was wrong so I wanted to get you something nice. Because you're better than they think you are."

Looking at her with incredulity, Cooper couldn't help but scoff.

"If you think my hide is so thin that I give a fuck what they think then you don't know me at all, vaultie."

Cooper looked at her, really looked at her, and he could see the discomfort - the hatred which slid off him like water off a ducks back - settle on her skin. She was genuinely bothered by how they treated him and his ghoulish appearance, their unkindness making her unhappy with its perceived unfairness. She was naive as hell, but that unshakeable softness did amuse some part of him that often grew tired of having to fight for every fucking inch of his existence.

"Y'know what, sweetie. I just realised that I left something out there in the market. You stay here to keep the riff-raff out and I'll be back soon."

Striding out the door before the marketplace could fully shut up shop for the night, Cooper sought to even the playing field - uncomfortable fondness making him itch as an idea, much like the one which had afflicted Lucy earlier, blossomed in his mind.

x-x-x-x-x

The last gift Cooper had purchased had been a stunning silver necklace, the metalwork intricate, and he had slipped it over Barb's neck with a smile which matched her own as she watched it settle against her skin in the mirror.

Since the bombs, selfishness had become the way of the world and he wasn't anything if he wasn't quick to get with the times. But he had seen something that he thought Lucy might like.

He had spotted it earlier, the garment hanging on a thin rail with various other pieces. It was a blue slip, the fabric fine and almost like silk as it stood out against the other earthy colours which hung along its side. The ground beneath his feet felt oddly light as he trekked a rapid path back to the stall which he had perused earlier to go and snap it up.

Indicating the rail with a jerk of his hat-clad head, Cooper spoke lowly - enjoying the more relaxed atmosphere of the market as the fading day had robbed a lot of the customers from the area as they slunk off to whatever hole they'd crawled out of.

"How much for the slip?"

Barely glancing up at him, the stall girl - younger than Lucy and much blonder - glanced behind her as she counted her takings for the day, a fat pistol next to fingers to ward off any potential thieves.

"The blue one? Five caps."

Reasonable enough.

"Done." Cooper agreed, slamming the caps down on the wood with a steady hand.

Looking over the payment, the girl expertly unsheathed the slip from its hanger as she handed it over without any hesitation.

"Got a matching pair of heels for you if you want, sugar?" Her voice was surprisingly deep and Cooper held her gaze as she gave him a proper once over before meeting his eyes. "Might not match the duster though."

Tucking the fingers of his left hand in his pockets, Cooper held the slip between the clenched fist of his other hand.

"Blue ain't my colour, sweetie."

And with that, Cooper turned on his heels and headed back to his bed for the night, having concluded his business and desperate for a little bit of extended peace from the pulsing heat of the earlier day. Cooper strode back the room with purpose, forcing several people to side-step out of his way to prevent being knocked to the ground and he found his path unblocked until he stepped through the surprisingly sturdy door which separately his hired room from the outside corridor.

Lucy had made herself comfortable in his absence. Her clothing with minimal, a stained white tank top and matching cotton panties all that preserved her modesty as she reclined atop the bed - her fingers struggling to balance one of his vials of chem on their tips.

"You paying the rent to be sitting around here like a harlot?"

Caught off guard by his comment, Lucy's mouth fell open in comical shock and her eyes narrowed at the insult until she sensed the amusement rolling off Cooper as he tilted his head in her direction.

"Be nice."

"I am being nice." He countered with a grunt. "Last time I let someone share my bed looking like that they had to earn their place."

Perking up, Lucy didn't seem too put off by the idea but Cooper cut off her reply by throwing the slip at her - the thin fabric flying through the air with an almost ghost-like flourish as it landed in a crumpled mess to the side of her legs.

"What's this?"

"Eye for an eye, vaultie. I ain't having a gift hanging over my head like a fucking noose."

"Cooper!" Squealing in delight, Lucy snatched up the fabric with a wide grin and something odd curled in Cooper's chest at how enthusiastically she accepted it as her fingers smoothed it out. "It's gorgeous."

"It's what they had."

"Can I?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out, sweetie."

Without shame, Lucy snatched her tank top and bra free of her upper body and her tits bounced free in such a way that Cooper had to physically stop himself from following their motion with a slight head bob. Clenching his fist, he swallowed down the flare of arousal which pierced his groin at her brazen show of skin.

She was quick to throw the slip over head, the silken fabric trailing across her skin to settle against her frame with a delicious tightness that made Cooper immediately forgive the mild price. The blue stood beautifully against her creamy skin and the neckline was so low that it was practically obscene, the rounded edges of her areolas just beginning to peak free as she knelt up on the mattress of the bed.

"I-It's so pretty."

"Hrm."

"Did you want to see me wearing it?"

It would have been an innocent question if it weren't for the way Lucy's upper body tilted forward to flash even more of her barely concealed tits, and Cooper felt his teeth bite at his his inner mouth as she openly teased him.

"It's your gift. Do what the fuck you want with it."

"Do you want to feel what's under it?"

Asked the question as he once again dropped his hat to the end of the bed, Cooper inhaled deeply at the obvious come on and fired off a quick prayer to a non-existent god as he felt his cock twitch against his thigh. Her brazen attitude towards sex continued to surprise him in a way that he would never confess to her. Hell, he and Barb hadn't even kissed until their third date.

And yet.

Cooper was on her like a rash, his body pinning her own to the bed as he wrapped an arm beneath her shoulders and dropped the other to the hemline of the dress - teasing his fingers along the bottom.

"Are you asking me to fuck you on this here bed, Lucy Maclean?"

Still enraptured by her gift, Lucy gave a girlish giggle as she spread her thighs in open invitation, bringing one hand to his chin and tapping along his jaw as she replied. "You can do what you want with me."

"Big words, vaultie." Cooper growled and his hands worked quickly to slip her panties free - the process made easier by her raising her ass to help out. "But you think you know what I have from one fuck? You got a lot to learn, princess."

Lucy scowled at the nickname, her eyelashes batting as she narrowed her eyes at him, but he ignored it as he returned his hand to her thigh, using his wrist to push the hem of the slip up and expose every delicious inch of her sex.

"Mmm." Humming her agreement, Lucy closed her eyes as she tilted her body further into his grip - her hand coming to rest atop his own as he groped at her skin.

Dragging his first two fingers along her slit, the slight moisture there making him cock a non-existent brow, a sharp gasp escaped Lucy as her eyes flew open to meet his own.

"I can feel it."

With a push, Cooper slipped his two fingers within her hole and the digits sank into the wet, inviting warmth of her as if they were made for it and she responded in kind by clenching to pull him in deeper, immediately greedy for more.

"Well, I would hope so. We've only fucked once so I know i ain't broken it ye-"

"No. Silly man. Not that. Ugh- I mean I can feel it. My finger. It feels so different to yours. It's softer."

Caught off-guard by her comment, Cooper's fingers paused in their motions as they slowly pumped in and out of her deliciously wet cunt. He couldn't feel shit, his own body having grown used to the new finger without too much issue.

Her finger.

Return to sender, he supposed.

"Huh. Who would have thought." Cooper growled, filing her words away for future consideration. "Which feels better?"

At the question, he pulled his slickened fingers free and grazed them along her clit, the digits pushing past the protective hood to give her the fullest experience of their raw touch.

"Gosh, Cooper." Lucy whined, the immediate stimulation of her most sensitive nub causing her to jerk in place. "I don't know."

His fingers were quick to return to her cunt, pressing insistently at her hole until she swallowed him up again, grinding herself into his palm as one of her hands pinched at her left nipple through the silken slip.

"That colour is beautiful on you."

The words slipped free of Cooper's mouth before he could think too much about them but the truth of them was undeniable. A royal blue, the colour stood against her skin with pride, making her dark hair and eyes appear even more intense as they were off-set by how vivid the material was.

So engrossed by his fingers, Lucy either didn't hear him or didn't choose to respond as she continued to chase her own pleasure - her hands alternating between clutching at his leather duster and rolling across her own chest. Taking advantage of that, Cooper snatched his hand free of her and slid it within his pocket to pull free one of his small vials of chem.

"I wasn't kidding about the line, sweetheart. I'm in need of a pick-me-up and I'll let you choose the syringe."

"Thigh." Lucy responded with heat, her hands tugging the slip fully over her hips to expose her entire lower half. "You can take it from there but if I feel teeth then I'm shooting you with your own gun."

Emptying a small line of the vial onto the willing creaminess of her thigh, Cooper was quick to lick up the mixture of radaway and other addictives like a man possessed, his tongue dragging across her flesh to taste both the drugs and her sweat-slicked skin - a delight which flooded his mouth and made him shudder.

His little vaultie had a side to her that kindled that wicked sense of humour which refused to abandon him, even through the horrors he had both suffered and enacted, and in rare moments like this, Cooper felt a touch of his old self emerging; the rogue cowboy determined to play.

Cooper slipped his head higher, snaking his mouth further along the curve of her smooth skin as he kissed a sordid line along her inner thighs towards his goal. The scent of her arousal was clear, calling him towards her cunt like a sirens song as he momentarily mourned how long it had been since he'd gotten to enjoy such a simple act.

Cooper Howard had always loved giving head, almost as much as he loved getting it and goddamn if he didn't miss the feeling of having a pair of thighs warming his ears.

Lucy didn't seem to mind his eagerness as her thighs spread even wider, soft moans crossing her lips as her hands settled on the back of his head to pull him closer while he teased at her innermost thigh.

"Not even a little teeth, sweetie?" Breathing through words against her sex, Cooper didn't wait for an answer as he licked a salacious line across her slit - tasting her truly for the first time and feeling his cock jerk as it remained woefully neglected within his slacks.

Willing to deny himself for the moment as a little boon to her earlier, unexpected, defense of him, Cooper locked his hands around her thighs as he dove into the expectant meal before him. His nose bumping against her clit, his tongue immediately set to work as it followed up his initial lick with some much more controlled movements.

Lucy, her upper body reclining against the sheets, felt her breath catching in her throat at the sudden onslaught of pleasure that sparked across her cunt at his instant enthusiasm. Crying out in the quiet room, the sensation of his roughened skin pressing against her sensitive cunt was intense - his choice to devour her like a final meal making Lucy writhe in place as her hands flew to wrap around his hairless head.

Licking, biting, sucking and nibbling away at her, the lurid sound of Cooper's mouth as it worked on her cunt was obscene and Lucy locked her thighs around his head as she ground herself roughly into his face - forcing him to tactfully pull free for air when possible.

Enthralled by the little noises of pleasure which she mewled out, Cooper gathered Lucy's clit between his chapped lips and suckled it with a teasing hum. A move which almost cost him his life as her thighs clamped around his head and her fingers dug crescent shapes into his scalp as she rode herself on his mouth - her obvious and sudden orgasm even catching him by surprise as she pressed against him desperately.

Cooper snatched himself free, allowing her a small respite by lapping at her hole to gather some of his prize as it dripped free of her. The soft, dark curls which framed her cunt were wet, glistening with her arousal and Cooper found himself rolling his groin against the bedsheets to satisfy some of the need in his aching cock; his own pre-cum making the feeling in his pants more than a little uncomfortable.

"It hasn't felt like that befor- Cooper that was really good." Breathless and sated, Lucy's dark hair fanned behind her head in a mess as a hot flush stained her cheeks. Catching sight of his harsh positioning against the sheets, a sudden look of questioning entered her wide eyes and it only took a moment for her to work out what he was doing.

Lucy held back a soft laugh, as she slid her body further down the bed so that she was more in line with Cooper's positioning. Smiling brightly at him as his blazing eyes watched her with open arousal, she was unstoppable as her hand snaked its way towards his clothed cock. Her own features slack with pleasure, Lucy sighed as her hand wrapped around his cock - feeling just how hard his treatment of her had left him as he allowed her to grab him as she pleased.

"Golden rule." She muttered.

Quickly freeing his cock from its confines, his livid length jutted proudly from his groin as she ran her hand along the shaft, only pausing to gather some of the pre-cum which leaked freely from his slit to help her hand glide more smoothly. The texture of his cock against her soft fingers was so interesting that she could help but look down at her own actions, watching his cock slip between her fisted hand as she committed each inch to memory - from the darkened head to the prominent vein which ran along the underside of his shaft.

So different to anything she'd seen before.

But so goddamn good.

Already on the edge, it only took a few gentle strokes for Cooper to come undone - his balls tightening as he openly groaned out his pleasure, his lips forming around the grunts and whines without shame as his release arced gracelessly over her fist and wrist. Satisfied with her work, Lucy feel back to the sheets once more and exhaled as Cooper matched her movements; both bodies laying diagonally across the bed like marionettes with their strings long since cut.

Lucy surveyed the mess on her hand and they both lay in compatible silence, gathering their breath. Despite his ghoulish differences, his cum was just like the others - same colour and consistency.

A fact which made her wonder.

Bringing her stained hand to her lips, Lucy licked off the cum which stroked across her fingers and Cooper had to resist the pathetic urge to groan at the sight of her tasting him. Willingly. Even enthusiastically.

Fuck, she was going to kill him.

"If you're going to be doing shit like that, then you'll need to up your radaway, sweetheart. It won't knock you up but the factory that's cooking it ain't exactly meeting normal standards."

Feeling the salt and slight acridness of his release an interesting taste across her tongue, Lucy rolled to her side as she turned to face him completely. The fact that he still wanted to have sex with her after the first time made warmth spread across her skin and she basked in that satisfaction as she spread her knees slightly to take the pressure off her sensitive cunt, her entire sex feeling wet and sticky with her release and his mouth.

"It's sweet when you think of me."

Unable to help the selfish picture of her lips wrapped around his cock as she swallowed him down from flashing through his mind, Cooper was willing to allow her to continue in her more innocent reasoning of his actions as he grunted out his retort.

"I'm a charitable man when you get to know me, vaultie."

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 7

#damn fic ended up like 3k bigger than it was supposed to lmao #ghoulcy #vaultghoul #cooper x lucy #Lucy x cooper #cooper howard #lucy maclean #ghoul x lucy #lucy x ghoul #fallout #fallout tv series #fallout fanfic #fallout smut #cooper howard x lucy maclean #the ghoul x lucy #the ghoul x lucy maclean #fallout amazon #fallout prime

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theredofoctober · 1 year ago

Text

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHT: VEAL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the eighth chapter in the series. Apologies for the reupload, the first was the incorrect version.

---

You lie in Hannibal’s bed like a bird fallen dead through a window, the back of your hand across your brow, to its fevered heat. The muted rush of the shower sifts under the bathroom door, or perhaps it is only the rain, or both at once, a sonic symmetry.

You feel something of yourself washed away in it, a dune left dry in your defeat. Almost in apathy you turn on your side, thighs closed over the moisture between.

Hannibal returns to the bed in pyjama bottoms, his hair damp, and smelling expensively clean. Rather than meet his eyes, you look at the pictures over the bed— Japanese woodblock prints, you think, the figures rendered indistinguishable by the hearth-lit dark.

“Why did you break into my house?” you ask, as Dr Lecter climbs in under the sheets, beside you.

“I curate all things in my life with ambition to procure their highest quality,” he says. “Frequently this entails a thorough knowledge and familiarity with their origins. I had to be quite certain of yours before I began our therapy.”

You envision him, in the market of life, touching your name in the letter your parents had sent to him for the synaesthesic taste of you.

“Like going to a vineyard to look at the grapes,” you say.

Hannibal smiles, charmed by the observation.

“Quite so. I believe you would make a most excellent wine.”

“Spit me out,” you mutter. “Pour me away. I’ll spoil.”

“Or age into magnificence. You dismiss your latent potential.”

You feel one of Hannibal’s deft hands tracing your back as comfortably as a paramour of ten years’ intimacy, a subtle exertion of dominance. Each stroke is a statement: I am king here, and you will kneel with your lips to my shoe.

You shrug from his touch, carving a gully of mattress between you.

“What makes what you’re doing to me any different from the Silicone Lover?” you ask. “To me, you’re one and the same. What makes you any better than he is?”

There is a practised caution as Hannibal answers.

“An elevated craftsmanship. There is little artistry in his dolls.”

The weather makes an ocarina of the windowpane, so like a scream as to be a cipher of dread.

“You’d murdered people, haven’t you?” you ask, softly. “I can feel it.”

Silence, then, densely impenetrable. You dare not glance over your shoulder, nor take even a breath in the certainty that you have smelled death on this man like a fox.

“You are tired, little one,” says Hannibal. “Go to sleep.”

He speaks almost blandly, the deflection more terrible than an answer.

“You’re not going to... do it with me again?” you ask.

Hannibal looks up at you from his pillow, his eyes a gelid null. To prise his face, lid-like, from its cistern of penumbra— you would give your heart to do it, eager to part with so useless an object in the trade.

“In the morning, perhaps,” says Dr Lecter. “Not now. Rest.”

As though by the conjuration of some fell magician you do, lying as far from the man as you’re able without tumbling from the edge of the bed.

You dream again of the forest, dirt-drowned and blood-mired in the October deep. The stag-horned man has his spade to your throat, one foot on the blade; only a second figure, a streak of night, coaxes the digger from his mortal blow.

“No,” he says, in Will Graham’s voice. “I want to keep her.”

The nightmare closes on the stag-man’s answer.

“Then, for your sake, she lives tonight.”

The light is the blue of Neptune’s morning as you choke awake in Hannibal’s room. Your dream hangs upon you like a mantle of lead. You wait for it to lift, and it doesn’t, for the stag lies beside you, his face made gentle by sleep.

As you lean over to extract yourself from the quilt his hands are at your wrists with an oily quickness, holding them above your head against the pillows. Fear thickens your throat, stoppering the cartilage of all ensuing sound— yet Hannibal is smiling, as he peers down at you, quite playful, a laddish glee about him.

“It’s early,” he says. “Are you so eager to leave my bed already?”

“Yes,” you say. “Obviously.”

Dr Lecter draws back the sheet to look at your body, a hand following his gaze until you are wet around his fore and middle fingers.

“Not so obvious. You welcome me.”

The head of his cock meets its slick mark, and you pull at the fist that restrains you, shamed and flushing against your delicacy in his arms.

You’re as supple as leather against him, the slow wax of his cock in your channel unfairly pleasant.

“I don’t want it,” you whimper even as you ache to ribbon your legs about his hips to lead him in. “Dr Lecter—”

He takes your jaw in his hand, the cup of his thumb against your windpipe recalling his deathly potentiality. You feel his pulse through it, and wonder that such a man can be alive, is not merely a vampiric creature stepped from some crumbled ruin, bloodless, wanting.

“Are you going to murder me, one day?” you ask him, in a child’s plaintive whimper. “If you do, don’t just throw my body away, like the Lover. Send me home to my family. Say it was my fault. An accident. Just let them bury me.”

Hannibal releases your throat, opening his hand, instead, against your heart as though he may rejoin its broken halves with its warmth, a soft, red, clay.

“You must trust that your life is precious to me,” he tells you. “It becomes more so with each day that you are here.”

Were you free of him you’d recoil, but now can only wince and utter your rejection of what is surely a saccharine lie.

Hannibal’s grip tightens on your wrist, and as he thrusts into you again you shut your eyes against the Lyrid shower of orgasm. You sense him leaning over you, pleased that you’re fawning when you could fight.

The Silicone Lover’s victims didn’t resist, and they died for it, floating, forgotten, through the lichenous entrails of the riverbed. You think of your dream, relieved from your grave by the man that first fucked you, and you realise yourself on the cusp of some epiphany, though its nature eludes you in the midst of ministrations.

A telephone rings, shrill in the sapphire room.

Dr Lecter presses an apologetic kiss to your brow and withdraws, still hard, pulling his pyjama shirt around him.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

He picks up the telephone receiver and leaves the room with it, noiseless as a spectre on bare feet.

You lie, prone, hearing your heart thump against your temporal membrane in a tinnitus that returns in times of particular agitation. As a child you’d imagined it as boot steps along some grimy underpass, the approach of some villain without a face you now know to have come.

Hannibal reappears, his expression guarded.

“It seems we are to receive another visitor today. My colleague, Alana Bloom, would like to speak to you.”

You climb out of bed, sucking a breath through your teeth at the cold.

“Really?” you ask. “How come?”

“Jack’s taken a liking to you. He has asked Alana to act as a neutral third party throughout your treatment.”

Though as cordial as ever, you discern a particular coolness to Hannibal’s tone you take as disapproval.

“You know I didn’t really tell Jack anything, right?” you ask, following Hannibal into the bathroom. “He doesn’t know what you’ve done to me. He has no idea.”

“No,” says Hannibal, taking his toothbrush from a cabinet by the sink. “But you’ve given him cause to believe you’d fare better in a specialised unit, amongst your peers. That’s not the impression you’ve given me.”

You think of the competition of inpatient treatment, amongst the women, the ferocity with which you’d starve yourself to shame their ranks with your commitment.

“My doctors used to threaten to send me to Forest Ranch or Six Stream,” you say. “They were like bogeymen for me. Now I... I don’t know. I heard they don’t let you out until you’re weight restored.”

Dr Lecter watches you plucking at your body in the mirror, an unconscious motion you withdraw from as you catch his eye.

“That’s not what I seek to accomplish,” he says. “It would be a predictable outcome in which relapse would be imminent. Here, I only expect flexibility from you, an open mind. Belief in my guidance.”

He pauses to brush his teeth, even this menial act carried out with a dignified grace.

“But Dr Lecter,” you protest. “If someone did what you’ve done here to Will, you’d want him to try and get away, right? You can’t be mad at me for trying.”

Hannibal spits into the sink, and it occurs to you that you’ve witnessed something quite intimate, an act unimaginable of such a sophisticated man.

“Any action that threatens my liberty to act and live as I please will be penalised,” he says. “I value my freedom above all things.”

Except Will, you think.

Aloud, you say, “I value my freedom, too.”

Reaching politely across you to the hand towel, Hannibal comments, “Yet it is hunger you kneel to as your God.”

Stung, you sit down hard on the rim of the bath.

“What would you have me worship instead?” you demand. “You?”

“A dangerous question. Priestesses in many cultures have been known to abstain from sustenance in servitude to higher powers. Likewise, some saints historically starved themselves to imitate the suffering of Christ, or else to demonstrate a miracle.”

Hannibal touches your chin, smoothing its obstinate edge.

“Were you to survive on manna alone would you think yourself relieved of what crosses you bear? Or is it that in evading sustenance you are purifying yourself in order to be worthy of an immaculate God?”

There is something in his words you relate to, though you’d lie on a bed of nails before expressing this to Hannibal Lecter.

“Come downstairs,” he says, into your silence. “I’ll make breakfast. Don’t misbehave, when Alana arrives. I wouldn’t want to be ashamed of you.”

There is something in the avocado toast, or else the accompanying orange juice, a medicinal venom. You think of past nights you’d drank yourself into a mirage of vertigo, each ending, moaning, on a bathroom floor as though the liquor had changed you back to the child you’d been in Jekyllian fashion.

You are like that now, gawky and uncoordinated, walking flat-footed in Hannibal’s wake as he makes order of the living room in preparation for Alana’s arrival.

Overfull, you wear your body like an ill-fitting dress, its clinging garments a mile from the outsize sweaters you yourself would have chosen. Shapeless, smothering, warm were your selections, in swatches of Nyx, lacquered nails and canvas shoes to match.

The colour of your dress is of suitable darkness, if not the style of it. Your teenage years remain indelible upon your sense of taste, time seeming to have broken down like an ancient engine in the decade your starving manifesto began.

Today you feel even younger still, a state contrived by Dr Lecter to tighten his control upon you in company, and make an obedient daughter of his embittered victim.

With scarce hope of turning any friend of Hannibal’s against him, you conform to his rigid will. Curling up with your head on the arm of the sofa, you count out seconds into minutes, another childhood habit.

Hannibal turns to you, appraising your ennui with a dry amusement.

“You’ll like Alana, my darling,” he says. “Just as you liked Jack.”

“Would they like you if they knew what kind of man you are, Dad?” you ask, cuttingly.

“They would not. That is why there are many faces I wear, and with them I choose only the most pleasant mask.”

Dr Lecter glances at another of his favoured woodblock prints on the wall, a depiction of kabuki actors in varying guises, and you see with a cold vein of shock that he has, across the house, hung up his soul for all to see, if only they knew it.

“You, too, take pains to manufacture appearance,” says Hannibal. “You play the part of the embittered introvert well, but there is a quarter of darkness, even a malice that is beginning to ascend the oubliette you have built to keep it in.”

Snorting, you shove your face under one arm.

“Wonder why.”

“I saw it in my office. It long precedes Will and I.”

There comes a jaunty little knock on the front door, the sound of a guest entering the foyer.

Dr Lecter smooths his manner into one of welcoming warmth, an alarming opposition to the man that fucked and restrained you to the tragedy of climax but two hours past.

Footsteps tread lightly through the house, with the click of low-heeled boots.

Alana Bloom appears, her hair smoke dark, her narrow eyes the blue of an enchantment, and of Hannibal’s room. Something of winter, in her beauty, pale skin whiter still against a suit of fitted darkness.

As with all women you meet, you analyse Alana, helplessly, finding her slim in the way that suggests health, but not restriction; you would know it at once from the shape of the bones in her hand or shoulder blade, a bloodlessness of the lips, a slow death in her gaze, the fairy-tale of hunger.

Some disorders of eating are invisible even to your eye, of course, thinness being no requirement for the trickster king of starving, but it is one guise it wears, when close to the edge, and the most familiar. Alana, however, is rosy with an undeniable vigour, having the face of a woman that adds sugar, unthinking, to her coffee, and enjoys a beer after a long afternoon.

She is the unachievable: beautiful, and well. You are suddenly, sourly jealous.

As Hannibal casts a mild glance towards Alana you see that there is a comfortable and entirely mutual attraction between them. This woman does not know the depths of Hannibal’s carnality, imagines him an affable eccentric, a sometime lover, nothing more. She returns his look with a crooked smile, and again there is that sanguine pulse of envy through you, turning you almost against her.

“I’ll leave you alone, for a moment,” says Dr Lecter, lightly. “I’m sure you’ll find Jack’s concerns largely unwarranted.”

“We’ll see,” says Alana, then, addressing you, she adds, “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.”

You watch Hannibal dissipate into the shadows of the doorway, doubting he goes much further than the wall beyond.

“Hi,” you say, at last, quite listlessly.

Your mouth is loose around the word. You’ve never wanted less to speak.

“You know who I am, and why I’m here to see you today?” Alana ventures.

Her voice is soft, level, the tones of therapists the world over. Perhaps she hopes to incur a bond between you, to pierce your ice with a pick of female sensitivity.

“I know about you,” you say. “Dr Lecter told me.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

You see the tension in Alana’s forehead, an attempt to read the glaze in your eyes and coiled skink of your posture.

“You’ve made quite a friend in Jack already,” she says. “Usually he wouldn’t get involved with any of Hannibal’s work outside the FBI, so him asking me to see you means a lot. I want you to understand that. I’d also like you to know that while we’re both close to Dr Lecter, if this situation truly isn’t right for you, we’ll express that.”

Unmoved, you pluck at the edge of a couch cushion, letting Alana wade through the quiet alone.

“I have to admit that I was shocked to hear that you were staying here with him,” she says. “It’s... unusual. I’m still trying to figure out that decision.”

With Hannibal listening, an omnipotent threat, you only blink, rubbing your socked foot against the carpet.

“But,” Alana continues, sitting down beside you, “Hannibal has explained to me that he thinks you’d be unhappy in a facility.”

You edge away from her, trying not to look at her slender wrists, the small, lacquered fingers.

“Well,” you mutter. “I’m not happy here.”

“You weren’t happy at home either, so I’m told,” says Alana, softly. “So where would you be happy?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt it in a while, I guess.”

Misery overcomes you, and you begin to shiver, which Alana, with seamless tact, elects to ignore.

“When was the last time you were happy that you remember?” she asks, and you shake your head.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Rubbing your eyes with the side of one hand, you say, “It was at my lowest weight. I felt so light, full of, you know, good cheer and kindness towards people because it was just easy to be nice when I felt good about myself. I knew I looked sort of scary, but I thought I looked sort of amazing, too.

“It’s weird. How I hated how sick I was. I hated myself, and I cried all the time, and yet I loved it. I felt like I belonged somewhere— there was this community for people like me, and I fit in. I was one of the best. Then the doctors said I had to gain weight, and it was all ruined. I lost my place, and I was back to feeling awful every minute of the day.”

You take a breath, cursing the childishness of your every mannerism, that you are so much less of a woman than the being beside you.

“Here, Dr Lecter controls everything,” you say. “Not one single thing is my choice, or what I’d do. I don’t even have a TV in my room. Everything I ask, he says no. I don’t have a future. Everything feels grey and pointless, and I wish he’d just leave me alone.”

Something pushes against one of your fists: a subtle square of tissue.

“I agree that there needs to be quite a few changes around here,” says Alana. “Maybe we can start by asking Dr Lecter to set you some short-term goals. Has he discussed any with you yet?”

“He wants me to finish a book,” you say, reluctantly. “The Idiot. Dostoevsky.”

Alana’s low brows rise.

“Wow. That sounds a little intimidating.”

The statement could easily be patronising, but isn’t. Like Jack, Alana has her reservations, and does not conceal them.

“So far it’s actually pretty good,” you say. “Sad, though. It’s about this poor guy who’s sort of in frail health, and seems kind of strange, so everybody is horrible to him. Every chapter you hope somebody will understand him or treat him right, and nobody ever does.”

“I see,” says Alana. “Maybe Hannibal is trying to make you be a little kinder to yourself. You’re an intelligent, creative young woman with a future ahead of you. I think Dr Lecter sees that in you, wouldn’t you agree?”

The affection in her eyes is so sure, so wrongly led, that it breaks you like antique glass.

“Alana,” you say. “What if I told you that Hannibal was—”

You remember his presence, suddenly, eavesdropping as you yourself have often done.

Alana frowns, her folded hands stilling in her lap.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Don’t answer, you think, but your tongue unlatches of its solitary accord to speak.

“I don’t feel safe around Will and Hannibal. I don’t really like... men. There are things that have happened to me. I— I feel dirty all the time. When they look at me, touch me, it’s exactly like that.”

“I promise you that Will and Hannibal are not like that at all,” Alana says, firmly.

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t. They could lie to you.”

Alana looks at you for a long time before she answers, treading a pinched line between sympathy and duty.

“If something happened to you, I can help you report it. Even if it was a long time ago. Historic cases are a lot harder to prove in court, but it might benefit you to have it on record.”

“And if it was recently?” you ask, with daring abandon.

“Depending how recently, there’s a process you’d follow,” says Alana. “For instance, you could go to a hospital and have a rape kit taken. They’d document the evidence, take photographs, and your statement. It would be thorough and difficult, but it would help you find justice. Is that something that would be helpful right now?”

Forthright and serious, she nevertheless does not—cannot—believe that Will and Hannibal are your injurers, looking back through the tunnel of past at some assailant yet unnamed.

“I was just wondering,” you mumble, and Alana withdraws, realising she cannot get through to you.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m going to have a talk with Hannibal. See if he’s willing to make some adjustments for your comfort. I’ll come and see you again in a week or so to check in on you. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It will. Bye, Alana.”

You look down, seeing the tissue ripped into dehydrated snowflakes in your hand.

Quietly, sensitively, the woman leaves.

It is half an hour before Hannibal renters the room, danger lying, flat-bellied, beneath his affable smile.

“I overheard your conversation, with Alana,” he says, plainly. “The thread of some notion of leaving with her. Of alerting the police. Let it go. I will never leave a trace of myself within you when guests are expected, little one.”

He pauses, seeming to search your face for a response that is not there.

“You don’t expect to see justice.”

You allow the pieces of tissue to fall from your hand, picking off the last damp shreds with the border of one bitten fingernail.

“No.”

“Then your attempts to escape are entirely self-harming,” says Hannibal, in genuine disappointment. “All your life you’ve been looking for someone to take responsibility for the acts that you must do to survive. To be caged, to you, is liberty, for behind such bars you’ll no longer be culpable for shame or failure. Why do you spurn what I would gladly give?”

“It wasn’t given,” you say. “It was forced.”

“By necessity, yes. For you to consent, you would have been made to acknowledge your own sin, and you’re not capable of that, are you, little one?”

Hannibal leans down and kisses a tear from your cheekbone.

“Soon, you will attend a therapy session with me. You will tell me what you were on the verge of offering to Alana.”

In the early evening, Will Graham arrives; you see him crossing the driveway from a window, pulling a leaf from one wayward curl with a grimace. Since Alana’s visit you’ve been on the couch in a drugged malaise, but upon hearing him stamp dirt from his shoes on the welcome mat you are taken up by the senseless notion to go to him.

He is not Hannibal. He is the man that saved you from the earth, in your dreams. A beast, but one you may learn to ride, being that, in his rudderless madness, he seeks companionship in the dark.

Certainly, you are not yourself, to think this, are exhausted to the point of insensibility by Hannibal’s slow cruciation of the mind.

Orphaned from logic, you run to Will, catching him as he strolls through the foyer. You behold a startled look of horror before you leap into his arms, unable to articulate yourself beyond a howl of sobbing hurt. He stands, ossified against you, an indurate oblong of disgust.

Then, with the suddenness of resignation, he sags into a nearby chair with you in his lap and rocks you there until you quiet.

His heart is quick under his shirt, his hands at your back quaking, dismayed. Glancing up, you see his mouth is a near lipless line, but then it breaks, and he hushes you, more as though you are a pet than human.

“An unexpected sight,” says Hannibal, looking into the foyer. “I didn’t think you had much liking for our girl.”

Will grinds his teeth.

“I don’t. But I do pity her. I’m afraid that by the time we’re done with this experiment she’ll be dissolved by our cruelty.”

“Like the little mermaid by the sea,” Hannibal comments. “Condemned by love’s rejection. Will you continue to rebuff her, after this?”

“I’ve been participating since the beginning.”

“And so you see that cruelty is often a necessary force. A common occurrence in nature, and in the culinary world. Veal is a biblical evil, for example, infanticide for the selfishness lusts of men.”

“We’re selfish, alright,” says Will, adjusting your weight in his arms. “Besides, doesn’t cruelty affect the flavour of the meat?”

Hannibal laughs indulgently.

“Are you intending to eat her, Will?”

The younger man lifts his chin.

“Are you?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” Dr Lecter replies, with a wicked merriment. “But in the other, we’ve both sampled her, and have no regrets. Do we?"

#hannibal fic #manna fic #hannibal x reader #hannibal fanfiction #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #will graham reader #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #tw noncon

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loserlvrss · 6 months ago

Text

𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

the world crumbled a long time ago. humanity could've died off — and, some would say it had — but, in reality, all it did was prosper under new circumstances. broken shreds of what remained, nature reclaimed, intertwining with the wires of the programming. Some would die just to be in the network of higher-ups, and some would rather watch the world burn a hundred times over. the question wasn't, which are you? it's who are you? In a place where somebody is really nobody.

a place where technology hadn't died: the sector one. the place where nobody who was ever somebody lived. a distant place to almost everyone else. only handing itself out on a silver platter to the, self-proclaimed, elite of the elite — old money, nepotism and pure coincidence — people lied, stole, betrayed, killed and died just for a place amongst the best of the worst. no one deserved the title this place disguised them with, wasting and polluting an already hellish world.

but, there was a whisper against the wind. the monarch's reign would soon come to fall — the reapers alongside. sector one would no longer prosper off the graves of its people. the walls would crumble as the old habits died. all it would take was eight pirates and one so-called princess to overthrow reality and start a revolution where everyone could be anyone.

there weren't mercenaries anymore, just a new world. and, all you had to do was step into it.

genre // romance, dystopian, cyberpunk, cybercore, drama, alternate universe, action, enemies to lovers, suggestive, smut, love triangle, multi x reader, series, comedy, post-apocalyptic universe, chapters

estimated word count // ≈ 32-50k

theme warnings // language, descriptive death & fights, blood, gore, sexual & suggestive content, substance abuse (drugs & alcohol)

status // ongoing, will post when i have time <3

playlist // wake up ateez, poison love dreamcatcher, wet dream snow wife, predator lee gi kwang, xs rina sawayama, do or die dpr artic dpr ian, i’m not a woman i’m a god halsey, coma dvii, silver light ateez, supernova aespa, ganma lexie liu, cyberpunk ateez, addicted pixy, another life key, gottasadae bewhy, daisy ashnikko, this world ateez, bad alive wayv, django ateez, claws kim petras, nightmare trendz, bound key, break it off — bonus track pinkpantheress, new world ateez, spoiled bitch tiffany day, eenie meenie chungha hongjoong of ateez, gods league of legends new jeans, dune ateez, the bat nct u, what do you want from me? bad omens, side by side bewhy, misa misa! corpse scarlxd cordhell, set it off league of legends dpr live jimmycline, halazia ateez, rpm sf9, iris pastel ghost

author’s note // tag list open !!

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight ++ more to be added !!

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otrtbs · 10 months ago

Text

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ an otrtbs submission for the @sillylovesongsfest ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

prompt: pierre by ryn weaver

jarty croucher | t | 4.1k | slightly sexual themes and recreational drug use

Barty rolls over and groans at the sun-soaked tent he finds himself in. It’s sweltering hot and the thin cotton top sheet of the makeshift bed clings to his sticky skin. The tent is too bright and it smells sour with stale tobacco and weed.

It would be enough to make Barty vomit if there was anything left in his stomach.

There’s sand everywhere.

“It’s so fucking humid in here,” he groans, as his brain pounds against his skull. “I can’t breathe.”

A voice in the bed next to him makes him jump.

“It rained last night, remember?”

Barty turns to see a head of nearly white curly hair fanning out over the blue tarp next to him. A girl, no, the girl from last night laying on her stomach, still half-asleep.

“Fucking torrential.”

Barty didn’t remember. Not really.

The night before was coming back to him in bits and pieces. Alcohol-soaked frames of cognizance.

He remembers fighting with James again. Screaming so loud that his voice was hoarse and his throat was scratchy. This time was the last time. Never come back here again. He remembers hearing about some giant rager in the desert. Something about celebrating the blood moon. There were caravans of people and bonfires and music by the time Barty showed up.

He remembers not knowing anyone there. Heard from a friend of a friend. He was a drifter. A party crasher. None of that mattered once he was there though. A group of people pulled him in like they’ve known him his entire life, and soon enough he had a cup of something that burned his throat in his hand and a girl dragging him closer to the fire.

He remembers the brutal sun casting heat waves so violent that everything seemed to shimmer and dance slightly around him. Pockets of sun-induced water appeared just beyond the sand dunes and disappeared by the time Barty walked over to them.

He drank until the sun went down, he took everything offered to him. He sweats out all of the vodka in his system just to down more in a steady stream. He barely recalls the red moon rising high above him, ruddy and ominous.

When the desert got cold, that’s when the real party started.

Some man’s hand around his throat, some girl’s tongue in his mouth. Everything pulsating and dully muted around him. Bodies pressing up against his, hands through his hair, a settling chill to cool the sticky heat.

The girl pulls away. Stark white hair like an angel in the desert. Billowy white clothes like a ghost.

And Barty wants to be haunted.

Sand slipping through his hands. She weaves in and out of the crowd once she decides she’s done with him, but he follows as closely as he can.

Eventually, she stops and turns around again, the shadows from the fire flicker on her face.

“I have something to help with dullness,” she shouts over the noise, the people, the music, the blood rushing in his head.

“What?” He hadn’t realized he’d said that part out loud.

She sticks out her tongue so Barty can see a little white tab with a smiley face on it. It has three eyes, and one of them winks at him.

He puts his mouth on hers in grateful acceptance and the tab finds its way under his tongue.

“Who are you?” Barty asks, voice reverent as he eyes the tattoo on her shoulder. Little horns inked into her skin. “An angel?”

She laughs as she pulls him closer. Her nails are sharp like claws and for a second Barty thinks she might rip him apart. Feels like he’s been caught. Her teeth sharp and glinting at the sight of his throat.

“Maybe I’m the devil.”

That’s where his memory ends. For the most part.

He holds a hand up to his sore lip and winces. Runs his tongue over it and tastes the dried blood.

“Fuck,” he groans.

The girl sits up and as soon as Barty sees her pale green eyes blinking back at him he smiles.

“Pandora.”

“Hm. So you do remember.”

“Vaguely,” Barty croaks through chapped lips. “I can’t believe I slept in a tent in the desert on the floor.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you do this all the time. No offense.”

“None taken,” Barty sighs, as he examines his stinging palm to see a raw and, now dried, bloody cut spanning the lifeline on his skin. “What the fuck?”

“It was the sacrifice to the moon,” Pandora supplies breezily as Barty moves to stand up.

“Right, whatever that fucking means,” Barty brushes her off.

Maybe he should be more concerned about the whole ordeal, but he wasn’t. It was actually…fun. A good release of energy.

He would’ve hated it.

He would’ve insisted that Barty stay the night at his place instead. Entertain him with something less risky. Something more self-serving.

Barty shakes his head to clear his thoughts. At least last night he hadn’t thought of him at all. Now, the harsh light of the morning was screwing things up again.

Pandora helps him search the sand and surrounding tents for his keys and his wallet, and some various other items before she points him in the right direction and Barty makes the trek back up the road to his car.

She tells him there’s another party next month. He tells her he’ll think about it.

The drive back is quiet. Barty doesn’t turn on the radio, it’ll only aggravate his already pounding head.

Instead, he thinks.

What would he think if Barty told him what he did?

Told him he held out his bleeding palm to the fire and listened as the blood sizzled on the rocks and wood beneath it. Told him he danced in the desert in the pouring rain and slept in a sandy tent as the alcohol coursed through his system. Told him he stayed out all night, not bothering to call home. Not bothering to tell a single other person where he was.

He’d be appalled. He’d probably sigh in disappointment, or better yet, he’d yell when Barty finally bothered to answer his call the next week.

It’s not Barty’s fault that James liked him because he was rough around the edges. Too sharp to hold onto without bleeding. Too impulsive to see a long-term future with. Too mean to have breakfast with the next morning.

It’s why it was fun. Something with an expiration date. Manufactured good times in a bottle– consequence-free-fucking.

But then it got confusing.

Barty wishes he would call. But he’s thankful he doesn’t.

A few weeks later, Barty finds himself at the front row of some dive bar-turned-concert-venue sipping a warm and flat beer. The place is crowded and loud, and the air is warm with the stench of alcohol and weed. He’s pretty sure someone in the back is giving out makeshift tattoos for five dollars. He’s pretty sure he’s gonna take the guy up on the offer after the show.

Some girl, in a poor attempt to dance, knocks into him and sends his beer sloshing over the side of his cup and onto the floor.

He doesn’t really mind though. Because it’s that occurrence that causes the bass player to look at him. Really look at him as he sways along to the music, and nods his head to the beat.

Barty gives a small smirk and raises his plastic cup in response and the bass player smirks back at him. A challenge. A dare. One that Barty knows well.

Barty watches him all night. Dark, muscled arms strumming along, plucking the strings. He’s so close Barty can see his short paint chipped fingernails and calloused hands. His hair bleached almost white, falls in twists that he shakes every once in a while as they fall in front of his eyes. His lips mouth the words to the song the frontman is singing. His body moves to the beat of the drummer, and his eyes shine like he’s doing it all for Barty. And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s because Barty has always been Barty, but as the night progresses he starts to actually believe it is all for him.

When the set is over, Barty follows the bassist out back into the cooling night.

“You played really well up there,” he called after the man, causing him to turn around.

“Oh yeah?” The man smirked.

“Yeah. I’m Barty.”

“Evan.”

“Watched you all night.”

And that’s all it took really before Evan had him pressed up against some cold stone brick wall in a back alleyway.

Barty spends the better part of two months with Evan. They travel to different venues in the surrounding towns. They sleep all day and stay out all night as Evan plays his shows. Evan teaches him how to steal from unsuspecting store clerks. Barty shows him how to pick any lock. He lets Evan trace the scar on his palm over and over again. They’re high for most of it. Barty pierces Evan’s septum. Evan pierces his eyebrow. He travels with the band and plays the part of groupie dutifully.

It was much longer than his one-night desert excursion with Pandora, but soon enough the inevitable happened. He gets bored. Evan’s time was up and those soft, disappointed brown eyes flooded his mind once more.

Evan’s hands were calloused but not as rough. He was telling a joke but didn’t laugh the same. He didn’t bite to draw blood. He didn’t press to bruise.

Fuck.

Barty left with little trace. Just a text message telling Evan to text him the next time he was in town playing a show. Evan liked it but otherwise didn’t say a word.

And that was that.

Maybe this was just his way. Maybe he would be perpetually stuck chasing some unknown James shaped hole for the rest of his life. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He could fill it up with other things. He could live with that.

He tries to tell himself he can live with that when it happens. His phone buzzes. Again and again and again and again and Barty stares at the caller ID displaying a number he’s more than familiar with. He answers it with a shameful eagerness but doesn’t speak.

“Hello?”

“Did you mean to call me?” Barty croaks out in the deadened air.

A stuttering pause. “Yeah. Yeah, hi. How are you?”

Barty lets out a sharp laugh. Too sharp. “How am I? I’m fine, James. How are you?”

“Good,” James tried to say brightly, but Barty could hear the flatness in his voice. “How, um. How have you been?”

“Okay, what the fuck, Bambi. You’re freaking me out. It’s almost four in the morning.”

James laughs at the nickname that was always made to be an insult. Until it wasn’t.

“No, I know. I just…” James trails off and Barty finds himself wishing he would just finish his fucking sentence.

Come on, James. It’s me. You don’t have to be nice to me, remember? That’s the deal. That’s the rule. You can be mean to me. I can take it.

Something in his chest pulls, but Barty opts to ignore it as he takes on his talking-to-James tone: Sarcastic and needle-sharp.

“Miss me that much, Potter?” Barty hears James let in a sharp breath on the other end of the line and pushes on. “What? Are you going to tell me that it’s three in the morning and this is the time I normally come slinking around your place? Miss having someone like me to knock you about a bit? Get a little too rough with you? Fuck you, smoke with you after, and leave before the lights come on?”

“Barty.” He tries not to flinch at the fact that James is using his first name. “That’s not why…I’m calling because–”

But Barty cuts him off before James can say something ridiculous. Something like ‘I’m calling because I care about you,' or 'I’m seeing someone else,' or 'I’m worried for you. This guy’s really great, not at all like you,' or 'I miss you.’

“Well, I can’t come around anymore. I just finished touring around with some bass player and his band all across the state. They just signed to a label they’re about to be huge. And Evan, the bass player, he’s like the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, so.” Barty was aware that he was trying too hard. He could hear it in his own voice, but he was praying it was convincing enough for James. He pulled his lip ring in between his teeth and waited for James to say something.

“Oh, there’s an Evan.”

There was an Evan, kind of.

“Yeah, and he’s great, and I’m great. Never better, actually. So I think you were right to end it when you did. Whatever it was. It’s better this way.” Barty lies.

Barty lies and James goes quiet. It’s unbearable.

“James?”

Do you want to come over?

Why did it take you months to call?

Did you mean what you said when you told me you could never bring me around your friends?

Do you ever miss fighting with me like I miss fighting with you?

Remember when you almost let me pierce your eyebrow? Evan pierced mine a while ago and I thought about you the entire time he was doing it.

His hands aren’t yours wrapped around my throat. He never squeezes hard enough.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

Speak now or forever hold your peace, James Potter.

“Okay, yeah. Sorry, yeah.”

“Okay. Later, bambi.”

Barty clicks the phone before James can respond.

What the fuck was James thinking?

What was he thinking?

Barty would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a small pulse of adrenaline at the sound of James’ voice. A small sense of satisfaction that James had broken the silence between them and called first.

He was going to ignore the fact that James had used the gentle voice with him. The voice reserved for a crying child, a terminal patient, or a scared wild animal in the woods. He was going to ignore the fact that James had obviously called him for a reason and Barty had dominated the conversation to keep him from it. And he was definitely going to ignore the curiosity chewing away at his mind about what James would’ve said if only Barty would’ve let him.

No. Instead, he was going to keep on telling James, and himself lies.

He was fine.

He was happy.

He was better than he’s ever been.

Barty walks himself out to his balcony and lights a cigarette as the cool air kisses his face. He recounts his lies over and over again and counts down to the day they might come true.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“What did you say your name was again?” Barty looks at the sandy blonde boy questioningly. He’s got a smattering of freckles and soft eyes that are shining due to the alcohol.

The bar is too loud for a Thursday and Barty wants to leave, but the man just bought him another round and it would be rude to turn it away.

“Peter.”

Barty nods, tilting his new beer towards him. “Well, cheers Peter.”

Peter offers him a smile as he tilts his glass in Barty’s direction and takes a drink, smiling coyly.

They talk for a minute. This is how Barty finds out that Peter is English and has no job and no house. He came into some money and is using it to travel to as many places as he can before the money dries up. He finds places to stay by matching with people on Tinder or Grindr and he’s out by morning exploring the city.

So in other words, he’s trouble. Which is exactly what Barty’s looking for.

Peter has honey-colored eyes and a honey-colored voice to match. Sweet on the surface with something dangerous and reckless buzzing just below the surface.

They stay until the bar closes and they stay until the parking lot clears out, and then when it’s good and dark and empty Barty slaps his motorcycle helmet on over Peter’s head and tosses him the keys.

He stands on the pavement with his arms crossed and watches as Peter starts the engine.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Barty asks skeptically as Peter hesitates.

“Y-yeah.” He calls over the hum of the engine. “ I had a motorbike– have a motorbike back home but it’s in the shop getting repaired.”

Barty nods. “Well, just take her around the parking lot a few times then. Let’s see it.”

In his defense, Peter was the one who had asked to ride it. When Barty brought up his motorcycle, he watched as Peter’s honey-colored eyes went wide as saucers as he asked to see it. To give it a ride. Maybe Barty should’ve been worried that this stranger would just drive off with his bike in the dead of night with no witnesses and leave him stranded, but he was too drunk to care. It would all be just another story to laugh about in the daylight. Moonlight desert rituals and bass players and motorcycle thieves. All because of James fucking Potter.

Barty watches and snickers as Peter clearly has no idea what to do.

James knew how to ride motorcycles. He would take Barty’s sometimes to the only 24-hour corner store to pick up a watered-down black coffee and a new pack of Parliament’s when they ran out. Sometimes an orange or two if they were hungry.

Peter manages to make it around the parking lot twice before a loud pop rings through the air and causes Barty to jump. By the time he can register what’s happening, Peter is already beside him, pale-faced, and apologizing profusely.

He popped a fucking tire.

The blowout was not a gunshot. Thank god.

He lives another day.

Barty gives Peter a once over and determines that he went smashing into the concrete based on the scrapes to his face and his hands, and the tear in his pants at the knees.

For a moment, Peter looks at Barty like he might kick the shit out of him, and maybe Barty should, but the whole thing seems so comical at the moment that he can’t help but burst into delirious laughter.

Of course, someone named Peter that he met in a bar at midnight would ride his motorcycle once and make the tire pop. That was just his luck.

Without thinking about it, he sends a text to James.

‘Motorcycle tire just popped. Fucking shit.’

His phone buzzes almost instantly in his hand.

‘I told you last time the tire needed air. It was only a matter of time. You should’ve let me fill it up.’

Barty watches James type a message for what seems like an eternity. Then a new message.

‘Are you okay?’

Then it’s Barty’s turn to type forever.

‘Never better, bambi.’

He makes Peter call them a cab and tow company to get the bike. It’s the least he could do. Since he thinks it’s his fault the tire blew out, and Barty convinces him that it is.

Barty says they’ll figure it out in the morning and lets Peter stay at his place until the end of the week. Just long enough for him to see that the motorcycle was getting fixed. Long enough to take him around the city and show him all the best places.

They keep in touch for a month at tops and then Peter fades into another memory. Another story to tell. Another person he was with because he wouldn’t be with James.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

On the fourth of July, he meets Regulus at some party in someone’s backyard.

They’re about to start shooting off the fireworks when Barty sees him. Short crop of curly black hair and a downturned frown.

“Not having fun?” Barty smirked in an attempt to make conversation.

“What?”

“Not having fun?”

“Not really.” The boy’s frown deepened. “Not at all.”

“Oh, what the fuck. You’re French?”

“Very astute observation.” The stranger says as he attempts to walk away.

“Sorry. It’s just, why the fuck would you be here if you could be in France? I’m Barty by the way.”

“Regulus,” the stranger sniffs. “And why the fuck would your parents name you Barty if they could pick from any other name in the world?”

Barty grins at Regulus’ accent and his snark. “Got it. No more questions then.”

“No more stupid questions,” Regulus amends.

They stick together the whole evening as Barty attempts to make the Fourth of July fun for the both of them.

He spends a few weeks with Regulus after that. Regulus speaks broken English, something stilted, but sure, and it rings nice in Barty’s ears long after he’s stopped talking. There’s nothing serious between them. They just spend the summer days sun drunk and carefree. Regulus attempts to teach him French. Barty attempts to make this time different. Neither of them are successful.

“I lied,” Regulus says in a passing moment as Barty gets ready to say his final goodbye. “I’m not twenty-three, I’m twenty. Also, my English is perfect. I was just fucking with you.”

Barty just blinks a few times. “Why do you think I would care about that? Regulus, what the fuck.”

Regulus shrugs. “Just thought you should know. You’re not the only one pretending to be something you’re not just for the fun of it.”

And Barty knows it’s fucked up, but he could kiss Regulus all over again.

He adds a pathological liar to his running list of adventures.

When he returns to his apartment, it’s quiet and empty. He tries to tell himself that he’s okay with that, that he likes it best this way, that he’s never been better.

James calls once again.

It’s become a routine of theirs.

James calls and Barty answers. He fills James’ head with all of his exploits, all of his stories, all of the Pandora’s and Evan’s and Peter’s and Regulus’ he’s been with since James. All of the fun he’s had since the last time they spoke.

But he couldn’t ever let any of them in, because James was already there, taking up too much space. Always there, lying in wait.

Barty keeps on telling his lies and James lets him, but they’re still not coming true. Barty’s counting down the days and still feeling more down than ever. He wishes that James would just call his bluff, hear the falseness in his voice, and yell at him for being irresponsible. But he never does.

It’s not until after Emmeline, Fabian, and Narcissa that James gives him another call.

Barty’s in the middle of recounting his latest adventure when James does it. Interrupts him with a knowing scoff.

“Listen, Crouch,” he says just like he used to. He’s fed up. Barty finally managed to press his buttons once more. “Can we stop doing this song and dance now? Drop the act?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Barty sniffs, still trying to get one up on him.

“Oh sure,” James continues, voice flat. “When you’re ready to stop lying to yourself and to me…I was calling to tell you to come around.”

The words land like cement in his stomach.

“To come around?”

Barty’s heart picks up its pace.

It was a bad idea.

It was a horrible idea.

It would put them right back to where they were before.

Fighting and yelling and waiting for the moon to come out to talk to each other. To see each other.

It would end horribly.

They would burn each other up. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. But God, Barty missed how it felt to be on fire.

“Yeah,” James breathes into the phone receiver. “You know the code to get in.”

Barty takes a deep breath.

What did it say about him that it had been all this time, and he still thought about James and his apartment and his soft sheets that were always laundered every day? James’ hands gripping his jaw. James’ laugh when Barty couldn’t find his jeans that had all been but ripped off of him. James’ sharp sneer and clenched jaw when Barty managed to get under his skin.

It doesn’t take too much convincing. Just lighting bolts of flashing memories. Tooth rot that ached too good to let go.

“Alright. Yeah. Fuck it. Fuck it, Bambi.”

There would be plenty of time for lying to himself later.

And one day his lies would come true.

Just not today. And definitely not tonight.

“I’ll come around.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

inspired by the song pierre by ryn weaver

#nat writes #and nat prays to the lord above that this formats correctly #basically do not read if you're opposed to #jarty croucher #bartydora #rosekiller #bartylus #barty x peter #idk if there's even a ship name for that tbh #<- barter LMAO #barty crouch x james potter #recreational alcohol consumption and drug use #if u remember when i said this would be bartylus...mind ur business #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #okay i think that covers the tagging department

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howlonomy · 7 months ago

Note

I got the whole Snowdin movement bunch (all except for NMM!Clover back walk because my weakness for insignificant details has cursed me to have to try and learn some coding in order to make it exist in game should it ever get to that point)

Honestly the toughest part was getting the colors, a lot of these I just ripped straight from vanilla Clover

THANKFULLY I do not need to do this for the Dunes Caves or Steamworks as those seem to be a filter (which is actually what the Flowey Fight Clover is but shhhhhhhhhhh) that gets put on Clover and Martlet/Ceroba respectively (they do not appear on the massive Clover Chart so that's why I think they are filters) Don't know why it's just Snowdin that gets special sprites, maybe because then they'd have to put a filter everywhere in Snowdin which might get crowded and messed up in those rooms with shade? Idk, I wasn't on the dev team

Don't you just hate it when you notice some details you messed up when it's too late? On the side runs, some of Clover's freckles disappear for a few frames. Thankfully it's on the run animations, which are too fast for it to be a noticeable inconsistency (did you know that when Clover's head faces towards the screen for those two frames in their run animation, that you can actually see their other eye?

It's actually really hard to notice since both the eyes and outline are dark colors and also it's for only two frames while moving. It seems I'm not the only one who's a sucker for tiny and very likely insignificant details. The more you know. Also I brought this up as a whole "See? It won't be noticed. Probably." thing)

YOURE DOING ALL THE COLORS TOO???? YOURE CRAZY FOR THAT ONE HELLO!!!!

youre blue now!! thats my attack!!!! i think u did a great job translating the funky snowdin colors onto clover bc they are just kind weird for no reason GDJFJD

i looove the amount of little tiny details the dev team put in uty…. its like a drug to me

#asked and answered #monster clover au #monster clover fanart #YAYAYAY LOOK AT THEM GO!!!!

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thesirencult · 11 months ago

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Astrological Predictions I Wrote Down Last Year Which Are Still Relevant- and will continue to be!

Note: I'm not here to spread fear and anxiety. Bad aspects do not exist. Our lives and the way the Art Of Astrology is expressed in our reality is a mix of different colours and vibrations. These predictions have been made with my own personal way of interpretation so please don't ask how I came up with some things. Don't drive yourself crazy trying to see the "mechanics" and "practical details" behind the predictions, simply read them and see if intuitively you vibe with them. Keep in mind these are written in a "personal notes" style so it is a tiny bit chaotic!

A year ago I did not post any content about astrology and tarot online, at least at this scale. Posting these personal observations is not a way fro me to "toot-my-own-horn". I'm actually quite skeptical about Astrology's capacity to "predict" but right now, looking at those notes it is apparent that most of those things have already manifested or are beginning to take form in our physical reality.

Enjoy and let me know what your thoughts are about what's coming.

2023 MAJOR ASPECTS

Pluto In Aquarius (23/3/2023, 3 months and then again in 2024): 20 year cycle, society, tech, consciousness, innovation on STEROIDS, last time 795,819, 1781 -> discovery of uranus, islamic/arab domination in north africa, fall and rise of dynasties in europe (foundations of europe as we know it now, al-Khwarizmi founded the field of algebra

Saturn In Pisces (7/3/2023, 26 february, may 2 2026): structuring the "unstructureable"

Jupiter In Taurus (16/5/2023-25/5/2024): wisdom of nature, stay ready/still, green

17/7/2023 -> N.Node in Aries/S.Node in Libra: love-war, Ares-Aphrodite, war between the feminine and the masculine. Fall of red pill and radical feminism, individual vs parrtnership.

Where Jupiter goes, Saturn follows. Dune, The Hermit energy. In the past few years with Jupiter in Pisces and Aries disillusionment was IN! Fights through screens (Aries), were just another day. Saturn clears the way after Jupiter's orgy. Dreams NEED a practical use (note from now : we have this whole hustling culture thing of set goals and be practical, we are basically trying to give structure to our dreams and create a step by step path to our vision). Example: astrology, NFTs and crypto, drugs, manifestation, art -> how are they contributing to our society and the betterment of it? Dissolving-then Forming-> identifying, dreaming-act/plan -> success. Only through the loss of individual power we realize we are nothing without a link to the rest of "life". Submitting to something greater/ fear (misty) of something destroying us or confronting external life. Sacrifice/Servitude. Who are you when stripped away from the world? (prison): stripped off the matrix/network, inner contemplation, power to serve to experience unity, science+spirituality meeting. loneliness + isolation = going deeper within,monk mode. developing a conscious ego. Information utilized/weaponized to help/guide the masses. Increasing consciousness and broadening the mind. We are realizing we are experiencing the "shadow" not the "idea" (Plato/Jung/archetypes)/Antigone-> divine law / human law/ loss of faith and search dor a new framework of values. Discipline in meditation, yoga driven towards God. Fight between atheism+spiritualism/nihilism+purpose. Turning inside because you lost faith, there you will find God and meaning. The form has outlived its usefulness -> conflict with the status quo and law. No church in the wild/godless. Saturn's death by Jupiter (taurus = structure).

Transformation of rules, social norms, ideas of humanity and how we use science+technology to manifest those ideas. Social + technological REVOLUTION. Renaissance. Turning to humanitarian, liberal arts/spreading knowledge-teaching. Astronomical discoveries, vaccines/antibiotics(shortages?), innovations in trade, change in the way religions and churches are structured as well as other organizations. More open. Blockchain. "Anonymity" but transparency. 48 laws of power, the prince. philosophy-> utilitarian/kant/pure reason. "how to maximize happiness for the majority. streamlined techniques. Pluto in Aquarius will bring the desire to reform. After 2044 these changes will be established. Everything will be brought to the surface. going deep and facing demons. PROMETHEUS MYTH , FIRE -> DARK SIDE OF TECH (note: AI). decentralised internet, open sourcing, energy. YOU CAN'T REACH GOD THROUGH TECHNOLOGY/CAN YOU? Grid failures+extreme weather. Internet cables connecting countries -> separation from WEB -> Who are we? power over...= domination / power with...= networks Pluto -> Πλούτος, abundance but can turn to greed -> eruption -> realizations. Society = individuals -> change= self change!

Society is going to turn its hopes, wishes , knowledge, resources and tech powers towards abundance and sustainability. Physical environment = abundance. I'm seeing a rise in holistic+cyclical approaches, natural medicine and art expression close to natural processes. Expect movement from big cities to the countryside and creation of luxury reatreats/hotels close to nature-sustainable.

source:thesirencult

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alltheirdamn · 1 year ago

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A Bounty for Reward (Mando x f!reader)

CHAPTER 2

Summary: Mando finds himself back on Tatooine... unable to let you go. Warnings: mentions of drugs, violence, death, weapons, language, Mando being an unusual softie Word count: 4k A/N: I know it's a slow burn... please stay with me; I promise it'll get better! Also, there will be no Grogu in this fic... babies tend to ruin all the fun lol

The Mandalorian didn’t know why he returned to Tatooine. He didn’t know why he had reset the navigation from Nevarro back to the damned desert planet, but he sat in the silence of the Razor Crest, plotting his arrival.

Every bounty was the same to him: a job.

Never had he been so handicapped by one until she fell into his lap as a puck for a high reward. She was unlike other bounties, though, not a criminal in the sense he was used to. Most bounties he was given were high-profile criminals, assassins, imperial sympathizers… but she wasn’t any of the above. From what Karga had told him, she was simply a runaway employee for a very wealthy man. And the Mandalorian didn’t ask questions. He never did.

The navigation panel flashed red, signaling the ship's deceleration as it neared the planet’s atmosphere. The Mandalorian took a deep breath, exhaling through the modulator and filling the dead air with his frustration. He wasn’t frustrated with her, but rather himself.

For letting a fucking bounty take up so much space in his mind.

When the Crest finally touched down on the dunes of Mos Eisley, the Mandalorian was already trudging down the docking ramp before it could fully open. He was well aware of the city's layout and knew exactly where to start looking for the bounties’ employer. Kesi Jissard was unfamiliar, yet Mando knew enough people in the crime ring to find him. He started the search in the lone cantina on the eastern edge of the city. The cantina stood without a name; the crowd within its walls spoke for itself. Though he was not on a hunt for anyone sleazing about inside the cantina, it didn’t mean there weren’t a few scared criminals. A few begged for the challenge; they begged to triumph over a Mandalorian. But none would come close to winning a victory over him– and they wouldn’t dare get close enough to try. With beady eyes following his every move, Mando approached the bar.

“Hey, shiny,” emerged a voice amidst the clamor around him. The Mandalorian turned slowly, hand resting on the blaster at his side.

Leaning against the bar counter was a Twi’Lek, their body hardly covered by their dance attire. They smiled, a grin far too deceiving for the innocence their body language spoke. He sized them up, considering the level of threat they could pose. Deciding the mildness of their demeanor, the Mandalorian’s hand slid away from his blaster– but close enough in reach if needed.

“I’m looking for information,” he was curt. The Twi’Lek smiled, bearing white teeth that flashed against their pale blue skin. Reaching over, they pet the fabric of his gloved hand, mischief lingering in their actions. Quick in response, the Mandalorian pulled his hand back, settling into a tense stance against the bar counter.

“Hmph,” the Twi-Lek frowned, “Information costs money around here, ya know?”

The Mandalorian sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling as his chest exhaled. Digging into the side of his pilot suit, the Mandalorian retrieved a small pouch of credits. Tossing them onto the counter, he waited for the Twi’Lek to speak again. After considering the credit amount, the Twi’Lek smiled, eyes scanning over the bounty hunter’s body.

“What’d you wanna know, hun?” They spoke in long drawls.

“Kesi Jissard, who is he?” He asked. There was a grit under his tone, one of desperation and impatience.

The Twi’Lek squirmed at the name, looking visibly uncomfortable. Their voice was a low hush, responding to the Mandalorian’s question.

“He’s a prominent spice trader on Tatooine,” they began. “He works directly for the Pyke’s, or so I’ve heard. He’s not someone you should go looking for.”

“Where is he?” He pushed.

Their eyes grew wide, staring around the bar that swarmed with more bodies. The Mandalorian knew who was and wasn’t watching, assuring himself that no one was interested in his business. They were all far too busy looking innocent in their booths and tables, hoping the bounty hunter would escort himself out of the cantina.

“I don’t know where he is,” they said, voice an octave higher than before. His body went rigid, hoping the bartenders wouldn’t interrupt their conversation. “But if I did know,” they continued, “He would be hiding in his junkyard on the town's southern border. It’s riddled with his employees, though. No one gets in there without an invitation.”

His helmet cocked to the side, a bit amused by them thinking he would need an invitation. His armor and weapons were an invitation in and of itself; it called for an audience. One that Kesi would provide.

“If you try to go in there, you’ll die,” the Twi’Lek grabbed his arm. The Mandalorian shifted his gaze to their tiny fingers wrapped around his bicep. It was a kind gesture, unnecessary to Mando, but a kind effort nonetheless.

Leaving the Crest on the east border of Eisley, the Mandalorian opted for one of the speeders found nicely parked outside the cantina. It didn’t concern him whose speeder he stole but just that it had enough speed to make it to the southern border before dusk fell over the horizon. As the dust kicked up behind him, the Mandalorian mentally cursed himself for letting this girl take up so much of his time. She wasn’t anything special, just another bounty– he tried to remind himself of these things. But even for a fucking bounty… she managed a way into his brain. Into his bloodstream. And it made him dangerous. He was willing to go to great lengths to ensure she was okay.

“Dank farrik,” he cursed, finally arriving at the junkyard.

The size of the junkyard wasn’t what he anticipated; the corners of it reached for miles. He switched on the zoom lens of his helmet, scanning the perimeter. He counted eight, maybe nine, men that were scattered across the grounds. He could see the ship hangar in the middle, part of the roof exposed to erosion. Switching out of the zoom lens, the Mandalorian turned to the thermal reader, hoping it would pick up on the familiar outline of the body that plagued his brain. He only had her in his possession for less than two days; why was she the only thing he could think about? And why did he feel so much rage when he finally saw the heat traces of her body, crowded by other silhouettes in red and yellow auras?

The rage turned his vision red, guiding his body blindly into the junkyard. His senses were heightened, eyes wildly aware of every pair of footsteps ingrained into the sand. Bodies radiated towards him as if his armor were a magnet for violence. Each attempt to kill him was returned with a downpour of shots from his blaster. The Mandalorian was a better shot and far more accurate than the employers of Kesi. They were subpar, and it was beyond him to understand how the Twi’Lek described this place as a death wish. Perhaps his anger was so strong nothing would stop him.

The odds were in his favor as he managed his way closer to the hanger, now finding himself at the entrance. It was an open space, the scattered remains of speeders and ships littering the floor. His helmet picked up thermal traces of bodies that began to swarm around the perimeter, his armor working against his efforts to stay hidden.

“Hey!” someone shouted, blaster fire softly following suit.

The Mandalorian ducked behind a stack of cargo crates, pulling his blaster from its holster. He remained level-headed, breathing even and cool as he emerged from the blockade and returned fire. His shots landed deep in the bodies of the spice traders that ran at him, their reaction time no match for his. His skill set and years of hunting created very little opportunity for being stopped; the Mandalorian was an enigma unbeknown to the world around him.

While blaster fire bounced off the chest plate that hugged his body, the Mandalorian continued forward, sending bodies rippling against the ground. Though the threats came less, he understood that his presence was becoming more well-known throughout the junkyard.

Managing his way into the hangar, two familiar bodies crowded the girl's body. He didn’t like them before— he especially didn’t like them now. Jado turned towards his looming figure, quickly drawing a knife from his waistband.

“You got what you wanted!” Jado yelled, allowing a large distance between himself and the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian could shoot him on the spot, and nothing stopped him from doing so, yet he enjoyed the hunt. He enjoyed the fear in a man’s eye as he tracked him down, the way their hands shook as they gripped their weapons.

“C’mon Mando,” Jado released a shaky excuse of a laugh, “Does this mean more to you than credits?”

Gaff held her head up, shaking it until it fell limp against her shoulder. Anger crawled up Mando’s spine, and his muscles tensed as he watched the way her body slumped aim the chair. She was more than unconscious; he knew that for sure. She was overdosing.

His brain disconnected from logic, sending dueling shots into Jado and Gaff’s heads. Their bodies careened back, and the sound of them falling was the only noise to register amid the chaos.

She was nearly lifeless in the chair she was bound to, her hands a pale purple as they twisted between the bindings.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands working at releasing the ropes.

Her body tilted sideways, and he managed to catch her and yank her into his hold before she slipped onto the floor. Her eyes rolled slightly, the whites of them the only thing visible. Yes, Mando was scarcely afraid, but holding her limp body was fucking terrifying.

“C’mon,” he baited, hand tapping her cheek lightly. The only response was another roll of her eyes and the lull of her head falling to the opposite side. Maker, he thought, what fucking drug was this?

Knowing there was little time left to reverse the effects and any long-term damages, Mando pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight to his chest as he maneuvered the way out of the junkyard. He kept one arm grasping her and the other hovering over his blaster. He had yet to see Kesi again, and when he did, Kesi would be covered in blaster fire.

Mando silently swore to himself that he would hunt him down. He would kill Kesi in the slowest possible way, a small consequence for the crimes he committed— both throughout the galaxy and to her.

Her body weighed heavy in his arms as he pulled her off the speeder and up into the cargo hold of the Crest. Laying her on the metal floor, Mando searched for a pulse under her jaw. It was faint. Even through the gloves, he could feel its flutter pushing against her skin. A sigh of relief left the modulator as he searched the cargo hold for his med supplies. Working alone meant caring for himself, which led him to learn how to heal various injuries. Scouring through the various medical kits and devices, his hands landed on a stack of adrenaline patches— ones potent enough to shock her system awake.

Returning to her comatose body, Mando observed her face, noticing her lips changing from a pale pink to a pale blue. The oxygen was fading from her lungs, and her breathing became shallow and labored. He said her name over and over, hoping to elicit any response. Even as he pulled on her eyelids to check her eyes, there was nothing but white staring back at him.

Under the layers of armor and cloth undergarments, the Mandalorians' temperature rose until he was sweltering from stress. He was running out of time, and somewhere inside himself, he was mad. Mad that he ever took her bounty, mad that he ever handed her over, mad that he hadn’t turned around fast enough. She wasn’t a criminal; she was just a girl. He knew nothing of her, yet he knew she didn’t deserve the life she had surrendered to. And she surely didn’t deserve to die.

Taking out a blade from his weaponry belt, Mando began cutting away at her top, the sweat-stained fabric giving away easily at the tug of the sharp metal. He gave no attention to her exposed chest; mind focused on placing the adrenaline patches in the right spot. Peeling away at the adhesive, Mando placed one right above her heart, the other at the pulse on her neck. Connecting the patches to the pressure resuscitator, he inhaled sharply, pressing the button on the buzzing machine.

Her chest jolted upwards, the sound of the resuscitator whirring louder. There was no change in her body, her condition remaining the same. Mando’s breath grew shaky, pressing the resuscitator one more time. Again, her body jolted yet stayed still on the recoil downwards. He waited for her breathing to steady, and the waiting felt like an eternity. He peeled away the patches, their adhesive leaving a red rash on her skin. The leather of his gloves skated over the raised skin, feeling the warmth of her body returning slowly.

“Maker,” he sighed, falling back on his heels. He watched silently as she inhaled larger bouts of air, her chest rising higher with each.

She was going to be okay.

Mando stayed in the cargo hold beside her body for some time, waiting quietly for her to wake up. His mind reeled with various thoughts that were a mixture of guilt and anger. Never had he felt guilty about a bounty before; they all were just a sack of credits in his eyes. His job was to hunt; that’s all he ever knew. He had been trained as a foundling never to grow attachments and always to stay loyal to his Clan and Creed. And he had done everything right by the Way, going so far as never to show his face to anyone.

He had left behind his home and his parents, lost in the war against the Separatists. The last thing he could remember of his parents were their frightened faces as they hid him within a bomb shelter. It was so long ago now that he could scarcely remember what they looked like; flashes of his mother's face came and went in his memories. He knew nothing but the life of the Mandalorians after that, his world shifting into the lifestyle that his Clan taught him.

Mando had kept his focus on the guild for years, his life as a bounty hunter more important than anything else. He traveled the galaxy alone and enjoyed the company of himself. He rarely interacted with anyone other than his bounties and fellow guild members. But he was here now, anticipating when she would wake, eager to hear her voice again.

Hours went by without a glimpse of any sign of her waking, and Mando grew worrisome. Rechecking her pulse, he assured himself that she would be fine and that the overdose would wear off eventually. But he was anxious seeing her so still and quiet, and he wanted nothing more than to know she would be okay. He knew very little of the various spices that floated through the galaxy, but he knew enough to know that this spice was more lethal than any other. If at all, Mando didn’t even know a spice this potent existed. It wasn’t meant for recreation; it was meant for drugging. His mind spiraled with thoughts of what Kesi had planned to do with her while she existed helplessly on the high of this drug.

Mando shifted over her, swiping her hair from her forehead. He spoke her name softly, coaxing any reaction from her. There was a shift in her body, her head slightly falling to the side. His hand cradled her face, watching as her eyes fluttered open.

Her reaction was exactly as he imagined: abrupt and alarming. She scrambled from his touch, her body crawling back into a corner near the armory wall. Mando didn’t move, allowing her to reconnect with the world around her. Her breaths came out in loud pants, the oxygen intake too much for her after so many hours of shallow breathing. She said nothing, only watched him with bloodshot eyes.

“You’re okay,” the Mandalorian finally spoke. “You’re okay.”

“What the fuck did you do to me?” She demanded, her bare chest heaving. Mando forced his eyes away from her skin, steadying his gaze on hers. She was mortified and, most of all, angry.

“Calm down,” he urged. Idiot. “You’re safe.”

“Safe?” She repeated. “Safe?”

Mando stood, giving her the space she needed. She tugged her torn shirt over her chest, the rashes from the adrenaline patches still prominent on her sweating skin. She was disheveled, but Mando couldn’t deny she was still beautiful. There was a ruggedness to her— a past that sculpted her tough exterior. Mando wanted to know more.

For the first time, he cared.

And he didn’t understand why.

“They drugged you,” he huffed.

Her bloodshot eyes tracked him upwards, and her mouth parted as if she wanted to make another jostled remark. But she remained silent, her chest still heaving as she regained oxygen to her lungs.

“You came back,” she whispered after several moments.

Mando only offered a brief nod, not trusting himself with words.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

He had no explanation for what he did; it was impulsive and so fucking stupid. But the need to protect her swelled inside himself the longer he lingered in her presence. He tilted his head towards the refresher, and her eyes followed.

“Refresher’s that way,” he said. “You can get yourself cleaned up.”

“Oh,” her lips formed a dangerous pout. Mando thought about what it would feel like to have them wrapped around—no.

He turned towards the ladder for the cockpit, too on edge to stare at her face longer. She had just about died from a spice overdose, and he was picturing all the ways she could come undone… maker, what a fucking idiot. His fists clenched at his sides before he ascended the ladder.

“Mando!” her voice carried through the silence.

He turned hesitantly.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving me.”

Mando nodded and disappeared into the cockpit.

He had come back.

The Mandalorian had come back.

Any second later, and you would have been dead.

You didn’t know if you should be thankful or scared; what did he want from you now? You had begged him to keep you out of sheer fear of the outcome with Kesi’s men. But you had meant it, right? This was a better situation than death, but how long did you have? Mando had the credits, but you were still a bounty.

Your head was foggy as you stumbled towards the refresher, acutely aware of your shirt in tatters. Had Mando seen your breasts? Something inside your core stirred awake with that possibility, but you shoved it back into your mind. The refresher door hissed open, revealing a small space with only a toilet, a grimy mirror, and a shower. It was compact and clean, telling of how Mando lived his life. Everything had its place, and you feared ruining his lifestyle. What he wanted to do next with you… well, that was up to him.

All you could focus on now was taking a fucking shower and washing off all the dirt and sweat from your skin. The water ran cold at first, nipping at your skin as it pelted down in a steady rhythm. You kept to the corner of the refresher until it started to steam, and then finally, let the water run over your body. Swirls of brown coasted down the ceramic floor of the refresher, the day ridding itself into the drain. You dipped your hair back, letting the water soak you completely. But it wasn’t until your eyes drifted close that the memories started to invade your senses again.

Kesi’s dirty grin.

The taste of the spice.

Your erratic heartbeat and slipping consciousness.

Mando’s soft voice.

It all kept coming in waves until you found yourself slipping down onto the refresher floor, clinging to your body with fresh tears stinging your eyes. You may be free of Kesi—for now—but you weren’t free.

And you wondered if you had just traded one shitty life for another.

Time blurred as you continued to sit under the pelting spray of the refresher, your eyes boring into the white walls until the world around you faded into nothing. The water had long since run cold, and your body was riddled with goosebumps and wrinkles. But you felt paralyzed by nagging thoughts and memories; you really couldn’t muster the energy to move.

A sharp bang came from the other side of the door, forcing you to jolt against the tiled wall, slamming your elbow into the corner of the refresher.

“Fuck!” You hissed.

“Are you okay in there?” Mando’s voice was rough and oddly laced with a hint of concern.

“Yeah,” you called out. “Yeah, I’m fine. M’sorry, lost track of time.”

There was a beat of silence, and you wondered if you couldn’t hear him speak over the sound of the water. Standing to shut it off, you wrapped your arms around your body and waited silently.

“Left some clothes outside the door for you,” he said. “I’ll be back in the cockpit.”

You waited for the sound of his heavy footsteps to move away from the door, and once you heard the snap of the cockpit door closing, you finally reached out to retrieve the clothes. An oversized sleep shirt and tight black pants were stacked together, and you wondered where in the hell Mando had gotten them from. They were your size, absolutely, but were they someone else’s?

The thought of another woman here with him left you irrationally jealous, even if you knew nothing about him. Why should you care about a bounty hunter?

But the bigger question… why did he care about you?

You shook away the thought and changed quickly, your body still sore in some areas. The mirror was still fogged from the shower, but you wiped away some condensation just to glance at yourself. Your skin was paler than normal, and a dark hue rimmed around your eyes.

You looked fucking terrible.

Smoothing down your hair, you finally exited the refresher, taking in the ship around you. The cargo hold was quiet, a few empty crates scattered around the floor. The interior was made of strong metal, and there was a distant whirring from the carbonite chamber. You shivered at the thought of being forced into it, the endless coldness that would wrap around you. At any point, the Mandalorian could still do that. You weren’t sure what he thought of you–a bounty, a burden, a person to discard.

Were you better off here than with Kesi?

Your mind drifted back once again to the junkyard on Tatooine. The feeling of his hands on your jaw, the wild look in his eyes–

“How’re you feeling?” A gruff voice came from behind you.

You jumped at Mando’s voice and turned to see him leaning against the ladder. You felt small in his presence, the dim light around you bouncing off his shiny beskar. His posture was lax, and he observed you silently as you shifted nervously.

“Better. Yeah, better. Thank you.”

He dipped his helm slowly, elongating the silence between you. You shifted again under his gaze, hands twisting in the sleep shirt that hung off your body.

“Good.”

“Um, Mando. Why–why did you come back?” You asked your eyes on the floor. “You had your reward.”

Mando shifted his body, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Again, there was a steady beat of silence between you as he watched you squirm under his gaze.

“I don’t know.”

It was all he offered. But it wasn’t enough.

“What happens now?” You asked.

“I have to meet with someone,” he explained. “You’ll stay here.”

He didn't give you time to respond before he retired to the cockpit, leaving you alone in the silence.

#mando #mando x reader #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader

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