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fireya-x · 4 months ago

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heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access.

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening.

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through.

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch.

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold.

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure.

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind.

No blood, no sweat, no grime.

Nothing of the outside world.

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light.

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker.

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his.

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk.

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation.

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair.

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck.

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You.

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need.

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side.

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

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gyugraphy · 2 months ago

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psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: :)

#bob reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #thunderbolts au #thunderbolts x reader #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #sentry x y/n #sentry x reader #lewis pullman #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts imagine #mcu fanfic #mcu au #mcu oc #mcu x reader #yelena belova #bucky barnes

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rosachae · 2 months ago

Text

second skin | daniela avanzini x reader

⁍ song: a little death- the neighbourhood ⁍ genre: venom AU! venom is a wingman ⁍ a/n: not my favorite thing i've ever posted, but oh well. i was due for a dani fic. ⁍ wc: 5.4k ⁍ warnings: mentions of injury, fighting. ⁍ synopsis:

daniela didn’t mean to bond with an alien symbiote. she definitely didn’t mean to fall for her friend either. but when a red symbiote attacks the lab and y/n's life is on the line, secrets unravel fast. daniela has to decide if love is worth the risk of being seen for what she really is.

the biosky labs tower loomed over the city like it knew it was important. sleek glass walls, endless silver panels, and sharp geometric angles that screamed “cutting edge science happens here, now please don’t touch anything.” it was the kind of place that had five different security checks just to use the bathroom.

daniela didn’t belong here. not really. she adjusted her press badge for the fourth time as she stepped into the front atrium, pretending not to feel the weight of a literal alien parasite stretching beneath her skin. her boots squeaked on the polished floor. she hated that. why was everything so shiny in science buildings?

she was here under the guise of journalism—technically true. her editor had sent her to get a word from one of biosky’s board members about their latest green tech initiative. something about biodegradable plastic that disintegrated in sunlight. it sounded great in theory. but daniela hadn’t even brought her recorder. or a pen. she wasn’t here for the story.

she was here for lara.

lara worked in r&d and was one of the very few people daniela trusted. she was also the only one—aside from a sleepy convenience store owner, megan, who definitely wasn’t paid enough to deal with parasite-related trauma—who knew about him.

venom.

the symbiote pulsed beneath her ribs, barely contained, like a cat stretching its claws.

“you are stalling,” venom said, voice curling in her head like smoke. “why are we standing in the lobby like a lost child? do you need a map? or a chaperone?”

“i’m blending in,” daniela muttered under her breath, eyes locked on a very intense sculpture made entirely of test tubes.

“you are loitering. you look suspicious. we should eat someone.”

“we’re not eating anyone in the lobby. i have clearance.”

“coward.”

she sighed and started toward the security desk, flashing her badge at a man who looked like he bench-pressed microscopes for fun. after a quick scan and a deadpan stare, she was waved through to the elevators. inside, the air smelled like sterile metal. scientists in white coats passed by, talking about protein strands and molecular something-or-others. one guy walked by holding a tablet and a cup of black coffee that smelled four weeks stale.

daniela kept her head down, following the path lara had texted her earlier. take the east wing, pass the nanotech lab, avoid eye contact with the cryogenics intern because he will talk about freezing mice for twenty minutes. she rounded a corner and slipped into a side hallway marked ‘authorized personnel only.’ a security camera blinked at her.

“friendly little guy,” she mumbled.

“we should wave.”

daniela rolled her eyes.

this part of the lab was quieter. less tour-friendly. the walls narrowed, and the overhead lights buzzed in a way that made her molars itch. it was here, just past a heavy fire door, that she found lara. half-buried in lab equipment and looking very done with the world.

lara glanced up, goggles on her forehead and a pipette in hand.

“you’re late,” she said.

“you’re lucky i came at all,” daniela replied, stepping into the room, the door clicking firmly shut behind her.

lara raised a brow. “did he say that or you?”

“that was me.”

“hm. he’s rubbing off on you. hello, venom.”

a black tendril mists up out of daniela’s back, waving shortly in faux greeting. despite his simple gesture, his voice slurs teasingly in daniela’s mind.

“she looks delicious today. are you certain i cannot eat her? i have been craving indian.”

daniela rolled her eyes again, possibly the hundredth time that week alone, staying silent as venoms tendril retreated back into her. she pulled a small container from the inside pocket of her jacket. it was sealed shut, but the faintest red glow pulsed from within.

lara’s expression shifted immediately, serious now. curious. “that’s from yesterday?”

daniela knew what she was talking about immediately. she could still feel the pang in her ribs when she inhaled, fresh off a beating the night before. she could still remember the sound of megan’s voice, shocked and concerned, when she dragged herself into the chinese girls convenience store with a black eye and a very annoyed (very moody) symbiote bitching about the world as he knew it. megan didn’t even need to ask what’d happened. she simply grabbed her first aid kit and helped daniela stitch up. nothing a good dab of makeup couldn’t hide.

and of course, she could still feel the way her heart dropped in her chest when y/n’s name filtered across the cracked screen of her phone. she was late. again. they were supposed to meet up with some of their other friends, lara included, for a birthday party of someone whose name daniela didn’t care to remember. truth be told, the latina had only agreed to go for her. y/n, who made her heart race and her palms clammy. y/n, who looked at her in a way that made her feel human– at least more than she did whenever she was reminded of the symbiote coiling through her like a disease she couldn’t rid.

daniela had long since gotten used to everything unusual. her life was flipped upside down the very minute she met venom, as he called himself, and he attached himself to the core of her being. he said they were ‘compatible’. that it would be ‘better this way’. sometimes, she couldn’t help but feel resentful. especially when y/n looked at her with those eyes, unaware of the monster she hid within.

daniela sighed. she’d already debriefed lara on what happened when she called her throughout the night, demanding answers on where she was, telling her how sad y/n was that she seemed to be avoiding her lately. daniela truly had every intention of showing up– she really did. except she couldn’t, not when she was attacked by a red-skinned symbiote she didn’t recognize, despite the primal familiarity that pronged through her like a knife. venom’s doing.

“yeah. the one downtown. he wasn’t like venom. he—i don’t know. didn’t talk. just looked at me like he wanted to melt my bones. he dropped this when we fought. i didn’t want to keep it on me.”

lara took the container carefully, like it might explode. “you did the right thing. i’ll analyze it. lowkey. don’t worry.”

daniela nodded, trying to shake off the memory of blood-red tendrils and that terrible silence.

“he was ugly,” venom said helpfully, his voice echoing through the silence of her mind. “and rude.”

before she could respond, voices echoed from the hallway. footsteps.

lara froze. “shit,” she whispered. “someone’s coming. probably y/n, she said she was coming by to check the cultures—”

the door opened, and there she was.

y/n stepped into the lab like a punch to the lungs. lab coat, clipboard. a soft smile that could melt steel beams. daniela stiffened immediately, like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down her spine.

“oh—hey,” y/n said, blinking. “daniela?”

daniela opened her mouth, but nothing came out. for a moment she simply stood, buffering as she stared at the girl who consumed her thoughts on the daily– much to venom’s displeasure.

“oh my god,” venom groaned. “not this again.”

y/n tilted her head, eyes flicking between daniela and lara, then down to the mysterious container on the desk that was glowing faintly red. her brows lifted, but she didn’t say anything about it. not yet.

“i didn’t know you were stopping by,” she said, and god, her voice was soft. friendly. too casual, considering how daniela’s heart had decided to start jackhammering in her chest like it was trying to escape.

daniela cleared her throat, then immediately regretted it when it came out sounding like a dying engine.

“journalism,” she said, too quickly. “i’m here for journalism. official. press things.”

lara made a noise like she was choking on her own spit.

“right,” y/n said slowly, trying not to laugh. “because this is a very newsworthy hallway. here i was thinking you were going to apologize for ghosting me last night.”

despite the slight edge in y/n’s words, daniela could easily detect the light humor wedged between them. she wasn’t too upset, not really. not knowing what to say, the latina rubbed the nape of her neck.

“i’m sorry about that. some stuff came up…,” daniela mumbled, forcing a shrug. “besides, i’m here for work. some cutting edge stuff, you know? top secret. can’t print anything. very hush-hush.”

“you sound unhinged,” venom drawled. “get it over and done with, already. ask her to mate.”

daniela pointedly ignored venom when lara, mercifully, took over. “she was just dropping something off for me. we’re… collaborating.”

y/n looked at the container again. “on radioactive christmas ornaments?”

“biotech art,” daniela blurted.

lara turned away abruptly, coughing suspiciously into her sleeve.

y/n smiled, bright and blinding, and leaned against the edge of the table like she had no idea what she was doing to daniela’s already fragile composure.

“well, if you’re done with your… science drop-off, you should stick around for the tour. there’s a whole new wing they’re opening up today. i was just going to swing by and check it out.”

daniela blinked. did y/n just invite her to stay?

“she is inviting us,” venom confirmed, smug. “maybe we will stay. maybe we shall eat her?”

venom had lived inside of daniela long enough for her to know when he was joking, yet still she fought the urge of telling him to shut up. you’re not helping, she thought, knowing he would hear her loud and clear.

“uh—i mean, yeah,” daniela said, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets to hide the way they trembled. “i’ve got time.”

“great,” y/n said, already turning toward the door. “come on. i’ll show you the part of the lab where we keep the really dangerous stuff.”

“yes please,” venom purred.

lara shot daniela a look as she passed. it said you’re welcome in all caps and underlined three times.

daniela scowled at her but followed y/n out anyway.

they walked in silence for a beat, the bright lights above humming softly. the lab stretched around them, clean and cold, but strangely alive. screens flickered quietly in the background, machines whirred in glass compartments, and somewhere nearby, someone shouted about “rat genomes” and “ethical boundaries.”

daniela stayed a step behind y/n, watching the way she gestured when she talked, the way her hair bounced with each step. it was unbearable.

“just tell her,” venom said. “tell her you want to kiss her and then take her out for greasy tacos. it’s not hard.”

“shut up,” daniela hissed under her breath.

“sorry?” y/n looked over her shoulder.

daniela froze. “nothing. i was just, uh. admiring the… vent system.”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “you’re weird.”

daniela bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “you’re just now realizing this?”

y/n laughed. and it echoed in daniela’s ribs like a song she hadn’t heard in years.

they kept walking, deeper into the facility, the air getting colder as the ‘tour’ moved into zones not quite meant for casual visitors. these halls weren’t all glass and chrome like the rest of the building. instead, they were quieter, older. wires snaked along the ceilings like veins. doors hissed softly when they closed behind them. daniela had the distinct feeling they weren’t really supposed to be here. yet, she couldn’t find it within herself to ask. afterall, y/n didn’t seem concerned. she tapped her badge against a side door, waving daniela in like it was nothing. of course, she followed.

every second daniela spent with y/n felt intoxicating, in it’s own simple way. they were friends. had been for years, ever since lara introduced them over a board meeting and hushed laughter. daniela had been enamored ever since. enamored by the sound of y/n’s laugh, the way her smile lit up a room, the way she managed to turn even her darkest days into something worth holding onto.

and of course, the way y/n looked at her when she admitted at last years new year party she had feelings for her. it lived rent free in her mind-- a record that played on repeat when she lied down at night alone. y/n had said she couldn’t enter the new year without telling her how she felt. daniela wanted so badly to kiss her then and there when the clock hit twelve. to tell y/n that she felt the same way, that she had ever since their eyes met. but, she didn’t.

for all the things daniela avanzini had grown to adore about y/n, through it all, she still couldn’t find it within herself to be honest.

she was dangerous, a fact that kept her up at night whenever she seldom allowed herself to think.

it tore her apart.

“this is where we keep some of the experimental containment,” y/n said, voice low in a way that sounded conspiratorial. daniela tore herself from her thoughts, focusing entirely on the girl. when y/n knows she has her attention, she continues. “technically, i’m not allowed to bring visitors in here, but technically, you’re a member of the press. so that cancels out, right?”

“definitely how rules work,” daniela replied.

y/n turned, walking backwards now. “so. what’s your angle?”

daniela blinked. “angle?”

“for the article. i know you’re not just here for lara.” she said it with a grin, playful, but there was something beneath it. interest. curiosity. maybe hope.

daniela floundered.

“this is your moment,” venom whispered. “say: ‘i came here for you.’ dramatic pause. raise an eyebrow. smolder.”

daniela stared dumbly.

.…smolder? she thought.

“you’re ruining this.”

“i’m just…” she exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “it’s been a weird couple weeks. i guess i needed to see someone i didn’t hate.”

y/n’s grin softened. “is that a compliment?”

“i don’t know. depends. do you still microwave fish in the break room?”

“that happened once.” y/n turned back around, but her ears were red.

daniela smiled to herself, just a little.

they entered a side lab that looked like the inside of a very expensive fridge. metal counters, thick glass tubes filled with murky liquid, something humming in the corner that daniela was pretty sure was alive.

“here,” y/n said, stepping aside. “this is where we keep some of the more unstable samples. things that didn’t bond properly. or bonded… wrong.”

daniela’s eyes moved toward a large containment chamber near the back wall. inside, a black smear floated in a thick solution, tendrils curling slowly like seaweed. it didn’t look like venom. it didn’t feel like him either.

she shivered.

y/n noticed. “you okay?”

“yeah,” daniela lied. “just—got a weird vibe. i’ve been writing too many horror articles lately.”

“maybe you’re just getting a sixth sense for drama,” y/n said, still watching her. “you always seem to show up right before things get weird.”

“maybe weird things just follow me,” daniela said, quieter this time.

“she doesn’t know the half of it,” venom added with a snort.

y/n laughed again, stepping closer. “well, for what it’s worth… i’m glad you’re here. you’re not as scary as you act.”

daniela blinked. the words settled somewhere deep in her chest, warm and dangerous. she opened her mouth to say something—anything—but she stopped when the lights flickered. just once. but it was enough.

y/n turned her head. “that’s not supposed to happen.”

the overheads buzzed again, flickering like a warning. the humming in the corner changed pitch. it was no longer soft. it was angry. from down the hall, something slammed. not a door, but something heavier.

daniela’s body tensed when not even a second later, the alarms started with a howl, shrill and piercing, bouncing off the sterile walls like a fire drill from the underworld. lights flashed red overhead, casting the lab in stuttering bursts of color—red, white, red, white—like a heartbeat in panic.

y/n spun toward the door. “what the hell—”

another crash. closer this time.

y/n reached for the wall intercom closest to her. “i-i don’t know what’s going on. i have to talk to central—”

a voice crackled through the lab speakers before she could touch it. not the system voice. not human.

“you have something of mine.”

the voice was wrong. low and sharp, like broken glass dragged across metal. it slithered out of the vents, from the walls, behind their ribs. daniela froze.

“was that…?” y/n didn’t finish the question. her eyes were on daniela now. questioning. uncertain.

daniela moved without thinking, stepping in front of y/n on instinct. her hand went into her coat, where venom curled just beneath her skin, already twitching with anticipation.

“stay behind me,” she said.

y/n looked at her like she was seeing her for the first time. “daniela, what’s going on?”

“he’s here,” venom growled, low and pleased. “our red friend. i can smell him. sharp. rotten. something’s wrong with him.”

the fire door at the end of the hallway slammed open, metal denting from the inside out like someone had punched straight through it. heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor.

venom murmured inside her. “he followed us. he knows. he wants it back.”

“daniela,” y/n said, more quietly this time. “what’s going on?”

she didn’t answer. couldn’t. not without unraveling everything.

and then he appeared. taller than daniela remembered from the day before. red and twisted, like someone had fed barbed wire to a blender. not just red—glowing, pulsing at the edges, veins running hot like lava through a human shape. not quite a man. not quite anything. the symbiote had taken over completely. its eyes that weren’t quite eyes locked onto daniela like it had been hungering for her.

“there you are,” the red symbiote said, grinning. “you took something that doesn’t belong to you.”

daniela spared a quick glance in y/n’s direction, swallowing when she notices the pure shock and horror engraved across her face. the exact kind of horror she lied awake at night worrying about, in the hypothetical situation y/n ever found out the truth. the last thing she ever wanted was for y/n to look at her, scared. like she was a moneter.

daniela shakes her head, forcing herself to sound composed. “wrong girl.”

the red one tilted his head, almost amused. “you reek of him. of venom.” his smile widened. “don’t play dumb. give it to me, or i take it from the corpse of your little scientist.”

daniela hesitated. just a beat.

“decide,” venom snarled in her skull. “you can’t keep pretending. you’ll lose her.”

daniela grit her teeth. she didn’t want y/n to know. not like this. not with blood and glass and monsters in the walls.

but it didn’t matter.

daniela felt venom rise immediately, slithering under her skin, begging to be let out. not just asking. demanding.

“we need to run,” y/n said, backing up.

“no,” daniela said. “we can’t let him near the rest of the building.”

“what are you talking about? you don’t have a—”

the red thing moved.

fast.

a blur of red tendrils and inhuman muscle, tearing through the hallway like a beast. it slammed a desk out of the way like it was made of cardboard.

y/n grabbed daniela’s arm. “we have to go, now!”

daniela hesitated, just for the briefest of seconds. and then she moved.

“let me out.”

she didn’t answer. she didn’t have to.

black surged up her throat, over her face, coating her arms in glossy armor and claws. her vision sharpened, blood roaring in her ears. she was in limbo. not quite herself, but also not quite venom.

y/n screamed. not in terror—more like complete shock.

venom turned and grabbed her gently, claws retracting just enough, and launched both of them through an adjacent wall, crashing through a side corridor just as the red thing smashed into the room behind them. the floor buckled. glass shattered. something exploded in the distance. daniela ran, half-carrying y/n, venom’s strength barely strained. y/n clung to her with both arms, eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to ask something but couldn’t find a single word. they reached the elevator lobby, huge and open and full of windows.

and of course, the worst possible place to be.

behind them, the red symbiote burst through the wall like a monster out of a nightmare.

“no elevators,” venom said. “he’ll crush us before the doors even close.”

“stairs,” daniela snapped, pivoting hard.

but they were too late.

the red thing was already there, tendrils slamming into the ceiling above them, knocking loose steel beams and cables. one snapped, and then another. the floor near the stairwell cracked, tiles tumbling into the yawning black of the empty elevator shaft. daniela shoved y/n toward the edge to dodge a swing just a little too hard. immediately, she regrets it when y/n’s heels hit the crumbling floor. it gave way.

“no—!”

she slipped, and she fell. y/n didn’t have enough time to gather her footing before her body was tripping back in to the empty elevator shaft, a height that would certainly kill her on impact. her eyes met daniela’s for the briefest of seconds.

daniela didn’t think. she let venom take over. completely. black tendrils lashed out like lightning, diving into the shaft. it all happened in a breath.

one second, y/n was falling. the next, she was dangling midair, suspended by something alien, staring up at venom. eight feet tall. snarling. glistening. unmistakable.

the creature reeled her back in like a fish on a line, gently depositing her to the floor. claws curled around her shoulders to steady her.

“are you hurt?” it asked, voice thick and dual-toned, daniela layered beneath the monster.

y/n blinked up at it. “…daniela?”

venom’s eyes narrowed. then softened, just a little.

“surprise,” daniela said through venom’s mouth.

y/n stared up at her—at venom, at daniela��with something unreadable in her eyes. not fear. not exactly. more like the world had just cracked in half and she was still waiting to see how far it would split.

neither daniela nor venom had the chance to say more before the red symbiote came crashing down the elevator shaft. venom immediately sprung into action. tugging y/n into an empty floor, the air tuned impossibly colder. the red symbiotes' movements were cold and fluid when he followed after them, like he knew he had time. like he enjoyed the anticipation. his body shimmered, pulsing with some internal fire. red tendrils dragged across the walls like claws on chalk.

“i should’ve known,” he purred. “venom always did have a soft spot. he likes the pretty ones.”

venom growled, deep and primal, and it echoed from every surface.

the red symbiote didn’t wait. he launched forward, a snarl ripping out of him, arms splitting into barbed whips of glowing red. venom met him halfway, their bodies colliding with a sound like metal being torn in half. they crashed into a far wall. stone cracked, glass burst, a light fixture dropped from the ceiling. daniela twisted under venom’s skin, trying to keep control, trying to aim the fury. the red one lashed out, slicing across her ribs with a jagged blade-arm. venom howled.

venom surged upward, slamming a fist into the red one’s jaw, then ducked under a retaliating swing and drove both claws into his side. red shrieked—inhuman and sharp—and retaliated with a burst of flame-like tendrils that seared across the lab floor.

y/n ducked behind a desk, eyes wide, watching the monsters tear each other apart in the glow of flickering red lights. she wasn’t scared. not really. just stunned. processing.

but when she looked at venom, at daniela, something else bloomed in her chest. recognition. it was her. the way she moved. protected her. even the way she swore under her breath as the red one got in another hit.

still daniela.

venom got the upper hand for a moment, grabbing the red symbiote by the throat and slamming him into the concrete hard enough to make the walls rattle.

“you’re not taking it,” venom snarled.

the red one laughed through cracked teeth. “you think i care about the girl? or you? i want what you stole. the fragment. give it to me.”

daniela faltered for a beat. the artifact. the glowing red sample. lara still had it—hopefully locked away somewhere deeper in the lab. this whole attack… it was never about her. not really.

venom hesitated. just a second. the red one used it to his advantage. a tendril speared forward, aimed not at venom, but at y/n. daniela didn’t think. she threw herself in front of it. the impact sent her crashing into a column, plaster and sparks exploding around her.venom roared in pain.

“dani!”

daniela hit the ground hard, venom glitching and rippling around her like a damaged projection. her vision swam, but she doesn’t miss the way y/n raced over. she dropped to her knees beside her.

“what the hell is this? how long have you—”

“not now,” daniela groaned, blood in her mouth.

the red one stalked forward. venom twitched, trying to stand, but the hit had been brutal.

y/n looked up at the monster barreling toward them. with a newfound sense of confidence, she did the only thing she could. she grabbed a fallen metal pipe and hurled it at the red symbiote’s face.

it bounced off with a sad little clang.

he paused, a look of mild offense striking his grotesque face.

“seriously?” he muttered.

but it was enough.

the red one surged forward again, limbs splintering into hooked blades and writhing spears. he was a storm of red fury, blind and grinning, hammering toward them with all the heat of something barely held together by rage.

but daniela had already risen.

venom rippled over her like liquid shadow, scars mending mid-motion, claws curling longer, sharper. black tendrils writhed along her spine, ready, hungry. there was no hesitation now. no hiding. no pretending.

only her.

“you want it?” she rasped, voice layered and low, venom’s timbre wrapping around hers like thunder. “come and get it.”

she launched.

they collided midair, red and black blurring together in a screech of tearing metal and flesh. daniela let go of restraint. venom knew how to twist, how to hurt, and daniela guided it with fury like a blade.

the red symbiote struck hard, hammering her into a beam. daniela rebounded, claws dragging sparks off the wall as she swung low, raking open his side.

“you’re wasting your breath,” he snarled. “the fragment’s mine.”

venom lunged, wrapping both arms around the red one’s torso, and bit down.

the scream that tore out of the red symbiote was inhuman, rattling the air and shaking the glass.

his form flickered—unstable now, wounded, tendrils flailing. daniela twisted, slamming him through a row of reinforced lab tables. the metal bent like foil.

“dani!” y/n’s voice came from the side, urgent. “his core—bottom left! it’s destabilizing!”

daniela saw it then—a pulsing red glow beneath the symbiote’s chest. flickering, uneven.

she didn’t ask how y/n knew. she just moved.

venom surged up her arms, curling into a blade. she dropped, twisted beneath the red one’s next swing, and drove the blade up into the core.

there was silence, then a sound like pressure releasing—a deep whoomph, followed by a stuttering crackle of light. the red one staggered, glitching, body tearing apart from the inside out.

“no—no—NO—”

he clawed toward her, toward y/n, toward anything. but venom dragged him back. black tendrils crushed inward. one final twist. one last roar.

the red symbiote collapsed with a shriek and a shudder, its body dissolving into steaming sludge that hissed across the tile.

it was over.

daniela stood, swaying slightly. her breathing was ragged, skin streaked with ash and blood. the last of venom curled back beneath her skin, black retreating like ink down a drain.

and then she collapsed to her knees.

“daniela!” y/n was already moving, sliding across broken glass and debris to catch her. “hey—hey, stay with me—”

but her eyes were closed. still breathing. still there. just… barely. the room went quiet.

until something moved.

a ripple across daniela’s shoulder. black. liquid. alive. venom reemerged—not the full monstrous form, but a slick tendril that uncoiled upward, shifting until it formed a rounded head, eyeless and wet with that reflective sheen. small. almost calm.

y/n froze.

the tendril tilted, then spoke.

“she will be fine,” venom said, voice low and rattling. “we have taken worse hits.”

y/n swallowed. “you… you can talk without her?”

“we prefer her,” venom said, almost wistfully. “she is… fun. angry. but warm.”

y/n stared. “she never told me. about you.”

venom shifted, curling gently around daniela’s shoulder like a shawl. protective. oddly tender.

“she didn’t want you to run.”

y/n blinked. “what?”

“you are the reason she holds back. why she is scared. she believes she is a monster.”

the silence between them stretched long and deep.

“but you’re not,” y/n whispered.

venom moved again, this time toward her. not threatening. just… curious. his voice dropped lower.

“you smell like her heart.”

y/n let out a breath. “that’s either very sweet or very creepy.”

a pause. then, unexpectedly, a snort.

“she would say the same.”

y/n almost smiled.

“will she be okay?”

venom retracted a little, folding back down.

“she is waking.”

and just like that, the black melted away again. daniela stirred, a long groan tearing from her. her eyes fluttered open and the first thing she saw was y/n, sitting right in front of her, hair a mess, lab coat scorched, one scraped knee, and… smiling.

“hey,” y/n said softly. “nice of you to rejoin us.”

daniela winced. “you’re not screaming.”

“not yet.”

a beat.

“venom said i smell like your heart,” y/n added casually.

daniela’s eyes widened.

“oh my god—”

“don’t worry. he’s kind of sweet. in a nightmare slug kind of way.”

the lab was still screaming. alarms howled overhead in stuttering bursts. red lights strobed across shattered glass and scorched tile. from the stairwell, heavy footsteps echoed—boots slamming up the metal steps, guards or scientists or maybe cleanup crews, all just a breath too late.

but in the center of it all, daniela only saw y/n.

her lip was split. her side throbbed. something was probably fractured.and yet, she couldn’t help but frown.

“are you... are you scared of me?” she asked, voice low, almost too quiet to hear beneath the sirens.

y/n looked at her like that was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.

“you caught me out of mid-air before i became elevator paste and then took down a rage-possessed lava monster,” she said. “so no. i’m not scared.”

daniela blinked.

y/n leaned closer. “maybe a little mad you didn’t tell me.”

“i didn’t want you to look at me like—like this.”

“well, tough luck.” her voice softened. “because this is how i look at you.”

daniela’s breath hitched when y/n reached out slowly, still cautious, even now. her fingers brushing against daniela’s jaw, hesitant like a question. and then she kissed her.

it wasn’t soft. it was tired, and cracked, and tasted like smoke and adrenaline and blood—but it was real. daniela’s hands came up into y/n’s hair, pulling her closer like she didn’t care who saw, like she didn’t care if the building collapsed around them. y/n’s fingers curled against her waist, grounding her in the middle of the wreckage.

the footsteps were getting louder. someone was shouting orders. probably close. daniela pulled back just enough to breathe.

y/n’s forehead pressed to hers. “what now?”

behind her eyes, venom stirred. “they will have questions. annoying ones.”

daniela glanced at the ruined elevator, then back to y/n. “lara’s gonna kill me for not waiting.”

“she can wait.” venom’s voice was smug. “take the girl.”

black tendrils curled from beneath daniela’s feet. the world blurred. she grabbed y/n’s hand. didn’t ask.

“hold on,” she whispered.

and then they were gone—swept away through the broken ceiling like smoke, like a shadow vanishing into the night. alarms still blared behind them, questions still screamed in the stairwell. but none of that mattered now. for now, all that mattered was y/n.

and maybe—just maybe—it was time to give honesty a try.

venom purred somewhere beneath her skin.

“finally.”

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mistydeyes · 2 years ago

Text

half empty glasses with unchanging perspectives

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: You hated time spent alone as it encouraged all your past traumas to come flooding in. Seeking some semblance of relief, you find yourself drinking alone at the pub. However, you regret your decision when you lock eyes with Simon.

part i - behind closed doors part ii - hollow apologies and avoiding glances

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader (but like not even a pairing at this point lol)

okay real talk here and same psa as before but please do not read if you are not comfortable with ANY OF THIS! it is upsetting in all aspects!!

warnings: mentions of torture/violence/cuts/scars, swearing, abusive language, ANGST GALORE

a/n: PART III IS HERE! i busted this out after doing some studying but i hope you enjoy another dose of angst

💌 @nadinesabre @casualunknownrunaway @originaldeerhottub @justpasssingby @missroro @josieguts @miss-i-ship-it @sicknasty03 @jojoblossom @azwong @shadofireshinobi @caramlizedtomatoes @deltottoro @kenz-ee @teehee-47 @tiredmetalenthusiast @hollowmasque

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

You crossed off the calendar marking another “successful” therapy appointment. “Only forty of those fucking crying sessions,” you laughed sardonically. Your hand was smeared with the wet red ink as you sat down on your uniformly made bed. Today was your day off and you fidgeted at the lack of obligations. Most of your colleagues had gone home or spent little time off base. You missed those days when you actually could let your guard down and enjoy the company of others. You sighed as you sunk into your bed, squeezing your eyes tightly as another migraine coursed through your head.

After months since your ordeal, you finally returned to base. Your eyes stung at the fluorescent lights in the hallway and the squeak of military-grade boots. "You alright, Sergeant?" the pharmacist asked as she dispensed a large bag of pills and blister packs to you. "Just a headache," you mumbled as you brought a scarred hand to your face. She had a pleasant smile as she put the bag on the counter "The paracetamol should help," she hummed and you thanked her on your way out of the automatic doors. That night as you counted out 7 different pills of varying size and color, you swallowed them hard with a bottle of water. "God, can't wait until I'm done with these."

Your hand searched for the pill case on your nightstand until you felt the large plastic container. You systematically counted your daily meds, each colored tablet making your stomach churn at the idea. "And another paracetamol for luck," you chuckled to yourself as you swallowed the handful. You continued to stare at the ceiling in absolute boredom. Part of the reason why you hated the silence on base was the creeping thoughts of that dark, cold room. You tried books, drawing, meditation, and even increasing your visits to the gym by twofold. Yet, every time you returned to your quarters, you felt yourself unravel piece by piece.

"Fuck this," you yelled at no one and got up to change into something more presentable. You tried to smooth your hair and poked at the almost naturally appearing eye bags that aged you immensely. Pleasantries of fragrance and accessories weren't your prerogative as you closed your door and walked to inform the appropriate officials of your last-minute decision to leave the base. You tried to suppress the rising anger at the surprised looks on your superiors' faces as well as the turned heads as you climbed into your car. You beat your fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as you thought of your next actions with all the free time in the world. As your car crept slowly on the street, you took a right turn to the only destination you could think of: the pub.

As you found parking amongst the hundreds of cars, you smiled at the notion of finding solitude along with the drunken crowds and clangs of glasses. You pushed through the loud laughter and cheers as you ordered a single lowball glass of cheap whiskey. You threw your money on the counter and found a quiet corner to peoplewatch. Your throat burned as you swallowed the brown liquor and cursed the hangover you would have in the morning. Your wallowing was interrupted by the loud cheers of a certain group, one you never wanted to see again.

"SHOTS ALL AROUND!" you could hear Soap call as you observed him hand small glasses of a highly flammable liquid around. The group laughed and then slightly cringed at the taste of it. You could feel your hands tighten around the glass as you looked at the group. "So goddamn normal," you mumbled under your breath before you took another drink. You turned your body slightly and shielded yourself from their merriment. You tried to calm your breathing as you drank faster and faster. This was the last fucking thing you needed. "Slow down there, friend," the bartender winked at you as he watched you down the beverage. You rolled your eyes at the suggestion before you continued to look at the half-empty glass.

'You really should slow down," a voice said as he joined on the empty seat next to you. Your body tensed at the voice and you didn't even need to look to know it was your old lieutenant seated next to you. So much for enjoying a night out. "And what the fuck would you know," you shouted over the loud crowd. Your throat winced at the rising tone and ached from the liquor that burned your insides. "I know that those aren't good for the medication you're taking," Simon softly replied and you threw a hand at him in dismissal. "Now who told you that," you countered, "the same man who gave you the go-ahead to keep me in a room and torture me until I confessed."

There was a beat of silence, as for once, Simon was at a loss for words. He thumbed at his frosty glass, letting the condensation drip onto the counter. "Anyways what are you here for?" you asked sarcastically, "wonder how many bodies you boys left before you returned." Simon shook his head at your comment, taking another sip from his drink. He practically finished it, necessitating a refill from the overworked bartender. "What are you getting at, Eclipse?" he replied and you cringed at the use of your old codename. You let out a dry laugh as you casually sipped on the disgusting beverage. "Don't fucking lie, Simon," you said, venom in your tone, "you can come here, drink in victory, but I know how cruel you can be."

You sat uncomfortably for a few moments and looked on at the roaring crowds. The rest of the 141 had dispersed among the patrons but you could feel their piercing gaze on your scarred skin. "Nothing to say, Simon," you cynically laughed again, "god you really haven't changed." From the corner of your eye, you could see how he shifted in his seat and picked at the calluses on his hands. It almost felt relieving seeing the amount of power you held over him in this moment. This should have made you whole again. If not the previous altercation in the hallway, then this right here. But as you looked back down at your glass, you still felt the same painful wounds ooze open.

“It’s nice to see you again, Eclipse,” Ghost spoke, barely reaching an audible volume over the loud pub, “I’m haunted by the things I did to you.” At that, you couldn’t help but let your drink drop on the counter, sloshing a sickly reddish brown liquid across the wood. “Sure you fucking are, Simon,” you mumbled as you looked at the mess, “I hope you have nightmares about the shit you did.” He hung his head in response, taking another long swig of his all-too-expensive drink. “Will you ever forgive me?” he asked and you practically could double over laughing. “Gaz and Soap maybe but as for you and the Captain,” you said lowly as you got up from the stool. You leaned closely to his ear to reiterate your sentiments, “You would have to crawl across the earth for my forgiveness.”

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missviviii · 1 year ago

Text

a/n: zayne my boo <3 im sobbing over the fact that the game killed off mc’s grandma and caleb 😭

ミ★ Love & Deep Space ミ★

pairing: zayne x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death, mentions of the explosion that killed mc’s grandma + childhood best friend (caleb) in game, spoilers(?)

Summary: Ever since that day, you’ve fallen in a deep, dark pit. Why did you have to be the one that they decide to destroy? Why did Caleb and Grandma have to die? Is it your fault they did? Zayne, as your primary care physician and a family friend, is concerned for your well-being.

“Sometimes, a small gesture is all it takes.”

The sound of the news on your TV, the thundering rain outside, the sound of the cars driving by your apartment—it all blurs out as you stared at the TV screen, eyes dead and unfocused on the news of the Wanderers attacking and the explosions. Some 22 casualties, two deaths. Grandma and Caleb. His necklace that you bought him as a goodbye gift when he left for the Aerospace Academy sits beside a picture of you, him, and Grandma on the coffee table, the cheerful smiles making you wished that you could revisit time.

Your apartment, once somewhat organized and clean, is now messy with things being knocked down and dirty dishes long discarded. You stare at the one last thing your Grandma left for you, some..tablet(?) with a final letter on it. You haven’t gotten the energy or the ability to open it. It pains you, seeing that you haven’t visited for so long yet when you do, this was the time her house had to explode right in front of you, flames engulfing the house and the only thing that remained was Caleb’s necklace.

“I miss you, Grandma..” You mumbled to nobody, rubbing the tears threatening to spill out your eyes as you glanced down at the item she left you with. Besides that, a small box of her old recipes of those notecards, and other small things that she had entrusted to you years before.

Around you was your laptop, papers and files on the latest Wanderer attacks around you. Yes, Captain Jenna dismissed you and said that you should take some days off to regain your energy, since you haven’t been getting the sleep or the energy you needed, but you just couldn’t.

Your door opened, yet you didn’t bother to look at who entered. “Still sitting in front of the TV?” A familiar voice spoke out, flipping the light switch on and shutting the door behind him. It was Zayne, a long time family friend and your primary care physician. “You haven’t eaten,” he bluntly says as he sets a bag of food on your table and walked into the kitchen. He bites back a sigh, knowing that you were going through a tough time, and people tended to discard everything and grieve and grieve their hearts out.

“Hello to you too, Zayne,” you replied as you shut off the news and got up off your sofa. You pile up all the papers and files you’ve scattered around and set them on the coffee table before you walk into the kitchen as Zayne is cleaning up your dirty dishes. He checks in on you whenever he’s free or when he’s off his shift. He looks back at you, only making a small hum of acknowledgment before cleaning up your dirty kitchen. You looked terrible—eyes red and puffy from crying, obvious eye bags, and the sparkles from your eyes were gone.

You yawn as you take out a bowl and some utensils for whatever food he brought in for you. You unpacked the bag as he cleaned up the dishes you couldn’t bother doing last week. Potatoes, avocado on the side, tuna salad, salmon and rice you said to yourself as you took out the food that he had carefully backed in those plastic containers for you. Then you took out the last thing. Cookie..dough? He remembered your favorite childhood snack. The kind of cookie dough you liked.

“Your grandma gave me a recipe for the cookie dough. She said that if she couldn’t make it, I should since it lightens your mood,” Zayne says as he puts your clean dishes back into the cabinet. He dries his hand off before walking over to you, watching how you stare at it like a piece of gold. Disbelief and shock were etched on your face.

Zayne puts his hand on your back, soothingly rubbing circles as you opened the container and took a bite. Your eyes almost brimmed with tears again. You could remember how your grandma used to bake in the kitchen and you’d always sneak a bite or two of the cookie dough, no care in the world if you could get salmonella.

“Thank..you, Zayne,” you finally said, turning around tightly hugging him. He was a bit hesitant at first, but he put his hand on your head, massaging your scalp as he looked down at you with a gentle look on his face.

“..You’re welcome. I miss her too.”

Zayne’s eyes looked away at the picture on the counter of your grandma. She didn’t have to go out this way.

#love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #vivi’s writing✫彡 #writing #i wanna write #x reader #fanfiction #for funsies #i almost cried #fanfic #my darling <3 #this game is so good #send me asks #love & deepspace #love & deepspace fluff #little bit of angst

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macgyvermedical · 6 months ago

Note

Okay, this is not about writing. I want to learn basic first aid and how to assemble a first aid kit. I plan to search for some courses too, but I’d like a clear idea before diving in. I’d love to hear your advice on it. Always grateful for your blog— it’s such a valuable resource.

Hi!

First aid kits contain things that would be handy to have for an illness or injury you didn't forsee happening.

Store-bought first aid kits have gotten a little better than they were when I bought my first one in 2015, but they're still a complete crapshoot. Most of them contain the least adhesive bandages known to man, a pair of plastic tweezers, a single packet of gauze, two each of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, and if you're extra lucky, some plastic medical tape.

Which is great for: papercuts in fingers that don't sweat ever, cleaning tiny scrapes that don't need bandages, the perfect size of partially embedded splinters, and one (1) single headache. Maybe.

My advice: make your own.

The following are 2 options for lists of supplies:

The Basic Kit:

3-4 pairs of nitrile gloves that will fit over your sweaty, hand-sanitizer-covered hands (mediums if your hands are really tiny, otherwise larges)

1-2 disposable masks for if you get sick unexpectedly

Your favorite adhesive bandages (at least 20, in different sizes including extra large)

A breathing barrier for CPR

A zipper plastic bag

A small container of hand sanitizer

A small container of petroleum jelly

A small tube of hydrocortisone cream

Metal tweezers (and a few alcohol wipes to clean them)

Like 4 of whatever hard candy you hate the most (or 4-8 glucose tablets)

One of those fold-up pill containers containing at least 10 each of: acetaminophen, ibuprofen, 81mg aspirin, diphenhydramine, your favorite non-drowsy antihistamine, and loperamide (Label these. You're not gonna remember which is which. Promise.)

A few each of all the medications you take, just in case you forget them (especially emergency medications)

The Adventure Kit:

Everything in the Basic Kit, plus:

Like as many packets as you can fit of 4x4 sterile gauze

A way to clean water (purification tablets take up the least space)

More of your own medications

More zipper bags

Silk medical tape

Scissors

A bandanna or other medium-large square of fabric

3-4 of your least favorite high-calorie food bars

A waterproof sheet ("space blankets" are small and great at being waterproof, if nothing else (Though I do have a personal vendetta against space blankets. Ask me why sometime))

An elastic bandage

A fold-up splint if you're gonna be in an area that doesn't have sticks laying all over the ground

As for how to use this stuff- get a few friends together and get in touch with me. We can set something up via zoom.

#whump reference #writing reference #first aid

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

Text

Designated Person | 10

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Flat Tire

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 6.9k+ (nice)

Tags / Warnings: reader pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food & eating, blackout, movie references, car problems, alcohol & alcoholism, 12-step programs, lying, conflict avoidance, crying crying crying sorry, internal conflict, monologue, toxic relationships but listen we're tryna get better, journal entries, nightmares, ptsd, flashback

Notes: WHAT UP PARTY PEOPLE?? MAKE SOME NOIIIISE (insert dallas buyers club matthew mcconaughey scream crying in his car). Sorry for being a bummer lol sometimes growth hurts but we're gonna get thru this I swear. Ok thank u let me know what you think!!!

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ My Masterlist ]

-----

Blackouts work like magic.

One second you’re perched on a barstool, trying not to sway or slur your words while ordering another drink, and the next you’re jolted awake by the thud of a door closing.

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night.

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong.

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app.

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting.

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom.

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie?

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him?

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again.

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too.

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality.

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright.

“Hey.”

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest.

“How are you feeling?”

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach.

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.”

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless.

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here.

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone?

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic.

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started.

Stupid girl.

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.”

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head.

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?”

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom.

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl.

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat.

God fucking damnit.

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time.

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole.

Anyway.

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting.

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things.

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking.

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you.

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well…

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph.

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?”

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.”

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap.

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.”

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud.

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.”

“Correct.”

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting.

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place?

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?”

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.”

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.”

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.”

“Correct.”

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.”

“Do you believe he was being truthful?”

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.”

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?”

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?”

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?”

“Will do.”

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him.

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?”

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?”

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug.

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it.

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch.

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns.

“What is this?” you ask.

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.”

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“Kissing my ass.”

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.”

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew.

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful.

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement.

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails.

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—”

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.”

“Ok, but—”

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention.

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret.

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time?

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always.

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house.

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps.

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though.

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.”

You winced, “Don’t do that.”

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?”

“That! You’re being an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?”

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?”

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?”

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?”

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop.

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.”

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction.

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway.

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.”

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.”

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand.

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.”

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust.

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing.

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!”

It hits you square in the chest.

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them.

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over.

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it.

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere.

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table.

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair.

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?”

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.”

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway.

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest.

“How is the case going, do you know?”

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.”

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?”

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone.

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?”

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.”

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium.

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.”

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.”

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room.

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today.

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did.

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.”

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face.

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it.

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion.

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt.

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important.

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin?

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.”

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next.

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives.

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him.

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences.

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.”

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium.

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss.

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding.

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either.

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his?

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage.

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk.

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty.

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—”

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch.

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before.

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name.

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no.

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”

“I am.”

“Are you busy?”

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?”

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?”

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?”

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?”

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.”

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.”

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.”

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.”

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge.

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake.

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles.

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed.

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut.

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you.

“Hey sleepyhead.”

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head.

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.”

“Not sleeping well?”

“Fucking awful, honestly.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.”

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.”

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.”

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns.

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more.

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?”

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.”

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet.

“How much do you want me to tell you?”

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move.

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you.

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat.

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact.

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer.

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest.

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

He starts to rock you in a slow, soothing motion, burying his face in your hair as you cry into the collar of his shirt. In the background, behind your racing thoughts and shattered breaths, you hear him whisper on repeat: I’m sorry, baby… I’m so sorry.

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singhenterprises · 1 year ago

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ushapolycrafts · 2 years ago

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shiftertech · 5 months ago

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Predatory - Part 1

Linking

The cramped training room you find yourself crawling around in is filled with hot and heavy air. You sniffle at its mildly murky stench and plug in another cable into a power socket in the floor.

Two bulky chairs—of the eight in the room, outfitted with restraining straps and bolted to the ground—are sprouting cables behind and around their metal frames. Secured above each is a dome of a helmet covered in caution stickers and scuffs on their plastic shell.

You peek around from behind the chair you’re currently patching numerous interface cables into, and see a lithe arm draped over the side of it, fingers tapping rhythmically against worn, discolored pleather. Kira is bored out of her mind, but you know she could care less about getting down on her knees with you to help out. She can wait.

Two more cables slot into the chair, a control interface and a link cable to hook up to the room’s net. It’s isolated from the rest of the base network given its abandoned state, which is good. Best not to make it obvious to the night officers that you both are violating curfew on top of trespassing in a shuttered simulation room.

You’re trying to get a good glimpse at the labels on the patch panel to decide where to slot the biometrics monitor, but find yourself jolted out of focus by an incessant tapping above your shoulder blade. When you turn, you see Kira draped over the arm rest sideways with her head tilted to the floor. Her tight brown curls sag towards the dusty tile, framing her pouty face cutely.

“How much longer,” she whines petulantly. “Any longer and we’re not even going to be breaking curfew!”

An eye roll is all you can spare her while you jab metal into the right port. Lights flicker green across your diagnostic panel and you know it’s ready to go. With a tap, you’re taken to the range setup panel and begin selecting options, not bothering to look up as you respond, “Could have been up and running fifteen minutes ago if you helped me fetch all the gear for these rigs.”

She rolls in place on the arm rest, now propped up by her elbows. “Yeah, but I don’t remember shit about what you need to get these relics hooked up.” her eyes screw shut, likely imagining herself digging through the store room. “I’d probably hand you all the wrong stuff and get both our brains fried!”

You don’t bother trying to debunk her with a diatribe on the safety mechanisms of all modern linking devices. Instead you finally look up at her, your own eyes meeting her striking amber. Wasting no time, you get in close to her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. She lets out a surprised squeak as you push her off the arm rest, falling into the sparsely cushioned link chair with a clumsy thump.

“What’re you-”

You don’t give her the chance to speak up, climbing on top of her lap in the chair, and tilting the tablet in your other hand to face her. Her breath stills against your face and her eyes dart back and forth between the tablet and you.

“I’m being nice enough to give you options,” you state slowly, voice taking on a much more serious cadence.

Before her eyes are three boxes to select from, each containing a wire-frame image of a frame overlaid with its specifications; two walkers and a quadruped. None of them taller than six meters and all with a light weapons compliment.

Her eyes catch on something and she stutters out, “These loadouts… they'll barely dent anything with heavy armor. You’d have to get a lucky shot on vital points…”

You lean in closer, breath tickling her neck, and whisper, “That’s the point. You’d be not much more than a fast-footed pest to squash.”

That drags a visceral shiver out of her. You can feel her breath hasten, warming you through your clothes, the realization hitting her as to just what kind of game you intended to play.

Your voice is rough when you impatiently say, “Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”

After a moments hesitation, she snatches the tablet from your hands and tilts the screen out of your vision. “You don’t get to know,” she pauses, mulling over her options before clarifying, “What I pick. You need to find me if you want to know.”

And now she’s smirking at you, a mischief in her eyes as she selects a frame outside your vision. You find yourself grinning right back.

You of course have all the more reason to smile as you forcefully shove her back into the chair and hold her there. The spinal interface column immediately humming to life as it calibrates with Kira. Her muscles twitch against your hands as the rig probes her neural responses. She squeezes her eyes shut. The older rigs are well known to not be so gentle with this process.

“Doing okay?” Your question lingers in the air for a few seconds before you get a curt nod.

“Oh, this is nothing, babe,” she seethes through her teeth, trying and failing to convincingly grin.

The tablet wedged in the corner where she dropped it lights up with status indications, showing a good calibration. You brush the simulation’s start button with your knuckle and turn your attention back to her.

It’s an overwhelming bout of fondness that compels you to lean forward and press your lips to her forehead. Her dark skin leaves a lingering salty taste upon your lips from the sweat coating it. You reach for the link helmet above her and pull it down, but before it can settle into place and initiate a complete link, you say one last thing.

“You have one minute. Run.”

A sharp beep emanates from behind the rig and her body goes limp in the chair, link having fully established. You make quick work to loop its straps over her arms and legs, making sure she doesn’t worm her way out of the chair while connected into it. To say it isn’t a fun shock for the brain to be pulled out improperly is an understatement.

You give an extra tug on the straps just to be sure, you know she tends to squirm a lot while in the sim.

Your chair, to the right of hers, patiently awaits an operator. You’ve already bothered configuring it and selecting the exact type of frame you wanted to pilot. It’s ready to go, so you strap yourself in and then lean back into the interface column to begin calibration.

Interlocks hook onto hard-points embedded alongside your spine and pull you firmly into the rig. Probing metal comes into contact with receiving metal and it doesn’t miss a beat once it catches a stable signal.

You spasm in the restraints, a sharp probing sensation running up and down your spine creating plenty reason to flinch and jerk around. It maps you, through your nerves, understanding just what signals make you tick. You can tell when it finds the grouping of signals that command your hand, an involuntary straining of the muscles visible through your skin, and followed by a rapid twitching of each of the fingers.

It takes twenty seconds for it to cycle through its calibration and let the thousands of pin-prick electric shocks subside. With a weighty exhale, you flex your aching body out and press a button on the side of the hand rest. The helmet pivots downwards and over top your head, obscuring half your vision into darkness.

A whirring noise surrounds you as various components spin up to speed and engage. With every peaking of its high pitched whine, your vision loses focus more and more. A pressure builds within your skull until you finally drop out of full consciousness.

Your body goes limp in the rig.

Lines of text dance across your not-so-conscious vision.

You find them amusing to observe, meaningless words flowing down from top to bottom, looping back to the top once again to continue catching your attention.

You’re loopy, softly floating in this otherwise dark space, with no sensation other then the notion of vision. Your brain tries to latch on to concepts of bodily physicality but keeps missing; limbs, torso, and head not found. Perhaps you’re just a set of eyes, only there to look, but you find yourself not even able to blink and shut out the glowing font. There is no feedback from anything except for what you observe.

In the background of your mind, something clicks. Something trained deep into your psyche, designed to recognize this altered state. Your mind lazily rolls out of its careless, clueless posture into a more familiar kind of partial consciousness.

You just linked. You’re in the process of acclimation. There is such thing as a you to explicitly comprehend.

Sensation still evades you, but you understand why now. The text sitting idly in the dead center of your vision confirms it.

Link Established.

Acknowledge acclimation?

You do.

Your world expands in an instant.

The sharp tug of batteries being bridged to your main and auxiliary power buses pulls you into full awareness. Vague notions of systems mapping themselves all across your senses, reporting back statuses.

The green lights flickering across your vision aren’t even necessary, you would know if there was a fault. You would feel it like a sickness within you. And right now? You feel very healthy.

You can feel the healthy thrum of a reactor in its startup process. You can feel its warmth via a plethora of temperature probes. You can feel the pressure increase throughout your coolant plumbing, entering your core cold and returning hot. You can feel the way it begins feeding into your batteries and providing a constant source across your circuits. Circuits which cross your frame.

Your distinctly metal, inhuman frame.

Ah, sweet sensation. There it is.

With a rush of sensor data flooding through your systems in real-time, you begin to understand what you are. The first word that comes to mind is big. You intimately understand what the pull of gravity feels like upon fleshy limbs, what resistances to expect. Your finely tuned actuators and hydraulics tell you just how different of a class this body is.

You inhabit the chassis of a “Rex” frame. A concept design which was never actually produced, but still had been accurately modeled for sim training. It was inspired by a variety of prehistoric predator animals from Earth, providing a robust and heavy base to weaponize prolifically, as well as host an incredibly powerful sensor suite necessary for battlefield command and control functions.

Five massive limbs are within your control, attached robustly to an even larger frame. You feel how two of them, the rear pair, are planted firmly into the ground, while another pair hang with deadly potential, held close to your mechanical underside. Behind you sways a heavy tail that balances the entire frame. You’re effortlessly commanding its actuation as if it you'd always had one. The not-so-small twitch which rides down it to the tip echoes your satisfaction.

You’ve had enough of just feeling though. You need to know yourself completely, so you open your external sensor suite as if opening unadjusted eyes to a bright sunrise. Overwhelming light pours in across a wide spectrum, the visible merely just a fraction of it.

Radar returns overlaid atop vibrant infrared, with highlights of a sonic picture seen in wispy bursts flaring in time with the echoes of a distant siren flooding a scattered city street. A bird chirps as it flies, and streaks a trail of sound across your sensor picture.

It’s overwhelming in a most familiar and brilliant way. An unaccustomed operator would find themselves staggering back from the sensitivity of it all, a collapsing heap of metal. You simply dial in the filters, thresholds and sensitivities, letting your dozens of eyes calibrate to the world, your senses optimizing to find one thing: Kira.

She wont make it easy, you know. She’s devilishly good at this game of hide and seek. She wouldn’t be on your team if she wasn’t.

You’ve definitely given her slightly more than a minute to get her bearings. If she hasn’t already used that to her advantage, you’d be surprised. You need to get moving.

The whole of your frame shudders as you command the hydraulic muscles of your right leg into action. Your several thousand pound leg, resting upon splayed metal talons, rises off the ground with the lovely creaks and hisses following a cold start. Gashes in crumbling asphalt form at the tips of your bladed talons, where they drag limply from their actuators. Your tail compensates with a fluid flick to the left as the whole weight of your body shifts onto just one leg.

You float it forward by a few meters, joints hanging in anticipation of a crash, and for the briefest of moments you feel almost graceful, the military-grade promise of violence that you are.

You step down upon the husk of a vehicle, and the pavement, and anything else that happened to be in the way, and your talons splay out atop the rubble they produced. The rush of power which comes with feeling the shaking ground where you stand from just one meager step of your body... it’s exhilarating.

Your vents actuate open to purge some heat with a huff, sighing with satisfaction through the medium of steam curling around your thick plating. If it were possible with your hydraulically actuated jaws, perhaps you’d be grinning. You fucking love this.

Your analogous eyes and ears and nerves are open wide in blooming perception.

Somewhere out there is a girl.

A girl, taking the form of a several ton machine created for violence, prowling and evading you in this dense urban jungle.

You can only imagine just how fantastic the feeling will be of her trapped within your clamped maw, her struggle fading into weak resignation as you joyfully kill her.

You waste no more time reveling. Safeties are released. Ammunition is chambered, linked, calibrated and armed. Four automated drones percussively launch from bays on the back of your neck, ascending to altitude and sending surveillance feeds as they go on their way. A dozen other mechanisms click into place in rapid succession.

You raise your thickly plated head and a motor buried within spins up to speed sounding a deep, resonating horn. The imposing noise travels for many miles. You let your mechanical roar fade after you’re sure she’s heard it.

Her time’s up.

#mechs #transhumanism #writing

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justlookfrightened · 9 months ago

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Old dogs and new tricks

Prompt fill from @goddess47: MooMaw comes to visit Jack and Bitty

Lorraine Phelps settled back into her seat and sighed.

She was on the plane. The first part of her journey was done.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. Suzanne had driven her to the airport in Atlanta, parked and walked her into the airport, made sure her new suitcase got checked, escorted her all the way to the security line.

“I wish you’d let me get a gate pass so I could stay with you,” Suzanne fussed. “Or arranged a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lorraine had rejoined. “I’m not a child, and I’m not decrepit.”

Not yet, anyway.

This trip to Providence was an adventure for Lorraine, her first time in years on an airplane, her first time ever flying by herself.

When Dicky had traveled to Madison for her “surprise” 75th birthday party, the gift had been a huge box, a box that turned out to contain a new suitcase, one of the ones with wheels on the bottom and a smaller bag inside, and a picture of an airplane.

“Well, this is lovely,” Lorraine had said to her favorite grandson. Yes, he was her favorite, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. But all those hours they’d spent in the kitchen together … it was like their own flavors melded and complemented one another. “But I don’t know —”

And Dicky had cut her off, because of course he knew what she was going to say.

“The suitcase isn’t the present, Moomaw,” he’d said. “The present is … me ’n’ Jack want you to come to Providence to visit. We didn’t get flights yet, because we have to decide when is the best time and all, but we want you to come stay with us. And this way you can’t say that you don’t have a bag to pack.”

“As if I would!” Lorraine had said.

But truth be told, she might have.

She knew plenty of people traveled all the time, flew all over the country, all over the world even. Jack with his team — he must be flying two, three, even four times a week. Even Dicky had flown back and forth from college after the first year, for breaks too, and Suzanne and Rick flew to visit him even now.

They all knew how to do it, though, with their tickets on their phones and showing identification in the security lines, and understanding what to leave in their bags and take out before they went through the machine.

She shouldn’t have worried.

Dicky had sent videos showing what the screening area was like at Hartsfield, and all kinds of explanations.

“If you’re 75, you don’t have to take your shoes off, and you can leave your sweater on to go through the metal detector,” he’d said in an email. “You don’t have to worry about a laptop or tablet, so just make sure you don’t have anything liquid in your carryon. We can get any toiletries you need here, and you can put your makeup in your checked bag. Otherwise, liquids need to be in small containers and fit in one small plastic bag, which you might or might not have to take out of your carryon.”

As it turned out, Lorraine didn’t even need a carryon. Her purse was large enough for her wallet and phone, a magazine, a paperback book, lipstick and some chewing gum (recommended by Dicky for takeoff and landing).

And it turned out that being a 5-foot-nothing grandmother type with a cloud of white hair meant that the security people wanted nothing more than to help her on her way, with one even coming over to her after she collected her bag to point her towards the correct gate.

Then the first-class (first class!) ticket Dicky and Jack sent meant that she was escorted aboard the flight early, and all she had to do was sit and look out the window and sip the water they gave her.

She texted Dicky: On the plane! Everything is lovely! See you when I get there!

Coach passengers, most of them laden down with roller bags or backpacks and food and pillows and whatnot, were still shuffling past her seat when Dicky replied, “Great! I’ll be at baggage claim when you get here!”

Lorraine carefully put her phone into airplane mode — she’d never had to do that before — before tucking it into her purse and pulling out the magazine. She was too excited to focus on her book.

She spent the flight alternating between reading and looking out the window, enjoying a quite tasty smoked chicken salad. They didn’t have sweet tea; Lorraine toyed with the idea of having a glass of wine, but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. There was too much she had to pay attention to today. But she did indulge in a Coke.

When the plane landed, she waited while most of the people behind her on the plane bumped and jostled their way out. Once she got her phone reconnected, she found a text from Dicky telling her what baggage carousel to look for.

On my way! she texted back, then stood to wait for a break in the traffic in the aisle.

“Can I help you?” the nice flight attendant asked. “Is there someone meeting you at the gate?”

“No, my grandson is at baggage claim,” Lorraine said. “I’ll be fine. Just follow the signs, right?”

It turned out to be as simple as following the people. Dicky was standing at the bottom of the escalator, all but vibrating as he craned his neck to look for her. As soon as he caught sight of her, Dicky gave her a broad smile and a little wave.

“How was your flight?” he asked as soon as the escalator deposited her on the ground floor. “No trouble? You don’t have anything besides your purse?”

“My suitcase should be coming,” she said.

“I mean, besides that? Do you want to sit down while I wait for it? I know what it looks like.”

“I can wait with you,” Lorraine said. “It feels good to stand after sitting on the plane.”

When the purple case came, Dicky picked it up and rolled it towards the exit.

“I’m not parked too far away,” he said.

The ride in Dicky’s little red car started with a long time in a tunnel, then a long time on an interstate through suburban subdivisions and then finally some woodland and fields. It could have been driving out of Atlanta, except the dirt was a different color, and the leaves were different.

Before she would have thought it possible, they were back in suburbs, then getting off the interstate onto city streets.

The whole time, Bitty prattled about everything they could do in the week Lorraine was spending in Providence. He was full of museums and restaurants and farmer’s markets and parks in a way that sounded, frankly, exhausting.

“So,” Dicky finally said, turning the car into a driveway that led to a garage under a high-rise, “any of that sound good to you?”

“It all sounds wonderful,” Lorraine said. “But I didn’t come to see Providence. I came to see you. And, of course, Jack.”

“He’s home by now,” Dicky said. “He had a meeting this morning about some sponsorship things.”

Dicky pulled into a numbered spot and once again took Lorraine’s suitcase, leading her towards an elevator where he pressed the button for the top floor.

“Wait until you see the view,” he said.

Lorraine smiled, because she already had the view she wanted.

Jack, as promised, was in the condo, all solicitousness.

“Bits made some sweet tea this morning,” he said as soon as she was fairly in the door. “Can I pour you a glass? Are you hungry?”

“I ate just fine on the plane,” Lorraine said. “But yes, some sweet tea would be lovely. Let me go freshen up, then some tea, And then maybe a rest?”

“Of course,” Dicky said. “I’m sorry — I should have thought. The bathroom is here —” he opened the first door in the hallway off the kitchen “ — and your room is right next door. I’ll put your suitcase in there.”

Once the door closed on her in the bathroom, Lorraine let out a deep sigh. This was the first time since Suzanne picked her up that she’d been alone, truly alone, and it was a relief. But she knew she only had a couple of minutes before Dicky would get worried about her in here.

That was one of the things no one ever warned you about when you got old. She’d lived alone for years now, and quite liked her own company. Suzanne called most days, of course, and Judy came around, and Lorraine had an active social life, what with church and her book group, but most of the time she saw other people on her own terms.

But then when she did spend time with family, they worried if she spent too long in the bathroom or wanted to go off on her own for a while.

She couldn’t blame them, really. She’d lost Walker years ago now, and no one had expected him to pass when he did. They worried over her. And she did have more aches and pains, not that she complained.

Lorraine washed her hands and refreshed her lipstick before going back to the main living area, able to appreciate the wide windows with a view over the city. Dicky and Jack were in the kitchen, a large tiled area that was separated from the dining room by a counter with high chairs. The dining room wasn’t really separated at all from the living room, except by the furniture that made the use of each area obvious.

Dicky and Jack were speaking in low voices, and Dicky stopped as soon as he saw her. Jack offered her the glass of tea he’d poured while Dicky picked up a plate of cookies and gestured towards the sofa.

“How’s everyone in Madison?” he asked as they settled in.

Lorraine passed along news and greetings — Judy’s oldest boy’s wife was pregnant, and the younger one had dropped out of Georgia Tech and started working as a mechanic, and gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart.

“Your Aunt Judy isn’t thrilled, I can tell you that,” she said. “But she is going on about what a lovely wedding it will be, especially in front of your mother.”

“MooMaw, you know Jack and I are getting married up here,” Dicky said. “I know Mama wants a wedding in Georgia, but that would be a huge mess. Everyone is nice to my face when I’m there, but I know they’re still talking behind my back about me marrying Jack, and why would I want to do that to myself? Never mind that Jack’s folks are in Montreal, and most of our friends are here.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” MooMaw said. “I think you made the right decision. I just wanted to let you know.”

“So I wouldn’t be surprised when Mama brings it up again?” Dicky asked. “I do think that this way the only relatives who’ll come will be the ones who really want to. You’re coming, right?”

“You couldn’t keep me away,” MooMaw said. “Especially now that I know how easy the flight is. I suppose I’ll have to travel with your mother and father.”

“I was thinking you would,” Bitty said. “You don’t want to?”

“To tell you the truth, I kind of like first class,” MooMaw said. “Even though you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course we should have,” Jack said. “We can fly you all up first-class for the wedding.”

“Jack —” Dicky said.

“What?” Jack said. “It’s not that much. We could charter a private plane for your relatives if you want —”

“Jack. We are not chartering a private plane.”

Lorraine hid her smile behind a cookie. Her Dicky had found a good one. What was it her mother had told her when she brought Walker home? It would be just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?

Walker had never been rich, but they’d done all right. They’d both taught school, Lorraine in the primary grades and Walker at the high school, until the girls came along, and then Lorraine stayed home. Walker had worked a series of second jobs in the summer and side jobs all year, and they’d never wanted for anything.

Now Suzanne’s Rick made near as much as the high school principal as the football coach, so they were fine. But it wasn’t “we’ll just charter a plane” money. Or “top-floor condo with a view of the city money” either.

Still, Jack didn’t strike her as spoiled. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he loved Dicky. That was obvious from the first time she saw the two of them together.

“So,” Dicky said, obviously changing the subject. “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Or go do anything this afternoon?”

“I think I’d like to have a lie-down,” Lorraine said. “For at least a while. If y’all don’t want to cook, we could go out — but maybe just for a bite? And then tomorrow, if you’re not busy, Dicky, you could show me around the neighborhood?”

“We don’t mind cooking,” Jack answered. “We have some steaks and some chicken we can grill, if that sounds all right to you?”

“And tomorrow we’ll hit up the market,” Dicky said. “You don’t mind being a special guest on my vlog? But maybe after we go to the farmer’s market Saturday. Jack has meetings tomorrow, but he’s free Friday — we thought we’d go to Newport and maybe take the ferry to Jamestown or Block Island?”

“That all sounds fine,” Lorraine said.

Jack stood as she got to her feet, and she smiled at the manners his parents had clearly instilled in him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little worn out.”

The visit proceeded more or less as Lorraine expected, with Dicky planning daily outings and events, which Lorraine enjoyed immensely — especially ones like the ferry, where she could sit down — and Jack joining them when he was able.

She and Dicky also baked and cooked together, both on camera and off; she sampled foods including stuffed clams and lobster rolls; and she and Jack started an ongoing penny-a-point series of gin rummy games, mostly out on the terrace while Dicky was busy on the computer.

Jack turned out to be a worthy competitor.

The surprise of the visit, and a pleasant one, was the way Jack warmed up to her. She’d obviously liked the boy from the beginning for his devotion to Dicky if nothing else. Now that they had more time together, she came to like his sly sense of humor, the way he observed the world and even the way he helped Dicky moderate his impulses to try to do everything all at once.

Dicky had told her that Jack suffered from anxiety and sometimes had panic attacks, although she didn’t see anything like that during her week in Rhode Island. She hoped that meant he was comfortable with her. He was comfortable enough, at any rate, to mention going to therapy, which she supposed was a good thing.

Would probably be a good thing for Dicky too, if she was honest. God knew the boy had a rough enough time growing up, and he always had been a bit of a whirlwind. Maybe those two things weren’t related, but you never knew.

“So,” Dicky said, when he drove her to the airport for her flight home. “When do you want to come back? If you come during the season I can bring you to one of Jack’s games — I can send you the schedule and maybe you want to pick out a weekend with a day game?”

“I couldn’t ask for —”

“You’re not asking, I’m inviting,” Dicky said. “Actually, it was Jack’s idea. If you want Mama and Coach to come with you, I can try —”

“No, that’s fine,” Lorraine said. “I’d like very much to come.”

After all, she thought, as she got in the line for security, this was something she knew how to do now.

#zimbits #omg check please #omgcp #my fic #prompt fill

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