#plate handler

[tekmaticinc]

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[buddha23fett]

Don’t shoot the good guy.

[solxamber]

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

[rounderhouse]

hey sport. yeah. yeah, no, you did great on that last sortie. great kill ratio, excellent sync-up rate. minimal damage to the armor plating. great stuff, a+. there's just like, one thing -- and it's such a small thing, i- i really feel bad even mentioning it. but your mission handlers, they uh. they mentioned that every time you took out a bogey and the neural-reinforcement electrodes in your tac-collar fired you uh. made a weird noise? like sort of a, uh, an exhalation of air. like a gasp. no, not like that. no-- okay, yeah, more like that. yeah. like a moan. uh. yeah. kinda freaked them out. yeah. yeah, i know. it's fine, just- try to not do that? yeah? okay. okay, cool. yeah. thanks.

[handsome-robot]

Monster Hunter Rise's biggest flaw is the dango system. What a downgrade. You go from MH:W and these huge sumptuous meals made from the monsters you've been hunting to 3 sticks of dango and a cup of tea. How am I supposed to go out and fight a hundred monsters when that's all I've had to eat? The handler and the hunter from MH:W would call that a light snack, a sample plate. I want to get in there and eat like Goku.

[cryobabiess]

Can you write a fic where the reader came to the palace as a new and untouched slave and is really beautiful (also her body). And like Caracalla and Geta want her but she is sassy and refuses but the second they touch she is really shy and acts innocent because she is a virgin but they didn‘t know?

Inter Duos Deos

pairing: Geta x Reader x Caracalla Tags: Light nsfw, implied threesome, dubcon

AN: Reader is named after the gorgeous Sherouk Farid 👀 Enjoy!

It is a miracle by your god that you've kept your virtue intact considering your unfortunate circumstances. The Roman army was civil enough to transport the female prisoners of war on a separate ship from the men. You quickly understood this not as an act of mercy, but of preservation.

A general dressed in leather regalia had grabbed you by the flesh of your arm, separating you from the other women being rounded up like cattle. He inspected you with an intrusive eye, hardened gaze lingering on the linen tunic falling off your shoulders. He forced your jaw open and ran his finger along your gums and the flesh of your cheek.

"This one appears to be in good health. No signs of disease, and quite the sight. Bring her to Palatine. They should find good use for her there. Atilius will deliver her."

They brought you to your conqueror's palace, where you were cleaned and perfumed with incense and oils. The servant girls offered wisdom as they plated your long hair into ornate braids. In hushed whispers, they warned against looking the Twin emperors in the eyes and urged you to keep your head down; do not show fear, for they will revel in it. Back home, amongst the grain fields where you laboured, there was talk of the two holy sons of Rome and their lust for blood and war; it was only a matter of time before they exercised their divine right and sent their men to the shores of your humble village.

As you stood before the great god emperors Caracalla and Geta, with hair and robes spun from gold, you thought they looked more human than what the rumors described.

"My lords, It is my greatest honor to present the spoils of yet another successful campaign!" An older man with thick black kohl lining his eyes pushes you towards the center of the throne room, gold bracelets chiming with his enthusiastic movements.

You discreetly glance at the twin emperors through your eye lashes only to see the elated grin of Caracalla, who eyes you like a starved animal. His aquamarine irises travel the length of your body, lingering on the round of your hips. The servants dressed you in nearly transparent chiffons and delicate gold jewelry, as per Caracalla's request.

"Such beauty you've brought us, Atilius! And to think you found it amongst savages." He jovially exclaims, leaning back against his seat.

"From where does she hail?" The taller brother, Geta, stands from his gilded throne and descends down marble steps. His dark gaze, though equally as ravenous, is more calculated than his brother's.

"From a small conquered village south of Aegypti. And salvaged from a grain field, none the less! Like a jewel plucked from dirt."

"Does she have a name?" Geta inquires.

"Is she pure?" Caracalla interjects.

You speak before your handler speaks for you.

"I am named Sherouk." You declare the name your father gifted you with pride and meet Geta's domineering gaze. He startles at your confrontation, his once pleased grin straightening to a hardened line. Atilius raises his palm to strike you, but Geta catches his hand before it makes contact with your cheek.

"Leave us, Atilius." He commands, unbothered by your words. Your handler looks at you with unease before dutifully retreating from the throne room.

"How bold! She will make for interesting nights. I want to be the first to taste her, brother." Caracalla laughs, sufficiently entertained by your futile resistance.

"I should sooner die by the blade on your hip." In the mere seconds it took to say the words, outrage erupted in the throne room. Caracalla stood from his seat in an instant, fingers hovering over the dagger sheathed at his belt as he strides across the marble floor. Geta holds the space between you and the spurned emperor, his palm colliding with Caracalla's chest.

"Peace, Caracalla, peace."

"Why do you permit her to insult us?! Allow me to grant her dying wish!"

Fear strikes you then. You hold your head high, close your eyes, and prepare to feel the cut of a blade, but it never comes. Instead, you feel the feather-light touch of a pair of hands ghosting over your shoulders, cold metal rings brushing down your exposed breasts and the supple curve of your womb. You gasp at the foreign sensation, your body tightening and your sex awakening. You open your eyes to see Geta's arrogant expression. His fingers dip lower, pushing past the thin layers of your dress to glide through the folds of your cunt. Caracalla's rage is replaced with curiosity as he watches his brother raise a single digit to his mouth to taste your essence. A shaking breath escapes you along with your feigned bravery. Desire takes hold.

"Ah, I understand now." Geta exchanges a knowing glance with his brother. Your facade of strength has been compromised.

Intrigued by your obvious arousal, Caracalla positions himself behind you to take greedy handfuls of your tits, his thumbs plucking at your hardened rose-bud nipples.

"Is it true, brother? That a bitch that guards riches barks the loudest." Caracalla rests his chin on your shoulder as he kneads your tender flesh in his hands. You can hear the smile in his voice.

Geta takes your face between his palms, caressing your flushed cheeks.

"Sweet Sherouk," His low voice is as saccharine as molasses, but false. "what riches do you guard?"

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Two

None of you are used to pack dynamics. Unlike then, it made you near feral. There's nothing more they want than to build you back up.

Lestappen X Reader

Series Masterlist

The Beast. An awful nickname, one nobody deserved. Admittedly, Charles knew little about her. He knew little about the current Formula Two drivers in general, but knew nothing about The Beast. Still, he doubted the nickname was fitting.

He couldn't help but look into her. Max pressed kisses along his shoulder as Max did his all important research.

"I don't like it," Max mumbled as he kissed across Charles's shoulder. "Sounds dangerous."

Charles waved him off and continued to read, learning what he could about you. A good racer, that was clear. Vicious, adrenaline driven. Like Max, Charles couldn't help but think. But then he scrolled down.

'The Beast attacks fellow F2 Driver, 'Ollie Bearman'.

You had attacked Ollie. Why had you attacked Ollie? Charles clicked on the video and let it play.

It began, just after they'd gotten the muzzle back over your mouth. Ollie was on the floor, hand bleeding hand protectively in front of his face. His blood dripped through your muzzle, dripped from your mouth. You looked positives feral as you stared down at him. A terrifying sight.

But you couldn't be that feral, right? They wouldn't keep you in Motorsport if you were that dangerous.

Max grabbed his chin, forcing Charles to look away from his phone screen. "Charlie, promise me you won't go trying to adopt this one like you did Oscar and Ollie," he said, blue eyes staring into Charles's.

Cupping his cheek, Charles leaned forward and kissed Max's nose. "I can't promise anything, Max," he said and settled down against them.

Max released a sigh. He laid down next to Charles and wrapped his arms around him, unwilling to let him go. "Charles, please," he said, suddenly sounding so serious. "Promise me you won't go near her."

He didn't reply. Max laid awake, aware that Charles was awake, too. Awake, but not talking to him. "Charles," he tried again. But Charles moved further away from him.

***

The lock slid into place and you were left in the dark hotel room, food in front of you. "Tomorrow is a big day," your handler (manager, she preferred to be called. But she really was your handler) called through the door.

You knew that, knew how big the next day was going to be. A chance to drive for Ferrari, in the place of Carlos Sainz. It would be your only chance to drive for Ferrari, you knew. There was no way you weren't going to fuck it up.

You ate slowly, thinking too much. The collar was still around your neck as you ate, and you were hyper aware of it each time you swallowed. It had always been tight, a warning to behave or deal with the consequences.

Your muzzle was on the bedside table. God, you hated that thing. It had been too tight for years, stained with blood. Your blood, Ollie Bearman's blood (you felt bad about that one. Ollie didn't deserve it, and you hadn't meant to bite him. He really was the sweet pup everybody saw him as. He just got caught in the crossfires of you and Théo Pourchaire), the blood of others.

Your food was finished, plate empty. Moving it to the door, you raised your hand and knocked. It was pulled open as you hopped back and looked at your handler. "How're you feeling?" She asked and she shrugged your shoulders, picking at your skin around your nails.

Your handler walked further into the room. She shut the door, put the plate beside your muzzle on the bedside table, and grabbed your hairbrush from your bag. "C'mere," she said and sat on the bed.

You did as you were told and came to sit in front of her. She brushed through your hair, humming as she did.

She was the closest thing you'd had to a mother. Ever. Kind and caring, making sure you actually took care of yourself. She cooked for you, brushed through your hair, used your shock collar when you put somebody else in danger.

You sat there, your eyes falling closed as you listened to her humming. You wouldn't hurt her, couldn't hurt her. She was all you had in this world.

She got you into bed before you could fall asleep. Your finger hooked beneath your chock collar and pulled, but it was so damn tight. A whimper left your lips and you struggled to fall asleep.

A Ferrari driver. You were going to be a Ferrari driver. It wouldn't be forever, but long enough. Maybe after this you could give up this dream that wasn't your own. You didn't know what else you would do if you were to give up this life, but you wanted to find out.

***

The entire Ferrari garage was anxious. Fred was anxious, the engineers were anxious, the social media team was anxious. Charles was anxious.

You were anxious.

Charles's research the night before hadn't prepared him for the first sight of you. His knee had been bouncing as he waited, thumbs tapping across his screen as he texted Max. Max was panicking, he knew. He didn't trust Charles, didn't trust him to protect himself in front of the driver nicknamed 'The Beast'.

You didn't deserve that nickname. After seeing the video of you attacking Ollie, he still didn't think you deserved the nickname. It was too close to somebody else he knew, to the way they were before someone showed them what love was.

You and Max were one in the same. He remembered when Jos would force Max to wear a muzzle, back when they were in the lower divisions. But that wasn't because Max was a danger. No, that was to keep him quiet, submissive in front of Jos.

If he could help Max, then he could help you.

But then you walked into the garage. The Ferrari shirt was on your body as you strode into the garage. Nothing looked out of place, nothing but the shock collar and the muzzle. It didn't look right on your face, biting into your cheeks and obscuring what he was sure was a gorgeous smile.

The woman who followed you into the garage introduced you, told everybody else your name. They all knew your name, but they were going to call you 'The Beast'.

For a moment, Charles wondered why you weren't the one speaking. But then he realised, you couldn't speak with the muzzle as tight as it was. He stood up and walked over, holding his hand out towards you.

You looked towards the woman that had followed you in. She gave you a nod and you finally placed your hand in his, shaking it. Good dog, he almost expected the woman to say to you.

You dropped his hand but you kept staring at him. You knew who is was. Charles Leclerc. The Prince of Monaco. Ferrari's golden boy. You had raced against his brother the year before. Arthur was smart enough to stay away from you. It didn't stop him from giving you a polite smile whenever you walked past.

As Charles tried to speak to you, and got answers from the woman behind you, your manager, your handler, he could feel eyes on him. Max, he knew immediately.

Max couldn't concentrate on whatever Helmut Marko was saying to him. He didn't care, anyway. Not when Charles was standing so close to somebody called 'The Beast'. Admittedly, the video made you look so much worse than this. The video didn't show you trembling like you were now. It didn't show you cowering behind the woman that followed you into the garage.

But he had seen the bite marks on Ollie's hand, had seen the damage you had done. You could so quickly do the same thing to Charles. He edged away from the Red Bull garage, stopping himself from running towards the Ferrari garage. His body was ready to go at a moments notice.

"Is the muzzle necessary?" Charles asked as he stared at you. You hadn't looked away from him, your eyes hadn't left his gaze.

No! You wanted to scream. Please, please, please get it off me!

But you couldn't say it. Couldn't speak with just how tight the muzzle was, wouldn't speak even if you could. But you couldn't trust yourself, you knew. If the muzzle was taken off, you couldn't stop yourself from lashing out, from feeling like that was the only way to protect yourself.

Your pathetic whimper got to him, though. His gaze softened and he reached towards you.

Immediately, Max was moving towards the Ferrari garage. "Fuck," he hissed as he ran.

Charles unlatched your muzzle. The way you were looking at him, looking so sweet and innocent, he couldn't help but pull the muzzle away.

The muzzle hit the floor, and you lunged for him.

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[takami-takami]

UHHHH so like Keigo getting wholeheartedly distracted from his daddy issues on Father's Day because he has a single passing thought about making you a parent and now the baby fever + breeding kink combo are beating his ass

Thoughts?

- magpie anon ✦

Keigo's hell begins over coffee.

Coffee and a mindless, paltry comment.

Keigo has always been chipper in the morning, if not a little understimulated by the rest of the world taking its sweet time catching up to his trademark speed. Like most mornings, your boyfriend is a blur of red and gold, flitting about the kitchen to prepare the perfect breakfast for you two to start off the day.

Pots and dishes click and clatter around you, and you swear you see a dollop of pancake batter go flying as a stray feather does its work mixing the bowl to free Keigo’s hands to cook.

You, on the other hand, are perfectly content sulking by the coffee machine.

You take a sip. Your coffee is dark roast— a little reminiscent of the bags under your eyes, as you force yourself to keep them open long enough for the caffeine to hit your system. If they close for more than a second, you fear they won't open again.

Perhaps letting sleep take you would be preferable. You want nothing more than to crawl back under the quilted covers, to drag your boyfriend back in bed with you for ‘just five more minutes’ and bury yourself in his warmth; but judging by the way he’s bouncing off the walls today, you don’t suppose convincing Keigo is an option.

Breakfast looks practically gourmet as Keigo drizzles strawberry syrup in creative shapes. He arranges fruit slices in the shape of a heart for your plate.

You’re doing your part, though. You dunk sugar in Keigo’s coffee and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I’m bored,” Keigo suddenly asserts.

“Mm,” you hum, warming your hands against the mug.

“We never do anything this time of year,” Keigo says. 

“Do you want to,” you respond, with a raised brow.

Keigo hums. He gets it. You both do. Still, every year, something unknown itches and claws at the back of his throat.

“Tsukuyomi asked for the day off today,” Keigo continues, almost shyly. He stares into the crackling eggs that are about to char on the frying pan and pokes them with a spatula. “Wanted to spend it with his folks again.”

“Yeah? He deserves it, honestly,” you say. “Good kid. What, are you jealous or something? Want a day off too, huh?”

Keigo shrugs. You almost snort as you make your way to leave the kitchen and set the table. 

As you pass Keigo by, you push his mug into his chest and plant a peck on his cheek.

“If you’re that bored on father’s day,” you yawn. “You could always just knock me up.”

Keigo forgets to flip the eggs. 

He forgets a lot of things, actually. 

You could always just knock me up.

Several of his interns ask Keigo to write letters of recommendation for them at work; and his handler reminds him today is the last day of the week, so he needs to look over the particulars in the database for his agency to be sent to the higher ups. 

Thus, even as he dons the visage of the hero Hawks, Keigo is confined to the torture chamber that is solitary confinement in his office with his thoughts.

He could always just knock you up.

Several chewed pen caps litter the expanse of his mahogany desk, another falling with a thunk to join its brethren among the pen cap graveyard.

I could always just knock them up.

Keigo decides to take the train ride home, opting to give his wings time to recover from a recent fight against a particularly tricky villain. He watches the scenery blaze by in a fog, pensive as the raindrops plop against the window.

He should probably just knock you up.

[winewinebloodwine]

[Chuuya smiles faintly at that, not really wanting to get into it, but thankfully all the same. Then Chuuya frowns at the rest of the words]

I̷̝̫͐͆'̶̱̈́ḏ̸̹̈́ ̵̪̾̓o̴̱͆f̸̳̓f̷͎͚̍e̷͙̓r̵̬͘ ̴̳͐t̶̮̀o̸̢̎͗ ̵͓̰͘͘h̴̙͘̕e̷̼͠l̸̰̔̓p̶̹̞̍ ̸̹̬̐ȳ̷̯͔ǫ̶̛͈̏u̵̢͑̚ ̴͓̱͛͋ḳ̷͕̅i̴̜͂̄l̸͚̺̚l̵̡̮͛ ̴̟̳̓͝y̴̘͓͑ḧ̶̨̤́́e̴̝̓m̶͙̏͜ ̸̹̠̐͂ȃ̴̗s̴͖͌́ ̷̯̔ẁ̴̪̜e̷̲̎̈́l̶̜̎̃l̴͈͎͂,̶̲͙̍͆ ̵̙̎b̸̲̓u̷̡͖̓ ̵̘͙́̚Ḯ̵̧̭̾ ̶̧̟̉̆d̷̤͗͂o̸̭̓̿n̷͚̯͆͒'̶̧͚͝t̶̗̫͒ ̶̟̉t̸̪̼͊̈ḧ̷̲̕i̸̥͊̏n̴̬͗ķ̸̟̌ ̷̦̎́t̸̥̏̋ͅh̷͔̠̚͝a̴̩͓̽̀t̶̮̾̕'̵͙͒s̷̪̦̉ ̷̼̇̏p̵͍͑̽ó̷̞͙s̴̖͋s̸̪̎i̸̩̾b̷̲͗l̵̗̫̀e̷͕͍͒ ̸̢̹̄r̶̛̺̔i̵͚̜̐̂g̴̛̰͎̈́h̸̫̭́t̷̡̬̄ ̴͈̈́̕n̸̗̕͝o̵̰̮̚ẇ̵̯̫̌

[Chuuya mutters, his grip on Dazai tightening slightly before loosening again on purpose. The fact that they are currently separated by that world both comforting and annoying. He sighs again, continuing his own story]

Ì̴͎͠ ̸͉̔ṛ̴͙͐e̸͚͚̊̓m̶̙̈́͒e̶̪͐m̸̨̼͠b̸͎͓͠͠ẽ̶̥̣r̸̻͐̕ ̸̺̹͑m̴̪̯̚ȯ̵̩͠r̴̋͋ͅe̸͓͑̃ ̴̢̖͌̐a̶̬̚b̶͊́͜͜o̶̗͑̚ù̶̮̒t̸̰̍̔ ̷̨̅͜ţ̵̥̉h̴̛̞e̵͎͔͌͂ ̴̝̠̂L̶̘͎̽̂a̵̛̬b̶͍̑ ̵͙̊͘t̴̫̿͒ḩ̵͌̚ą̶͚̄n̶͚͙͌̈́ ̴̡͘a̶̯̔ṉ̸̔́y̴̤͈̾̈́ ̸͇͐c̵̬̺̀͘h̸̩̳̓́i̶͇͆͛l̵̞̝̕d̵̺̀͑͜h̷̬̓o̵̲̳͗̄o̶͎͑ḍ̸̂̾,̵͎̚͘͜ ̸̖̖̇ṉ̶̙̃e̶̲͈̅e̸͓͎̓̌ḏ̵̡̓̂l̴͂̉͜ẻ̷̥s̵̝͕̈ ̸̳͆å̴͛ͅn̴͎̐ḋ̵̪̻̚ ̷̡̡̄e̴͓̍͑x̷̛̖̍ͅp̵̧̧̍e̴̝̍̕r̵͔͈͂i̶̯͖͗̀ḿ̶̱̚ẹ̶̿n̵̳̓̄t̷̢͓̋̑s̷̮̰̀ ̸͚̇ạ̶̡͂̋ń̶͓̚d̵̹̠́ ̷̯͘ͅk̶͙͍̉ị̶͆l̶͔͆l̵̦̍̆i̴̞̮̋̀n̵̨̮̏̉g̴̻̀͂ ̷͕̟̑h̷̹͉̚u̶̞̿̄͜ṅ̵̢͑ď̴͕̊r̵̖̒̃e̷̳̣͘d̶͎͐͝s̴͚̯̔̈́ ̴̫̂̀o̷̟̞̓f̴̨̱̈́ ̵̼̐͝o̶̩̞͌̾t̷̢̤̂h̵͈̽̌ê̶̫̲͝r̸͙̋͝s̷̺͠͝ ̷̤̔̎w̵̡̫͌̎h̵̡̲̀o̷̜̖͑̑ ̸̤͈̚s̵̜̏h̴͉̿̑ͅa̴̲͛̈́r̴̳̿̉e̵̫̓͛d̷̤͍̓́ ̵̤̏m̴̮͠y̸͈͛̐ ̶̡̭̋͑f̴̯̤̒a̵͓̣͋ç̵͊e̶͔͋.̸͎̑̈́ ̶͎̍̅T̵͕̽h̶͔̀́͜e̸̅͜ͅ ̸͕̱͘o̷̙̬͌͘n̶̬̩̽l̸̗̟͘y̸̳͝ ̵̞̓͛t̴̡͍̃ḥ̷͒̊i̵͓̇̉ň̴̜̄g̶̱̼͒̏ ̵̛̥ẗ̴̖ḣ̴̪̎a̵͈͌͜t̵̨͝ ̷̹͝ș̵͔̓e̵͖̫̐͝p̴͕͠a̷̠͛r̵̗̈̍à̷̡͗t̶͙͌e̴̩͋d̵̠̳̈́̒ ̵͈̈͘ü̵͇͈s̸͉̪̔ ̸̞̲̐ẅ̵̭̲e̷͚̓r̵̳͍͐̂ȩ̴͍̏ ̴̫̖͠ő̷̪͓̆u̵̙̰̕͠r̵̹̿̀ ̷̭͍͒̐ń̵̪ų̶̬̈́͝m̸̜̺̽͊b̸̡͝ẽ̵̯̼̓r̶̻̃ṣ̷̅,̸̝͈͑͛ ̷̰̓h̴̼̻͛͒ä̷̡͎́n̶͎͉̐̈́d̸͆͜l̴̞̉e̶̖͌ȑ̶̯s̴̫̍͝,̸͓̼̊ ̸̰͖̄͒ȁ̶̦n̴̯̲̐d̷̠̀͛ ̶͓̔͆w̶͈͂̽h̵͕̑̐ḯ̴̭c̷̜̅̅h̵̻̓̾e̸͈͉͠v̷͙̎e̴͍̹͌̉ř̷̹ ̵͈͎͐̋e̴̻̅͝x̶̨͗p̴̬͂̃ė̵̹͜r̵̄̓ͅì̶͓͙̚m̶͍̭̂e̸̗̒̔ņ̵̭͊̚ť̷͚͗s̷̗̀̏ ̸̠̔h̷̺͓͂̐a̷̙͉̍͊ḍ̵͉̚ ̸̣̂b̶̳͒͠ë̶̦̈́ē̵̖̚n̴̨̒ ̶̢̄r̷͖͊u̴͈̎ň̷͙ ̵̬̠͐o̷̢̓ņ̸̦̉̎ ̴̢͗ǘ̷̘͐s̶̪̈.̸̫̠̕ ̶̢̩̌I̵̤͑ͅ ̵̯̀ŗ̵̋̔e̵̝̾͝ḿ̴̨̓e̴̪͐ḃ̸̰̬̚e̸͙͌̐r̷̛̘ ̴͈͖̏͌a̵̝͝b̶͕͓̂͆s̴̝̟̔̌ȏ̴̮l̶͈͆̀u̷̫͘ẗ̶̙́̀e̴̞̋̄l̵̘̇͊y̸̻̓ ̶̘̈̋h̸̛͚̰͑â̴̤t̸̡͉̾í̷͈͊n̸̙͝g̶͈̝̾̊ ̴̝̙̄f̶͇͘o̷̠̎ọ̷͂͑d̶̦̗̈́ ̶̟̒e̴̮͚͑v̴̻̩͒ê̴͕̕ň̸̡̺̉ ̷̡̏ẗ̶̠́h̵̢̿͠e̷͇͐m̸̫̬͠,̸̩̳͐ ̵͓͍̎b̷̧̼̊e̸̠͐͒ͅc̶̢̄ą̴̬̋͂u̴͔͒̕s̷̖̥̍e̴̗̒̔ ̴̨̲͋̑í̴̲̺ẗ̸̻́͌ ̷̻̃w̶̪͌a̸̤̖͋s̵̟͖͋ ̵̯̟̇ō̶̳n̵̹̤̓̎l̴̺͎͆ỳ̷͖͚̽ ̷͌ͅḙ̵̚v̸͎̰̈́ḛ̵̢̂r̶̢̨̅̔ ̵̧̥̍g̸̣̉i̷̜̾͋v̸̫́̂ê̵͙̰n̶̜̽͜ ̵͔̳͊a̷͍̲̔͂s̴̢̽́ ̴̩̣̂̑ä̸͙̜́ ̸͙̂̄ḿ̷̖̓o̸͖͈͐̍c̴̜͙͂̈́k̶̩̜̂̍ẹ̶̃̇r̶͎̈́ŷ̶͍́ ̸̪͙͆̀o̶̘̪͐f̷̮̈́̕ ̷̡͛͂a̵̻̓ ̴̣̏r̷̡̡͗̊ȇ̸͉̈ẘ̷̧̩̈a̷̝͂͋r̷͓̱͊̋ḋ̷̠͌.̷͍̾ ̷̨̛̫S̶̫͝o̵̪̫̽͝m̶̼̔̚ḛ̵̏̇t̸͖́̑ĥ̶͍͖̍i̴͙͛ṅ̵͖͍͑ĝ̵̛̩ ̵̹̇͠ẗ̴̠h̷̗͠a̵̜̓t̵͉̃͠ ̸̙̿̇w̵̨̛͜ă̵̺s̷̠̍̽ ̷̯͆̑s̸͚͂͝ṵ̴̉p̴̛̭̞͂p̷͉̳͐͐ȯ̶̺̥͝s̵͙̜̀ë̶̝d̷̾̋ͅ ̷͔̀̄ẗ̷͎́̕ô̵̰̆ ̸̻̐̕b̶̡̈e̷̡̿̀ ̶͉͊'̴̊��̙ņ̷̺̐̑ö̵̧́͝r̸͕͎̾͝ṁ̸͉̩̊a̵̬͛̀ͅľ̶͕̐'̷̧̱̃,̴̹̩́͒ ̶͇̓͗t̶͒͛ͅh̷̨̥̓ä̵̳͉̓t̷̢͑ ̷̍ͅǏ̶̢̥ ̴͇͚̅h̸̢̔̈́a̷̩̔d̶̢͓̀̿ ̸̥͆̒n̶͈̘͗͝o̴̝̹̾͌ ̷̧̞͘î̷̡d̷͖̈̍ë̴̹́͑ͅå̸̳͗ ̵̼̮͒w̵̺̓̈́ḩ̵̞̽a̴̙͂ẗ̸̤̖͗ ̷̜̦̃̅ṯ̷̻́o̸̢͎̒͑ ̶̪̿d̸̙͍͛o̴͎̭̽́ ̵̲͇̓̅w̴̟͛ï̸̺̳t̵͉̱̎h̸̖̎ ̷̯̘̓͘o̷̥̰̽̍ṛ̷̝̂ ̸̭̖̇h̷͎̎̓ͅǫ̴͔̈́͒w̸̪̖̽͂ ̸͉̝̚͝ẗ̶͖͗ͅơ̸̡̺̿ ̵͓͉̾̈́ê̴͖̦͠a̶̛̲t̶͇̝̚ ̶̙̔̚i̴̯̓͜t̸̋͜ ̸̇͠ͅŵ̴͕̚i̸͍̍ͅt̶̝͚͝h̷͔̻̃͒ô̶̥ͅủ̷͍̤̀t̵͍̓́ ̷͓͊ṕ̷͖ủ̷̜͜k̸̡̮̑̉î̵̡̠̂n̵͍̓͠g̷̲̓̑.̶̡̲͒́ ̷͇̔Ḭ̴̻͗́ ̷̯̰̒̌ẅ̷̥͔́̃a̴̻͓͛̓s̴̳̜̿͊ ̴̹̅f̷̨̖͛̀è̸̮̣̂d̵͖̫̆ ̷̱͖̏w̶̗͉͒ĩ̵̩͈̀t̵͉͕̀h̸̛̘̎ ̷̣̏̃t̵̠͋̌u̷̪̅̊b̵̥̓͆e̸͌̎͜s̶̡͔̿ ̵̢̛̬͐â̶̮̇n̶̢͋͘d̷̞̲́͑ ̷̰̉p̸͍̅͊i̸̘̯̇l̷͉̿l̶͈̓̆s̵̘̻̄͠,̴̮̌ ̸̹̃̀ṉ̶̆ộ̵̠̀t̷͇̯̅̕ ̵̤̲̓p̵̨̿l̶̰̮̍͊à̵̤͘͜ṫ̸̫̚e̶͎͊s̶̯̉ ̷̬̆̒a̸̧̔n̴̟̭̿d̶̠̃ ̷͚̖͌p̴̬̞̏h̷̨̃̚ͅy̸̖̫̽̄s̶̫͔̈͊i̸̜̪͆̐c̴̤͍͂͝ã̴̻̂l̸̢̐ ̴̢̣͐͠t̶̡͊h̸͇͑͋ị̵̫̂̽n̵̨̟̈́͠g̵̬͑s̸̫͆.̸̳̽̏

̷̢̒́

̵̩͉̾͊Ở̶͔͜n̷͚͐̉c̶͎͖͊e̶͙͎͝͠ ̷͇͋̇Ä̴͔́ṟ̵̅̆a̴̟̳͌h̴̲̩̍a̷̠̋b̷̧̔̉a̵͉̗̔k̷̛̗͊i̵̤͉͆ ̵̡̌a̸̯̍n̴̟̘̑d̸͚͉͗ ̵̙̅̚I̴͈͔̓͐ ̷̲̟͘w̸̡͂e̶̘͗̆͜r̷̖͑e̷̬͎͌̀-̸͖̔ ̵̢͖͑j̴̞̏ỏ̸͎i̶͈͋͠n̸̠͋e̷̝̟͊d̶̟̺̈̃,̵̬̲̌͌ ̶͇͠t̸͍͊͋h̶̢͈͛i̵̫̐ń̷̞̮g̵̦̯͌s̸̜̩͛̏ ̸̠̥̈́c̶͇͆̊ơ̵͚̹ṉ̸̨̈t̶̳̫̚i̷̹̣͒̅n̸̢̧̈́ư̴͔͌ͅë̸͚́̐d̶̨̊̄ͅ ̸̮͂̉ṭ̵̩́o̸͖͆ ̸̛̺̐c̶̥̣̓h̵͓͒̂a̷̜̐n̷̨͐́g̸̱̔̚ė̴͇.̷̞̦̈́̋ ̶̺͐̾A̷̻̻͆̍ ̴͈̈́r̵̻̮̿̋e̵̬̳̽s̴͍̣͗̉ȗ̵̧l̵̰̃t̸̲̀̇ ̷̠̄̂o̴͓͙͗̐f̵͔͛͑ ̶̖̻̾͝h̷̻̀ö̴̘u̷̧̟̕ŝ̷̩i̶̠̬͗n̵͉̾ğ̸̦ ̸̲̇͌a̶̠̋͝n̵̎̓ͅ ̴͎̓̆ȍ̸̠̣̚l̷̰͌̋d̵̬̋͐ ̸͙̔g̷͉̞͑̇ŏ̷̤̃d̸̠̬̽͊ ̵̭̋̇o̴̤̞͗f̸̡̙̾̾ ̵̲̒C̷͎̍̃ȟ̴̬̺̅a̴͇̎̾o̵̝͛s̴̍̅͜ ̸̜̮̈̓a̸̹̯͆n̵̲̓d��̣̄͑ ̵̝͈̈́̍Ĉ̷̝̅h̴̃̕͜ͅa̴͘͜͠n̶̰͗̿g̵̟͗̈e̶̬͝,̸̢̘̑ ̴̻̩̒̏ẻ̷̠̓ṡ̶͕̐p̸̚ͅę̵̇͜c̸̭̙͛i̶͓̔á̵͚̖͝ľ̸̤̞l̷̠̕ŷ̵̦̈ ̶̭͋̾w̸̛̗̑i̶͕̐͝t̷͔̿h̴̩͖̀́ ̷̦̂h̵̭̋o̸̟͠w̶̲̽ ̴̲̪͌m̸̱̥͛y̴̮͇̓ ̴̻̣̑b̵͔̫͐̎õ̸̼͔d̶̺̓́ÿ̶̥͉́̌ ̸̲̈́ḩ̴̫̈̒ä̶̞͎̓d̵̩̞̓ ̶̨͍̇̉b̶̲̋͝e̸̬̭͑ë̸̲̦́͛n̵̈ͅ,̷̢̼͗ ̵̡͐́e̴̢͝n̴̰̠̄d̸̗̼̑͝ḙ̸̾ͅd̴͔̠́ ̸͎̕ử̴̪p̶̦̱̉ ̶̠̆c̴̢͂̽o̸̲̅ļ̵̛͖̅ĺ̵͓̗̀i̴͇̓̆d̶͇̦̈́i̸̧̢͐n̸͓̑̿g̴̺͊́ ̸̢̞̇͆t̵̝͆͛ó̷͙́ ̸̤͂w̷̟̃̓h̴̯̚ͅá̵̲͇͘t̸̳͋ ̶̙͓̏̾w̴̩̕o̸̝͈̐̇u̴̦̔̾l̸͙͇͋̚ď̸̘̃ ̷͕̔b̷̧̟͑é̶̟ ̶̫̕a̶̰͈͑̍ ̵͖͔͗ģ̸̜̚ẽ̷̎͜n̷̉̕ͅd̴̮̹̈́e̵̯͗r̸̨͛ ̶͚̫͒f̴̟͑̒l̷͌ͅu̶̹̇i̶̳̯̓d̵͇̼͋̊ ̷͔̜̀̉p̵̧̜̀͘ë̵̢͍́ř̴̗̈́s̵̲̠̾o̴͇͔͛n̷͇͕̉͝'̶͈̍͝ș̸̛ ̸̜͐g̵̩̚͘r̷̟̀ȩ̶͎̎a̵͕̾t̴̰̀͆e̷͕̎s̶̞̱͋t̵̮͙́͘ ̵͎̇̅d̷̜̈́̾ṟ̸͗ȇ̴̺ã̵̗͚̍m̶̫̃.̴̩̟̎ ̷̛̞̬̀

[The fact being that Chuuya was not genderfuild, while not said aloud, was definitely brought to mind at that]

I cut my finger with a butter knife. I was told they werent supposed to do that.

[frostfangalphabitch]

The rest of the base has gone to sleep, but you don't sleep anymore. You don't join them in the mess hall anymore, either. You barely eat organic food at all these days, and when you do, it's mainly for pleasure. You can take the organics out of the pilot, but you can't take the love of sweets and pizza out of the organics, you guess. Despite that, you're so far removed from your humanity that it's gotten difficult to relate to most of them. It's not like anyone else is sharing your meals of titanium and copper.

The other pilots look at you with fear and disgust, knowing their inevitable fates if they're ever pitted against you. The mechanics see you as an oddity, a fascination, and heap praise and adoration upon you, but it's hollow in your eyes. It feels more like they're ogling a rare car rather than talking to a pilot. The corps see you as nothing more than a weapon to be pointed at their enemies, or whoever has less money than them that week.

The only person who still respects you as an autonomous individual is your handler. You adore her just as she loves you. Certainly, you're still a weapon - that's what the relationship started as after all - but you think she might be the only human in the base, including the mechanics, who could truly love a weapon of any kind. She's been so good to you through all of this, taking each stage of your radical transformation in stride as naturally as a lover watching her partner go through a more mundane transition. She's only gotten more attracted to you as you've grown into your new form and become more comfortable and confident with yourself. You'd burn the whole world down just to make her happy.

There's one other who respects you for who you are, though: your girl. Your beloved Wolfrun Mk.X, heart of Coral, veins of electricity, and arms of 5 ton power-guzzling metal-shredding AC-devouring WB-0010 Double Trouble carnage. Before all this started, you always thought of her like a weapon, just as the others see you now. Then she started changing you. The Coral in your augments connected with the Coral in her systems, and something changed in both of you. At first, it was just a whisper. Something brushing over your psyche, speaking just on the edge of hearing, incomprehensible but unmistakable.

Then your body started following suit. Your teeth, jaw, and digestive tract were the first things to change, presumably to allow you to consume and digest - you're not even sure if that's the correct term - the materials your girl needed to keep changing you. After your first meal, the tastiest 20 pounds of scrap you've ever eaten, your skin started changing too. The docs couldn't give you injections anymore. Their needles bent or broke when they tried to push them into your skin. You figured out why a few weeks later when what was left of your epidermis sloughed off and revealed armored plating underneath. They had to take an angle grinder to your arm in order to access your veins. You didn't feel any pain when they did. At the time, you thought that should have disturbed you a lot more than it did.

By that point, you'd been noticing Wolfrun's thoughts coming in a little clearer. In transit to your jobs, it was feelings of curiosity, probing, and wonder. In combat, it was a spark in your vision when you needed to dodge, a wordless warning about approaching enemies. In the base... still nothing but a whisper. That's when you started feeling lonely: when you couldn't feel her presence anymore.

As you became more and more monstrous, more and more like her, you began to visit her night after night. Maybe it was because you sensed an intelligence within her 65 ton body, or maybe it was simply because being near her drowned out the silence. You had no way of verifying this, but you felt like she relaxed as well when you were around. She was shut down in the hangar, of course, and there was no way any part of her could still be engaged, or so you thought. But as time went on, the whispers got louder, the words - feelings and thoughts, really - more comprehensible. And all the while, your body changed.

The 5'6" chubby trans gal who went into debt and subsequently under the knife to get a hand-me-down set of 4th gen augments all those years ago is long gone now. The thing you've become, whose claws clanged against the metal of the hangar's floor, had long since cast off that form. Where once was skin had become plated metal. Despite having no screws or rivets to speak of, it stayed firmly in place no matter how much the techs tried to pry it off. The augments which before had stuck partially out of the left side of your skull had seamlessly integrated themselves into the sleek plating that had cropped up on your head, looking far more natural than they ever had before. Your hair had fallen away, and the metal around your skull became angled and sleek, looking more bulwark than biological and with aerodynamic fins sprouting from it.

A sleek black plate had formed where your eyes once were. The day you woke up with that, you thought you had gone blind. You panicked, begging for help, afraid they wouldn't ever let you pilot her again. You had been moved into your new warehouse home at that point, and it took time for the maintenance techs to find you. Before they did, though, you felt someone - your girl, you realized - beckoning to you. She could help you. When the techs finally got there, you begged them to put you in her cockpit. It took them a while to figure out who you meant by "her", but your handler, who had come running the moment she heard the news, was on top of it. She barked at them to get you to Wolfrun, and with great difficulty, the three of them helped you get your then-8 foot form into her. You spent the next week inside her cockpit, refusing to get out except to eat and drink. She was there with you, and she let you see through her eyes. The world as she saw it was far more vivid than human eyes could ever see, infrared, ultraviolet, gamma, magnetic, smells, sounds, vibrations, on top of the visual spectrum you were used to. And when the delicate sensor plate where your eyes once were finally engaged at the end of that week, that's how you saw the world, too.

When you finally left her cockpit, you realized you could still hear her. From then on, she was with you always. That made you happy. It made her happy, too. You started letting her choose her own parts, and she was happy to. She still insisted you choose some too, though, since according to her, it was your body just as much as it was hers. True enough, whatever force was altering your body changed you to match her. When you tried out digitigrade legs, you stumbled getting out of bed the next morning after yours had reconfigured themselves to match. When you got her bulky, high capacity arms, your arms - fully synthetic by then - had bulked up considerably.

Even cosmetic changes started to affect you. You painted menacing, sharp teeth onto her head over the sensor plate with mechanical precision, and you found your own mouth elongating and becoming more of a muzzle as a result. You'd have thought being so malleable would have unsettled you, but you found you were more excited about the possibilities instead. It felt more like becoming who you were meant to be. Besides, it made wolfing down your metal meals easier. You figure intention, either yours or hers, or both, affected how you changed, but no one else had any satisfactory explanation for any of this. You'd stopped caring long ago in any case.

What you and Wolfrun ended up settling on for her, after earning a mountain of COAM for you and your handler with your unbeatable, utterly synchronized performance, was a mid-lightweight build focused on tearing apart the battlefield as quickly as possible with heavy machinery. What you became in response was anything but lightweight, at least compared to the humans around you. The finned bulwark and the black sensor on your head never really changed, but the rest of you seemed plenty mutable. Your arms grew long and powerful, your shoulders tipped with decorative spires. Your waist grew slender, tapering inorganically in nested panels to allow for plenty of articulation. Your torso got wider, too, though for whatever reason, the outline of breasts remained constant on your new chassis. You kept the digitigrade legs. Over time, hydraulic supports seemed to have formed on yours. The snout stayed, too. You were too proud of that paint job to ever take it off even with the changes to your own body. BECAUSE of the changes. You might be more machine than woman at this point, by you're still you, pride and all.

The techs estimate that only about 5% of your body is still organic. Probably most of your brain and maybe some other systems, plus a few symmetrical patches of skin. They suspect that you had either some kind of sympathetic Coral connection to your AC that rearranged your augments and allowed the changes to start, or that somehow repair nanites adapted to your form and began "fixing" you. In any case, they think the bulk of your changes are done with at this point. You're a little disappointed by that. Wolfrun likes the new you, though. She's happy for your connection and to be able to get even closer to you. Your handler appreciates your new form just as much. She doesn't even bat an eyelid when you tell her that you've been talking to Wolfrun. If anything, she seems a little sad that she can't talk to her directly. As for your relationship with your handler, you might be nearly twice her height, standing at a hulking 10 feet tall, but that doesn't stop her from loving you, or from jamming her fingers lovingly between your legs after missions.

But she's sleeping now. It's late, but you're still lonely. There's only one entity up at this time of night you'd care to talk to, so you climb the catwalks to meet her, claws clanging against the metal of the hangar. You smile your toothy, metal smile as she greets you, opening her cockpit so you can crawl inside and be one with her for a few more hours before your next mission.

[vacantfields]

Things Are Better AU MASTER POST!

Tags used: Things Are Better AU | TAB AU | TAB AU Answers | TAB AU Writing | TAB AU Sun | TAB AU Moon | TAB AU Eclipse |

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantfields

TAB AU: Singing Voices Spotify Playlist

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO: Draw, Write, etc with these guys! (ASK ABOUT NSFW !)(AND remember to credit me!!)

(I will attempt to use the tags as best as i can!! Do also note that things can change in this AU but this is the best place you can go look honestly)

[ In this AU, Sun, Eclipse, and Moon have gotten new bodies, some that are way more humanoid. Technically, they are not animatronics anymore, but the Pizzaplex they live at still deems them as such! They are also all separated; most importantly, THEY ARE NOT BROTHERS. They are best friends! (Sun and Moon, however, seem closer than that.) ]

[ It is set in the 20XX! The date doesn't matter. ]

[ The Location of this thriving Pizzaplex is in the heart of a big city, and the rest of the animatronics have gotten slight upgrades but have remained the same. Sun and Moon still run the Daycare. Eclipse stands as the security guard for the Daycare (Moon also still goes on patrols, as well). They live in the Daycare too! The layout is (sorta) the same as the original Pizzaplex. The boys can leave the place, but they must tell their handler or whoever runs the place how long they will be gone. The virus from the game is not here, BUT a virus is in this! It's highly aggressive and should be avoided at all costs. Moon used to have a virus, but most got removed from him when they moved into these bodies, although some of the virus remains in his code. Eclipse has a different virus embedded in him, and he cannot remember how he acted before; it basically wiped his personality, so now he's somewhat unpredictable. ]

They have humanoid/android bodies

The original body along with their personality chips were created in the middle of the 90s

Moon got his virus in 95 or so but they couldn't fully remove it as they would have to reset him and thats a chore plus it wasn't too dangerous so they moved the guys into separate bodies and it fixed most of it

the story is set in 20XX

The location is in a big city

They have been in the new bodies for around 5 years

The fire, gregory, etc. Did not happen here!

The virus Eclipse was made by some people who wanted to use the animatronics to attack people and make sure that fazbear would shut down

They are not the same guys from the game BUT they do act a lot like them! (kinda)

They used to share a body (Eclipse just being a security setting in them)

Moon has remains of a violent virus

Eclipse has the virus embedded in his code

Eclipse cannot remember who he was before the virus

The virus is not sentient... OR... Is it?

Despite not having the virus, Sun is not handling being alone in his head. His unstable and unused security program snaps in when he has breakdowns and makes his head think it's Moon talking to him.

Sun was the first personality chip then it was Moon and then Eclipse

Other facts

The virus does NOT like the color red on bodies. (Do not wear a red shirt or anything alike that around Eclipse he will attack and KILL.)(Though if they care about you he will hold back from mauling)

They cannot eat BUT! They can taste things!

Their face plates can still spin

They can still use the wire to "fly" around if they wish

They have a secondary voice box that they use for when they talk with people outside of the Daycare/or go out!

In the Daycare they use the "Canon" voice

They can also perform at "Adult Nights" at the pizzaplex, which consists of them singing on stage while the adults drink and so on.

Moon is the only one who actively performs so you can catch him in the evenings on stage!

They are all very flexible... And they can dance (;

They can also talk with each other through a shared headspace (like a group chat)

The old body is stored somewhere in the plex

--

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊ SUN ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

He/They/We | 8'5" / 256cm | Daycare Attendant

[ Sun is a happy go lucky guy who hides a lot of his other emotions and sometimes they tumble in! He gets angry, he gets sassy, he gets upset, etc. !! ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Without A Whisper | Sleepless Deathbed | Reverie

(Invent Animate)

----------

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ MOON ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He/They/We | 8'5" / 256cm | Naptime Attendant / Performer

[ Moon is your day to day gremlin. Crawling up walls and spider-walking across the floor in the darkness. Though he does easily get flustered if youre close enough to him! ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Secret Scream | That Death Cannot Touch | No Accusations

(The Black Queen)

----------

☾✴ ๋࣭ ⭑ ECLIPSE ☾✴ ๋࣭ ⭑

He/They/We | 9'4" / 284cm | Security for the Daycare

[ Eclipse is a wild card. You never know if you can trust what comes out of his mouth but he seems docile for now ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Broken Inside | Forevermore | Clouded Son

(Broken Iris)

----------

(Hopefully this made some sort of sense... I will probably edit here and there but (: !!)

[tekmaticinc]

Efficient Plate Handler Solutions - Tekmatic

Discover Tekmatic's cutting-edge plate handler solutions designed to streamline your industrial processes. From automated plate handling systems to precision robotics, Tekmatic offers a comprehensive range of solutions to enhance productivity and reduce manual labour. Visit our website to explore our innovative products and find the perfect plate handler to meet your needs.

[i-can-get-a-wahoo]

my rewrite for season 4 of the umbrella academy

spoilers ahead

okay so how about instead of them all DYING! viktor is able to pull the marigold out of the remaining siblings (ben is too far gone as we’ve already seen 😞) and he says he’ll sacrifice himself especially since he caused the apocalypse in 2 timelines. klaus, luther, and lila are all against it but diego and alison are trying to protect their kids and 5 saw the 5 diner so knows something has to be done. however as viktor’s powers changed from white/blue to orange he is able to expel his own marigold (which implies that an increased use of his power earlier in the season would’ve made him lose his power)

a ball of glowing marigold floats in the middle of the circle as the cleanse floods in. it trickles up toward the ball barely acknowledging the siblings. it reaches the marigold and slowly begins to consume it until a bright light bursts through the cleanse’s skin.

the screen goes white

we cut to a tv interview of an unknown yet familiar face who is eventually revealed to be dolores hargreeves. the camera pans out to see dave sat in an armchair with a small child running around in the background. klaus ushers the child upstairs and tells them to brush their teeth.

then we go to the local elementary school where we see lila and diego dropping the twins and grace off at school. they’re met by dave and klaus and their child. the three younger kids run into their class where they’re being taught by the handler. we follow grace to see her being taught by herb.

we cut to viktor who is opening up a cafe (not a bar) and a woman walks out of the kitchen with a plate of cupcakes. it’s sloane. luther walks out of the bathroom with a disgusted look on his face before giving sloane a kiss on the forehead. the camera exits the coffee shop to see the name and it’s called ben’s.

we cut to five and claire in a car. they get out at a film studio. once inside they see allison who is in charge of the set. she asks to cut as claire hugs her mom and five kisses his wife delores.

towards the end of the day, the family is sat at a teppanyaki restaurant. lila whispers to klaus and dave that her uncle is watching the kids.

the family is sitting and eating happily until all of a sudden ‘i think we’re alone now’ starts playing. the siblings look at each other , go to the centre of the room and start dancing just like they did in s1 ep1 but this time they’re not alone, they’re together as a normal family. finally.

(sorry that my grammar sucks bc i cannot be bothered and any edits are welcome in the comments and reblogs. also any fan art is greatly appreciated. i just though we needed a bit of happiness after that ending bc i cried for way too long)

(also in this edit the fivela incident never happens so 5 find the 5 diner some other way that i’m not bothered to write)

[fudgechocolatepuff]

every year when december rolled around, keigo grimaced at the holiday knickknacks displayed atop every store on the street despite his cheery personality. all he could do was lay his cheek on his hand just watching everything go by, perched on some random wooden pole where no one could see him.

if anyone asked him why he hated winter, keigo would automatically just say it’s because of the snow and harsh temperatures that wind him down and freeze him up, turning his crimson wings into frigid ice plates.

but if someone were to ask him on a deeper level…

he’d confess that this month forced him to acknowledge the 3 most dreadful holidays to ever celebrate:

christmas, his birthday, and new years.

keigo was no scrooge, however he always found himself forgetting or at least turning his head away from the topic of these days, meandering back to his agency to tire (distract) himself with endless duties.

the moment his phone pings in an urgent request for a hero, keigo is the first one to volunteer. not to help out with whatever chaos the city embedded itself into (although he loves to help others), but to not fall into the scenario where he’s stuck with himself. with his thoughts.

brrrrr!— he gets shivers thinking about it. imagine it. holed up in his desk of his huge office or the depths of his scarily clean apartment. disheveled locks of blonde hair dug into his hands and his forehead rests on his palms. the silence of his surroundings eradicating him. nothing is happening. nobody there to celebrate with him. all alone going insane as the clock ticks.

it didn’t come to a surprise to him when he forgot his birthday this year. poor boy so confused why his notifs were dinging every minute. when he went home later that night (2 am probably), his heavy eyelids holding themselves up as he scrolled through his phone. ‘oh…’ he thought. ‘it was my birthday.’

there was no point in asking for the week off. if his handlers weren’t up his ass all the time about devoting his time, he wouldn’t even want to take a break anyway. what was there to do? who was there to see?

at least he could have his morning coffee though. pumping through his blood and keeping him awake during such a miserable time. the sweetness cancels it all out.

but maybe next year he’ll be free, a hopeless christmas wish tossed into the back of his mind.

i need to talk about this man for the rest of my life there’s so much to him. he breaks my heart but makes me smile

♡ fudgechocolatepuff

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 9 - Pneumothorax

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging

Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simon’s skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where you’ve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.

Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.

The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. “Oh god. Simon.”

The way you’d slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. “Oh, god, Simon, what do I do?”

“Punctured a lung,” he whispers, barely a breath.

“You need a doctor,” you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, “I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?”

“’M okay, Precious,” he grunts. And then he stands up, like he’s not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as you’d grappled with him. “Get the bag.”

The bag? “We’re not playing games anymore!”

“’S got medical supplies in it,” Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. “’N another gift for you. C’mon, we’ll go back to the cabin.”

Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. You’re so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when he’d tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? You’d been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, he’d run at you from the side. But that’s why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldn’t see it, so you could have the element of surprise.

“Call Price,” Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.

You look up at him, then at the cabin that’s barely ten meters away. “What?”

“Use my phone. You know the code,” he says again, “Call Price, tell him we’re at the empty north cabin.”

Before you can ask “What?” again, or even, “Who the hell is Price?”, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.

The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.

Simon’s phone isn’t on him, or in his little knapsack. It’s one of the scariest things you’ve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, it’s… familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that can’t possibly arrive in time.

This is different. The first time you’d stabbed a man, you’d meant to do it.

The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room you’d woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.

You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simon’s left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. You’re jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.

By the time someone picks up, you’re back on your knees by Simon’s side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.

“Price,” a man answers.

“Hello?” You try not to let your voice get to frantic. “Simon’s hurt. He said to call you. We’re at the north cabin.”

“Empty,” Simon grunts, barely audible.

“The empty one,” you clarify. The line is silent. “Hello?”

“He’s wounded?” Price asks, cool and almost distracted.

“Punctured lung,” you say. “He passed out, but he’s kind of conscious now.”

The man on the other end hums. “That does sound a bit serious.”

“Please,” you insist. “I don’t know where we are, please call an ambulance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And then the line goes dead.

Your hands are shaking when you touch Simon’s face. “He hung up. Simon, I’m so sorry, he hung up. I don’t know if I can get you into the car. I don’t know if there’s enough time for anyone to get here.”

“’S fine, Precious,” he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. “Been in worse shape’n this. Price’ll come.”

“We don’t need him here, we need you in a hospital!” It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. “Should I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?” You grab the backpack and tear it open. There’s gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Splash of alcohol first,” Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. “Oi.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me!”

“’M no’. Just restin’ m’eyes.”

“Not that either!” The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. “Stay awake.”

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. “Okay. Fuck. Gauze next, you’ll have to hold it down. Don’t have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.”

The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. “Simon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“’S fine,” he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. “Shouldn’a come at you from the left. Better t’ stay low and come at you from the right.”

“I still might have stabbed you,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-”

“You couldn’a known.”

“I should have,” you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. “I didn’t need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that you’d start chasing me any moment.”

“’S part of the game,” Simon sighs with a lazy grin. “Weren’ supposed t’ stab me in the chest, but tha’s on me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to stab you at all, Simon,” you sob. “I never wanted…! I don’t…!” Simon’s eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. “Simon, please, stay awake. I’m sorry. Please, Simon. I don’t hate you, I’m sorry.”

You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoever’s come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.

“Simon,” the man says. “You broken?”

“No, sir,” Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.

“She said you punctured a lung,” the man you can only assume is Price points out.

“Affirmative.”

“John Price,” he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where you’re keeping pressure on Simon’s wound, he chuckles. “Let’s get this drama queen inside, shall we?” Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.

“How’s the hobby search going?”

You can’t stop yourself from bursting into tears.

John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, there’s another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simon’s clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. He’d complimented you on a clean strike, once he’d gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if you’d really wanted to.

The sucking sound from Simon’s chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.

“You meet my girl, Skipper?” Simon eventually wheezes. There’s a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him that’s really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. It’s still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.

“I have,” John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure you’d be okay.”

It strikes your ears as… absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that there’s no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when you’re stressed. MREs wouldn’t cut it for long.

And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.

“She’s had Riley here on a leash for half a year,” Kyle informs him. He pats Simon’s cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. “Poor bastard’d been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soap’s been locked up.”

“Eight months,” you whisper. You’re sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simon’s good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. “We met eight months ago.”

“Christ,” Price says, rolling his eyes. “I told you to keep a low profile.”

“’ave been,” Simon grunts.

“And, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?”

Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. “Had to make sure our first date was memorable.”

You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since you’ve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.

“Hope it was worth it,” Price says. “You going to get rid of her, or am I?”

Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you can’t see. You take one look at Kyle’s startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.

When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Simon’s face this frigid. He’s completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesn’t even spare you a glance.

For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

“She’s good people,” Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “Hasn’t made no trouble yet.”

John doesn’t look away from Simon. “That so?”

You reach out for Simon’s hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. “Simon?”

“She’s talked to the police, you know,” John says. “After your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.”

That startles you. “I never-”

“Hush, now,” John says.

Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. “Excuse me?” You take a step forward into John’s space. “Maybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, he’d have been arrested.”

“Precious-”

“No, Simon.” you interrupt him, staring into John’s eyes. “He practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandon’s skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. I’ve been at the scene of two mass murders and now I’ve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think I’m an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?”

The man doesn’t react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.

“If you ever have him arrested, he’ll be out in a day,” John finally says. “You’ll be dead before then.”

“Oh gee,” you mock. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.”

Simon’s hand gently touches one of your wrists. “Easy, Precious. Price ‘s just lookin’ out.”

You let him take your hand. “He can do less of that, thank you very much.”

Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. “Don’t think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.”

“Well he’s my man, now,” you grit out. “So you can fuck right off, John.”

For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Kyle told me you were a little off,” John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. “Simon’s been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.”

Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come to…!

Simon’s hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. “She’s helping me find new hobbies.”

John just shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?”

“Three weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,” Kyle answers.

Simon hums. “’M gonna aggravate it.”

“Goddammit,” John swipes a hand down his beard. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.”

The murderous stalker isn’t the problem child? You snort behind Simon’s hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.

“Fun as all of this is, I’m on shift in four hours,” Kyle says, looking at his watch. “Need to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drain’s gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.” He looks at you. “Make sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.”

“No they won’t,” you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, “Fuck off, Garrick.”

“Take the damn antibiotics,” John says, standing from his seat. “Be ready for a call in three weeks.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you,” John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. “Let me know if you get tired of him hangin’ all over you.”

“So you can kill me.”

He gives you an amused grin. “I’m not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.”

“I’m sure you meant that in a way that’s not offensive,” you answer. “I’ll do my best to never call you again.”

“Smart girl.” He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.

The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you don’t feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.

There’s a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simon’s armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. It’s pink with blood and other fluids. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case he’s losing his balance. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure it’s still set.

That’s why you don’t realize what he’s done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You can’t really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.

He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where he’s getting hard.

When he speaks, it’s little more than a whisper. “You were supposed to slash my arm, you know.”

“Wha-”

He’s not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you can’t force his hand away with both of yours. It’s all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.

“Knew you’d like the gifts,” he growls down at you. “But you were s’possed to slash, hm? That’s what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.” He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. “Where’s a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.”

Had you? You hadn’t felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You can’t answer, can’t even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.

“You could have killed me, today.” He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing it’s only because he let you.

And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.

“Fear looks so good on you, Precious.”

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[mentatemulator]

First Time

“Mira, honey, you're up.”

Mira looks up from the comic book in her lap, sees her overseer standing in the doorway, and behind her a hulking form that she can't immediately parse. It looks like an overpriced pc case, or a gun that some hapless goon has grafted too many attachments to.

“Oooo,” Wednesday intones next to her, “looks like Mira's scored her first soldier.”

The heads of the other pleasure dolls turn to stare as the thing steps into the room. It has a face, she can see now, and it's vaguely shaped like a person, but it's all angles and hard plates. It stares at her with a multitude of sensors.

“Um...”

“I said you're up Mira, get off your cushy ass and get to work,” the overseer snaps at her before hurrying off to deal with more pressing matters. Mira jumps to her feet reflexively, but is still processing the weaponized hulk in front of her.

“Go on, girl,” Wednesday encourages her, “You got this.”

Mira steps closer to the combat doll, fidgeting with her hands.

“Hello, um, Master...?”

“You will call me 'Handler,'” it says in a voice that is blaring and slightly fuzzy, but surprisingly feminine.

“Of course, Handler,” Mira finally slips into routine, “This one is at your service.”

“You are at my command.”

“Yes, Handler.”

The combat doll reaches out with a hand that could easily encircle Mira's entire neck, and lightly but firmly grasps her chin.

“You look fragile. Easy to penetrate.”

“Uh, I wh... er, that is, yes, Handler.”

“I have assigned you 'opfor' for this operation. You will accompany me to the AO.” It turns its armored body back to the door and marches out without waiting for a confirmation. Mira looks back at Wednesday, bewildered.

“It... it knows we're supposed to fuck, right?” she half-whispers, “It's not gonna try and fight me, is it?”

Wednesday laughs, “Oh, sweetheart, something you're going to learn about soldiers – they don't know the difference.”