#exhaust gas vent

[sw5w]

Maul Speeds Away

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:16:36

[bunnihearted]

🍽️😔🎻

[arolesbianism]

I've been chipping at a new oni save recently and I have to say I have gotten way less ambitious with my teleporter planet over my past few saves. In a lot of my earlier saves Id dive right in there, but nowadays I find myself ignoring the teleporter for a good while before dipping in to set up some basic utilities there before leaving again and continuing to stall lol

[moonstruckme]

Can I request Spencer x anxious, overthinker reader ? Maybe, overwhelmed or stressed, like almost burnout, but not quite. Because this semester at uni had just been way too much in every way. Thank you 💕 🌸

Thanks for requeting love, hope you're able to get a break soon!

cw: academic stress, reader has symptoms of anxiety

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

When Spencer gets home in the middle of the night, you don’t hear him over the sound of sizzling and your own racing thoughts. 

“Hi,” he announces himself as he comes in, meeting your little jolt with a bemused look. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.” 

“Hey, how was your flight?” You whirl from the stove for the half a second it takes to brush a kiss against his cheek before turning back to keep pushing things around the pan. The momentary distraction is worth it for the emergence of Spencer’s smile, soft and fatigued. “Sorry, I was hoping to have this done before you got home.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says automatically. “The flight was good. I’m happy to be back.” He sets his bag down and rounds the kitchen island to lean against the counter beside the stove, peering at your face. “I hope you’re not making dinner just for me.” 

“I’m going to have some too,” you reassure him. “I’m starving.” 

Spencer’s expression shifts. You get the sense you’ve confirmed something for him. “It’s pretty late. Why haven’t you eaten yet?” 

You wish you could say that you’d wanted to wait and eat with your boyfriend, but there’s never any point in lying to Spencer. 

“I just haven’t gotten around to it until now,” you say. “I have a lot of work to do.” 

“I know,” he replies. You know he does. You’d started venting about your workload before he left for the case, and he’d been kind about letting you continue to do so during your nightly calls when he was away. “Still, it’s a lot to be up until…” He glances at the microwave clock, unsure of what time it actually is. You can’t say you know, either. “Nearly three-thirty. How long have you been working for?” 

You push the vegetables around in the pan, olive oil spitting and burning the skin of your hand. You feel Spencer’s stare narrow on you. “Since I got home, so seven-ish.” 

He frowns. “You’re not feeling tired, are you?” 

You’re not, though you don’t ask how he can tell. You look tired, you know. Every time you look in the mirror lately, you think of the word unkempt. Messy hair, dull skin, purplish crescent moons stamped under both eyes. But you don’t feel like you could sleep if you tried. There’s an urgency in your blood that gets you up early every morning and propels you to work through the day, like there’s an engine inside of you that’s decided it doesn’t need gas to run. You’re always moving, humming, thinking, certain without reason that if you stop it’ll all fall apart. 

You shake your head, and Spencer frowns towards the pan. “What do you have left to do with this?” 

You’re surprised to find, upon looking down, that the vegetables look ready. “Um,” you switch the heat off, “I’m just waiting for the timer to finish on the pasta, and then I’m going to mix them together. It shouldn’t be long.” 

“Okay.” He takes the spoon from you, moving you out of the way with a careful hand on your shoulder. “I can handle that. You should go sit down.” 

“Spence,” you laugh, “I can do it.” 

He doesn’t argue with you, necessarily, just utters a quiet, “It’s okay,” and nudges you in the direction of the couch. 

You don’t have it in you to protest much, not when he’s just gotten home, so you do, curling up with your feet underneath you and pulling a blanket from over the side of the armrest. You think Spencer is going to want to talk, but he doesn’t, just stirring the pasta and pulling dishes out of the cabinet. Maybe he’s exhausted, too. It is late, and he’s been working on his case the same way you’ve been chipping away at your schoolwork, for days and days with little reprieve. 

You thank him when he passes you a bowl, slurping up the noodles the way your mom would chide you if she were here for and comforted by the fact that Spencer’s doing the same. You’re convinced the pasta somehow tastes better than if you’d finished it yourself, your boyfriend’s poor culinary skills supplemented by the love he puts into taking care of you. 

“You know,” he says after a minute, “there’s evidence to suggest that consistent sleep loss can lead to loss of brain cells.” 

You suck a noodle into your mouth. “I sleep,” you tell him. “I’m just having a late night.” 

Spencer gives you a sorry sort of smile. Like he almost wants to apologize for how smart he is, how it keeps you from getting away with anything. “I’ve only been gone for four days,” he says, “but you were texting me after I went to sleep and before I got up every morning.”  

“Only psychopaths look at timestamps,” you joke, looking down into your pasta bowl. 

He shrugs, quiet. 

“What else can I do?” you ask, and you really are asking. “I have deadlines, Spence. Due dates. I can’t just say fuck it and go to sleep at nine every night like I don’t still have work left to do.” 

“Which part is overwhelming you?” he asks curiously. 

You huff. Not at him. “All of it? It’s like every one of my professors thinks they’re my only class. There’s a bunch of essays and projects all due this week, and no break from the regular stuff to give me time to get it done.” You blink into your pasta bowl, ashamed at the emotion bullying its way into your voice. Blame it on fatigue, you guess. “Every day when I get home from class, I have this impossible list of things to do, and it’s like, if I don’t finish, what’s going to happen? My grades will tank, and I won’t be able to get any of the good internships, and then I won’t get a job, and—”

“It’s okay.” Spencer’s voice is quiet, and you might keep going if not for the hand he sets on your wrist. His thumb strokes once over the delicate skin just below your palm. “It’s okay, just try to breathe for a second. Calm down.” 

You do, only because it’s him. When other people tell you to calm down, it’s a demand, a criticism of your display of feeling. When Spencer does it, it's an assurance. That you can relax, because he’s going to make it all right. 

“I failed three classes when I was in college,” he tells you. 

You imagine your eyes bulging all the way out of your head on cartoon springs, lolling towards the ground. “What?” 

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I didn’t like them. I never showed up to class, and eventually I just failed. I didn’t really care.” His mouth slants sheepishly. “I probably should have, but I still don’t, actually. You can get a job either way.” 

Your laugh is dry. “Spence, I think it’s a little different for genius prodigies.” 

“Not really,” he says, thumb still pressing into your wrist, and you finally realize he’s been taking your pulse. It’s strangely touching, the way he cares for you so quietly. “Even if you did fail these classes because of the assignments this week, the odds are actually pretty good that you could get a job. And you won’t fail, because you’ll still finish and the work will be great. I know you.” His long fingers stretch up your forearm, a caress. “I know you get really nervous about these things, but you’ll do better work if you sleep more. You’ll be more efficient.” 

“I can’t,” you admit quietly. 

A tiny, sympathetic crease appears between Spencer’s brows. “You can,” he promises. “I’ll make you some nighttime tea and we’ll make sure all the curtains are closed. We should turn off your alarms, too.” 

You bite your lip. “I have class in the morning.” 

“You can miss one. You have to miss a lot for it to really affect your grade, trust me.” He gives the base of your hand a little squeeze. “I’d know.” 

Your laugh is half breath, but Spencer smiles anyway. “Okay.” You’re giving in way too easily, but a morning spent in bed with your boyfriend sounds heavenly. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” he says sincerely, releasing your hand to pick up his fork. “We’ll go to bed once we finish this, okay? And I’ll pick up breakfast tacos for breakfast tomorrow. Protein is good for brain function.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Chapter title from American Idiot by Green Day.

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Soldier Boy is woken up, and you have to deal with the pitfalls of your idea. Contains usual tags.

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

When he was forced into this type of sleep, Ben didn’t dream. This type of sleep was more like death, with no part of him alive in any way that mattered. But in the few seconds before he woke, with chemicals leaving his system and consciousness returning, he felt pain.

Borderline unbearable, exhaustive and consuming pain. The last few times he had been woken up, the pain had made the bomb in his chest start to tick, tick, tick, building up and up, off the beat from his heart until they found a rhythm, and he would explode.

It never relieved all that pain, but fuck him if it wasn’t cathartic.

Every time he had woken up in Russia, he’d fought the scientists like a fucking animal. When that assfuck, traitorous Brit and his cum guzzling team had found him, Ben hadn’t hesitated to use teeth and fire, hellbent on getting out, on getting home. This time wasn’t any different, the beat in his chest was already banging against his ribs, save for the stark exception of his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a clean lab or disgusting tube. He was in a suburban living room, complete with potted plants, one of those new and weirdly flat TVs, and some of the most boring paintings of roses he had ever fucking seen. Not a single person was in sight, no tubes were hooked to his body, and no cannon barrels or gas-filled vents sat in his vision. A small part of him hesitated, wondering if he was suddenly dreaming, his body having adapted to fight back and allow him some hazy peace. But the fever in his chest was growing, and there was no goddamn world where he would ever find suburbia and floral-patterned carpets peaceful. No, this was someone’s attempt to trick him, to make him compliant. Maybe Vought, maybe the Reds, maybe the CIA, didn’t matter. They all died the same.

The nuclear explosion from his chest lit the room, tearing out of him with a rush. Ben braced himself for bullets and grenades as his captors realized their little plan had failed, but none came. And as the dust cleared, he realized that not only were there no soldiers dropping from the sky or weapons hurling at his body, but everything was… exactly the same. Well, the plants had been burnt to a crisp, but that was the only evidence of his power having ripped through the room. The TV was still smooth and clean, the sofa hadn’t moved an inch, and the paintings hung evenly on the walls.

What the fuck.

He paused, the drum in his chest having stilled, and listened. Bird song, running water below the floor, electrical hums through the walls, and…

There it was.

Heartbeats.

Five heartbeats. All sped up, all bouncing around in the chests of their owners. Three moved heavily and quickly, one rapid and staggered—that one reeked of terror—and one beat only a single mark off from steady, almost as if it were devoid of any fear. Interesting.

Ben searched the room for a camera, but settled on looking in the direction of the heartbeats.

“I know you’re there,” he drawled. “I can fuckin hear you. Come out, you pussies.”

There was a pause, all five heartbeats having stuttered at his words, before a door creaked down the dark, sconce lined halls, and footsteps sounded towards him.

The people who stepped from the shadows into the living room should thank the Lord that Ben didn’t kill them the moment they were in the light. Grace Mallory, the thin-lipped bitch, watched him wearily, with the backstabbing Billy Butcher to her left. Only a step behind them was the blonde broad that had blasted him in the face at Vought Tower, accompanied by her and Butcher’s gangly cocksucker. The only one he didn’t recognize stood at the very front, a woman who was looking at him with sharp eyes, arms crossed in front of her body and legs planted apart. This was the holder of the steady heart, unsurprisingly given her collected stance and cold gaze. It was almost amusing, the way she was looking at him, like she was a lion and he was a gazelle, like if she glared her lovely eyes at Ben enough, he might drop dead. But he turned his eyes from her tiny fury to Butcher and Mallory, giving them a smirk that made his murderous intentions clear.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Butcher who answered, returning the false smile. “This is an intervention, mate. You have a problem, and we’re here to help.”

“The only problem I have is you. If you had half a brain, you’d start running.”

“Really? Because to me,” Butcher’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured around the room. “It seems like you’re having some performance issues.”

“Don’t make him angry,” the cocksucker mumbled from the back. Butcher only rolled his eyes in response.

“This, Soldier Boy, is an opportunity. We’re giving you a second chance to help us with Homelander.” Mallory said, watching Ben carefully.

“A second chance?” It was Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. “You should be grateful that I might not kill you all when I leave.”

“I’d start playing nice, Soldier Boy.” The blonde stepped forward with a scowl. “You don’t have the upper hand here."

"Oh, please, you blast me down once and think you’re some sort of god? You caught me off guard that time, doll. This time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Blondie opened her mouth to retaliate, but Butcher snorted first, a newer, more twisted grin on his face.

“Starlight’s no god, but she is,” Butcher nudged the steady-hearted newcomer forward. “Meet your new babysitter. Go on, Love, say hello.”

The woman stumbled slightly at the push, her already strong frown deepening, and had barely turned her anger to Butcher when Ben started to laugh. All eyes fell to him as he gave a loud snort of amusement, a broad grin on his face.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think you were funny, Butcher, but that’s a fucking riot.”

“We’re being serious,” Starlight snapped. “You answer to her now.”

“Yeah,” Ben rolled his eyes, giving his alleged keeper a once over. “Sure. Sunshine over here is going to stop me from ripping all your heads off your bodies. Fuck, she won’t even stop me leaving this room.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ben paused as the woman spoke for the first time. It wasn’t just her heartbeat that was level and even. Her voice was smooth, unbreaking and calm with not a trace of anxiety. Her eyes were still watching him coldly, her pretty face set like a mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to bet that I can’t stop you?” She repeated slowly, as if he were a child.  “I’d advise you not to, but I don’t think you’d care for my opinion.”

“You think you can stop me, Sunshine? Are you fucking stupid?”

“No, but I don’t think my intelligence matters here. You’re not walking out that door.”

Part of Ben wanted to start laughing again. At her blatant lack of self-preservation to go up against him and not flinch. At her smooth claim of intelligence but painfully clear lack of understanding about the situation she was in. At her companions, who had all stepped back, undoubtedly realizing that their gambit had failed and leaving her in his line of fire.

Part of him wanted to be quick and brutal, make her an example before he left. But it wasn’t worth it, and her face was too nice to ruin, so he settled to just walk past her. He’d kill Butcher on his way out and figure out what he wanted to do from there.

He only had to take three long strides to reach the hall, making to just move past the woman, but she side-stepped, blocking his path. Ben looked down at her, finding his amusement at her misguided boldness fading into annoyance.

“Move, Sunshine. I’ll only ask once.”

She met his glare, no break in her resolve. “I’d say the same to you, Grampa.”

“I’m warning you. I’m not above hitting a lady.”

“I thought you were only going to ask once.”

That was it. Ben moved to grab her, to shove her aside and end her pointless little charade. He didn’t have time for her frivolous, self-indulgent bullshit, he had tried to warn her, and at this point her blood was really just on her own hands.

It happened fast. He reached to push her, she didn’t flinch, her face looking almost bored as Ben lunged, and his hand had barely landed on her arm before he let go, recoiling from her with a roar.

“What the fuck!” He looked at his hand, now raw and red, with blisters fading as soon as they had formed. His gaze shot to the woman’s unbothered face, she herself having neither flinched nor wavered. “Did you just fucking burn me?”

“I warned you,” she said. “I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Ben looked past her, where the small group remained, having retreated down the hall. Butcher’s face was painted with deep amusement as Starlight and Mallory held twin looks of satisfaction. Only the cocksucker still looked afraid, but his nervous eyes were trained on the woman, as though she might blow to pieces at any second.

“Somebody better start talking,” Ben growled.

“We tried to tell you, Governor,” Butcher said with an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s in charge here.”

“You think this will hold me? I-“

“You were unprepared, we got lucky, it won’t happen again. We all heard the speech you gave Annie.” The woman cut him off with a snort. “You need to start getting it into your head. You do not have the upper hand. The sooner you do, the sooner we can actually do something productive instead of peacocking like idiots.”

Ben stared at her, the drum in his chest growing loud once more, his anger serving as fuel. He didn’t bother to try and control it, simply letting it set to his heart and build and build. Just before the sound could drown out all his other senses, he heard the woman yell.

“Everyone out!” Her voice was slightly alarmed, but laced with no panic. And as the door slammed down the hall, Ben realized her heartbeat hadn’t retreated. She was still right in front of him. He hoped this hurt.

As the smoke cleared, Ben opened his eyes to, tragically and annoyingly, see the woman completely intact, unbothered, and in one piece. Most he could tell, she had only taken a step back.

“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Lovely,” she sighed. “You just tried that. Didn’t work. Won’t work. Not on me. Like I said before you started acting like a toddler, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help each other.”

“How could you possibly help me?”

She grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. Hughie! You’re up!”

The skinny little coward appeared over her shoulder, anxiety painted over his face. “Can’t Mallory or Butcher do this?”

“Nah, Mallory has a powerful resting-hater-face, and Butcher would get himself killed all over me, which would be gross. I don’t need that right now.”

The cocksucker pouted. “Annie?”

“No, I don’t think he’s her biggest fan, especially after the whole tower thing-“

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here,” Ben cut in.

“Fine, you baby. Hughie,” the woman nudged Cocksucker forward. “Give him the pitch.”

Ben didn’t listen to Cocksucker as he rambled, catching only the beginning and electing to ignore him once the words “article B-55XP2 allows” were said. Instead, he focused on the woman, whose brow was furrowed as she listened to her companion talk. Small tendrils of smoke were rising from her body, and Ben noted the way Cocksucker stood off to the side, attempting to somehow paradoxically hold and elude both Ben’s and the woman’s attention. Her lips were in a tight line now, and she was hugging herself slightly, curving into her own body. The smoke from her had begun to choke the room, and though Ben could hear her level heartbeat, he could also hear her gnaw on her lower lip and the tap of her foot on the floor. When her gaze abruptly slid to his, Ben held it unblinkingly, and the crease in her brow only deepened.

Before Ben could figure out what sat behind her sharp eyes, Cocksucker let out a cough and said a name that made the woman turn.

“Can you turn it down, please?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Hughie,” she mumbled, taking another step back as Cocksucker gave a nod of thanks.

“So the big thing to know…” Once again, Ben didn’t hear whatever it was being said. No, he was now fully staring at the woman, her name playing in his head. It wasn’t a supe name, like how Butcher had referred to Blondie. Almost every supe Ben had known preferred being called by their fancy little brand name, but he hadn’t even learned if this bitch had one. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard of her. Last time he had been introduced to a large number of new players, most of them weak, whining pussies with pathetic powers, but this woman was far from pathetic. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire-supe, let alone a doll faced, angry, bitchy one who had to have the resting heart rate of a whale. He bet he could pick it up to match the Cocksuckers, if he really tried. He bet he could make her scream, maybe from being ripped limb from limb, maybe from cumming her brains out all over him. A smirk started to grow on his face as he imagined it, her ice-queen demeanor crumbling from his irresistible charm-

“Are you fucking listening?” The woman herself broke him from his thoughts, her fingers snapping in his face.

“No,” Ben sneered. “Why should I?”

“Well, if you’d pay Hughie half the attention you seem to be paying to my tits, you’d be able to answer your own dumb question.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself-“

“Please, I’ve been told you stick your dick in anything with a hole.” She cut him off again, an action that, if she kept it up, would result in her being punched. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a real nice watermelon to play with if you just fucking listen.”

“Fine.”

She paused, but was thrown for only a second. “Ok, great, Hughie-“

“But you do the talking.”

She almost snorted. “Are you that fucking crow-brained that you can’t listen unless it’s something shiny?” She paused. “Sorry Hughie. No offense, you’re plenty shiny.”

The Cocksucker, Ben knew his name was Hughie at this point but couldn’t find himself fucked to use it, just shrugged. “No offense taken.” His attention shifted back to Ben. “Will you really listen if she talks?”

“She talks like a person. You talk like a boring army manual.”

“Could’ve just said book,” Cocksucker said with a frown, but stepped back nonetheless.

“This is fucking stupid,” the woman said with a glare that was somehow stronger than before.

“You wanted me to listen to your stupid little sales pitch, Sunshine. This is what will make me listen.”

She rolled her eyes further back than Ben had ever seen before, but started to speak, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Here’s the deal. You help us with our Homelander problem, we give you immunity for all the definite war crimes you’ve committed and keep you from being Sleeping Beauty for a third time. You’ll stay here, with me, until we have a clear and safe shot at Homelander. You’ll do your little Oppenheimer magic trick, and we’ll take care of the rest. After Homelander's dead, you’ll be free to leave America for good, and live out your shitty immortal life on some stupid island where no one knows who you are.” As she came to the end of her speech, Ben grinned at her.

“See? Wasn’t so hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “Any questions?”

“Questions? Nah. But you should know, this is fucking stupid, and I’m not participating in it. All I’ll get is a vacation, and I could have that right fucking now.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t leave this room, let alone go on vacation. And I’d say what you’d ‘get’,” she used air quotes, and Ben wondered if he could throw her out a window. “Is us not knocking you out right now.”

“Also immunity,” Cocksucker piped up.

She nodded. “Also immunity. We’re offering you this once.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Act now and we’ll throw in a second watermelon.”

“I’ll fucking break out.” Ben snarled.

“Take your best shot. This safe house is more durable than a cold-war bunker, inside and out.”

“I’ll kill your team.”

“Try it. I’ll burn off your money maker.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

“I’ll go back to Vought.”

“Please, you hate them almost as much as me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her voice was coated in visceral, hot rage when she answered. “Don’t.”

Ben paused at that, squinting at her. “Why do you hate them?”

She shrugged. “Not your concern. But for the record, if you did try something that ass-brained, I wouldn’t just burn your face.”

Ben almost flinched when he saw her eyes flick down.

“What if I fail?”

“You won’t.” Her tone made it clear that there wasn’t room for debate.

“What if I want to stay here after, then?” Ben snapped. “I just spent forty years away. I’m not going again.”

“Fucking earn it.”

Ben let out a slow breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. But he had been against walls that were far more dangerous, and far more painful. He would play this little game until he figured out how to take her, the only player aside from him that mattered, out. But he wasn’t going to make any of this pleasant. If they wanted pleasant, they shouldn’t have crossed him in the first place.

“I want my fucking shield and suit back.”

She smiled with teeth for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

——-

This had been a mistake. Now that everyone had left, you could admit—to yourself and no one else—that this was a stupid, arrogant mistake.

The first day had been… rough. There were three bedrooms, all with identical queen beds and equally generic decor. Solider Boy had insisted on laying on all of them to “test their durability." When you had told him they were all the exact same, he had called you an “uncultured hick." You had explained that you were from Boston and currently lived in New York, two urban areas that rendered “hick” an unsuitable title for you, offering “street trash” as a replacement. He told you he’d call you whatever he wanted, utilizing his nickname of “Sunshine” once again. You reminded him of your threat to burn off his favorite part of himself, he said that you would be only depriving yourself of it, and you left the conversation before you could make good on the promise.

Eventually he came down the stairs and gruffly told you that the bedroom with the attached bathroom was his, before stomping back into the said room to do something undoubtedly disgraceful .

Day two was only worse. You had collapsed in the bedroom with the five horse paintings, as it had been closest to the stairs, and you were exhausted from a day of verbal sparring and worrying if you’d have to go back to MM, tail between your legs, and admit you’d been wrong. Now, having gotten a whopping 4 hours of restless sleep, you just wanted coffee. Mallory told you she would send someone to drop groceries overnight, the safe house door having a bank-like slot for packages, and she had made good on her word. You had been able to tell this because when you walked into the kitchen, it looked like a food bomb had detonated.

“What the shit is this?” You said, your voice more tired than angry.

Soldier Boy, sitting at the counter, glared at you. “You’re up late.”

“It’s 7am. In nobody’s world is that ‘late’.”

“I’ve been up for 2 hours.”

You shrugged. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I had to eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah, that happens.” You survey the mess for anything that you can use, hoping to see a box of cereal buried somewhere. You find what you’re looking for, along with some coffee that you put into the filter and stare at with blank exhaustion. In your sleepy haze, you block out Soldier Boy’s ramblings of hunger and shitty, crunchy peanut butter, hoping he tires himself out and leaves you alone. 

You were startled out of your head by the sound of your name.

"Huh?"

“Whatever you’re making, I want some too.” That gets through to you, and your head snaps up.

“How do you know my name?”

"Cocksucker said it."

"Cocksucker?"

"The little puppy that follows Butcher and Starlight around."

"Hughie?" 

"Sure." He rolled his eyes. “So, what are we eating?"

"We?"

"I asked you, very nicely, to cook me some of whatever you're making too. Or are you fucking deaf?"

“I’m not cooking anything.”

His brow knit in confusion. “You’re not going to eat? I thought all the feminist shit stopped that.”

“I’m going to eat, Jackass. But I’m not going to cook anything, I’m just going to throw cereal and milk into a bowl. You can do that yourself.” You decided not to touch the feminist comment, focusing on pouring your coffee instead.

“Well, what are you going to cook for lunch.”

“Well, if Mallory followed my list, I’ll heat up chicken tenders.”

“Dinner?”

You tilt your head. “Not sure. That’s like, twelve hours away.”

“But you’ll. You’ll cook something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“What?!” He looked horrified now. It would almost be funny, if it were any other circumstances. “How?”

“I never learned.”

“But you’re a woman!”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation.” You turned on your heels to leave the room, coffee in hand, trying to ignore the hot feeling bubbling under your skin. You paused only to call back over your shoulder. “And clean up your fucking mess!”

Thankfully, after that, the morning was uneventful. You avoided Soldier Boy, he avoided you. All the way into lunch, you were almost able to forget your situation.

Almost.

“Fuck!” You tripped over a bag of apples on the floor, your eyes having been glued to your phone as you entered the kitchen. You looked around, seeing the mess from this morning sitting just as you’d left it.

“Keep it down!” Soldier Boy’s voice carried down the stairs. You ignored his request, raising your voice to a shriek.

“Get your manwhore ass down here right now, before I make you!”

You stepped further into the room, the bubbling feeling returning, and surveyed the area that somehow looked worse than before. Picking through the melted frozens, scattered produce, and loose cans and boxes, a dirty knife and plate on the counter.

“What the fuck is a manwhore,” he grumbled as he walked through the door.

“What the hell is this?” You ignored his question, gesturing around you.

He frowned. “The kitchen.”

“No, you ass. Why is all the food still out.”

He glared at you. “Because I’m already doing enough for your sorry ass, I’m not cleaning too.”

“You didn’t even put away your dishes!”

Soldier Boy just gave you an annoyed look, turning to walk away. Your vision went red.

“Shit!” He howled, running backwards into the room before turning with a glare. “You bitch!”

It took you a second to understand what he was talking about. You only managed to clue in from the fading scars on his face, and the realization that the feeling in you had boiled over.

If you were a better, less tired and angry person, you might have apologized. Thank god you weren’t.

“I am not going to spend the next who-knows-how-many months cleaning up after you. If you want to make this as difficult as possible, turn this house into a shithole, feel fucking free. I won’t stop you.”

“You don’t know how many months we’ll be here?”

“There’s a lot of moving parts to this operation that don’t concern you, and-“ You held up your hand as he started to interject. “That’s not the point. Clean up.”

“You should be thankful I’m even still here, you bitch. If it matters so much to you, do it yourself.” He growled back.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, or did you not just hear me say that this is not my mess to clean?! Either you do it, or it doesn’t get done.”

“You couldn’t make me with a million dollars and a blowjob.”

“Good thing I’m not offering either.”

A cold silence settled in the room, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep yourself from exploding once more. His glare had developed a murderous glint in his eyes, his fists clenched at his side.

“Bitch.”

You raised your chin. “Cunt.”

“You know, if I didn’t think it’d be a shame to ruin such a nice face, I’d slam you into the oven and burn yours off.”

“Oh, so you are that stupid.”

“Watch yourself.” He said your name in a low voice, taking a rough step forward.

“Sorry, for a second there I thought you said you believed you could burn a supe with fire powers. I must’ve misheard you.”

“I could make this very painful for you.”

“As opposed to your cheery compliance so far?”

“Do you think I’m just going to roll over?” He hissed, taking another step forward. “Be you and Butcher’s little lap dog?”

Something grew taut in your gut, but you held his gaze. “I think that if you don’t back the fuck up, I won’t make you roll over so much as physically harm you until you’re crying on the floor.”

"You're fighting a war you can’t win, Sunshine. I’ll kick your ass.” He sneered. “I’ll make you sob back home to Daddy Butcher.”

Your blood felt cold, your jaw almost cracking from the pressure in your chest. “So do it. Or move.”

Soldier Boy’s face was a portrait of rage, and you felt like he was dissecting with his cold green eyes. Looking for any weakness, any exploitable fallacy on your mask, any crack in your head that he could pry open and fill with poison. Make your lungs collapse into your ribs, make you claw and claw in desperation-

“Hm,” he grunted. He pulled himself to his full height before turning and leaving, leaving your anger sizzling at nothing. You watched as Soldier Boy, with controlled and rigid movements, stepped away from you, leaving the room without another word. Leaving you in the slop of the kitchen. He was getting further and further away from you, too far you to do anything about it, except maybe-

Before you could stop yourself, your hands were wrapped around the knife on the counter and the knife was flying across the room. It bounced off of Soldier Boy's back with a pitiful sound, but he stopped in his path, turning slowly. He glanced down, eyes finding the abandoned utensil on the floor before he dragged his gaze back to you.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“Clean up.”

He stared at you with the same eyes as before, the only betrayer of his emotions the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It’ll take more than a bad throw to make me pussy enough to be your maid, Sunshine.” With that, he was gone.

———-

Ideally, the woman Ben would be forced into a lockdown with would be fun. She would give him sweet smiles and syrupy words, laugh at his jokes, and sprout similar ones. She wouldn’t be a sulking, useless, bitter prude whose greatest talent seemed to be finding issue with every word out of his mouth. Every time they had spoken, he had felt that beat in his ribs grow and grow, and it was nothing short of a fucking miracle it hadn’t gone off.

He hadn’t cleaned the kitchen, and he wouldn’t. It was beneath him, and she was the one who had chosen to be here, not him. In a brief moment of weakness, the stench from the rotten produce almost breaking his resolve, Ben had eyed a vacuum cleaner, only to realize he couldn’t use it if he wanted to. There were far too many buttons, weird twisty things lining the handle and bag, and he would take the first flight to Russia before he asked her for help.

They skirted around each other with success for two days after the knife incident, sneaking into the kitchen at odd hours to look for somehow edible food and leaving every possible door in the house locked behind them. A beautiful and well executed arrangement, broken only by her sudden appearance in the living room a few days later, standing behind him as he watched TV.

“We need to talk.” When Ben didn’t answer, she walked around the sofa, and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen. “Now.”

Ben scowled. “I was busy.”

“Watch a re-run of Jeopardy? With categories you don’t even understand?” She crossed her arms in front of him.

“I understood enough.”

She snorted. “One of the categories was ‘Celebrity-Inspired Products’. Name one modern, non-supe celebrity.”

Ben paused. “Marlon Brando.”

“Marlon Brando died in 2004.”

“Gene Wilder.”

“2016.”

“That one funny guy who was on the rise. In that stupid book movie.” Ben frowned. “William Robinson.”

She titled her head. “William Robinson… Do you mean fucking Robin Williams.”

“I was close,” Ben said with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, not really, cause he died in 2014. Now can we please talk.”

“Are you here to apologize?”

“Yes, actually.”

That got Ben’s attention. “Well then. Go on."

She had started to chew her lip again, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something bad. Though, to be fair, she probably did. The milk in the kitchen had become a problem. “I am sorry.” She took a needlessly labored breath through her nose. “I shouldn’t have thrown the knife at you. It was childish.”

Ben waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he leaned forward. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you’re going to clean the kitchen?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”

Ben lounged back. “Then your apology is worthless.”

The now-familiar look of anger had returned to her face. “I am not your maid.”

“And I’m not yours.”

“I didn’t make the mess. And I’m not going to clean it just because you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He retorted. “I am better than you.”

“Because you’re a man?” She jeered. “A big whiny baby with muscles?”

“Because I built up the company that gave you your little sparkle show. I am Vought. Those ungrateful backstabbing assholes wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

She fell silent at that, the victory pumping its fists inside Ben’s head slowing the drum in his chest. If he had observed one thing about her, it was that there was almost never a time she lacked in words. Also, she listened to her stupid music deafeningly loud and had an impressive arm. He had felt that knife hit him, sharp end first, right on his spine, still burning from the heat of her touch. Another deep breath escaped her, a fog that had formed on her face clearing.

“Power and greatness have nothing to do with cleaning. Vought won’t hear about your refusal to run a dish washer and grovel on their knees for your forgiveness.”

“Because when I’m through with them, they won’t have knees.” Ben smiled at the fanstasy on a wheel-chair bound Stan Edgar.

“No, because they couldn’t give a shit about it. I don’t love being here any more than you, but I have to be. This is a marriage of convenience, so we-“

He snorted. “I'm not marrying you, Sunshine. You’re pretty, but too much of a bitch for my taste.”

“It’s an expression, you fucking idiot. It means a weary alliance hinging on a favor. We don’t need to like each other, but we can’t kill each other, or this will be a net loss.“

“Sure.” Ben gave her his cockiest grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You couldn’t handle me, Grampa.” Despite her mocking voice, her small step back didn’t escape Ben’s notice. Though her heart was steady, he dismissed it as anxiety. Obviously, nobody had helped her relieve any of that clear, needless stress plaguing her in a while. He would. Make this whole situation a little more bearable. Maybe, once she had a good fuck, she’d turn out to be just half as pleasant as his fantasy.

“I fucked Marilyn Monroe. I almost made her leave that pussy, Kennedy. You’d be lucky if I looked at you.”

“I’d say I’m lucky right now. You’re too busy trying to fuck your own reflection to look anywhere else.”

“And my reflection thanks me every fucking night.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she gave him a toothy, arrogant smile. Ben knew she thought she’d won.

“If you ever want someone to pull that stick out of your ass, I’d be happy to help.”

Her smile faltered quickly, but was plastered back onto her face just as fast. “I’m sure it’ll fall out on its own.”

“In case it doesn’t, my door is open.”

“Thought I was a bitch?”

“You said we didn’t need to like each other to get hitched-”

“Never said hitched.”

“So if you ever want to ‘not like each other,’” he winked at her. “As hard as possible, my door is open. I’m a gentleman, you’d have fun.” He reached to take her, and he had hardly brushed their fingers when she jumped back, recoiling like he was covered in warts.

For the first time, Ben thought that the look on her face might be fear. She rubbed her hand like it had been burned, a part of him thought she might bite through her lips, and her heart had become erratic. But when she spoke, her voice was just as level as always.

“Clean your dishes, and keep your door fucking closed. Or next time I throw a knife, I’ll aim for your eye, and I won’t miss.”

She stomped up the stairs, the room lingering with smoke long after she left.

[cry4mina]

Take me Back to Eden - The Apparition - Part 5.5 (Jihyo x Nayeon)

(Jihyo x Nayeon) (Fem!Reader x Mina)

Take Me Back to Eden - Choke Hold - Part 1

Take Me Back To Eden - Granite - Part 2

Take Me Back To Eden - Aqua Regia - Part 3

Take Me Back to Eden - Ascensionism - Part 4

Take Me Back to Eden - The Apparition - Part 5

Word Count: 4.3k Angst/Suggestive/Smut Summary: This takes places at the end of Part 4 and goes through the end of Part 5! Following around Jihyo and Nayeon as they discover what Y/N has been doing since they left the shared apartment, and who Y/N has been hanging out with. TW: This shit is toxic as hell. broken glass, plates thrown, pushing, manipulation, gas lighting, stalking, crime, implied sex, talking about sex, sex is also happening, crying, uh...more of the same really.

A/N: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR 100 FOLLOWERS! I didn't imagine this kind of support when I started out, so to see it happen so quickly has been truly amazing and I'm so so so so grateful for all of you<3 Shout out to @nr1chaedickrider for helping me concoct this crazy dramatic ass side part lmaoooo<3

—

“What the fuck are you doing here?…what is that on your neck?” ringing out throughout the studio apartment, as Jihyo slammed the door behind her.

“I don’t really think she will be much use to you tonight but you’re more than welcome to try.” Y/n condescending retorts, as she makes her way to the front door.

“Oh, by the way,” Y/n turning to make sure to make eye contact before delivering the striking blow.

“I hope you like the way I taste. Enjoy.” smiling as she walks out of the apartment as Jihyo is absolutely dumbstruck at what just happened.

Silence falls creating an eerie feeling of hideous rage and tension that only Jihyo could feel as she walks into the room to see Nayeon completely naked, only a small portion of the sheet hiding her hips, covered in bruises and bite marks.

“What the actual fuck, Nayeon?” Jihyo hissed above her as she glared down at Nayeon’s limp body.

“..don’t want to talk..” Nayeon sleepily let out as Jihyo fumed.

“You’re just going to let me look like a fool about all of this? After all the trouble we went through? After everything I did to make sure Y/n never found out, and you’re just going to betray me…? What about us?”

“There is no we or us, Hyo. We just fuck when she’s not around. I never cared about you like that and you know it.” lifelessly left Nayeon’s lips as she drifted into sleep.

Jihyo pulls her phone out returning to the kitchen, and calls Y/N multiple times with no answer, “I bet she’s going to Momo’s.” Instantly calling her.

“Hello?” Momo answered surprised as Jihyo immediately started yelling.

“Have you spoken with Y/n?” the thorns of her tone wrapping around her throat, choking her out.

“I haven’t…why?” Standoffish considering what Jihyo had done to Y/n with Nayeon previously.

“Because I just caught her leaving Nayeon’s apartment with a bunch of random shit, hickies all over her and Nayeon can’t even speak to me and is covered in WORSE marks, and she said some vile shit to me too!” Jihyo screamed in an unhinged rage, fists bawled, tears spilling, a massive hole opened up in her chest that Nayeon created.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep!” Shouted from the bedroom, annoyed tone present from the exhaustion that sunk Nayeon’s muscles.

“Don’t interrupt me!” Harshly yelled back to the bedroom as she kept venting to Momo, probably the worst person to vent to considering she was Y/N’s best friend.

“She fucking said and I quote, “I don’t really think she will be much use to you tonight but you’re more than welcome to try.” And then she had the audacity to say “I hope you like the way I taste, enjoy.”

Those words would ricochet against the inside of her skull for the rest of her existence, and she would never be able to scrub them off. Silently crying with the phone still held up to her ear. Momo is completely silent on the other end of the phone, not even knowing what to say.

“Y/n? Said that? You expect me to believe that happened?” almost accusing Jihyo of making it up completely. How could Momo trust her after what she was an accomplice for?

“Momo-“ voice cracking as she speaks “why would I lie about something like that?” Jihyo questions her back as she wipes the tears from her eyes.

“Hyo, you can’t be serious…You already did” calmly tossed back at her, nausea flashes over her skiing, realizing that no one is on her side.

She was the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, and the thought of that made her skin crawl. She wasn’t the one who did the act, she didn’t cheat on anyone, Nayeon did. Why couldn’t anyone empathize with her? Was she crazy for feeling the way that she did about it?

“If you talk to Y/N, let her know I want to speak with her.” Jihyo hung up immediately after. Becoming completely inconsolable, wrapped in her own misery as the person she risked it all for, had not a care in the world about what happened to her.

She began to sob loudly, cries bouncing off the vaulted ceilings as she went on, wondering why she wasn’t good enough for Nayeon, why she couldn’t just make her happy, why Nayeon would do something like this to her…

Jihyo stood up firmly, and walked into the bedroom. Nayeon was fast asleep on the bed, sheet covering her thighs up to her waist, legs dangling off the edge, not bothering to fix the position Y/n had her in. Jihyo was disgusted by this.

The light flicked on, Jihyo stood silently just looking at the scene before her. The bed was ruined, sheets needed to be changed, Nayeon sleeping peacefully after what looked to be a fight. Hand prints, bruises, bite marks and some welts littering her body.

“Wake up,” pushing Nayeon’s shoulder hard as she sat down on the bed.

“Ugh fine, what?” irritated at the interruption of her slumber, not even bothering to open her eyes.

“Why the fuck did you sleep with her again? You told me that we were going to be together now, imagine my surprise when we had plans and I came in with the key you gave me, to see Y/N, your very recent ex in the kitchen??” Choking back tears as she yelled, trying to show Nayeon how hurt she was.

Laying down with her eyes closed, Nayeon didn’t even flinch at the sound but opened her eyes. Looking at Jihyo with fury, brows furrowed in the heat of her emotions.

“I love Y/n. Just because we were fucking doesn’t mean you’re even in line, Jihyo. You were the one that fucked this up for me, you should’ve waited for me to reach out to you instead of texting me that bullshit, and I won’t forgive you for it either.” words branding into Jihyo’s brain as Nayeon got up and stretched.

“Besides, you can’t do this” gesturing to her body with her hands as Jihyo stares at the roadmap placed on Nayeon’s body by Y/n , “like she can.” Walking toward the bathroom and closing the door behind her. Shower rushing on, and door sliding back.

Jihyo walked out of the tense bedroom into the kitchen to search for the wine Nayeon bought the other day, and poured herself a glass and chugged it. Looking over to see the vase full of roses, and the note written for Y/n.

The way the crystal of the vase refracted the light and the reds of the roses was infuriating, Nayeon wouldn’t even glance at flowers for Jihyo - let alone get her any. Walking over to the vase, picking it up, smelling the roses, briefly admiring them, and then smashing the vase against the floor in a fit of rage.

Nayeon rushed out of the bedroom, soaking wet, to find the scene in the kitchen, Jihyo drinking out of a wine glass, leaning against the counter, one leg crossed over the other. Glancing down to see the vase shattered, glass and rose petals everywhere.

“It’s kind of poetic, isn’t it?” Jihyo said matter of factly, looking up from the rim of her glass.

“Sharp edges and rose petals on the floor between us, you step on roses and I step on glass. Every. Single. Time.” Throwing the wine glass at Nayeon, shattering it against the wall.

Nayeon shields herself from the crashing pieces as Jihyo breaks more glassware around the kitchen. Plates, glasses, and mugs are thrown around the kitchen accompanied by harsh tones and arguing.

“Why are you trying to gaslight me? I have the messages from you saying we were together, Nayeon! I have proof! You can’t gaslight me this time” A mug slung across the room, shattering like Jihyo’s heart.

“All for someone who doesn’t even want you?! Pathetic, I’m standing right here ready to give you the world and you can’t even appreciate that!” A plate this time, crashing into the wall, Nayeon flinching again at the sounds of the ceramic.

“I could say the same thing about you, Hyo!” bravely spit back as the flying glassware came to a halt. Much like the chips of sharp glass, Jihyo shatters into a million pieces. Nayeon runs over and grabs a stunned Jihyo’s wrists, holding them steady as Jihyo falls apart in her arms.

“Why are you never real?“ choking on her words to immediately be shushed down and held against Nayeon’s chest until she was calm.

“I said we might be able to try. But I need to talk to Y/N before that can happen, okay?” Nayeon rubbed her hand up and down Jihyo’s back quickly in an attempted comfort.

“Come on now, let’s clean this up and I’ll change the sheets and we can have a movie night, sound good?” Nayeon coos and winks before disappearing into the bedroom.

Jihyo sighs, grabs a broom and a dustpan, and starts cleaning up the mess she made. Still angry in her own right at Nayeon, but wasn’t in the position to do anything about it and it’s not like Nayeon would care if she walked out right now anyway.

“Nothing good comes easy,” huffing to herself in a moment of toxic positivity, “and she wouldn’t do what she does for me, if she didn’t love me.” Repeating it like a mantra over and over again to herself, alone. Nayeon lightly chuckles in the bedroom, unheard by Jihyo, knowing they will never be.

—

Waking up that afternoon was hard. Jihyo felt exhausted, her eyes were tired as she rolled over to see if Nayeon was still in bed. She wasn’t, no surprise.

Rolling out of bed, in the clothes she showed up in, and walking to the living room to see Nayeon on the couch watching tv by herself, scrolling through her phone mindlessly.

“Did you sleep well?” Jihyo asks, startling Nayeon who flung her phone at the surprise. Giggling at the sight, Jihyo went and picked the phone up to see the open text to Y/n and the few messages she sent in the past 24 hours. Sighing and handing it back, just letting the tears fall, stinging of her eyes becoming all too familiar.

“Are you really crying again? Come on, Hyo. Pull yourself together,” Nayeon says coldly as Jihyo sulks by herself, sniffling as she pours herself a cup of cold coffee.

Nayeon never made coffee for Jihyo, that was something she only did for Y/n, not even remembering how Jihyo takes her coffee or any of her favorites for that matter. No matter how much time they spent together, nothing stuck. Nayeon simply did not care.

“Do you still want to check out that new cafe we talked about last week?” Nayeon said not paying any mind to Jihyo’s current state as she asks about a late lunch.

“Yeah that’s fine. Let me change and I’ll drive.” emptiness present as she spoke and went to the bedroom to grab the clothes she brought with her for today, putting them on quickly and exiting the bedroom for her not date with her not girlfriend.

—

Pulling up to the restaurant and seeing Y/N there was considerably unlucky, but with Mina of all people? Talk about a surprise. And for Mina to be holding her hand and looking at her the way she was, it was no wonder Nayeon was so disgruntled, not that she had any right to be.

Watching Nayeon erupt was hard to watch, knowing it was out of fear that she lost what was so precious to her out of her own selfishness. It was hard for Jihyo to keep quiet as Nayeon’s emotions spew out erratically towards Y/N and Mina. Especially knowing there was never any left for her, always wishing to be her focus.

After driving off and not even eating at the place picked out, Nayeon was in a pure rage in the passenger seat. Punching the glove box relentlessly as the interaction plays back in her head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her from now since you can’t satiate her, apparently.” And then the wink from Mina. She was living in this memory, Like a broken record, skipping and looping through her brain as she stewed in it.

Jihyo trembled in fear at every punch laid into the car's interior, “Nayeon, calm down! You’re scaring me…” trying to get Nayeon to see she was crossing a line. Nayeon, seeing red, doesn’t budge an inch and continues to spew venom everywhere. Not that Jihyo expected her but to stop, but the effort was still worth it in her eyes.

“Who the fuck does Mina think she is talking about Y/N like that? She must’ve not known who she’s fucking with…Turn around.”

“What?” Confused behind the wheel, Jihyo made a face at the request to turn the car and head back to the cafe. Didn’t they already leave?

“I said fucking turn around, Jihyo” Nayeons eyes black with hatred as she instructs her minion to do her bidding.

Jihyo whips the car around, still crying about the interaction and Nayeon draping herself all over Y/N right in front of her. Speeding back to the location they were just in.

“Make a left up here.” Nayeon orders, as she leans back into her seat, slouching with her legs apart, staring into her phone as she leans her head into her hand.

“Nayeon, where are we going?” a worried response as Jihyo makes the left turn. Nayeon sits up, squinting at the cars in the complex parking lot.

“Turn your lights off and park next to that black 2 door over there.” Pointing at a random car that looks similar to the one they were in that was facing the building.

Jihyo once again, does as she’s told. “Can you please tell me where we are?”

“Y/n never took her location off on my phone. We are spying. So shut up and keep an eye out.” Nayeon evilly instructed as she waited for signs of which apartment belonged to Y/n.

Not 5 minutes later did Y/N walk up to the apartment hand in hand with Mina, laughing and smiling with each other, it made Nayeon sick to her stomach.

“We can leave now.” Nayeon says quietly. Stewing in her anger. Plotting and scheming about how she was going to exact revenge.

Jihyo didn’t hesitate to get out of there. She didn’t want to be a part of whatever was happening, she just wanted Nayeon's love and attention so she did what she told her, at the false promise it would materialize if she proved herself useful.

—

Nayeon seethes on the couch as Jihyo sits silently watching her lover shake in anger, trying to figure out how she can ease the tension within her. Jihyo jumps up and runs around the side of the couch, placing her hands firmly on Nayeon’s shoulder, massaging them firmly.

“That feels so good…baby.” Nayeon whimpers, eyes closed and leaning into the pressure, giving Jihyo the reassurance she craved so desperately.

Sliding her hands down Nayeon’s back, kneading her thumbs into the knots enthusiastically. Tracing up to the back of her head, Jihyo pulls lightly where her shoulders and neck connect, letting go and pushing down on the tension.

Nayeon groans, “You know, I do love your magical hands. They please me so well.” throwing her head back as Jihyo continues to work the knots. Nayeon was playing her predatory game, and Jihyo was the prey.

“Can you get my legs too, my love?” Nayeon pouts, batting her big doe eyes in Jihyo’s direction. Using her for her own gain, taking and no giving. Wondering how much love she could extract from Jihyo as she bent to her will.

Walking around the couch and dropping to the floor as she takes Nayeon’s legs into her hands, massaging down her legs “how does this feel, my love?”

Nayeon suddenly crosses her arms, eyes blurry from tears and she sniffles into her hands.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jihyo asks as she stands, cupping Nayeon’s face and wiping a tear away with her thumb, gently.

“Don’t call me that! You aren’t her, and you never will be.” Spitting with extra malice as she pushes Jihyo by the shoulders, knocking her to the floor.

Nayeon stands up, not bothering to even try to help Jihyo up as she prowls past her to the door, still in a predatory mindset as she grabs her purse, her keys, and leaves without a single word.

Jihyo sits in absolute silence. Nayeon has never laid a hand on her in that way before. Not knowing what to do, she sits and tries to unravel the complex emotions she was feeling.

Hatred, anger, jealousy, and emptiness filling her lungs as she bawled her eyes out on the floor of Nayeon’s apartment. Realizing she probably would never be enough for her.

“Where did she even go?” Out loud as she swivels her head towards the door. She didn’t need to ask the question, the answer was written on every wall in this apartment.

Y/n and Nayeon’s shared home, pictures still up from their vacations together, selfies from adventures, and of course the matching mugs in their place next to the coffee pot.

“Of course.” Rolling her eyes, not going after her. She just sat on the couch, and waited for Nayeon to return.

—

Weaving in and out of traffic manically as Nayeon races over to Y/n’s apartment, the only care in the world being whether she can get to Y/n before anything happens between her and Mina. The thought of someone else touching Y/n is repulsive, nauseating, and her skin crawls at the thought.

Pulling into the parking lot of the complex, Nayeon shuts the car off and hops out quickly. Racing over to the apartment she watched Y/N and Mina walk into holding hands. The thoughts induce animosity as she makes her way to the door.

Hesitating to knock, she’s unsure if she really wants to go through with this. She needed more motivation, Nayeon ducks down to avoid being detected and sneaks over to another window with a better view of the living room.

Peaking over the window sill, she sees Mina comforting a crying Y/N on the couch, rubbing her back and mumbling something Nayeon can’t really make out. A death stare lasers the back of Mina’s head as it shoots out of her eyes. “I should be comforting her, not you. And poor Mina has no idea how to deal with Y/N’s panic attacks. I bet she gets overwhelmed and leaves. Y/n needs me” whispering to herself in a psychotic manner.

Nayeon watches as Y/N stands up and starts to pace, ripping her hoodie off so she was just in a sports bra. Mina is still sitting on the couch, face red with a small smile as she watches Y/N pace when she suddenly stands up and catches Y/N by the wrist, pulling her into her arms while wrapping them around Y/n.

Nayeon scoffs at the sight, watching Y/n’s face press against Mina’s neck as she cries, when suddenly Y/n pulls back from Mina, they look into each other’s eyes for a minute as Mina’s hands descending from Y/N’s lower back to her hips, pulling her into a kiss.

Nayeon writhes under the absolute disdain as she watches in horror while the person she wanted more than anyone, willingly kissing someone else. Observing as Mina takes control, and Y/n letting her.

“She never let me do that…” Nayeon sees red and she continues to peep through the window as Mina stands, shoving Y/N lightly onto the couch, removing her sweater as well. Nayeon has just about had enough, turning and running back to her car quickly.

Laughing to herself as she sees a palm sized rock on her way to the vehicle, when a light bulb goes off in her head. Opening the car door and not bothering to close it, she gets inside and begins sifting through her purse, finding her red pen and the small notebook she kept with her. Nayeon rips a page from the inside and scratches “She’s mine” across the paper.

Removing her shoelace and tying the note to the rock securely, she begins to giggle to herself. Walking up to the window by the living room, rock in hand, to see if the make out session was still happening. Catching the view of Mina between Y/N’s legs on the couch as they got closer, almost molding into one another. Mina’s hands reached up behind Y/n to undo her bra when Nayeon completely snapped.

Running over to the front of the apartment, Nayeon launched the rock through the window by the door, laughing maniacally as she did so. Turning around 30 seconds later to run to her car and get out of dodge, knowing Mina would probably call the cops.

Tires screech behind her as she peels out of the parking lot, and heads right back to what Nayeon views as their shared home still. Laughing and crying as she speeds violently around everyone in her way, honking and yelling in a violent fueled frenzy as her heart cracks in half from the weight of the consequences of her own actions.

__

Jihyo is sleeping on the couch when Nayeon gets back to her home. Walking in without care about the sound made, throwing her bag to the side, kicking her shoes off in any direction. Outrage in full swing as she wakes Jihyo by nudging her shoulder.

Jolting awake, Jihyo sees Nayeon and immediately scooches back on the couch as if she’s scared of her, and she has every right to be considering their last altercation.

“What’s wrong, love? I only wanted to hold you.” Nayeon’s emptiness masked in the sweet tone as she extends her arms out for her to fall in. Jihyo knows better than to lean into it but she can’t resist Nayeon making her feel loved. Her affection being the sweetest form of sugar and her anger being the sharpest knife, and when she twists it? Unbearable pain and torment.

Jihyo was trapped, ensnared in what she thought could be love. Nayeon held her as she turned the blade in her back yet again, removing only the pieces she wanted.

“I’m going to need that mouth of yours. Do you think you can do that for me?” kissing Jihyo’s jaw and moving down to her neck.

Jihyo whimpered and nodded her head, loving the aggression, as Nayeon wrapped her hands around her hair and pulled her onto the ground, a stark difference from the honeyed tone in her voice. Keeping her hand tangled as she instructed Jihyo to unbutton her pants and pull them down to her knees. “I’m going to show you why you’ll never leave me, no matter what I do. You’ll always be a phone call away.”

Nayeon leans down and forcefully shoves her tongue in Jihyo’s mouth, no surprises for Jihyo, she knows what’s coming as Nayeon parts from her, situating herself, pussy dripping in front of Hyo.

Jihyo’s hands lay on Nayeon’s thighs, “I love you” as she opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out allowing Nayeon access to what she was craving, even if it wasn’t the mouth she wanted.

Nayeon grabs Jihyo’s hair as she slowly starts to ride on her tongue, picking up the pace as she finds a steady rhythm. “Just like that, baby” whining through the pleasure that coursed through her veins.

She’s aggressively fucks Jihyo’s mouth, groaning as she grinds down on the tongue of her other lover, only thinking about release of the pent up rage and the rush of the crime she had just committed.

Jihyo is just happy to feel useful as she’s on her knees, letting Nayeon get her aggression out, latching onto her clit and humming while she sucks. Breath is quickening, getting closer to combustion as the snapping of her hips accelerates.

Feeling her panties getting wetter by the second as Jihyo's mouth gets used. She’s sure they’re completely ruined but she wouldn't dare complain, enjoying Nayeon’s sweet taste more and more every time she gets the chance to indulge in her flavor.

Nayeon’s hips start to sputter unevenly as she moans out body tensing as the dopamine launches into her bloodstream, reveling in the pleasure as she continues to ride out the orgasm.

Jihyo slips 2 fingers into Nayeon’s cunt, stretching her out and holding them at the exact angle she would need to make herself cum again. Hair being gripped tightly as her head is pushed and pulled with the new rapidness created mere seconds ago.

“Jus- fuck, baby… just one -right there, fuck- more.” Nayeon gasps as the knot in her stomach tightens again. Jihyo immediately starts thrusting her fingers when she feels Nayeon clench around her and with little time to prepare, another orgasm quickly rips through her body causing her to collapse onto the couch, breathing heavily and whimpering in euphoria.

Jihyo takes in Nayeon’s state, glimmering with sweat, roses cheeks, flawless chest shining and a sense of peacefulness binding her in her place. This is why she stays. The visual of Nayeon in this state, the softness and the sweet moments she was capable of were more than enough to keep Jihyo in her place.

“Let’s do that again” Nayeon huffed out, reaching for Jihyo’s hand to pull her up on the couch, caressing while lightly placing their lips together. She tastes herself on Jihyo’s mouth, wetness layering on top of itself as she deepened the kiss when a loud knock at the door pulled them out of the moment.

“Police, open up!”

Jihyo and Nayeon look at each other, confused.

“Nayeon…what did you do?… What the fuck did you do?!” Jihyo's voice trembles, concern woven between the words.

Nayeon with a maniacal smile “Oh, my sweet sweet baby…you mean what did YOU do, don’t you?”

[judgemark45]

What is something that almost nobody knows about submarines?

The smell.

When nuclear submarines are at sea they mostly remain submerged with a sealed atmosphere. Part of the atmosphere control system functions are to remove carbon dioxide (CO2), since a build-up of carbon dioxide can become fatal. To remove the carbon dioxide submarines use a chemical called amine. When amine is cool it absorbs carbon dioxide and when hot will release it. So the amine is cycled through a machine referred to as a CO2 Scrubber, which will alternately heat and cool the carbon dioxide and pushes the gas into the ocean, keeping the atmosphere breathable.

This is a very effective system, with the downside being the amine imparts a rather “unique” smell into the atmosphere. Which ultimately permeates every part of the submarine interior including crew members clothing and even their skin.

In addition to the amine smell, submarine crews are exposed to cooking odors, hydraulic oil vapors, diesel exhaust that isn’t quite captured by the diesel exhaust system, inboard venting of the sanitary tanks, and the smell of a large number of closely confined people. The interiors become quite fragrant. Crew members become accustomed to it and after a while never notice it. But other people do.

When I was attached to a submarine I had reason to fly home for vacation wearing my civilian clothes. I was sitting in my plane seat next to an older lady, chatting a bit, and suddenly she asked me “are you on submarines?” Surprised, I asked “yes, how did you know?” She replied “my husband was on submarines. I’ll never forget the smell.”

[trashmouth-richie]

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰

its absolutely miserable here rn but i enjoy writing these little winter stories so have another,

“why? why do we live here?”eddie grumbles, rubbing his red chapped hands together and blowing on them. 

the indiana wind blew hard against the windows, rattling the screen door and creating a draft that seemed to keep the trailer at a crisp 65°.

wool socks and long johns weren’t enough to keep him warm, the thick flannel he’d had since forever was threaded to the very top, his throat tight against the suffocating button. 

“ ‘t’s where the horses died, i guess.” wayne chuckled, cricketing his feet together as he lounged back in his squeaky worn recliner. 

the small space heater glowed angry red, drawing more electricity from the trailer. 

“get that van started up?” wayne asks around the mouth of a pabst. 

eddie flicks his lighter open and shut in a habitual manner, “didn’t want to, but finally gave in,” plopping down next to the heater to warm the apples of his cheeks, he lets out a small sigh of relief from his chattering teeth. 

wayne grunts in approval and they sit in comfortable silence. the howling wind keeping melody with the lonesome whistling of the ceiling vents, the garfield wall clock adding a chimed staccato. 

every business in town was closed. the gas stations, the diner— the weather man called for people to stay home: no travel advised. but healthcare didn’t operate around the weather.

his watch beeped at 9:45PM and he figured the van would be good and warm by now. 

“alright, i’m headin’ out,” he called to wayne as he shoved his arms through the cool leather and begrudgingly shoved a stocking cap on his head. 

wayne gave him a solemn look, “you be damn careful.”

eddie grinned his cheshire pearls, “always.” 

-

the steel door by the back entrance had a small window facing the parking lot. your co workers all had gone once the other shift had shown up to start their nightly duties of rounding on patients and stocking supplies. 

trisha asked if you needed a ride but you waved her off, “he’ll be comin’” 

you worried the snow might have been too deep for his van to handle, maybe it didn’t start at all? maybe the electricity went out in the trailer park?

 the nails on your hand suffered between your teeth as your brain concocted more and more things to worry about. things that could go wrong. 

but not long after a single headlight broke through the tree line and there he was, lining up with the sidewalk as close as he could without actually driving onto it. 

with one deep and ragged warm breath, you braved the weather. the snow scraping against your face in icy claws of unforgiving cold. wind whipping the starchy fabric of your nursing assistant scrubs this way and that. 

the dome light brightens as he climbs out from the van opening your door before you could reach for it yourself. a winced smile on his lips when he sees your chilled face. 

“get in baby,” 

he shuts your door and your fingers begin to thaw against the vents in eddie’s van, the warm comforting smell of rich tobacco and hints of weed engulf your senses. the smell of him singing a song to your soul. 

his door opens and shuts tight and he’s chattering his teeth loudly before grabbing your hands and kissing heat into them. 

“missed you,” he murmurs, “how was work?” 

“long…busy,” a barking cough creeps from your lungs and tightens your chest, “glad it’s over,” you say weakly, reaching for his hand and threading it between yours, “i switched shifts with diane so i have to be back at six.”

eddie’s eyebrows furrow into worry but he hides his concern. that place worked you like a mule, they didn’t care how bad the weather was or if you were sick… and he hated them for it. you looked exhausted, the normal glow to your skin was dusted over with whatever virus you were currently fighting.. but eddie knew there was no use trying to tell you to take it easy for once. 

“alright sweetheart, i can take you, wanna stay at mine tonight or go back to your place?” 

the small home you rented with your childhood best friend jonathan and his girlfriend, leah was on the outskirts of hawkins. and since your landlord was jonathan’s mom the rent was dirt ass cheap. the hopper’s residing in a desolate cabin owned by the chief. 

winter was rough this year and between eddie’s long hours at the factory that  didn’t seem to slow down, and your irregular shifts at the nursing home, you didn’t get to see much of your boyfriend, “stay with me?” 

-

the tv was blue when your key finally busted through the locks and you wedged your way inside. leah and jonathan both asleep, curled into one another on the oversized couch. 

tracking snow in, you and eddie toe off your shoes gingerly trying to avoid the unwelcome surprise of wet snow on your socks.

“i fucking hate snow,” eddie mutters hanging up both of your coats. 

“oh cmon, mr grinch, “ you tease with a small smile after hacking up another cough, “you don’t like how pretty it makes everything look?” 

“hard to look cool in this damn thing,” he says tossing the black stocking cap onto your counter, his hair a mess of kinky curls, frizzing into oblivion. 

“well,” you say, running your hands up his chest and around his neck, “i think you look cute.” 

eddie rolls his eyes and you scoff before he dives into your lips and kisses you loud and obnoxious. erupting giggles from you as his icy hands work themselves beneath the hem of your shirt. 

the laughing as your cough acting up again and eddie places a palm to your forehead worry etched into his eyes, you look back at him, “would the heat miser like a hot toddy?” 

eddie rubs his thumb into a circle pattern on your back. fuck he adores you.

“i’ll make ‘em, you go take a hot shower, alright? you feel sick.” 

you roll your eyes, “i’m not sick,” you garble through a coughing fit, “’m just sleepy.” 

“sure, sure, whatever you think.” 

—

when you’re dressed into pajamas and a long robe, eddie is stripped down to his long johns and the band shirt you liked to hold hostage at your house. your room is set up like a picnic, pb&’s and a twinkie to wash down the hot liquor. 

“pretty much a gourmet chef,” eddie says, licking peanut butter from his thumb, “i even ate your crusts for you.”

“my knight in shining armor,” you muse and eddie takes an exaggerated bow.

he sits crossed legged on your bed, “let’s eat i know your hungry,” 

eddie’s idea of a hot toddy is warm tea with double the amount of whiskey. yours he made sweet with some honey but his is kept straight and burning with whiskey. 

a light buzz clouds your head by the time you finish your drink and the exhaustion settles into your bones, the cough loosened a bit with your hot shower but now your sinuses were filled and you were only breathing from your mouth. 

“lay down baby, i’ll be right back.” 

eddie flicks off the light and sets the plate into the sink, jonathan is standing in the kitchen warming a a pot of milk on the stove. 

“that you coughing munson or her?” 

eddie finds the crinkly pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket and pulls one out for himself and jonathan. 

“me? nah, she’s sicker than a dog.” 

jonathan stirs the milk and takes the cigarette from eddie’s offering hand, “leah and i had something like that last week, probably just something going around” 

the two smoke openly in the kitchen, both deciding it’s too cold to go outside. jonathan stirs the hot milk into the waiting mugs with chocolate powder, cigarette and spoon swirling in a dance of smoke and clanking ceramic. 

“there’s some vicks in the bathroom if you need it,” jonathan says, stubbing out his cigarette into the nearest ashtray, balancing the mugs in each fist, “ tell her to take a day off for christ sakes.” 

“yeah that’ll go over well.” 

they both chuckle knowing just how stubborn you are and jonathan disappears into his bedroom. flicking out the lights, eddie follows the hall to your room and sneaks inside, laying down next to your burning up body and sweat slicked forehead. 

he pulls you into him and you groan with the uncomfortable delirium from your fever. 

“eddie?” you whisper into his chest, fisting his shirt into your palms, “it doesn’t snow in arizona.” 

“you’re right princess,” eddie says pressing his lips to your fevered head, “it doesn’t.” 

you snuggle deeper into him, and speak a barely audible “let’s move there.” before you fall into a deep sleep. 

when morning comes and the wind hasn’t died down, you sigh a little relief when his van doesn’t start, and don’t object when eddie hands you the phone so you can call your job and tell them you won’t be making it. 

here is the actual temp from my weather app— 🥲 also tagging @eiightysixbaby bc jonathan’s girlfriend is her, duh.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hear me out.

It's angst.

I think I used 2/3 characters but it's mainly a brief mention of CatNap and a brief Poppy mention + scene. Just dogday and reader afterwards.

---

Poppy runs to Dogday , maybe after the part where CatNap takes the gas mask , because we haven't contacted her in a while.

He finds us from where we passed out in game , but we haven't woken up yet, due to the heavy dosage of the sleeping gas.

When he does find us , we're also partially injured due to the effects of the gas by proxy- Aka. we probably scratched ourselves during the nightmare.

He takes us to Poppy's glass room , which they can probably use as a hideout when they need to rest.

He watches over us as he feels guilty --- having not been there to protect us as we stressed that we'd be okay , so he could go do a different job in the task list to make things faster.

We wake up maybe a day later or you can leave that up to the reader's imagination.

Rapture

Note || AHHH- this is such a neat idea 💕

WC || 945

Sypnosis || feeling injured and for lack of a better word — comatose, it left DogDay in feelings he didn’t want to experience ever again.

She didn’t know what to do, this was inconceivable. Many questions ran through the depths of her fabricated mind, but all she could do is alert DogDay to find you. 

You hadn’t responded for a long period of time, she was beginning to get worried. Sure, you sometimes didn’t respond at times, dealing with certain situations that had left you with a bitter taste on the tongue. Poppy was distressed more than ever, worry was a common feeling when you are in a place like the Playtime Co. Factory. But this was something different, a pitted feeling in her gut that this was something different.

She couldn't slow down however, she needed to tell DogDay. Poppy clambered through the familiar vents, trying to find the large dog. Finally, she came to a stop and had found the very toy she was looking for. 

“Psst-” Poppy climbed through the vent completely, exposing herself to DogDay’s view. “DogDay!” 

DogDay yelped, growling as he whipped his head around. His false temperament faded away quickly enough as he realized that it was only Poppy, the small toy. “Poppy?” His strewn voice echoed, laced with clear exhaustion. He certainly didn’t expect her to make an appearance so soon after the last time they all met up with each other. 

Poppy’s face had presented fear and worry, which was something that had instilled a shadow of fear over his heart. Her red brows furrowed as she thought for a moment, a way to articulate her words without making it even worse than it needs to be. “I know something’s wrong, what is it?”

“Uhm, you know who?” Poppy began, her tiny hands crossing over each other as she stood with a presentable stance. “I haven’t gotten word for some time now, and it’s worrying.”

Those very words struck a fear in his heart that DogDay didn’t like, he didn’t like those words at at all. You were in trouble, and he was gonna find you. He needed to find you at all costs, DogDay didn’t waste time, leaving Poppy where she stood. Poppy had understood his time of hurry, not resenting the sunny dog at all. DogDay walked in fast and large strides, having gotten better use of his legs now that they are attached again.

“Angel..” A small whimper escaped him, not wanting to know what kind of state he might find you in. “Please be okay.”

Not at all, were his wishes true. The state you are in had left DogDay dumbfounded, he straggled over to you, strength slightly sapped after he had struggled the door that had opened to you. The room was full of Poppy Gas, no doubt trapping you in a nightmare – not a dream. You were injured, he had no doubt it was because of CatNap you were desperately trying so hard to escape it. 

DogDay cradled you in the warmth of his arms, trying to not move you too much due to the extent of your very clear injuries. CatNap had stolen your gas mask, which had in return caused you to fall asleep to the effects of the sleeping gas.

 He was surprised you hadn’t awoke yet, later on he had assumed it was due to the heavy dosage of the Poppy Gas. This was a sight he had so desperately wished to escape, but for your sake he had continued onward to the glass room with you in his arms. 

Once he had finally arrived, DogDay opened the door and walked into the room and set you down with a gentle tenacity he didn’t know he had in him. For a moment, he dared let his attention stray from your being as he had walked back to the door and closed it. His head thunked against the wall forlorn laying atop the door, as he was quite tall. A noise, between a groan and a whimper had escaped him, “I should’ve been with you..”. You on the other hand were still asleep, you had been through enough as it is. Even though he remembers your insistence that you would be fine and right by yourself. 

“DogDay, it’s gonna be fine,” You grin at him. “Besides, it’s not gonna take that long..” Your hand wanders over to his arm, patting it as you want to reassure him. He frowned for a moment at your stubbornness. 

“Okay?”

DogDay should’ve been so much more clearer, more defiant at most. So that your grim situation never happened in the first place, he could’ve been there to protect you against CatNap. You saved him, and he could’ve saved you. That much he should’ve been allowed to do, but for now, he had to watch over you. In order to make sure you were okay and could continue onward and stop the Prototype once and for all. 

Minutes passed, perhaps even hours. But he hadn’t paid proper attention to the passage of time, only you were on his mind constantly. DogDay could feel a churning fear of guilt and sadness in his chest, building up so far that even he was surprised at how big his emotions could go. 

The one thought that continuously ran through his mind is that he should’ve been there for you, so that you weren’t injured, that you weren’t in such a deep sleep because of it all. DogDay had allowed himself, only slightly, to tentatively rub reassuring touches upon your head as if he were caressing your cheek. 

He did that to ground himself, and maybe to see if that were to elicit a reaction out of you. 

It was only within the fifth hour that you had finally woken up.

“DogDay?...”

[fuck-customers]

I work for a call center that services water heaters and hoo boy, the stories I could tell you. 

First of all, you'd think it would be common sense that you have to actually be standing next to the appliance that you're asking for help with so that we can get the info we need to get started (No, I cannot help you with a water heater in Florida if you are calling from FRANCE), and they will find new and inventive ways to look everywhere except where you told them the serial number was located.  I've learned that I have to specifically tell them to bring the phone with them to the unit or they will put it down and walk away for several minutes leaving you in awkward silence.  And that's before we even get into the actual problems. 

Attempting to return the unit to the store despite the bold print label on the front of the tank that says "STOP!  DO NOT RETURN THIS UNIT" and lists our phone number and then will claim that the label isn't there when we bring it to their attention.

Not bothering to read the manual and then complaining when we tell them their electric unit needs a different breaker switch. 

We ask for pics of the exhaust venting and it looks like a 90's screensaver (gee I wonder why your carbon monoxide detector is going off). 

Customers who physically cut the tank open to prove that the leak isn't repairable and then complain when we tell them they've voided their warranty. 

I once got a person who called to complain that they didn't like the indicator light on the gas valve flashing to indicate that it was working properly. 

another guy stopped in the middle of installing his unit to turn the water back on and flooded his basement. 

Another one waited TWO YEARS to tell us that the part we sent him didn't fix his problem and then demanded a replacement. 

The ones that just go "yes yes yes yes" when you tell them to turn off the breaker switch and then complain that they got shocked when they open the panel on the front of the tank. 

They actually won't let me troubleshoot anymore, not because I did anything wrong, but because too many customers complained when I pointed out to them how they caused their own problems. 

It's not uncommon to get a caller who just goes "MY NIPPLES (the fittings where the pipes attach) ARE BURNING HOT AND LEAKING ALL OVER THE PLACE!  AND MY AY-NO (mispronunciation of anode) ROD IS MAKING MY WATER SMELL LIKE SHIT!  IT SHOT OUT LIKE A ROCKET AND GOT STUCK IN THE CEILING!"

Bottom line, there should be a mandatory government-subsidized class for new homeowners so that they know how to take care of their homes.

[sw5w]

Multi-Troop Transports

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:48:40

[sylvies-chen]

sweet nothing sleeping

summary: lucy has never been so happy to have fallen in love as she is when she’s falling asleep

pairing: tim bradford/lucy chen

word count: short??? i wrote this on notes app don’t ask me to count

warnings: none

a/n: this was written at *many* a 2am but it was my coping mechanism for the chenford breakup so there will be nothing but fluff and happiness here!! but also sorry in advance for any typos. written for my @morganupstead who gave me this idea ages ago and I just took forever to write it LOL

••• ••• ••• •••

cause they said the end is coming

everyone’s up to something

I find myself running home to your

sweet nothings

She’s had a long day.

The list of grievances wracked up in a single shift has been nothing short of astounding. For example: a man no less than an hour into her first stretch of patrol who puked on her. A bar fight gone horribly wrong, and he was drunk out of his mind so when she showed up at the tail end of a swift punch to the drunkard’s gut then… well, you can figure out the rest. Then another man threatened to sue her and the entire LAPD Mid Wilshire division because he refused to be told by a woman to stop ejaculating in public. Nothing but insufferable misdemeanours one after the other, without end. The robbery homicide tailing the end of her shift was the worst. Lucy doesn’t know what’s more horrible: how violent the young married couple’s death was, or how her first thought was that she wished she could have been the detective on a flashy case like this. Knowing she was even capable of putting her career before her compassion and duty left her gutted.

It leaves her now with a bitter aftertaste of guilt and shame. That coupled with the exhaustion and ridicule of her other calls makes for a particularly dreadful combination. Normally she can see Tim in passing and vent to him about things, but he’d been stuck in some new Metro training program all day. Updated protocol or tactical practice, or whatever they wanted to call it. Based on the state she sees Tim in at the end of one of those days, she’d call it something more akin to torture. It also means she had no support system throughout the day whatsoever apart from Nolan’s typical words of encouragement, which were swell but never substantive.

Since Tamara’s moved out, things have been lonely too. She misses her old roommate. If nothing else, at the end of the day Lucy still had a young and vulnerable kid she had to feed and house and clothe. Cooking for them always felt like a backup ritual, a healing sort of constancy, and that’s gone too.

So she heads to Tim’s. Her foot feels like lead on the gas, pushing down hard and inching dangerously closer to speeding the closer she gets to his place. It’s like her heart can feel the distance closing and misses him even more, the weight of her bad day crushing her heart and leaving spider fractures. A magnetic pull is always at its strongest the minute before contact, after all.

For the most part, Lucy’s been able to hold it together. She’s kept things professional, never complained, held her head high. And even as she trembles with anticipation as she knocks on the door, there’s a part of her refusing to let go of that facade.

She knocks at the door, but there’s no answer. Three louder knocks after a minute of waiting, and still nothing. Only after a third round of knocking does she think to use the spare key he’d given her last month.

“Hi,” Lucy calls out as she enters his place. No immediate response, but that’s no matter. She puts the keys down in his key bowl and hangs up her jacket.

The sound of nails skidding against the floor alert her only seconds in advance to Kojo’s presence. He runs up to her full speed but comes to a screeching halt when he reaches her. With his tail still waving fervently, he tries to sit down. (Tim’s trained him to understand that petting and general affection from guests is contingent upon his very handsome sitting.)

“Kojo! Hey there buddy,” she greets him with a soft laugh, like an old friend. Lucy knows by now, even having owned him once, to scratch him behind his ears. The gesture earns her a right good lick from chin to cheek on the left side of her face.

“Yeah, you’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’re a good boy,” she tells him as she keeps petting him. “Now where’s our Tim?”

She looks around half expecting Tim to appear in the hallway, but no sign of him is to be seen anywhere, save for the sound of his television from the next room. Football. Figures.

“Alright, Sir Kojo, King of the Canines,” she declares, patting him on the head and gently urging him forward by the collar, “let’s see what your dad’s watching.”

The two of them make their way to the family room to see what he’s up to. For a football game, Lucy’s already surprised that he isn’t shouting at the TV and jumping up and down like he normally does.

When she enters the room though, she doesn’t see him watching sports. Instead, she sees a passed-out Tim on the couch, snoring in his Rams jersey, remote loosely balanced in his hand. She tilts her head, curiously soaking in the scene.

She should have expected this. He’s been working as hard as she has lately. Though she isn’t entirely sure as to why, he’s been taking on extra shifts and doing double overtime these past two weeks. God knows he didn’t have the steam for a full game of football. Tack on her unexpected company, and she’s sure she’ll tire him out even more.

But the look of him. The television emits a soft glow that flashes hues of green and blue across his stubbled cheekbones. His head hangs back completely crooked on the headrest, and with the positioning of his arms, Tim’s posed like a dramatic renaissance painting. She can’t help but let out a soft giggle under her breath, and then silences into the brightest of smiles she can give after a day like hers, because nothing about this is funny anymore.

Even drooling, his mere presence soothes her. Lying there, entirely disarmed and peaceful. The world and all its troubles just melt away, dissolve in her mind until only a faint trace of what remains lingers like dust. It’s a beautiful haze Lucy can get stuck in, just standing there and watching him. The tight corners of his mouth, his eyes shut gently, the curve of his neck, the way his hair’s a little shorter right now.

Oh hell. Who is she to disrupt him anyways.

She tiptoes over to the couch and carefully extracts the remote from his hand. Turning the television off to avoid more light and sound will definitely help him sleep. Whether Tim’s asleep or awake, it doesn’t matter. Lucy always sleeps better when she’s next to him.

What doesn’t help Tim sleep, apparently, is Kojo. Having followed Lucy into the room, though she will defend him ferociously and say his heart is in the right place, Kojo makes a beeline for the couch and starts pulling at Tim’s jeans with his sharp canine teeth.

“No! No, Kojo! Bad Kojo, stay back,” she pleads in a whisper pushed out through gritted teeth.

Kojo seems to only get more excited— a sort of escalation which Lucy saw all too frequently in her calls from today. Tim jolts awake almost immediately.

“What the-“ he sits up and pulls his jeans away from Kojo, but then looks up at Lucy, still hovering over him guilty as ever. “Lucy?”

“Sorry.” She winces, finally shooing Kojo away enough to give them more space. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was trying to put a blanket over you but Kojo got excited.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her, though he’s still rubbing at his eyes. Lucy’s almost certain he’s still half asleep and hasn’t registered the whole situation before him. “I gave you a key for a reason. What are you doing here?”

“I…” She tries to explain it rationally to him, to go through each bad happening chronologically, to compartmentalize. But then, his voice. His sweet, low, milky, humming voice like the pulse of a heart being soothed into a slower rhythm. It’s so steady, so calm. Something about hearing it unlocks a valve within her. She cracks, as she knew she would when she decided to come, and before she knows it she’s crying.

“Hey, hey,” Tim hushes gently, immediately sitting up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Oh nothing,” she sobs. “I just had a crappy day. I got puked on and yelled at and all this nonsense which I can normally handle but I don’t even know why I’m… why I’m…”

“Don’t question it too much,” he tells her. “Just let it out.”

“Okay.”

And so she does. For a little bit, she just cries. Surprisingly, it’s not sad. The world isn’t ending, nothing is going to go wrong. There is no other shoe about to drop, no real heartbreak, no evil around. These tears are but a release, and there’s a safety to them.

Once she’s done, she wipes at her tears with her sleeves and sniffles.

“Better?”

“Better,” she says, and can really mean it, genuine smile and all. “Thanks.”

“You never have to thank me.”

She nods, but switches the subject. “You never told me how you’re Metro seminar went today.”

“Eh, it was alright,” he says. “Apart from being exhausted and sore all over, of course. We’ve got some new recruits who are… eager.”

She looks at him with loving suspicion. “You went full Tim 1.0 on them, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he admits with a big huff of relief. “I ran through the drills and protocol updates 36 times because they couldn’t get it right. I didn’t have the heart to just demote them from my team.”

“Tim Bradford not having the heart for a tough love moment? Who are you?” She teases. “Where was this energy 6 years ago?”

“Waiting for you to come along and change it, I guess,” he sighs wistfully. “Always just waiting for you.”

“You’ve gone soft, Sergeant Bradford.” She shakes her head. “People will talk.”

“Let them.”

He pulls her in for a kiss, and it only deepens for a moment, then plateauing into a pleasant and chaste hum before release. His arms pull her into his side and her head finds that perfect spot on his chest to nestle into.

The sigh she lets out is almost a song. “This feels good, being here with you. Feeling at peace.”

“Just wait for it.”

“Huh?”

Lucy doesn’t know how Tim saw this coming, but before even asking she’s given an answer. Kojo jumps up onto the couch and steps on Lucy’s lap to lick her and Tim all over their tired, sweaty faces.

“Argh! Kojo, off!” She squeals, though not so gravely that she can’t laugh in the process. Eventually, with enough shooing, Kojo calms down. He doesn’t leave the couch, but lies down next to them, choosing to rest his head on her lap and make happy little sighs.

“Told you.”

“How did you know he would do that?”

Tim shrugs. “He’s happier when you’re around. Like me.”

Lucy smiles, even when pushing Kojo off of them. “I love you.”

Tim doesn’t respond. Too much time passes. A beat, and then another. She gets worried.

“Tim?”

“Oh so you weren’t talking to the dog then?”

She giggles and smacks him playfully across the chest with the back of her hand. “No! Well I do love him, but he drools. And you’re—“

“Human?”

“The love of my life.”

She watches the ripple of those words dance across his face. Tim smiles, his cheeks turning all shades of pink and red. Though he doesn’t seem scared off by her comment, the surprise of it still shows in his raised eyebrows and subsequent lines in his forehead. The way his head tilts, like he can’t quite believe it. But, above all else, the love in his eyes. And that way he’s looking at her now… sometimes she thinks that’s what life’s all about.

“I know I don’t have to be yours,” she continues. “You know, having been married before and all, but—“

“Don’t think for a second you aren’t,” he lets out, almost like the words couldn’t contain themselves. “You are.”

“Good.” Her turn now: the ridiculous blushing, the smile, the love in her eyes. So much joy.

So much fatigue too though. Being around him, getting to decompress like this, it’s making her crash fast. She yawns, and Tim yawns in subconscious response, and out of his own fatigue.

“I should get going,” Lucy tells him, though her face is still nestled into his sweater and has no intention of leaving. “I really only came over to feel some comfort and decompress but I didn’t bring a change of clothes or anything.”

“Mmm,” he groans in disapproval of the idea. “Stay for a bit.”

“No. No, I’ve… gotta…” She sucks in a deep breath, Tim’s woody scent catching onto her nose. Her eyes flutter and her muscles start to release their tension as the hand which isn’t sprawled across Tim’s chest starts to massage the spot behind Kojo’s ear.

“Oh, maybe just a few minutes…” she tells him hesitantly. “But keep me talking, I don’t want to fall asleep.”

“Ok. What about the rest of your day? You never finished telling me all the things that had you so upset.”

“Well it started when the air conditioning in the shop nearly exploded on me, and then I immediately took my first call at this dive bar before I could get it fixed. But oh, you won’t believe what this one guy did…”

Lucy goes on and on, her eyes growing heavy and her voice growing layers of drowsy rasp, fighting sleep to tell all her stories of woe. The drunkards, the sexist pigs, the violence. Part of her registers Tim’s lack of response or reaction as she tells her stories. Time passes. She talks, and he listens.

“I think it’s better not to dwell on it though,” she concludes eventually. “I’ve felt all I can feel about it for one day. And anyways I… I can barely remember my own anguish now. It feels so far aw—“

She looks up to see him passed out, his breathing a low rumble that threatens snoring. The soft fur under her other hand feels alarmingly still as well, until she looks to the other side and sees Kojo sleeping on her lap.

So much for leaving. She supposes that’s exactly how she wants things anyway. The heartbeats of these two precious boys at the tips of her fingers, nestled right next to hers. Giving her strength, steadying her scattered mind. Under these dim lights and warm blankets and beloved company, she wouldn’t dare move a muscle.

“Oh hell, who was I kidding,” she whispers to him. “I was always going to end up here anyways. With you.”

She rests her head on his chest once more. The last thing she remembers is the rise and fall of Tim’s chest against her hand and the feel of Kojo’s soft fur against her other.

This isn’t a big moment. No fireworks, no heartfelt confessions, no twirls or kisses in the rain. But even as the day ends and the lights go out, she feels love where it dwells best: in a quiet room. And it remains that Lucy has never been so happy to have fallen in love as she is when she’s falling asleep.

[rachalixie]

eight days of christmas carols - day 8

jeongin - a nonsense christmas

a/n: im a little christmas morning drunk so i didn't proof read this!! but happy holidays to everyone :)))

christmas was over - you had opened your gifts, sang carols with family, cooked and ate more than your bodies fill of delicious snacks and meals that you only got once a year. you had wrapped and unwrapped gifts, exchanged pleasantries with folks that you only saw once a year. it was as wonderful as it was exhausting. 

now it was time to go back to the comfort of your shared home with jeongin, sitting pretty in his passenger seat as he drives with one hand on the wheel. 

“oh, i love this song,” you perk up in your seat and turn up the volume, expertly dodging his hand when he tries to flick you away from the console. he hated when people messed with his settings, even just a little bit. 

“it’s not even christmas anymore,” he complains, but pushes the volume up by two more clicks for you. 

“it’s still the 25th!” you argue back, letting the christmas bells in the background fill your heart with that familiar ebbing feeling of the holidays. 

“you’re ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes fondly, nothing but soft affection and tenderness exuding from his gaze. 

“take me for a ride, i’ll be your vixen,” you ignore him to sing along to the song filtering through jeongin’s old car speakers. your intertwine your hand in his free one as he drives down the streets littered with barren trees, continuing to croon at him along with the radio. the sparse streetlights make his curls glow golden and his eyes seem almost supernatural as they pass by. 

he cuts the gas once you reach your apartment complex, flecks of snow just starting to make themselves known as they fall onto his windshield. the lack of heat from the vents makes you shiver, and you tighten your hand in his. 

“let me come warm you up,” he tugs you to him, helping you across the middle console until you were settled into his lap. you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his middle as you press your lips to his, cherry scented lip balm hitting your tongue. 

“looking at you got me thinking christmas,” you mutter against his lips. 

“you’re my wishlist,” he goes along, mouthing the words of the song as he slides his hands under your jacket to rest on your hips. 

—

carols masterlist

[iwanthermidnightz]

vent that I will probably delete later:

I’ve been coming across livestreams of people debating over who they’re voting for and why (yeah I know, why would I subject myself to this?) and some are entertaining in the way kamala supporters (to my surprise white men — and good for them) come with facts and logic and call out bigotry on the spot and how the other side can do nothing but insult when asked a simple question or be faced with the truth.

the pure garbage (to put it nicely) that comes out of m*ga supporters just with like no regard for how insane they sound is nothing new, but still insufferable because of the repercussions this ideology is having now and for the foreseeable future.

idk my main point is why is it so hard for adults, no matter their affiliation, to stand up for what’s right? to call this man and movement for what it is? I know there are people that already do this, but there should be more.

it feels like we’re all being gaslit every single day when we know this is not normal, nor should it be tolerated. and the normalization of it is wild.

like looking back on the past few decades things weren’t as daunting, right? social media just exacerbates it and I think it’s too much to expect someone to think carefully before posting something for all to see. not everything needs to be shared online.

I say this as someone who has lost friends and family because they are so deep into this and refuse to see the truth. it feels hard to trust anyone or feel safe around them if they hold these beliefs.

this is one reason why in the past few years, I’ve had to step back from how much media/news I consume because it’s depleting and exhausting. bc it’s the same thing over and over. people who used to be able to reason have fallen under this spell of silence and falling in line and complicity.

it just feels like good people have to fight back harder. there are moments for this, and this is one of them.

anyways, thanks for letting me rant. make sure you register to vote. 99 days 💙

[cozzzynook]

Roddy having a really bad spark flare up and Perceptor rushing him to the medbay. Feeling guilty that he's the reason Roddy has this issue.

It’s during play time that Roddy has a really bad spark flare up.

He’s with all the sparklings who are bigger than him minus Bee, running around laughing and trying to catch up with the other speedster and non speedster frame types. When he slows down and begins rubbing at his chassis, careful of the one wire he now wears since he’s outgrown needing so many.

He begins feeling a pain in his chassis and starts coughing. It feels hard and wet and he feels tears in his optics.

The other sparklings were further up ahead and playing so they didn’t notice but Springer did since he hung back to make sure the younger sparklings were okay. His sire Jazz asked him to look out for the younger bitties since he was the oldest among their group and he took that very seriously. It made his sire and carrier Prowl very proud of him.

He noticed Roddy looking not so good and got scared, rushing to get an adult and finding Perceptor talking to his carrier and sire. He knows its rude to interrupt but this was an emergency and so he slammed into Perceptor knocking the mech back quite a bit and rushed out in tears.

“Roddy! Roddy sick and cough! Roddy sick!!”

Perceptor understood immediately what he was trying to say and his sire immediately sprang into action alerting Grandsire Ratchet something was wrong as his carrier picked him up while holding his youngest sibling. Trying to console him as he watched Perceptor rush to pick up a crying Roddy who was grasping his spark and chassis, pulling on the lone cord as he struggled to vent through the pain.

Perceptor ran like a speedster and made it to the medbay in mere kliks that felt like eternity.

He handed off his bitty to Ratchet who already had the lab set up and he watched as he yanked his bitties chassis open and began working on his spark and stabilizing him as his bitty cried in pain before being given knock out gas.

He stood there motionless watching as his bitty was operated on when Optimus came and slowly managed to get him to sit.

Optimus was holding a tired bee close to his own chassis as he sat besides him. Perceptor wouldn’t take his optics off Roddy but to check on Bee and he noticed the same could be said for Optimus who kept his optics on Bee and would shift to Roddy then back to his bitty.

They both understood the feeling and had been co parenting before even realizing it.

Optimus was technically on good terms with Megatron, but only when it came to their bitlet Bee. Whereas Perceptor never wanted to see Hot rod’s sire ever again. The scum.

“He’ll be fine,” Ratchet said looking tired, “he exhausted himself past his limits and came in contact with an adult mech virus that kick started the spark attack. It wouldn’t have been so violent had he not come in contact with it. I’ll send out an alert for mandatory virus shots. You can go be with your sparkling Percy. But let him recharge okay?”

Perceptor nodded before rushing in and curling around his bitty who was hooked up to multiple wires and looked so tiny.

He cried into his bitties helm, apologizing for making him like this when Optimus shushed him and told him it wasn’t his fault.

“Bee having deficiencies is not mine nor Megatrons fault just as Hot rod having spark fluxes your fault or the sires. Though I do greatly dislike him.”

Percy still felt guilty and he still cried, but he didn’t feel so alone.

The four of them curled up on the med berth the best they could and fell into recharge.

[superstar-nan]

Fight Tooth and Nail

Night 1 Part 2

Summary: You get to know the local zombie before trying to get your best friend's phone back

Words: 3,568

Fun stuff: Descriptions of rotting bodies, canon typical violence, asphyxiation and blunt force trauma, and mild swearing. Springtrap's still the worst and Michael's a bit harsh but he has a good heart.

First ♡ Prev ♡ Next

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Hours or minutes or an eternity passed; you didn’t know. Your eyes burned and your head was too heavy with your oscillating emotions. You mindlessly tapped on the panel when it yelled at you, and it quieted just as quickly. Your body ached desperately for a comfortable bed to rest in. Earlier that night, you had spent hours folded in a vent. Now, the hard floor didn’t make a good cushion, the desk didn’t make a good pillow, and the corpse didn’t make good company. 

Or maybe it was you that didn’t make good company. The corpse seemed busy, tapping and switching and scanning and tapping again. You were less busy and you wore your misery like a blanket. 

You could feel the bags gathering under your eyes. You didn’t know if it was the crying, the fatigue, or the smell that was making your eyes burn. You rubbed them. Unlike the murderous animatronic, the corpse’s smell was more difficult to get used to.

Your blood started to move again at the thought of the rotted bunny. It had baited you and you fell for it. You wished that you hadn’t dropped the crowbar and that the corpse hadn’t stopped the monster, just so you could play out a violent fantasy of tearing and smashing and gnashing and breaking— Rage was filling you with life again, but you were too exhausted to light anything but a spark. 

You sighed, quiet and weary. You tapped the panel as it angrily made noises at you.

The corpse didn’t turn his head to look at you, but he spoke and that made you wonder if your sigh drew his attention slightly. “What’s your name?” He said, his voice low and quiet and british. You didn’t notice before when he was harshly whispering at you, but the corpse was british. 

You dragged your eyes over to him, then to the clock. 2:17 AM. “What, we can talk now?”

“Quietly,” He answered, either ignoring or oblivious to your spite.

You didn’t like looking at him for too long; you could see his teeth through his cheeks. You dragged your gaze back to your panel as you told him your name. He hummed in response.

“What’s yours?” You asked, your voice flat and coarse. Your eyes were lidded with fatigue; you could see your lashes.

“Michael.”

If you had any energy, you’d laugh. Instead, you restarted the cameras before it yelled at you. “Michael the zombie.”

For a fraction of a second, the corpse’s— Michael’s sallow eyes flicked to you. Even in your fatigue and your unwillingness to look at him, you saw his fingers twitch slightly. Just as quickly, his eyes flicked back to the screen and he was tapping and switching again. He said your name, and added, “...The criminal.”

You didn’t have the tact he had. “I’m not a—”

“ Shh!” He interrupted you. 

You gripped the panel a little tighter. Your voice wasn’t even barely above a whisper. You lowered it anyway, “I’m not a criminal.”

Michael took a sip of a gas station soda cup wet with condensation. You fought the urge to stare in case the soda was visible through the holes in his face. “You work here?”

You were quiet.

“Didn’t think so.”

You would have been more annoyed if your head didn’t feel like it was exploding. “I don’t have to explain anything to a corpse.” You wanted to sound biting, but your voice was just tired. 

Michael stopped, frozen as he stared at the monitors and his decrepit fingers locked. Then, he resumed his flipping and clicking. “Audio.”

“It’s loading.”

He didn’t respond, silently keeping watch and playing childrens noises that nagged at you, haunted you. You bit your tongue, partially out of contemplation and partially in an attempt to wake yourself up. You decidedly turned your head and looked at the camera monitors. Even as you squinted and flicked your eyes from monitor to monitor, you couldn’t spot the animatronic anywhere. Everything looked the same as it always did, a mediocre haunted establishment. 

Michael then selected the audio on CAM 7. Even then, you struggled to see anything. It wasn’t until you looked at Michael’s eyes, decayed as they were, and followed exactly where they fell that you saw it.

Two pinpricks of reflected light in the shadow. An edge of fear brought life back into your breath. You swallowed and your brow furrowed. Your lip trembled slightly underneath your teeth. How could a piece of machinery as big as the rotted Bonnie stay so hidden? You recalled the thing’s silent footsteps when you tried to leave. You shivered.

“The ventilation.”

You tapped on the ventilation, but didn’t take your eyes off the reflected pinpricks. You thought it might disappear if you took your eyes from it for a second. “What’s it doing?”

“ Shh, ” You weren’t nearly as bothered by the corpse’s shush, entranced with watching the pinpricks. You couldn’t tell if they had moved slightly or if it was just the static of the old cameras.

“What is it?” You whispered. The pinpricks were glued to the camera. It was watching the camera. Your heart dropped at the possibility of it watching you. It couldn’t, not through the camera obviously, but the thought was enough to fool your heart for just a moment.

“I don’t have to explain anything to a criminal.”

You stared at the back of Michael’s head, unkempt hair just a bit too shiny underneath his security hat. You were just tired enough and just emotional enough to consider bashing in his head with the crowbar. 

You turned back to the screen. Your breath hitched. The pinpricks were gone. Michael was swiping through the cameras so quickly, you couldn’t even follow which rooms he was flicking through. It didn’t matter though, because the animatronic wasn’t hiding. 

CAM 8. There were the gift boxes you had scattered in your escape. The rotted Bonnie’s silhouette was complete shadow as it eclipsed the lighted chica head behind it. The shadows and the static couldn’t hide the rotted notches and nicks in the animatronic’s decaying body. In fact, the light behind it only accentuated its deterioration. The rotted Bonnie turned its head to the camera in a broken and jagged fashion, both too fast and too slow in uneven movements. Its eyes glossed over with reflected light, like two unnatural, hostile moons. It slowly began raising its arm.

“Audio.” 

You ignored Michael, your eyes glued to the screen. The movement of its arm was smooth, cleaner than the turn of its head. Too clean, so even it looked wrong. Its silhouette was wholly encased in shadow. The object it was holding up for you was encased in shadow.

Undead eyes flicked to you, “Audio.” When he saw you were entranced, Michael tried to swipe the control panel from hands, but you pulled it away just out of his reach. Even then you didn’t tear your eyes from the screen.

The animatronic slowly lowered the object onto a gift box. Only its arm moved, once again too smooth to look right. Its eyes never left the camera and neither did yours. 

“How did it know I was watching?” You whispered, more to yourself than to the corpse.

Michael cursed under his breath and swiped the panel out of your hands, fumbling to restart the audio. The animatronic’s eyes glossed again with that reflected light. It turned away even before the audio had finished restarting and receded into the shadows. Michael switched to CAM 9 and played the cursed child’s laughter. Though, even without being able to see it, you knew the rotted Bonnie was already there.

The control panel was shoved into your hands again, grounding you back into the office. You began rebooting the ventilation. 

“He’s baiting you,” Michael whispered, as if you didn’t know that already—as if you hadn’t already fallen for it. He flicked between cameras again, seeing something that you couldn’t. “Sit back down away from the cameras.”

You ignored him, watching the cameras as you leaned slightly against the back of Michael’s chair. “Did you see what he set down? Was it the phone?”

“I said, he’s baiting you. ”

“I know!” One sharp look from the corpse and you immediately lowered your voice, “I know, but...” You bit your lip as you watched the screen. Your grip on the back of Michael’s chair tightened. “There’s no way that-that thing will leave it there all night.”

“That’s the point. He’s b— ” Michael stopped whispering when he looked at your expression. You must have been an open book, but his expression had more subtleties you had difficulty deciphering. Maybe it was because his face was rotting away. He turned away from you. “Don’t fall for it.”

Your grip tightened even more, and then you let go of Michael’s chair all at once. You turned away from the cameras as you sat back on the floor and leaned against the desk.

You stared at the control panel in your hands. There was silence only interrupted by the sound of the clicking and switching of the cameras. A child’s laughter not quite right, the damned child’s laughter , played from Michael’s direction. Even after the switching-clicking resumed, the laughter echoed in your head, followed by the last words your best friend ever spoke to you: Come... Come to... Hurry .

Your gaze fell on the worn down wheels of Michael’s chair. Your chest felt heavy. “Did you meet the security guard before you?” You asked, quietly. Even quieter than Michael had been shushing you for. 

The corpse paused. He, as always, didn’t turn toward you. “No.”

You clenched your teeth and your breath was trembling from your lips. You rebooted the cameras.

There was more silence. The hum of the vents turned on, filling the room with an ambient drone. The hum drowned out the buzz of the sickly yellow lights, which you hadn’t noticed was buzzing until the vents smothered it.

Michael was the one to break the silence, “I’m not sure what he took from you.” You could barely hear him over the ventilation. “Though I can guess. With him... he makes it hard to show restraint, but you’ll be glad when—”

You almost felt guilty when he turned around only for you to be already standing and setting the control panel next to him.

“... Or not.”

“You can keep him away from camera eight, right?” You said, giving your best smile. Your stomach did horrified flips when Michael scrunched his rotted face up (possibly in annoyance? you couldn’t tell) and the lesions in his skin contorted. You swallowed and prayed your expression didn’t show your horror. 

He rotated his seat back to the cameras, “You’re gonna die.”

“I’m not saying draw him to you, just keep him closer to Foxy’s head or something.” You said, tapping on the control panel to reboot the audio one last time. You grabbed the crowbar and turned to the office door.

“You’re gonna die.” He repeated, “And whoever you think he killed, they’re probably dead too.”

You didn’t like that. Your grip tightened on the crowbar and you tasted iron in your mouth. You unclenched your teeth. You walked past the office window, pointedly not looking past the glass.

After you passed the office window, your steps slowed. You didn’t dare use your phone as a flashlight. The rotted Bonnie knew you were coming. Hell, it planned for you to. You only hoped Michael didn’t see you as a lost cause—or even worse, bait— and would actually keep the rotted Bonnie from you. 

Slowly, your movements became deliberate. You stilled your breath nearly to asphyxiation. Sweat tickled the back of your neck. Each step was weighed like concrete, your fear fighting you for control. The dull buzz from the lights covered your soft steps against the grimy checkered floor. You kept to the shadows as best you could, hugging dirty walls and corners.

You dared to peer past the hall where the foxy head was mounted. If the rotted bonnie was in there, you couldn’t see it. You swallowed, thick and coarse. 

The sound of your own heartbeat seemed to echo in the hall. You slipped into the hallway where stars dangled from the ceiling. The arcade box you had hid behind should have illuminated your path. It was off now. You didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. You gripped your crowbar with two hands. 

Your heart was too loud. Your breath was too loud. Even when you held your breath you were too loud. The hallway extended endlessly and was too short. Was it behind you?

You pivoted, crowbar over your shoulder. No one was there. You turned slowly back. You kept the crowbar raised.

An artificial child’s voice startled you. You pressed your back to the wall and you heard it. Mechanical steps forced to trudge toward the noise. The animatronic’s march even in the darkness casted a large, terrifying shadow; massive tattered torso hunched, torn bunny ears bent across the ceiling, open rotting maw revealing blunted teeth, sharp protrusions poking out like claws where soft fingertips fell away. After agonizing seconds, the shadow marched across the wall and was gone. 

You waited until you could no longer hear mechanized trudging. Even when there was nothing, you waited just a breath longer. Then, you slowly turned the corner. It wasn’t there. You quietly, quietly, please let your footsteps be quiet , moved forward.

You were close. You just had to turn one more corner, and you would be there. Just one more corner. It would be there, on the gift boxes. Just one more corner. Just one more corner . 

You were shaking when you peeked past the corner, before swiping back just as fast. It didn’t see you. It was turned away from you. It was massive. It didn’t see you. You just had to keep telling yourself that. It didn’t see you. It was so massive. It didn’t see you. 

You heard nothing, but you didn’t dare move. You held your breath and brought the crowbar level to your eyes. You didn’t know if you could even do any harm to it with the crowbar, but it was your lifeline.  

The hum of the vents declined. You had to bite your lip to keep any noise from passing your lips. Your lungs burned for air, but you wouldn’t breath. You tasted iron again. When your lungs couldn’t take anymore asphyxiation, you opened your mouth wide, wide enough that you could breath slowly without making much noise. You still cursed the small noise you did make.

After too long, you peeked past the corner again, slowly. You were alone. You prayed you were alone.

You slipped past the corner. It was dark, but you could see it. A phone, there on the gift box, right where it left it. You cautiously checked to see if it was going to jump out at you. When it wasn’t, you rushed for the phone.

LOUD artificial music—FLASHING rainbow colors—You nearly jumped out of your skin, before throwing the toy phone on the ground, shattering it to pieces. It wasn’t your best friend’s phone on the gift boxes. Just a freddy toy, set to lure you in like a lamb to the slaughter.

Rage started to seep into your cheeks. It was a ruse, and you should have known it was. Michael knew it was. Did your best friend fall for these tricks when they were being hunted? Your teeth grit and your knuckles paling under pressure. “ Bastard. ” You seethed quietly.

-Click- from behind you.

You poured all your vengeance into one swing, every last bit of bitterness and madness. It didn’t do anything, of course. Decaying hands of metal and fur caught the crowbar with one hand, and how unfair it was that you couldn’t destroy it. With your fear forgotten, all you wanted was to tear each soiled scrap with your teeth and bury your fingernails in its too-sentient eyes. It would be right if that did happen, but when was anything ever right?

Instead, a hand of metal and rot grabbed your throat.

You couldn’t scream, you couldn’t breathe; pain and strength constricted your throat. It was strong, so strong! Who designed these things to be so strong?! You writhed as you clawed into its arm, scraping decay under your fingernails. 

You kicked, you scratched, you pried—nothing you did even phased the animatronic, the monster whose eyes were too-alive more than ever. Eyes that looked delighted to watch you thrash and suffer, its permanent grin somehow looking wider and more gleeful. Was that just how the animatronic was supposed to look? 

The pain ebbed into something dull. Your head started to feel light. Your kicking and beating slowed. Tears pin pricked in your eyes, but your vision was already fading. You slammed your eyes shut. Both your hands came to its iron grip, summoning whatever strength you had left to pry its claws open.

By some miracle, they did open, and you collapsed against the wall. You hadn’t noticed you were pushed against the wall. Your lungs filled with air too cold and wet; you coughed violently and it burned in your chest. You sucked in air in gulps, and it was gone too quickly.

Your throat was seized again, and this time you could feel it pinning you against the wall, lifting you to your toes. You dug your nails into its arm again, your other hand beating against its arm, its chest, anything . This time, you tried to cry out, but nothing could sound but a faint wheeze. Tears dripped down your cheeks as you grit your teeth and kicked and kicked and kicked—

You were feeling dull again; light and heavy at the same time. Your head throbbed and soon it was the only thing you could feel. Your eyes closed. You tried to tear at its grip, but your fingers felt too weak. Then, you couldn’t feel them at all...

In a gasp, you were released again, and you wasted no time gulping for air. Your hands came to the wall. You were shaking as you stared at the animatronic. It looked as horrifying and expressionless as it always had, save for its damned human eyes. It tilted its head, too alive and too curious. You felt small, like a rodent backed into a corner, being batted at by the claws of a creature bigger and hungrier than it.

And then you were seized again. Again! You wanted to question it, to scream at it, to shove the absurdity of its actions in front of it, but you couldn’t. You could only struggle fruitlessly under its entertained, human-like eyes. Eyes that would haunt you until your death. Though, perhaps writhing wasn’t the only thing you could do.

You slowed your struggling, weakening your own grip as you attempted to pull it off of you. Despite your body screaming at you to fight for air, you closed your eyes and let your body slowly fall slack.

It released you, and you didn’t waste time breathing. You dove out from under its arms, crashing to the floor next to the gift boxes. You tried to get up to run, but it was fast . It was already on you and before you could even scream—

SLAM

There was a ringing. Your head throbbed with pain. Your vision skewed. You tried to speak, but your throat was still raw. You were turned around.

You saw three—five? No, three—of the rotted Bonnie. Its body sounded like something sticky getting peeled away under all the mechanical clicks. You tried to focus when it held something above its head. 

It was the crowbar. It was going to kill you. 

You hoped your best friend had a gentler end than this.

“ Hello? ”

The ringing slowed. A child’s laughter. The rotted Bonnie’s eyes flickered with light, struggling between sentience and programming. You knew if you stayed quiet it would have to leave, so you froze as still as you could manage.

You were right. It stood up, one foot after the next in monstrously metallic thumps, from its kneeling position over you. Then, it turned around and marched away.

You rolled onto your stomach, taking in quiet gulps of air. The floor was spinning, but it was beginning to stabilize. Not unlike the monster trying to kill you, you stomped one foot after the next to stand. You stumbled into a wall and slammed your eyes shut.

You needed to go. You needed to go. Go. Go. Go!

You stumbled through the attraction, much less quiet than you had been, but it was too difficult to focus on anything else other than reaching the office. You steadily gained proprioception and picked up speed, before you were running through the halls again. The floor started to level. The walls weren’t closing in on you anymore.

You were back at the office door even before you realized you passed the office window. The smell was abominable, but you didn’t care. You stumbled to the desk and slid back down to the floor. You felt your head. There was no blood. That was good... 

A control panel was dropped into your hands. “You’re alive.” Michael took a sip of his soda cup, “You're welcome.”

You grabbed the trashcan and vomited.