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shygirl4991 · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1 First Meeting

Next chapter cover done by @lizaluvsthis Ships: Gunshow, hints of SMG34 Tags: Slow burn, hurt comfort, guns, humor, angst, fluff, first love,

A guard walks by marking off his list of inmates, he stops in front of a sealed door and sighs. He wasn't a fan of this particular inmate, the strange looks he gave him along with the laugh. The constant asking if they could be friends before getting annoyed when he gets rejected, then turning away talking to that creepy dressed rock in his room. Slowly the guard opens the sealed deal, there beyond the bars static could be heard. The guard rolls his eyes as he smacks the bar with his clipboard, the static stops as he hears footsteps. There he looks up staring at the tall television man, his projected eyes swirling “Ah if it isn't my favorite guard, me and Leggy have been talking. While I know you have denied our request for friendship, you will be pleased to hear the offer is still open, come now imagine all we can do together. No longer will you be a guard, you can be something more!”

The guard glares at him “It’s night, step towards your bed and please make me use the remote. It always brings joy when I can shut your trap up.” Mr Puzzle gives the man a sadistic smile as he walks back, sitting on the bed Mr Puzzles waits as a button is hit causing the bed to launch out rope tying the man down. Once the sealed doors close Mr Puzzles lets out a laugh, he turns his head looking at Leggy. “This is it, Leggy, our plan can begin if my research is correct. And I haven't been wrong before, our little guns men will be doing his mission with the kids.” Mr Puzzles shakes his body causing his head to get loose, as it slides off his body and lands on the floor Mr Puzzle lets out a small chuckle. He uses his antennae and connects with the wires under his bed, with a zap he is launched into his TV world. “Don't worry Leggy, I will be back for you,” he walks through the different screens till he finds the one he is looking for. He touches the screen making everything go black, slowly a TV screen springs to life. Slowly a body walks over to the TV and lifts it up, the body then slams the TV on the body the screen flickers projecting Mr Puzzles face. He stretches, feeling the stiffness in his joints due to rust, letting out a sigh as he looks around the room. He slowly walks to a nearby table “An old body but it will do,” he mumbles to himself as he grabs a bottle of vinegar and a box of baking soda. Slowly he put together what he needed to help remove the rust on his joints, he slowly walked outside and waited for his concoction to work its magic.

He takes out a cigarette as he thinks over his mission. He noticed the man when he learned that he still had connection to his beautiful TV world, using it as an escape from the prison the crew put him in. He couldn't let them know he had a means to escape, after all he didnt need those pests bothering him. They rejected his offer of friendship, therefore he had no reason to fix things with them. He wanted to make them suffer, the nerve they had stopping a man from chasing his dream. Stopping him from making others happy and now from making friends by locking him away. This man was similar to him, a body with so many modifications he became a walking weapon. It caught Mr Puzzle’s attention given it's not a common sight to see those with a body of metal, he watched as the man spied on a small family. Saw how he tricked the idiot plumber in helping him kidnap the kids, only to learn he was the father of the children. The desperation the man had reminded him of how everything started, how he noticed SMG4 losing himself. How he would mumble about creating the perfect video for his viewers, he could relate to those emotions. He made the guardian an offer he knew the man wouldn't deny, the power he had from that deal was truly perfect. Until they blew the whole thing up, he takes a puff of his cigarette feeling his annoyance build. He thinks over Wren, how desperate he was to be number one. The cardboard wanted the secrets of the other guardian, all for more riches. Help reached out to each and everyone of them, the power he felt as all the viewers tuned in to cast their votes still sent shivers down his spine.

After some time he moves his arms, he smiles feeling his joins move with more ease. He extinguishes the cigarette as he gets up, he steps inside the warehouse to clean off the rest of the rust. Once he is done an explosion is heard, he turns and smirks as he walks towards the burning building. As he walks he uses the nearby television to figure out the man's location, he lets out a giggle when he finds his target broken. Thrown out on the streets along with the Tuesday trash, such a person didnt deserve a fate like that. The screen in front of Mr Wpnz comes to life catching his attention, he attempts to move his hand only for it to spark for a moment as it dies. He growls at his hand before returning his attention to the TV in front of him.

“Oh Dear…” a deep voice spoke to him, he looked around trying to figure out who could be talking to him. Mr Puzzle watches, finding it fascinating how the man still had fighting spirit when he looked so defeated “You look like you’ve seen better days.” Keeping the deep voice he keeps an eye on the man’s face, studying his reactions. Mr Wpnz stops looking around as he settles for staring at the static on the TV in front of him “What's the matter? Cats got your tongue?” Mr Wpnz growls as his body sparks a warning that his body is shutting down, Mr Puzzle grins seeing the reaction “I know all too well what it's like, to be on the cusp of something magnificent…” Mr Puzzles clenches his fist as he remembers how he had five stars to lose it all, how he had the perfect park only to fail again. “Only to have it ripped away! Leaving you scarred, broken and alone.” Mr Puzzles takes in a deep breath as he relaxes his body, seeing the pain in Mr Wpnz face was the opening he was hoping for. “It hurts doesn't it? You know in my darkest hour, I learned the one thing I needed was simply a friend.”

The TV turns off confusing the man before he hears footsteps approaching him, he turns his head to see Mr Puzzle giving him a huge smile “So what do you say you want to be friends?” Mr Wpnz looked up at the tall man, he had no way to defend himself, not to mention the group that made him decide to throw him away when they saw how broken he was. His ex wife and kids betrayed him, at this moment he was alone. He didn't mind it after all it meant no one could stop him from doing what he loves, yet killing and stealing lost that special spark. Mr Puzzles bends down picking up his hand waiting for a reply, he looks the man up and down. The dangerous aura he displayed was something he hadn't seen in years, he felt attracted to it. Accepting this friendship is making a deal with the devil, the very thought of it excited him. “Listen not that I hate making pals, I just need to know, what's in it for you?” Mr Puzzles turns to face him, his screen displaying a neutral expression “I did everything alone, chasing my dreams only for a couple of idiots to ruin it. After my last run in, I learned why I always lost, I had no friends. So to answer your question, we both get someone to watch out back as we work together to get payback.” He screen flickers showing for a split second a psychotic smile before it changes to a soft one. Mr Wpnz chuckles as he struggles to move the hand in the man's hand, Mr Puzzle looks at the hand and shakes it “So i take it you agree to be my friend?” Mr Wpnz nods “Why the fuck not, after all in this state i cant do shit all.” Mr Puzzle walks away for a moment before coming back with a box, he scoops up all of the man's parts and packs them up.

He holds the box with his right hand, with his free hand he reaches over to Mr Wpnz and lifts him up. The pair walk in silence until they arrive at the warehouse, Mr Puzzle drops the box to gently place Mr Wpnz on the table. Mr Puzzle then looks at the man's parts, Mr Wpznz sighs “Do you even know how to repair my limbs?” Mr Puzzles lifts up one of his hands and examines it “I can fix up the legs and hands fine, I just don't know how to work on your weapons. Not to mention I'm stuck in this dumpster with barely enough of anything to fix them if I knew.” He snaps his fingers as he walks over to Mr Wpnz giving him a bow “Sorry introductions my friend, im called Mr Puzzles!” Mr Wpnz looks at the man before his eyes notice the name on his new friend's head “Your television says puzzlevision.” He touches his head before letting out a bitter chuckle “That's the name of my network where all my great shows will broadcast when the time comes!” Mr Wpnz nods as he watches the other man take out a few tools and start working on his hand, he grunts from the pain as he starts to feel his connection with the limb. Mr Puzzle’s screen flashes a huge smile as he sees the fingers move, he keeps his focus on the man's hand as Mr Wpnz’s looks around “I'm called Mr Wpnz. Since we will be working together, what's your whole deal, fix up body parts often?” Mr Puzzle chuckles, shaking his head as he looks in a drawer for items, he hums taking out spare parts as he checks them for any rust. “When creating my body and other things I picked up a few skills, mind you my talent all lies in creating stories! “

Mr Wpnz gives a skeptical look “Creating stories?” Mr Puzzles finishes tickering with hand, he sits back as the hand starts to walk about before jumping back in its place. He flinches from the pain, seeing that Mr Puzzle’s gets up checking his shoulders “My dream is to be a 5 star creator, I want to entertain the world.” He lets out a sinister chuckle giving Mr Wpnz the answer he was looking for, no way someone that just wants to make tv shows would team up with a living weapon just for friendship. There was something different about this television man, it excited him to know just what hell the two of them would bring. “Mr Wpnz, am I to assume that your whole deal is violence? I saw how your family treated you, shame when you just wanted to help your children be stronger.” Mr Wpnz stomach dropped at the moment, sadness, anger, regret filled him as he remembers the betrayal of his family. “How did you know?” he glares at the man, Mr Puzzle gently smacks his shoulder in place “Where there is a television, there is me.” was all he said as he walked over to the box to finish the last remaining limbs. Mr Wpnz smirks “Since you're such a stalker with all these television eyes, why do you need my help for payback?” Mr Puzzle finishes up his other hand as he stands there in silence for a moment “I learned having eyes everywhere doesn't make you all powerful, I’m not built for in person battles. Learn that the hard way when they locked me away, poor Leggy must be missing me right now.” Mr Wpnz connects his hand taking in the man's words “So you broke out and left a so-called friend behind? Heh, they must have been weak.”

Mr Puzzle slams the table causing Mr Wpnz to quickly turn to the man, Mr puzzle screen flashed a sinister face as he looked at him “DON'T TALK ABOUT LEGGY LIKE THAT!” Mr Wpnz nonchalantly raises his hands “Hey i'm not the one that left this Leggy behind.” Mr Puzzle takes a deep breath before his screen shows his usual smiling face “Leggy is my best friend, we both are currently locked away. My power lets me take over other televisions and I happen to have this spare body.” Mr Wpnz nods as he connects his legs “Then let's get my body in full order, we need to figure out how to break you and Leggy out so we can begin our plan.” Mr Puzzle nods as he watches the man walk away checking his systems, knowing they need more parts to fully fix the man. Their first plan is to scoop out locations that contain military grade weapons and parts, lucky for them Mr Wpnz knows the best place to look.

#smg4 #smg3 #smg34 #shygirl4991 #smg4 au #smg34 fanfiction #gunshow #mr puzzles x mr wpnz #smg4 wpnz #smg4 mr wpnz #mr puzzles smg4

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daydaydayrk420 · 10 months ago

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Comfort after nightmares

Bucky Barnes X male reader

⚠️ nightmares, cock warming, male reader, sad Bucky, bottom Bucky, angst, partly smut⚠️

🚨 Minors and girls do not interact 🚨

______________________________________________________________

желаниe (Longing)

It's the same thing.

pжавый (Rusted)

Every night.

Печь (Furnace)

It's the same dream.

семнадцать (Seventeen )

Same hour.

Доброкачественные (Benign)

The same dream.

Девять (Nine)

The same screams.

Возвращение домой (Homecoming)

Same cries.

Один (One)

The same nightmare.

грузовой вагон (Freight car)

A brick wall bursts into pieces as a silver metal arm punches through it. People start screaming and running while the sound of heavy boots stomping echoes through the room. The winter soldier walks through the wall and aims his gun. The victim's face is blurry... Unknown. Or maybe his mind can't decide which face it should choose from the amount of options to put on. They beg as they crawl on the floor... Their voice echoes... it sounds as if it was a mix of multiple pleas from different people in one body. The gun fires. Why. Why did it fire? His finger wasn't even on the trigger. The bullet flies in slow motion. He tries to scream. But the muzzle felt like it was sowed into his flesh. He drops the gun and tries to pry the mask off. It hurts. He screams but it comes out as a quiet whimper. He tries to run instead. But his legs are not responding.

The bullet hit.

Bucky gasps and wakes up in a cold sweat. He's breathing heavily as he looks around disoriented. He's sleeping on the floor next to the bed as usual. The bed never felt inviting. He grabs his head and takes deep shaky breaths. He can't calm down. He looks up towards the bed. It's empty. Y/n must be in his office.

He sighs as he stands up with shaky legs. He's wearing only his underwear. He lets out a shaky breath once his bare feet feel the coldness of the hallway floor. He wraps his arms around himself and walks down the dark hall towards the home office.

The door isn't properly closed so he doesn't bother to knock. He looks in and sees y/n on his work computer. Y/n is clearly unaware of Bucky's presence. Bucky makes his way in. His footsteps are ghost-like quiet after years of training. Bucky lets out a shaky breath as the nightmare decides to repeat before his eyes again. That catches y/n's attention and he turns his chair to look toward Bucky. "Buck?"

Bucky walks into y/n's already open arms. He sits in his lap and sniffles. Y/n doesn't question anything already knowing what's happening and simply rubs Bucky's back soothingly. Bucky buries his face in his neck and closes his eyes enjoying his lover's touch. Y/n turns his chair again and faces his computer while he holds Bucky in his lap.

He caresses his back for a bit before he frees one hand and uses it to continue working on his computer. Bucky is on the verge of falling asleep again but something's missing.

"y/n...?" Bucky whispered. "Yes, darling?" Y/m hums and looks at his lover. "Can...Can I cockwarm you...?" He whispered with his face in y/n's neck. Y/n chuckles and caresses Bucky's hair. "If it'll help you sleep."

Bucky wastes no time and removes his boxers. "Buck you should put on at least a shirt. It's cold tonight." Y/n said as he caressed his boyfriend's cheek. Bucky huffs and looks around hoping to find anything to wear because he's too lazy and tired to return to the bedroom.

Y/n chuckles and removes his sweater. "Here." Bucky nods and takes it. The sweater droops off his shoulder and has longer sleeves than his arms. He looks adorable. Y/n grabs a bottle of lube and hands it to Bucky. "Prep yourself darlin'. I have to work." He said and caressed Bucky's thighs before he returned to writing on his computer.

Bucky whimpers and rolls his sleeves so the sweater doesn't get dirty. He lubes up his vibranium fingers and reaches behind himself. He traces his puffy hole and shivers at the touch of his cold metal.

He doesn't need to be stretched. Not really. He's still a bit open from the fun he and y/n had. Yet he knows y/n won't let him go on unless he's prepped so he's not in pain. Bucky pushes his first finger in with ease. The second one slides in smoothly too but the third takes a little more pressure. He whimpers and rests his head on y/n's shoulder.

"Take it slow Bucky. We have all night." Y/n said and rubbed Bucky's back. Bucky whines in protests wanting to have you inside him already but he knows better than to disobey. He pulls his third finger back and just uses his two fingers. He slowly moves them in and out and spreads them apart. "Good boy." Y/n praised. Bucky whines and fucks himself onto his fingers.

After a bit of fingering the third finger finally slides in with ease. Bucky works his fingers in faster eager to get the real thing already. "I'm ready." He whimpers and looks at y/n. He looks so adorable. Cheeks flushed with three fingers deep in his hole. The large sweater doesn't help. Y/n savors the view before he lifts Bucky up a bit so he can pull his dick out of his pants.

Bucky is already holding the lube again. putting some in his hand and as soon as y/n's dick is out he grabs it and strokes it to lube it up. Y/n groans at the eager touch before he chuckles and kisses Bucky's cheek and jaw. Once Bucky is satisfied with his work he lifts himself up onto his knees and lines up his boyfriend's soft dick with his hungry ass. He lets out a long whine as he sinks down. Y/n groans and fights the urge to fuck up into him and take him against the desk.

"That's it Bucky. Take all you need." Y/n murmured and caressed Bucky's back. Bucky whimpered and rested his head on his lovers shoulder and closed his eyes. He shifts a bit to get more comfortable. Y/n groans and grips Bucky's hips and buries his face in his neck. But he fights back. This is about and for Bucky. Bucky eventually found his spot and relaxed. Y/N takes some time to collect himself before he goes back to work. he slides his chair closer to the desk and leans back. He lazily writes with one hand while his second hand caresses Bucky's lower back in soothing circles. Within ten minutes Bucky has fallen into a peaceful slumber.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x male reader #marvel x male reader #mcu x male reader #x male reader smut #male reader #top male reader #x male reader

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leviathanleva · 1 year ago

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Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[Blood and Injury, Ghoul Trafficking, Minor Character Death]

[5.8k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 7 "The Road"

“She asked you a question.” the tip of his gun bumps against the skull of the poor man in angry sovereignty. “Not nice t’ keep a lady waitin’.”

The man in question is a scrawny fellow with yellowish, vein-ridden eyes and greasy black hair just shy of his shoulders. A sunbaked, chewed-out lab coat adorns his shriveled form, hiding a multitude of self-inflicted scabs and prickles, but you’d caught a glimpse during his scuffle with Cooper. A self-proclaimed doctor who’d used his own flesh and blood in the name of science and study, he looked nothing short of deranged, but he’d survived until the ripe age of sixty-two and that was enough solid ground for you to trust his expertise.

You sat opposite of him, occupying a wide, crummy slab of concrete that had once been the roof of his laboratory. The entire building was waning, descended to a few walls surrounded by a rusting fence, but it offered enough shelter for most wastelanders to deem habitable. That’s why you’d stopped by, having endured your second month of surface exploration during what you’d learned was the middle of summer, you’d built higher tolerance for the hostile environment, but still couldn’t compare to Cooper. You’d needed respite, to catch your breath under a shade while greedily gulping down lukewarm spring water.

The doctor had heard your intrusion upon his sanctuary and had been more than hospitable, shoving grimy bottles full of murky substances of different consistencies in your face to get you to buy something. When he’d announced that he was a representative of the medicinal sphere another idea had popped into your head, one that required more talking and less buying diluted piss in a corked test tube labeled “Acne Remover”.

He could teach you medicine. The basics, at least, ways to patch up a wound using primitive things you had on hand, and you’d read such books before, but none of them touched on radioactivity nor explained what RadAway or stimpaks were.

The ghoul had been surprisingly agreeable, however, before you could discuss a plan, he’d taken to his ways and was already rasping threats while cracking his knuckles. You’d thrown your hands in the air with a displeased eye-roll as their tussle heated the dust off the floor.

It’s always violence with him…

“A stimpak? I can. Of course, I can.” the doc hacks and spits a mixture of blood and saliva to the side, then turns back to you with a wet snort. “It’s easy. Anyone can make a stimpak. Anyone. Who can’t? It’s so easy.”

“Great.” you nod, gripping your pencil with such force it’s shy from snapping. This was not what you’d had in mind by exchanging information – no guns or violence and absolutely no blood. But your fiendish companion had other ideas and beggars weren’t choosers. You lick your thumb and turn your notebook to a fresh page. “Please explain then. Slowly.”

The owlish look you receive has you eyeing Cooper with a lost frown, a plea for guidance because this man was clearly out of it with no intent on returning to normalcy.

He’s the heavy hand to your soft words as always.

“Talk.” he snarls and digs his boot in the doctor’s ribs, kicking him off his knees and onto his side. There’s no discussion, no bargaining, just a built-in cruelty and lack of patience.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to – ” you scrunch back in abhorrence, reaching for your face as if you were the one taking the beating.

“ – My notes.” a gargled sputter comes from the wheezing man. He laughs, rotting teeth proud on display as he knocks on the side of his head with such force you heard it from where you sat. “Head’s not good. Can’t remember anything. Gotta see my notes. It’s in the notes.” his spastic gaze is bouncing between you and the ghoul. “I can get 'em. Right there.” he’s jutting a finger up at his workstation where a gnawed-out leather bag rests. “Gonna get 'em. Tell you how. Okay? Gonna get up, gonna get 'em.”

He’s motioning for peace with palms spread wide as he slowly rises. The pistol follows him with cold-blooded precision as he wobbles to his desk. You turn halfway to watch as the notepad rests on your thigh, then tuck a wild strand of hair behind your ear.

He sifts through his belongings and it’s not much, but he’s sustained himself so far with the scarce scraps he’d managed to find. Meanwhile, your backpack was still brimming two months later because you had the trinkets to trade for food and water. You had a bodyguard for free and the luxury to indulge in hygienic habits most commoners didn’t see even on their deathbeds.

Bearing a soft heart, you wanted to leave him at least a granola bar, a guaranteed meal with no strings attached so the upcoming night wouldn’t leave him convulsing in a corner from hunger. He was skin and bones at best, a walking skeleton with cracking, aged skin, and protuberant wild eyes, the kind that have seen too much.

But you knew better, rather he starve and struggle than you ending up facing the ghoul’s wrath for acting stupid again. There was no room for kindness here, there would be no praises, just you naively reaching out a helping hand and ultimately having it bitten.

God, you hated this mess of a world…

“Here! Here, here.” he exclaims through a scratchy throat and shows you a torn, brown folder stuffed with sheets of paper. He digs his nose into it, stubby, arthritis-ridden fingers roughly handling the pages like a manic man searching for the meaning of life between the words. “It’s here. Has to be. I wrote it, y’know. All by myself.”

A sharp whistle rings in your ears and your head snaps back to Cooper. He nudges his pistol toward the folder and cocks his head with a scowl.

“Take em.”

You’re taken aback. Your face falls and you glance at the madman behind you with a slack jaw – he’s pressed into his workstation, the folder held snugly to his chest and encased in his frail arms. His hair sways as he stiffly shakes his head with disbelief.

“No.” you breathe out, a voiced thought, then repeat with more authority. “No! I can’t take his notes, how will he work without them?” you’re gesturing towards him with pencil in hand and direness to your voice. “Look at him! He can’t even remember his own name. We can’t just – ”

“ – I ain’t sittin’ here all day just cuz you wanna play Broken Telephone with a con bastard.” he’s a harsh mentor, doesn’t bat an eye at the implication or the devastation his order might cause. The rim of his hat dips, painting menacing shadows over his already monstrous features. “Take the damn notes.”

There’s no equal ground for arguing and the doctor stands there, forced to watch as his life is put on an uneven scale. Either shot or left to wither away without his only source of income, he couldn’t even choose, he was left to be toiled between your hands and the ghoul’s.

You’re bubbling with righteousness, but that won’t do. There are many things your companion dislikes and for unexplained reasons, standing up to him while trying to do the right thing is one of them.

“Please.” the plea leaves your lips as a hiss. Your face is wrinkled with exertion as you attempt to stare Cooper down to a more agreeable state.

You’re grasping at straws, fighting not to drown in the reality of your actions being the cause of another person’s death. This was no raider, or cannibal, not a warped beast hunting you for supper. This was a fellow survivor, a struggling soul the wasteland hadn’t been as lenient towards. Beneath the delirium and madness, the jumbled words and soup of senseless thoughts, he was still human.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t.

“Was your idea, Sweetheart.” a derogatory coo, a sentence that rips up your act of chivalry. He’s almost smirking as he puts you down with just his gaze. “Gotta finish what you started. Now take the fuckin’ notes.”

Impatience nips at his command, only amplified when he sees you refuse to move. His weapon lowers and he takes a few strides with a searing grunt and bared fangs. He’s no gentleman; picks you up roughly by the arm and forces you to your feet as disapproval of your disobedience brings forth his crow’s feet. There is no grace when you’re non-consensually pushed toward your victim, no elegance guides your step to ease the mourning of the man you’re about to strip from any chance of long-term survival.

But you’re also meek with your gestures, approaching him delicately once your footing is set in stone, hesitantly until there is only a thin gap separating you.

His leg juts to the side with barely contained need to run and he once again winds up at gunpoint.

“Don’ be fuckin’ stupid now.” the ghoul spits as his chin dips, he’s peeking beneath his hat with eyes that could boil flesh off bone.

Regret drains the strength from your fingers when you pinch the bottom of the folder, left to weakly tug it out of his grip as he begrudgingly relents. Your vision is set low, trained on your feet, scorned by actions you couldn’t back away from. You take his prized possession and look away until not a blip of him poisons your vision, then after swallowing nothingness down a dry gullet you manage to mumble:

“I’m sorry.”

You skitter back to Cooper, each step hastening your pace until you’re in the sanctity of his proximity. You don’t falter to see his nod of approval, instead hiding behind him, the side of your head leaned between his shoulder blades. Pathetic, powerless, and made cruel, your brows twitch, pulling down the skin of your sweaty forehead as you clutch at the folder with a distant mind and quivering bottom lip.

You leap a thousand miles away, condemned to weigh the doctor's odds and spare your sanity the burden of his demise. There were always radroaches scuttling about, he could live off them. They weren’t your cup of tea but they were edible. If he was smart enough he could gather sand and pebbles, make a filter and cleanse his urine to a drinkable consistency. It wasn’t that hard, he could survive if he wanted to. Maybe he could…

Maybe –

The familiar click of a pistol rattles you out of the dreamlike state.

You tense.

“Wait.” your hand shoots out to lay over his wrist, applying a minute amount of pressure to stray the firearm. “We got what we needed, right? You don’t need to…Please?” your voice cracks and your beseeched eyes lift to face his. “Please.”

The doctor hasn’t moved, frozen solid and silent aside from the low, bizarre hums and attempts to cough out the gunk tickling his lungs. He was sick and mad, defenseless against a loaded gun, compliant with your inhumane deeds, hadn’t said a peep of protest. The least you could do was leave him be after ripping away the little dignity he’d had.

Your way is brutal though, leaving a helpless old man to be overcome by a death worse than a bullet to the head. But you weren’t one to make a tough decision in a dire situation, you didn’t have the guts to do what would be considered a mercy. His chances were null and shooting him now would save him a great amount of suffering. You could walk out and wait for the shot to ring out, turn a deaf ear to the shriek of oblivion.

But you weren’t doing what was best for him, you were doing what was least painful for you.

Masking your selfish spinelessness as a courageous act of standing up to your dominant half to spare a soul. This was no heroism, it was torture. You’d seen firsthand how sadistic fate was in this dystopian world you now called home, but what could you do when the sight of him had you near tears?

Cooper lowers his pistol with a disgruntled scoff and you release a shaky breath.

“Whatever you say…” he clasps his weapon back in place and flings both his bandolier and tato sack over his shoulder.

It was suspiciously easy, but you didn’t question his change of heart, instead keeping close to him after shooting the deranged doctor a last apologetic frown.

He’d been with you since you’d left the vault, acting as the spear to your shield, the one to take action while you sat back and prayed for the best. You were still as friendly and ready to lend a helping hand as when you’d met and if it hadn’t been for him you would have been long gone by now. The wasteland was working on remolding your antics, but it was a slow process in your case and until then it spelled hardships and disaster for both of you.

Actions have consequences, bad ones, good ones, all of them. He’s tried and failed to teach you so he decides a harsher lesson is in order, one that will stick. That’s why he ignores the shuffling behind him and keeps a heavy-lidded neutral expression.

Actions have consequences and yours is being swung straight towards your head.

The bits of gravel crunching beneath your boots keep your hearing busy enough to miss the vigorous grunts and noises being regurgitated some feet away from you. It’s inconceivable that the person to whom you showed mercy would do anything to cause you harm. His uncoordinated, rushed steps don’t even register until they’re thumping right behind you.

You’re a second too late to react before the empty glass bottle is shattered against the side of your head.

All you muster out is a choked gasp as the ground beneath you slips and you’re falling. The world spins with sickening speed yet your fall is delayed, like a swaying feather.

You don’t feel. You feel nothing below your neck.

Your stomach churns as everything is flipped upside down. The folder is snatched from the safety of your armpit. You’re numb when you collide with the dusty concrete, feel only a cushioned resistance from an impact that’s supposed to hurt.

The air is knocked out of your chest, you’re suffocating on dust. Cooper’s boots are doubled and swaying in your vision as they move. You squint to try and focus, but can’t manage much except to roll on your back and twitch when a shot is fired. A guttural scream, then silence.

The scarce clouds visible from beyond the hole in the ceiling are swimming. You want to reach out and touch them.

The sky always leaves you speechless.

“Why…? Why couldn’t you just let it go…?”

You sit up slowly, hunching over as your legs cross to keep you steady. The dull pulse blossoms into pain and you press a trembling palm against your head only to find it dampened by scarlet red. What you thought was snot tickling your cupid’s bow turns out to be blood once you wipe it off with your wrist to see.

Your breathing accelerates and you look to the ghoul before you succumb to a full-blown panic attack.

He’s bending down to retrieve the folder from a man now dead before approaching you with leisurely steps and placing it in your lap once he’s knelt in front of you.

You didn’t feel like crying before you were face to face, but now your eyes are brimming.

“Next time, you don’ fuckin’ stop me.” he speaks in a low tone, letting you weep. His image shakes and you try your hardest to focus, wiping at your eyes and blinking rapidly, all in vain. “When I speak, you listen. No talkin' back, no attitude. You wanna live, you do as I say when I say.” he checks you over carelessly, sees no glass stuck to your skin, only cuts, and deduces a potential concussion from your uncoordinated movements. “Hope you learned your fuckin’ lesson.”

Your downfall, your savior, your opposite, your everything.

He’s up and walking, and you’re given no time to tend to your wounds, not even to rip off some gauze and stuff it in your nose. You replace the notebook and pencil with a water bottle, cup a hand under it, and spare some water to then splash over your face and wash away a part of the bloody smears. A sip is forced down after a short struggle because your stomach refuses to welcome anything. With jelly legs, you rise, flail briefly because the act makes the world whirl and your brain feels like it’s pressing against the inside of your skull, a sickening sensation, seething and pulsing.

Your shoulder grinds against the walls to offer support for your off-course balance as you make your way out of the rundown building. There are no thoughts in your head, for once everything is still, a dark, blank canvas swallowing any image before it can even surface. There’s only a dull ache deep within your chest, mourning, partly for you, partly for the doctor.

Cooper is waiting for you outside with a cigarette pinched between his lips and kicking at the cracked soil.

High-pitched screeching deafens you as the sun’s rays nearly blind you on the spot. Your sensitive eyes are filling with more than tears of sadness, you’re snarling instinctively with a hand shielding your vision. It’s almost nauseating and leaves your knees weak.

Was it really always this bright?

The sun has no sympathy, it blasts scorching heat as if it knows exactly where your head is exposed and oozing, it targets you with viciousness because you’re battered and broken. You lift the stained folder, let it rest against your crown and give off enough shade to keep you from fainting.

With a pained expression, you follow after the ghoul once he takes a particularly long drag from his cigarette and turns on his heel.

A trail is left in your wake, blood, tears, sweat, all marking your path as you struggle not to trip over your feet. Each step is heavy and rattles both your teeth and your brain. It’s an alien sensation, not truly pain, it’s closer to pressure and it’s agony when combined with the rest of your unpleasant symptoms.

Your breaths echo in your ears, drowning out your footsteps because you’re heaving for air like a woman drowning. The world still swims albeit less so and sometimes it’s unbearable and you’re forced to cling to Cooper’s arm and squeeze your eyes shut as he guides you. All you want is to lie down somewhere soft and sleep, but there’s no building in sight, no trees, nothing.

You walk an endless road, hours of silent torment.

With enough distance and suffering, the day is finally coming to an end and everything is bathed in deep oranges and blaring pinks. The sunset is behind you, your shadow faces you and is as decrepit and tortured as you, you’re heading east, not that it matters. You can finally open your eyes fully without wincing and that’s one less discomfort to sulk over, but then another takes its place instantaneously.

Your backpack feels heavier than ever, it digs into your armpits and it would have been worse if you hadn’t sewn the ripped strap back in place, but it made no difference now. It weighed on your back, further ruined your posture.

You readjust it multiple times with a handful of irritated grunts.

“Ain’t nobody told you t’ stuff the whole fuckin’ vault in that thing.” finally he speaks after an eternity of wordless wandering. He’s eyeing you judgmentally while mouthing another cigarette. “Said to bring essentials.”

More fuel to the fire, more salt in the wound. He’s a relentless bastard when he wants to be.

You stop to rest your hands on your knees and catch your breath and you’re a pitiful sight, but that doesn’t stop you from glaring death at him. Too far gone, in too much pain and fear from failing to understand how much damage the blow to your head had caused, you’re a hair away from losing it completely.

“Nobody told you to bring that nasty attitude either, but here I am.” you snap back through gritted teeth. “Dealing with both.”

He pauses.

“Wha’d you say?” he’s tossing away the smoke and storming towards you, but you’re not your usual self – you don’t back down or shrink away or try to run. You’re staring him dead in the eyes with a nasty look. “Care t’ repeat, Missy? My hearin’s not what it used t’ be.” he’s taunting you while holding your face with one large hand, squishing your cheeks until your lips pucker.

“You’re an asshole.” you snarl with hatred; his roughness causes your nose to fill with blood again, a fresh batch that follows the edge of your curled back upper lip and dribbles down his glove. You look almost feral, you almost fit in with your environment, but your eyes are still soft despite everything.

“Only reason why you ain’t getting’ a beatin’s cuz you already got a concussion.” he jostles you harshly, always does when you’re stepping out of line, but he’s too late to deal punishments this time.

You’re past his demeaning attitude, you’re fed up with being flung like a ragdoll and tied up and blamed for existing because you attract bad attention and he has to waste bullets. You’re bleeding and bruised and hungry and out of patience for his teachings. It might be the concussion, might be something else, but you’re writhing.

You’ve had enough.

He was no hero. He was a fucking pest.

When he shakes you for the second time and pain stabs up your neck like a knife to the spine you shudder. The sound that leaves you is worse than your visage, a carnal bellow, a menacing reverberation that could rival that of a cornered animal.

You bite him.

You sink your teeth into the plush between his thumb and forefinger with enough force for your jaw to burn. You’re clinging to his wrist and when he forces you back your nails leave angry red lines over his skin, even through his coat. You take a wide stance to retain some balance and glare at him from behind a curtain of wild, sweat-drenched hair. Your nostrils flare wide and you spit out the grime you’d bitten off.

“Well I’ll be…” he sighs while tipping his hand slowly and looks over the blunt teeth marks adorning his glove. They glisten with a thick coat of saliva. A fowl grin cracks his somber features. “If you wanned t’ swap saliva, Darlin’, should’a just said so.”

He glides his tongue over the bitemark, then licks the blood clean off his fingers. He’s tasting you, he’s savoring you and your façade falls in repulsion.

That disgusting smile never leaves his chapped lips.

You’re on the verge of insanity, pushed to the brink from everything that’s happened in the past two months and today spelled your breaking point. You’re at your wit’s end and all he does is laugh at your misfortune without a drop of empathy. How can he enjoy your misery? What kind of sick man finds pleasure in another’s pain?

“What is wrong with you?!” you shriek as your hands ball, the folder you’d forgotten you still held, creases under the pressure. You land a fist against his chest, then another, and, of course, he doesn’t even flinch. “Why are you like this?!”

He holds your arms while stifling his cackles, softens your blows while you fuss, lost in your tantrum and throwing conniving insults his way while somehow avoiding any vulgarities. It would have been a comedic performance if your condition potentially worsening didn’t make him fret. He didn’t need you passing out in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t control your frustration.

“Who did this to you?”

Who hadn’t? His darling wife had dug a knife in his back, taken his daughter away and left him to rot. He’d known the taste of betrayal and disloyalty before the bombs and now it was a free-for-all massacre. He’d not just lost everything, it had been ripped away from him. Every single person he’d known had either tried to kill him or left him stranded.

“Who hurt you so bad…”

But who were you to ask him such questions? Who were you to sink your claws so deep and stir him awake from his bitter slumber spanning over two centuries? Who were you to question his ways and fight to find better solutions? Who were you to mend wounds you’d not caused?

You were nothing.

You were everything.

“Easy.” he warns, paying no heed to your desperate laments, then releases one of your hands to snake an arm around your waist when your knees give out. “Easy now…Easy…”

You’re bawling into his collarbone, sobbing an ugly song, and staining his vest with heavy tears. Your fists uncurl once you’re done drumming at his chest and your fingers sink into the warmth beneath his coat. He’s a solemn golem, doesn’t react to your advances, he doesn’t see you as a threat.

“Why didn’t you just shoot me in the start…”

His heartbeat never changes, but you hear him swallow a lump. He watches over the top of your head as you succumb to periodic trembles and tire yourself out completely. A dainty and ethereal creature compared to him and even in your rage and unquenchable sorrow, both caused by him, you still cling to him.

You were similar in that regard. He had shown you the same mercy you’d shown to the doctor. Selfish spinelessness, lack of courage, weakness, twisted empathy. He was no hero, but you sure made him feel like one. A part of him was addicted to the goodness you carried and didn’t want to let you go. And he cared little for how fake or real it was, he just needed to have a taste once in a while, get a reminder that softer things yet thrive in the dark crooks of the apocalypse.

“Should’a stayed in Tillburry.” a rasp so low you could have mistaken it for a rustle in the wind.

He’s already locked eyes with you when you finally unfurl your face from his vest and look up. Newfound anger spells doom on your lips. It doesn’t suit you to be angry.

“I didn’t want to stay in Tillburry.” there’s spitfire in your voice as you talk down his feeble statement. A last soft punch to his chest to solidify your words as you continue. “I want to stay with you…”

“Y’ dunno what’d fuck you’re talkin’ about.” he gravels out a tender scold, his eyes dip to your frown, his mouth waters.

He inches closer, earning an inquisitive noise from you, but you don’t back away. You grip onto his coat and for once his heart is heavy as he lowers his head until the rim of his hat is brushing against your forehead. His breath hits you and it’s rich with the smell of cigarettes.

Your inhales are forced, brash and vocal, sucked in through parted lips as you take him in for the first time. Contrary to your beliefs, he had eyelashes, thick and dark and you wonder if he was brunette before he became a ghoul. His eyes were molten gold in the dying sunlight, prettier than yours would ever be, his cheekbones were high, accentuated by the lack of fat in his cheeks.

Once upon a time, he was a handsome man.

He’s pawing at your waist to keep you close, a precaution for the slim chance that your brain kicked back into function and you pulled away like you should. He had no right taking your first kiss, he had no right to anything of yours, but there was nobody present to stop him. A small guilty pleasure, a moment of indulgence, that’s all he wanted and he’d set you free.

You’re sweating, you’re shaking.

Were you really that scared of him?

“Coop – ”

“ – ‘S okay, Pumpkin. ‘S okay…” he coos in a hushed tone, tender and sugary. “I got you…Sweet thing…I’m here.”

A queer affection coming from a man who was anything but, your mind was hazy, you’d faint any second. Your stomach is bursting with fluttering butterflies as you give in to the needy hands kneading your sides.

What was this…

“ ‘M a bad man, I know…I know. Don’t deserve this.” he sees you searching for words, gives you a good squish and you’re so pliant under his fingers it makes him weak. “Is okay…Close those pretty eyes o’ yours.”

He’s so close he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, your nose is brushing against his cheek and his lips are ghosting over yours.

“Helloooo!”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

A caravan approaches, pulled by a pair of well-fed brahmin. A man is vigorously waving a hand your way, bearing a wide smile with mostly missing teeth.

You rush to straighten your dress once you’re abruptly released and pushed away. There’s danger dancing in Cooper’s stance as he mumbles an inaudible slew, his hand is at his holster and his shoulders become ridged. There’s a heat to your cheeks that you hope the sun masks and the medical folder is tucked in front of your chest as a barrier.

Judging by the ghoul’s reaction, this man, whoever he is, is trouble and you’re not mentally prepared to withstand another bloodbath.

He flings the reins, urging the brahmin to pick up the pace and the distance between your parties grows too short too quickly. You can only pray for a peaceful exchange. His cargo is large, rectangular and covered by a dark sheet bolted to the carriage on either side.

Once he’s close enough a distressful symphony reaches your ears and you step closer to Cooper out of habit. There’s the rattling of metal, a cacophony of pained moans and haggard groans, animalistic noises from a beast you’d yet to encounter.

Was he from a circus? What kind of animal made such sounds?

“Shut the hell up back there!” he slams his fist against the cargo, you guess it’s a cage of some sort, and the mystery animals fall silent. Then he stills the brahmin and flashes you a polite smile. “Evening, Miss.”

“Hello, Sir.” you nod and the firm hand on your hip tells you to be very careful with your next words.

He doesn’t even address Cooper despite him standing in front of you, just gives him a good full-body scan and averts his attention back to you. It’s strange, for once you’re not in his shadow, your gut warns of a dirty truth hidden behind that dark curtain, one which you didn’t want to delve into.

“Sorry to bother you this late an hour.” he plants an elbow against the backrest of his seat and turns to face you properly. “I was just wondering if you were selling.”

The wind picks up your hair, for a moment the world is still.

“Selling?” you cup a hand over your eyes to block out the dying red sun falling behind the distant horizon. Your brows lock in confusion because he certainly didn’t look like a merchant. “Selling what?”

“The ghoul.” he answers as if it’s the most obvious thing, then when you don’t answer immediately he decides to add a bit more honey to the mix. ��Would pay good caps for that one.”

“The…WHAT?!”

Your blood runs cold. The moans you’d previously heard turn hauntingly grim and you try to look everywhere but the covered cage. The grip on your hip is bruising in strength; the only way to ease Cooper before he snaps is to step on his boot.

The bent stop sign a few feet down the road looks weak enough. You wonder if you can tear it out and bludgeon the man to death, then shake your head. He’s not a man, can’t be if your suspicions are true.

Because who would do such a thing…

“Stop.”

It was impossible to entertain such thoughts. There exist so many words to describe the evil and grotesque and none of them come close to encompass such inhumane deeds.

“Sorry, Sir, not selling this one.” you muster out, shake off your horror and mask your malice with an awkward smile. You pat the ghoul’s shoulder like he’s a pet. “He’s a good mule, can’t imagine traveling without em.”

The words nearly make you gag while the man howls a throaty laugh.

“Sure looks like it. Real shame.” he sits back and grips the reins once more with a serene look as he stares into the sunset.

He doesn’t deserve to see such a sight, he doesn’t deserve to be so relaxed, he doesn’t deserve to live –

“ – Weeellp! If you change your mind, my establishment’s stationed in Pitfalls Valley. Big building, can’t miss it.” he gives you a playful wink and a click of his tongue before tugging at the reins “Have a good evening, Miss.”

The disturbance awakens the cage once more and the voices come back to life, despicable and anguished.

You can’t even process what had happened before you’re made to move.

“We gotta go.”

The gentle tug on your dress leads you away as you stare back unblinking. There’s a myriad of bony hands reaching from beneath the curtain, scraping at the bottom of the caravan, pulling at the metal bars, some of them are tiny.

Hate in its most primal state is an emotion you had never felt, not until today. You had never dreamed of killing someone until today. For once, you’re ready to watch a shootout, but it’s also one of those rare moments where Cooper prefers to walk away. You’re looking at him with pleading eyes and all he can offer is a bitter:

“It ain’t our problem.”

You’re no Mary Sue, you can’t charge into a battle and win, armed or not. You can’t be the hero those locked up ghouls need. You can’t do shit because this isn’t a fairytale. It’s life – cruel and cold, real and so unbelievably merciless, sick and twisted. There is no happy ending for anyone, there are no miracles.

All you can do is move along, stuff the memories in the depths of your subconscious and get over it because at least you’re still alive and free. It’s either wallow in despair or swallow it and survive. There is no joy, there is no love, no compassion, no humanity. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

You link your fingers with Cooper’s and squeeze.

“What kind of fucked up piece of shit sells ghouls…”

That cracks a smile from him. He closes his fingers over your hand until it disappears behind an aegis of leather.

“Well look at you startin’ t’ swear proper.”

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<<< Chapter 6

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im-a-meteorite · 1 month ago

Text

Nobody's Soldier - bucky barnes, ch.1

chapter 1

summary: The Soldier rolled and got up on his feet. The mask lay forgotten on the asphalt. He turned around to face the Captain.

The blond man paused and straightened. Eyebrows furrowed, he seemed shocked.

“Bucky?” The man stumbled over the word, barely getting it out of his mouth.

“... Who the hell is Bucky?”

words: 2,504

warnings/includes: bucky character study, canon-typical violence, angst, blood & injury, PTSD, physical disability, memory loss, brainwashing

a/n: forcing myself to post this chapter so i can force myself to write more. i'm so excited for this bc this guy has been living in my head for too long with lots of headcanons so finally putting words to paper (?)

read on ao3

“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.”

Gloved hands loosened the thick straps that dug into his forearms. Another pair ripped the mouth guard from between his teeth.

“Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. ”

The straps tying each of his legs to the chair were removed next. The metal around his head, touching the side of his face, is removed.

“Benign. Homecoming. One. ”

Cold, rubber-covered hands gripped him and shoved him up. He stumbled forward and caught himself.

“Freight Car. ”

He stiffened, ice crawling up his spine. A sharp inhale and, “Ready to comply. ”

------------------------------------------------------------

He was laying down on his front, hands steady and gripping the sniper tightly. The cold was seeping in through his leather jacket from the hard bricks below. His target was in the apartment opposite the roof, it was his final chance to complete the mission. The Winter Soldier does not fail.

His eyes remained trained on the window of the apartment, waiting for his opportunity to see his target. Suddenly, he saw a faint light turn on through the window only to turn off again seconds later but it was enough to gain his focus and confirm the presence of his target. Moments later he saw faint movement at the edge of a window with what vaguely seemed like an arm being raised. It was enough for the Soldier to determine the location of his target.

So, he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times.

50 seconds later, he fled the scene. He ran across the roof, away from the targeted apartment building. As he made it halfway across the roof, he heard glass shattering on the floor below him. And so the chase began.

He picked up the pace, feet slamming down on the rooftop as he raced to leave before any altercation with his pursuer. All he could hear was the pounding of his own two feet and the faint sounds of the person a floor below as they tried to catch up with him. It sounded like furniture being smashed and doors thrown off their hinges. The Soldier continued running and sped up as he neared the edge of the roof. He jumped onto the roof of the lower building in front of him and landed in a roll.

Glass shattered as his pursuer jumped through a window onto the roof. He heard a swish and he caught a red and blue shield with his left arm and he threw it back at his blond pursuer. The Soldier then disappeared.

------------------------------------------------------------

The Soldier had been fighting on the freeway for longer than he had prepared for. His targets were two alleged ‘superheroes’ who were putting up too much of a fight, making the Soldier impatient to complete his mission.

He tore his cracked goggles off his face and emptied his machine gun towards the Widow’s flitting form as she quickly weaved between abandoned vehicles. He jumped off the bridge, crushing a car on the street below in pursuit of the Widow while the other Hydra operatives dealt with the Captain.

Having lost sight of her, the Soldier cautiously weaved between cars with his machine gun at the ready. Faintly, he heard her voice meters ahead. He reached back into the pocket of his vest and retrieved a ball grenade and slowly rolled it beneath a black SUV where the Widow’s voice was coming from.

She wasn’t there. Now the Soldier was irritated.

A heavy force crashed into him from behind, kicking his gun out of his hands. Legs wrapped around his shoulders, and a wire coiled around his neck, choking him. Stumbling backwards, the Soldier tore at the Widow, but she tightened her legs around him. He continued backwards and slammed her into another car. He struggled to get her off, but just as he pushed her off of him, she slapped something onto his left arm.

Electricity surged up his arm, burning the nerve endings in his shoulder. The plated metal seized. The feeling was too familiar from similar weapons used against him but also from his handlers. He quickly reached over and pulled off the taser-like disk. For a moment, he stood there, slowly stretching out his fist to relax his stiff muscles. The Soldier then reactivated his arm, picked up his machine gun, and took off chasing the Widow once again.

She wasn’t far ahead of him, where she was shouting at bystanders to run. As she moved behind a car, he aimed and shot her. Her smaller frame crumpled to the ground, red hair trailing behind her. The Soldier ran closer to her to complete his mission. Just as he aimed his gun again, a figure rushed at him.

It was the Captain. The Soldier swung his metal fist at him, but the Captain blocked it with his shield. The metals struck and reverberated. The impact twisted the Captain’s arm, allowing him to kick the blond to the ground. The Captain skidded back and raised his shield to meet the Soldier’s incoming bullets. He kept moving as he blocked more and more bullets.

Now that they were close enough to lock eyes, the Captain threw a right hook at the Soldier and swung the shield, using the edge to target his exposed throat. The Soldier took the full brunt of the Captain’s fist but managed to block the shield, holding it aside. He was becoming winded from the fight, but threw punches at the blond’s unprotected side. He gripped the shield with both arms and twisted it, flipping the Captain and taking the shield off him.

The Soldier threw the shield at the Captain who dodged, leaving the shield embedded in the van he had stood in front. The Soldier grabbed his knife from his pocket and attacked.

The fight continued with the Captain blocking the Soldier’s attempts at stabbing and slashing him. The Captain managed to punch the Soldier, throwing him off balance. As he slammed into the van, the knife slipped from his hand. The Captain flew at him and kneed him in the chest. They continued tussling, with the Captain flipping the Soldier over his shoulder. The scuffing of their clothes and their labored breathing filled the little space between them.

The Soldier swiftly rose and grabbed the Captain by the throat, tightening his metal fist. They both heard the bionic arm whirring. The Soldier then threw him over the hood of a car and jumped after him, slamming his metal arm down.

The Captain narrowly avoided the flying fist. The two men were locked again in hand-to-hand combat with the Soldier pulling out another knife and the Captain grabbing his shield again. The fight continued for what felt like ages to the Soldier. They were too evenly matched.

Metal on metal clashed as the coloured shield hit the Soldier’s metal arm repeatedly. The shield hit the juncture of the Soldier’s shoulder and the Captain took the opportunity to grab the Soldier's head and flip him over. His hand caught the Soldier's mask.

The Soldier rolled and got up on his feet. The mask lay forgotten on the asphalt. He turned around to face the Captain.

The blond man paused and straightened. Eyebrows furrowed, he seemed shocked.

“Bucky?” The man stumbled over the word, barely getting it out of his mouth.

“... Who the hell is Bucky?”

------------------------------------------------------------

In the yellow lights of a damp underground room, the Soldier sat in a familiar chair. It was hours after his failed mission to kill Captain America and Black Widow and he was now back at the building he’s been based in for the past months. His shoulder was aching from being propped up as a Hydra engineer drilled and soldered the inside mechanics of his arm to repair the damage from Captain America’s shield.

A tingling sensation crawled up his shoulder like thousands of ants climbing up him. His eyes darted around the room filled with doctors in white coats. The sound of the drill was incessant in his ear, the constant buzz making his muscles twitch. The Soldier blinked, “Sergeant Barnes,” the familiar face of a scientist he’d seen before said. He rolled his shoulders back and tried to shake the memory away.

A train steamed ahead to the backdrop of snowy mountains. The tracks went on for miles over bridges and into tunnels. The Soldier inhaled quickly. A hand reached out to him from inside the train through a blown-off door. A familiar blond man shouting, “Bucky!” The scene changed in seconds. Biting cold wind rushed past him, whipping his clothes around. The snow-covered ground was getting closer and closer as he continued falling.

Pain spread all over his left arm. Strange hands grabbed his shoulders and more on his icy feet. A soldier in a fur hat flickered into his vision. That uniform was not like his. Isn’t this the enemy he was fighting? He looked down as he was being dragged in the snow. His blue uniform was stained red. His left arm… His forearm was gone. The flesh of his arm cut up, skin hanging loose in places. Hard, pale bone poked out from the mangled limb. Sweat beaded at the Soldier’s hairline and trailed down his neck. Were these his memories? Why was he remembering this?

“The procedure is already started,” that familiar accented voice echoed. He was strapped down to a cold operating table. His vision was hazy from the pain, barely making out masked-up doctors holding large needles. A high-pitched whirr filled his senses. Agonising pain he’d never felt before spread through him. They were hacking at what remained of his arm. He remembered trying to move and sit up, but there was a foreign weight pulling down on his shoulder. He raised his arms and saw it. The shiny reflective metal of the hand replacing his butchered left one. They removed what had remained of his arm up to his shoulder.

He clenched his new fist and relaxed it a few times as a doctor moved closer to him. The doctor moved to touch him. He grabbed him by the neck, squeezing his fist. A sharp stabbing pain, then darkness. Phantom pains returned all throughout his left arm, leaving his nerves frayed as if they had just taken the saw to his arm. “You are to be the new fist of Hydra,” the accented doctor says, smiling at him. “Put him on ice.” He was inside a metal chamber with no room to move and barely any space to breathe. A small window showed him the lab outside this chamber. In a split second, a scientist pulled a lever and ice spread around him. The temperature dropped rapidly inside the chamber. The window became frosted over with ice. With the biting cold spreading, so did the darkness.

Pain and cold, that’s all he felt, jerking out of the series of memories. Moments he’d forgotten and now wished he couldn’t remember. His ragged breaths surrounded him, heartbeat echoed in his ears, deafening him to the sounds of doctors tinkering about. He was still trapped in his head, reeling from the memories, when a cool, gloved hand suddenly gripped his scarred shoulder. The Soldier tossed the man across the room. Chaos erupted in the room, and doctors ran away from him, trampling over tables and dropping equipment. The barrels of multiple guns were pointed straight at his face. No one moved. The Soldier remained strapped down, catching his breath from the sudden loss of control. The armed men in the room surrounded him and remained on guard.

Moments later, a door swung open and an older man in a gray suit strolled into the room followed by more armed men. The man took off his glasses and signaled for the men to put their guns down. The metal door was shut once again. The Soldier felt these movements around but was still reeling from what he had remembered.

The suited man put his glasses away and moved closer to the Soldier, “Mission report.” The buzzing in the Soldier’s head drowned out all the sounds around him since he woke. He just stared in front of him, unseeing. “Mission report, now,” the man repeated, still unheard by the Soldier.

He moved closer to the Soldier and bent his knees, lowering to the Soldier's eye level. The man inhaled and backhanded him. The sound echoed in the sterile room as the Soldier’s head snapped to the side. Hair in his face, he slowly looked back at the man in the suit. He whispered, eyebrows furrowed, “The man on the bridge. Who was he?” He thought back to the blond man, Captain America.

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” the man responded, eyes trailing over the Soldier’s face.

The Soldier paused, then said, “I knew him.”

The man pursed his lips and reached behind him, grabbing a stool and sat down. The Soldier’s eyes met the man’s, finally focused and present. “Your work has been a gift to mankind,” the man stated, “You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time.” The Soldier’s eyes darkened and looked away.

“Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re going to give it a push,” the man continued. All the eyes in the room were trained on the Soldier, watching him and his furrowed brows process the man’s words. The Handler stood behind the man, arms crossed, watching. “But, you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

The Soldier looks back up at the man. “But I knew him,” he frowned. The man sighed, eyes darting over the Soldier. Abruptly, he got up and turned to the doctors still standing in the room.

“Prep him,” the man said to the doctors.

“He’s been out of cryofreeze too long,” one of the doctors stated.

“Then wipe him and start over”

The doctors sprang into action, pushing the Soldier back into the chair. The machine around him hummed to life while the screen by his head flashed colours. One of the doctors shoved a mouth guard between the Soldier’s teeth, and another tightened the straps on his arms. His breathing turned ragged in anticipation. The machine’s metal braces clamped down on his arms, and wide metal pieces lowered down to the sides of his head. He instinctively strained against the clamps. High-pitched whines filled his ears as the machine powered up. The crackling and popping of the growing electricity could be heard across the room.

The machine clamped onto the Soldier’s face, covering his right eye and left cheek. The electricity pulsed through his skull, burning and burning and burning. His guttural screams were muffled but still ripped his throat raw. He convulsed in place, constrained by the machine. His uncovered eye strained open, staring unfocused at the blurring ceiling. When will the pain stop? While his mind did not remember, his body did. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

The darkness welcomed him home.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #james bucky barnes #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes needs a hug fr #gets worse before it gets better i guess #captain america the winter soldier #catws #catws fic

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wincestwhispers · 12 days ago

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Dean rarely found himself alone with his Dad anymore, especially not at the motel, but Sam was away at school and John had more research to do for his next hunt. He was waiting on a call from Bobby with more details about the monster, which meant with not much else to do, he was currently a few whiskeys deep and cleaning his shotgun.

It was nearing summer and humidity seeped through the thin walls and coated the furniture in a sheen of damp. Dean had stripped down to his white undershirt awhile ago and even that was slightly moist. Noticing the beads of sweat rolling down his father’s forehead, Dean grabbed two cold beers from the fridge.

Dean made his way to the table and set one down in front of his Dad. John grunted in thanks but didn’t look up from the gun.

“Any word from Bobby?” Dean asked. He picked one of the guns on the table and started cleaning, not really expecting an answer.

“Not that one.”

Dean paused, confused. “What?”

“Don’t clean that one. You’re not thorough enough,” John explained. He reached behind him and grabbed a machete.

“You can clean this.”

Dean stared at the bloody blade laying on the table. His throat stung and his heart thumped loudly in his ears. He had gotten rusty. Gotten too comfortable with the basics that he stopped practicing and now, was failing at them. Of course he could only be trusted with cleaning the machete, if it had gotten bad enough that John noticed.

Dean swallowed thickly and grabbed the machete. He harshly scrubbed the blood and rust away, not stopping on a spot until it was glittering in the low yellow light.

They worked in silence for a while. Dean lost track of time in his laser focus on polishing the knife. By the time he was satisfied with his work, his hands were rubbed raw and his shirt felt more like a wet towel. Dean pulled at the soggy material and groaned when it stuck to his skin. Whatever, he’d change soon. Dean looked over at his Dad and stopped short.

John was staring at him. No.. not staring. Leering.

His eyes were fixed to Dean’s chest and his hands had a death grip on the gun he was no longer cleaning. Dean knew that look. He’d seen it a hundreds times by now, mostly from clients and motel managers. Never from his Dad. Not like that.

Dean’s pounding heart made a sudden reappearance, but rather than a stinging throat, he felt itchy with anticipation.

Slowly, carefully, Dean peeled his shirt off his sticky skin, stretching his torso in the process. He tossed the shirt somewhere at the wall and relaxed in his chair, spreading his legs just the smallest amount.

John sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes flickered up to his son’s. John shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Machete looks good.”

Dean sighed, “Wasn’t easy, what with this heat. I don’t know how you have all those layers on.”

He didn’t have that many layers on, actually. He was wearing an old tee and a flannel.

John’s fingers twitched around his beer, “Guess I got caught up and forgot.”

He didn’t make any moves to remove the flannel. Dean downed the rest of his beer and stood up.

“I need to do laundry anyway. Sammy goes through clothes like a girl,” He declared and without waiting for a reply, Dean started tugging the flannel off his Dad.

John let him. But when he reached for the hem of his shirt, John’s hand shot out and grabbed Dean’s wrist.

“What are you doing?”

Dean shrugged, “Laundry.”

John’s grip tightened. Dean smiled wryly.

“I could smell you from the kitchen, Dad.”

Dean’s wrist creaked from the strength of John’s grip.

“You’re gonna want clean clothes for after your shower tonight.”

John released his arm.

“Fine. Might as well do all of it if you’re gonna be stubborn like this.

Dean nodded and waited for the rest of the clothes. John stayed still.

After a minute of awkward silence, Dean realized what John meant.

Dean’s fingers found the hem of his shirt and this time, met no resistance. Feeling emboldened by that, Dean pulled the fabric over John’s head, hands brushing toned arms in the process. Dean flicked the shirt behind him and swallowed, attention entirely focused on the next garment.

Keeping his eyes locked on the task prize, Dean sunk to his knees and his fingers found the waistband of John’s jeans. He worked the button upon and slowly, tortuously, dragged the zipper down. From this position, Dean was surrounded by his father’s strong musk. He could smell him before, yes, but god it wasn’t the same.

His fingers dug inside the waistband again and Dean began pulling the pants off. It only took a second for him to realize the problem.

The very hard problem pressed against his hand, completely missing the barrier of fabric that should be there.

Dean froze. He knew what that meant. Did John? Did he intend this?

Dean’s hesitation only lasted until John put his heavy hand on his head. Dean knew exactly what he wanted.

#lol oops i’m writing again (barely)#johndean #hooker dean implied #my writing #jd

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bl4ckdevl · 2 months ago

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Emotions / Feelings

hyper-attentive. observes human behavior with eerie precision, but emotionally represses his own to ensure his survival.

self-deprecating underneath the mask of narcissism—his vanity is armor, not pride.

suffers from survivor’s guilt and unprocessed bereavement—especially due to his mother's abandonment.

emotionally fragmented. romanticizes loyalty, casts shields of delusion that see him absolved of blame, but fears true intimacy.

passionate but broken up into puzzle pieces. flashes of tenderness drowned in compulsive detachment.

shackled to a cyclical identity loop: soldier, tool, monster, man.

fatalist. Believes some people were made to be ruined. sometimes he thinks he is one of them.

finds comfort in control, and even deeper comfort in relinquishing it—but only to those he trusts he can take it back from at his leisure.

COLORS

Pale Gold (#ac7c59): glamour, vanity, artificial warmth. a manufactured charm he weaponizes.

Rusted Crimson (#4b2428): Internalized violence. blood he can’t wash off. the past that pulses beneath his skin.

White Silver (#7c7d72): mirror-like reflectiveness. cold intellect. clinical detachment.

Gunmetal (#404040): the steel discipline of his military conditioning. a soldier’s heartbeat.

Black (#000000): identity lost and found again in the refuge of the shadows. blank spaces. endless devastation.

Scents

burberry hero. smoky cedarwood, warm spices, pine. masculine, but not aggressive, for it's like a crisp autumn coat worn by someone who loves presenting a good mystery. it exudes a stormy mystique from his tailored clothing.

versace eros: green apple, tonka bean, vanilla, mint. a seductive, explosive power. divine danger all around. it's like a scent of a woman whose kiss you don't trust. and that's exactly why you keep chasing it.

the lip balm that tastes like beeswax and nicotine on a partner's mouth.

dried blood beneath fingernails, metallic tang he never quite forgets. charred meat, but it's wrong—it's too sweet, too pungent. like pork left in the sun too long, leaving it to bloat and become s ticky. it sours fast, you practically taste its sweet rot. you know its human.

hospital antiseptic and cold steel tables.

cordite smoke and burned ozone—gunfire aftermath. the acidic singe that cuts through the nostrils like a heated razor, followed by a cough full of fresh human ash and gut-wrenching fermentation, a foul ordeal that lays parasitic eggs in your memory. you'll never be able to escape it.

military-issued soap. strips everything down to skin and scars.

aftershave that doesn’t belong to him anymore, bought during better years.

cracked leather, gun oil, and scorched concrete.

CLOTHING

always tailored, always high-end name brands. even casual looks are calculated armor with big names attached to the fashion.

expensive coats with warmth he doesn’t feel. fancy leather dress shoes that never get scuffed.

military dog tags tucked away, never removed. mever fully worn either. military boots when he's training personnel.

scarves in winter. not for style—he hates how people stare at his face.

a different assortment of masks, never being able to guess the mood of the menace it hides.

hidden kevlar under civilian fabrics. he doesn’t trust peace to be permanent.

OBJECTS

a straight razor and hidden blade. not for shaving or cutting tomatoes for a caesar salad.

a small collection of sculpting knives. the kind that can shape or destroy.

medals that make him a decorated soldier, unsentimental but never discarded.

porcelain mask shards. he doesn’t keep them intentionally. they stay.

Vices / Bad Habits

weaponized charm.emotional manipulation dressed as intimacy.

hypervigilance. sees threats even in compliments. especially in kindness.

obsessive about symmetry. disfigurement fuels a compulsion to “correct” things.

keeps secrets like loaded guns.

tendency to romanticize violence in others when he recognizes his own shadow in them.

capable of brutal honesty, but prefers psychological implication.

shame-stained sexuality. sex and pain were introduced to him in the same breath.

idealizes suffering. finds meaning in trauma, even when it erases him.

Body Language

posture like a soldier at rest—never truly at ease.

smile like a blade tucked beneath a napkin.

tilts his head when amused or disarmed—often to disarm others.

touch-averse, unless he’s in control of the context.

if he allows proximity, he’s watching for your pulse before you know you’re bleeding.

neck and jaw tension telegraph emotional restraint.

the absence of blinking is intentional.

Aesthetics

rooftop vistas of manhattan at midnight. blood of family and foes still drying under moonlight.

burned-out orphanage windows. the ghosts don’t look like ghosts—they look like him.

surveillance tape grain over a therapist’s office. her voice. his paranoia captured and laid bare.

a memory of soft knuckles brushing a jaw once perfect. now marred beyond his own recognition.

3AM subway platforms. eyes darting. Dogs barking in the distance.

leather stretched over bone. velvet that feels like a wound. the taste of a confession unsaid.

tagged by: no one. old meme stolen from myself.

tagging: @sangiusd3vil @owestwind @citizenstarlight @castlevowed @contritioned @waruins @mythdoomed @metroeden @jur1sdr @personaei @injestigate @tornp4ge @dye127 @anarkissm @fightfected @all5horizons @wid0wd

#lamb identities / headcanons.

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athena-gundampla · 10 months ago

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HGUC 1/144 E.F.S.F Mass-Production Locality Specialization Type Mobile Suit RGM-79D "GM Cold Districts Type"

More GMs!!! I had a lot of fun with the old 2001 GM, the new 2023 'The Origin' GM Missile Pod, and the GM Sniper II, so of course I had to continue the collection.

The GM Cold Districts Type is a suit that briefly appears in the opening scene of the OVA "0080: War in the Pocket". It's a pretty basic redesign of the classic GM, with the large star removed from the shield, and extra vents added to the face (resembling the GM Sniper II from the same series) and shoulders, and an antenna added to the back of the head.

This kit in particular is from 2003 and reuses a lot of the moulds from the 2001 GM kit. However, this kit seems to have a lot of drawbacks as well. While the shoulders have been competent redesigned in a manner that resembles more contemporary kits (and makes them much more secure), the actual shoulder joint is a peg directly moulded into the torso rather than being a ball joint or hinged peg like most other kits. This gives the shoulders very limited range of movement.

The kit also has the disappointing old solid plastic beam saber, with the hand itself moulded into the saber hilt as well! This is a really bizzare choice even for 2003, so I discarded the beam sabers that came with the kit and re-used a spare from my Origin RX-78-2 alongside a beam effect, which looks a lot better.

I spent a lot of time detailing this kit. I used the old waterslide decal sheet for the 2001 GM rather than the limited foil stickers that came with the kit. I also tried a weathering method @radiofreemagica told me about where i sponged on black onto the sharp angles and high points, then drybrushed over the top with gunmetal. I also sponged on Vallejo pale brown and light rust in key areas to accentuate the weathered effect.

This was my second time using the Tamiya weathering set D on gunpla as well. I used the orange and blue on the gun to give a heat blueing effect, and the "oil stain" pigment worked great over rust areas to even out the light grey plastic.

I think the overall effect worked especially nicely on the darker torso and shield. I also had to paint the face vents, rear camera, back of the shield, and shoulder vents, as well as the yellow waist V logo and the grey border on the bottom two chest vents, so be aware if you're not a fan of colour correcting kits. Also, as always for UC kits, I did the inside of the booster jets in red.

This kit comes with limited hand options, with a single left open hand, left open fist, and right pistol grip, which was a little disappointing as I'm used to at least one open fist for each hand.

It also comes with a really neat machine gun with a large side magazine, triangular stock, and open bolt detail like a Sten MK II, but with an additional underslung grenade launcher.

Unfortunately the stock placement and large square forearms make posing the gun rather difficult, and there's only really one pose that works.

Overall I had a lot of fun building and weathering this kit, and I think I've really improved in making it look less plasticky. I think it's a great kit to round out anyone's collection, although I can't recommend it to gunpla beginners.

Thanks again to @radiofreemagica for the weathering tips!

#gunpla #hg gunpla #my gunpla #model building #model painting #model weathering #plamo #gundam #mobile suit gundam #mobile suit gundam war in the pocket #0080 war in the pocket #gundam 0080 #RGM-79D #GM

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atomicbland · 1 year ago

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Just A Mirage Pt. 3

Sorry this took so long yall! Anways here's part 3, my first ever spicey scene. did i mention i have an intox kink (this fic is practically dedicated to the gorgeous @ghoulphile at this point)

pairings: cooper howard x fem!reader rating: 18+ MDNI! warnings: bondage, degradation, pet names, mentions of age gap (obviously), Cooper Howard being a jackass in general, canon typical chem use, smoking AO3 Link

Golden morning light pours through the dirty filter of the windows, stirring you awake. As sleep left you you could feel the weight of Dogmeat curled up atop you. You pet her, forgiving her for scratching you, after all, she was too damn cute to stay mad at. You shift to see that the Ghoul was still sound asleep, his hat had fallen to the floor during the night, the scarred skin of his head on show for the whole world to gawk at. You decide to leave him be as it had been a long day yesterday and this was the first time in a while the two of you had safe lodging to relax in.

As quietly as possible you rise from your makeshift bed and creep past the sleeping ghoul, cautious not to let him stir or else you’d have a man and his dog up your ass all day earlier than you would’ve preferred. You gather your bag, holding it to your chest to muffle the rattle of contents and tiptoe your way back towards the glass house. Dogmeat follows behind you as if she were taking over the cowboy’s guard duty shift.

It’s much easier to see in the glass house in the morning, you find a table next to the door stacked with boxes- something you hadn’t seen in the dim light yesterday. Nosey, you pilfer through the stack. Your years in the wasteland have taught you to never leave any box unchecked, loot was anywhere if you were lucky enough. The first few boxes were filled with faded papers, letters, diary pages, and some newspaper clippings with coupons for Nuka Cola, nothing really special or too important. In the next box, you find a small square tin, rust spots freckle the red lacquered surface, when you open it you’re rather surprised to see it half full, with a pipe nestled in the dried tobacco. You stash it in your bag, half considering giving it to the Ghoul in hopes he’d lighten up around you. Rifling through the rest of the box yields you some more canned water, Nuka Cola, and some nudie magazines filled with scantily clad women gardening. While you rather keep going through the boxes you didn’t want the Ghoul waking up to you missing lest you end up back on his leash. You found some more straw-berries closer to the entrance, picking some in hopes it’ll deter your greedy travel companion from breaking into your stash of food. Dogmeat, who had been in full guard mode sitting facing the door perked up when you moved toward the exit, you tossed a straw-berry her way as the two of you walked back to the living room.

“Had fun without me darlin’?” The Ghoul is upright on the sofa. his cheek was fat with his bullets as he spit-shined the barrel of his gun. He looks up at you through his lashes, spitooning a bullet in the palm of his hand before reloading. You’ve noticed his nervous habit, his mouth needed to be busy. If he wasn't using it to talk shit it was doing something else, smoking a cigarette, huffing chems, chewing on a piece of ass jerky, or sometimes sucking on the sweet lead of a bullet. And while you would think twice to put any form of ammo in your mouth -considering in the wasteland some people’s nervous habit involved stabbing- you didn't have much grounds to judge him.

“I was searching that place where I found the berries. Here.” You pull the red tobacco tin from your bag and hand it to the ghoul.

He opens it and smiles, removing the pipe from the tin to examine it. He sticks the cavity of his nose into the tin, taking a sharp inhale. His exhale laced with excitement. “Now that's some top-shelf shelf dumb luck you got there sweetheart.”

You ignore his backhanded compliment, fidgeting in place. You muster the courage to ask him to help you harvest some of the apples from the trees. You hated asking for help when it came to reaching anything since most men took it as an invitation to show off their size compared to you. The Ghoul stood a good foot over you, often having you hide behind him in sketchy situations knowing any foe would attack the smaller target first.

“There’s more stuff back there,” you clear your throat, “I just can't reach everything.”

“Well,” he spits the last bullet straight into the chamber with skilled accuracy, spinning it closed and returning the gun to its holster. “I ain't never been one to turn down a damsel in distress.”

Dumb luck my ass. You think to yourself as you hold your breath to avoid inhaling the dank moldy air of the storage room. You could hear the Ghoul’s heavy footfalls from behind as he slowly scanned the shelves of the room, able to see much better in the dim light that poured through the door to the oasis.

It's almost blinding when you break free into the glass house, the morning light a gleaming beacon of life among the wasteland. You drank in the picture in front of you, it was a lush paradise filled with shades of emerald, and more plants than you had ever seen in one place threatened to burst through the windows.

A low ragged chuckle from behind broke your stupor. You turn to look at the Ghoul, his hand habitually placed on his holster the other gripped the bandolier that slung across his shoulders a large grin plastered across his face. "Well, I'll be fucked."

Ignoring him, you make your way to one of the closer apple trees. The bark was as warped and pockmarked as your cocky companion, branches splayed in every direction and littered with supersized apples ever so slightly out of your reach. Too engrossed in sizing up your woody opponent you don’t hear the gravel crunch behind you, the large gloved hand that claps down on your shoulder, startling you.

“Ain't you the luckiest lil lady this side of the wasteland.” His hand slides down to rest on your hip, pulling you close as if to comfort you. The heat from his hand finds its way from your hip to your core, pooling between your thighs as you long for his touch to become more. You tilt your head up, meeting the rich hazel eyes of the monster behind you. You watch as his free hand reaches up into the branches, leaves rustling in protest as he plucks an apple with ease.

“Two hours. Be back at this spot.” He mummers, sliding the apple into your hands. His palm lingers at your hip, and it may have been your imagination but you swear you feel his fingers curl ever so slightly as if to pull you closer.

You break from his touch, your body on fire from where his hands were. Embarrassingly frustrated you venture into the foliage of the glass house, willing your mind to focus on finding supplies rather than linger on the fantasies the Ghoul kept dangling in front of you.

You had managed to make it to the other end of the glass house without coming across even a stray radroach. Alive at least. The remains of the beasts were still fresh, and Dogmeat, who continued to serve as your dutiful guardian while the Ghoul was out of eyeshot, lapped up the viscous bug goo like a hot meal on a cold night. The back end resembled a small study, short bookcases filled with tomes in various states of decay.

Withered crates, that had long been looted lay scattered around an ancient desk consumed by overgrowth. Despite the empty state of the crates, the desk remained untouched, drawers swollen shut with time and humidity. With some effort and prying with your knife, you break open the drawers of the worn and misshaped desk the contents spilling out onto the ground with a plume of dust. A rather large book sat atop the pile the worn cover read “Victory Vick’s Garden Guide: Sowing the Seeds of the Future!” Thumbing through the pages, each one contained illustrations of all sorts of plants with long blocks of text describing everything you could ever need to know about it, which plants would survive or even thrive in nuclear fallout, how to grow crops in artificial light- a section marked “Sponsored By VaultTec”- and towards the back were some recipes. Your body hummed with excitement at the discovery, a wealth of pre-war knowledge now at your fingertips. Encouraged by the find you bust open the rest of the desk, watching the junk spill out in hopes of striking gold.

You had made yourself comfortable under the canopy of some large leaves, the dirt was a soft cushion beneath you as you curled at the base of the tree with your treasure trove of a book. Aside from Dogmeat's furious digging in the earth for monstrous worms, you were isolated from the world outside, unaware of the passage of time. You hugged your satchel of goodies close to your chest, as you became engrossed in the pages in front of you, determined to find information on some of the items you had found after searching the bookcases.

A whistle breaks the peaceful silence of the oasis. Stubborn, you ignore it, convinced that the answer you’re searching for is just on the next page.

Another whistle rings out this time ripping Dogmeat from her worm hunt, head popping up, ears high and alert waiting for an order. The gravel crunched under the Ghoul's boots, his footsteps soft as to not give away his location.

"C’mon now girlie, I been awful nice lettin’ you make your mudpies and flower crowns while I’ve been bustin’ my ass.” You can hear him circle in on your location, spurs clinking against the rocks. On instinct, you tuck yourself further under the brush you'd do anything if it meant more time in your paradise.

He takes your silence as a challenge, you hear him suck his teeth as he mutters something under his breath. A long high whistle pierces your ears and makes your skin crawl, Dogmeat shoots out from your hiding spot to the origin of the noise. You scramble for your bag, shoving the tome inside and clutching it close.

Dumb bitch. Cursing the dog as she’s given away your location to the Ghoul.

The familiar hiss of his inhaler can be heard next to you, a peak through the leaves reveal his dusty boots confirming his whereabouts. Lightening pain shoots through your head, a tight grip on your scalp tears from your little slice of heaven and into the icy glare of the Ghoul. “Gotcha.” He growls.

A squeak escaped your lips and your eyes grew like saucers, your mind raced as to whatever punishment he had in store for you. The leash was uncomfortable, but it was better than being hogtied and hauled over his shoulder like a sack of scraps- and that was for running ahead of him and into a bunch of feral ghouls. His grip on your hair reminded you of the way his hand held your ass so tightly that you had bruises there for weeks.

You could see something in his eyes, a dark carnal desire. His lips twisted into a smile as his grip tightened releasing another small squeak from you. "Ain't anyone teach you that you’re 'sposed to come when called."

You cursed yourself, his domineering touch never failed to turn you on.

“Sorry…” Your voice falters, hoping and praying he’d spare you the lasso if you looked pathetic enough.

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it no matter how much you pout them pretty lips o’ yours babygirl.” He pinches your cheek, patronizing you further as if the stupid pet names weren’t enough. "And to think I was fixin' to give your ass a treat for findin' this place." Removing his hand from your face, he pulls a jar of golden liquid from his pocket. "Somethin' sweet for bein' such a good girl." His words were a deep, hungry growl that twisted at the tension in your core.

Your face grew red upon realization. He could smell you, every wastelander knew a ghoul’s sense of smell was heightened, however, you assumed that applied only to the feral ones. When he had you tied over his shoulder he could smell how wet being helpless had made you. He only released you from the hogties because the scent of you damn near made him disregard his bounty and take a bite, opting to squeeze a handful of your ass as a means to cope. And right now he could smell your drenched cunt.

"I don't want any of your stupid chems," you spat, the feelings from his rejection bubbling back up. You felt stupid for letting him toy with you like this for so long all the while he got to have his fun.

"Oh sweetie, this here's better than any drug you'd ever had.” He releases your hair and pockets the jar. “Now c'mon girlie." He grunts as he tosses you over his shoulder effortlessly, a familiar firm grip on your ass.

He had carried you all the way back to the living room despite your protests of being capable of walking yourself. He tosses you onto one of the battered couches, stealing your bag in the process. Not wanting to push his buttons further you sit quietly watching him meander to the firepit and kneel before it, Dogmeat follows him briefly before stealing a sofa for herself, exhausted from her worm hunting and uninterested in the foodless firepit. The Ghoul is quick to light a fire, taking his time to carefully pack the pipe you’d given him with tobacco in the bright amber light. He then takes to searching through your bag, your stomach drops knowing he’s discovered your stash and will more than likely pocket the items for himself, selling off anything else for caps. But a light wave of relief washes through you when all he takes is your matches, using one to light his pipe, and pocketing the tattered cardboard book.

"Now tell me lil' lady," he spoke, puffs of thick smoke rose around him as he came back to his feet. Each step he took towards you was accented with the creak of the floor, plumes of smoke crawled from his nose with every raspy exhale. "Why'd you go an' hide the best stuff for yourself?" His tone similar to scolding a child as he waves your prized book in your face before tossing it onto the cushion next to you.

“I-” You’re cut off before you can manage another syllable, the older man not finished grilling you.

“And, I hadn’t forgot ‘bout your lil’ stunt back there. You damn sure know how to make my job extra difficult don'tcha sweetheart?” He flips your bag upside down, emptying the contents onto the cushion on the other side of you; another pipe, a jar of fuzzy green herb, a pair of shears, some caps, and two packs of RadAway. He knelt to your level, face dangerously close to yours, picking up each cap one by one as he watched you looking for any opportunity to further scold you.

"Now sweetheart," He started, planting a hand on either side of you hunching over to meet your eyes and effectively cornering you between him and the tattered upholstery. "Best answer me this time 'round. I ain't one for repeatin' myself." He leaned in, narrowing the space between the two of you. The heat radiating from his body nearly unmatched by what welled between your thighs. Daring to close the gap you lean towards him, causing him to stiffen at the unexpected challenge.

"Wouldn't have to hide it if someone wouldn't take everything for himself…” You pout, avoiding his burning gaze. Any bravado you had to stand up to him like last night has been stripped away leaving a flustered, sexually confused mess.

He smiles, eyes dark under the brim of his hat. “Not everything darlin’. After all, you’re still in one piece. Ain’t you?” His question is punctuated with a cloud of smoke in your face making you sink back into the sofa your face burning hotter than the heat radiating off the Ghoul.

“Oh come on now, don’t start acting all shy on me. Don’t tell me this lil’ bitch is all bark and no bite.” The leather of his glove is cool against your flushed cheeks, forcing you to look back at him. “Now speak.” The command is low and gritty, his hand tightening on your cheeks.

“The stuff looked like it was worth the caps. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you! And maybe I didn’t feel like being pushed around for a few fucking hours and wanted to be alone. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you jackass!” You can’t stop the words from flowing from you, overcome with the nauseating mix of every flavor of frustration the damn finally broke and you wanted to give the Ghoul a piece of your mind.

Your withered companion smiles, his pipe balanced between yellowed teeth, completely unphased by your lashing. He releases his grip on your face, as if pleased with your answer and grabs the jar of green herbs, rolling it over in his hand, examining it.

"Dont’cha know what'd happen to ya' if you got caught alone with this?" He asks, dodging any of your accusations. Despite the rusted lid he manages to unscrew it, a pungent unreal smell pours out, a blend of peppercorns, old wood, and earth. A low growl of approval roused deep from him, ripping the now exhausted pipe from his mouth.

“And what is it exactly?” You cross your arms at the Ghoul’s obvious deflection.

He plucked a small cluster from the jar, crumpling it into his pipe. "Ain't seen any of this shit since New Reno." He mumbles, transfixed on the herb, ignoring your question.

You lean towards him flicking his hat back pulling his attention from his newly packed pipe and back to you. “What is it?”

"Mary Jane." He spoke low and eyes lidded sparking the pipe and taking a long drag, the cherry glowing like a small sun. The cowboy savored the draw, holding the smoke in as long as he could, choking down a cough. On exhale, long tendrils of smoke pooled from his lips as he spoke. "Sweet, sweet Mary Jane."

The Ghoul moved to sit next to you, his long legs kicked out in front of him as he reclined. As he took another long, greedy drag you couldn't help but watch, studying the way his marred lips perfectly sat around the mouthpiece of the pipe. The sickly sweet smell of the herb made you awful curious if it tasted anything like it smelled. After all, you had never seen the Ghoul this visibly distracted by anything besides his vials that kept him alive.

Curiosity is getting the better of you as you watch him take a draw. "Can I try?"

A deep rumble of a laugh reverberated through you. "Thought you ain't want none of my stupid chems." Pitching his voice higher mockingly. He adds to his teasing by directing the pungent smoke to your face, enveloping you in a musky haze.

You look away in embarrassment never once interested in the plethora of chems available in the wasteland yet here you were entranced by this sickly sweet smoke that came from the ghoul's pipe.

Another crackle of the pipe as you hear your companion take a long, slow draw. Gloved fingers find their way on either side of your cheek as he gently pulls you close to his lips. A small gasp escapes you, allowing a stream of earthy smoke to dance across your tongue. Heat races from your core to the tips of your ears. Your head swimming from the taste of Mary Jane dancing in tandem with the Ghoul’s softer, intimate touch

You tried hard to ignore your arousal. You are fighting off the desire to close the small gap between you and the monster but to your disappointment, he pulls away before you can act on your hormones. Instead, he places the tip of the pipe between your parted lips, the taste of him lingers on the wood. Strong arms swing your legs over his pinstriped lap forcing you to pivot your body to face him.

"Now take a big long breath for me darlin’." He stares deep into your eyes, hunger still there as he watches intently ensuring you’re following his directions. The smoke burns its way down your throat to your chest, the taste is acrid adding to the unpleasant feeling. A gloved hand gently pulls the pipe away from your mouth deeming you’ve had enough.

“Now hold.” The Ghoul’s hand moves to the small of your back, rubbing small circles. Your head grows fuzzier with every passing second that you hold your breath.

“Breathe out.” He gently instructs, you listen eager to rid the burning smoke from your lungs.

"Good girl." It's damn near a whisper. The words travel down your body settling into your needy heat.

The pipe meets your lips again, and you quickly pull more smoke into your lungs, igniting the bowl of the pipe to a cherry red. The sharp inhale shoots smoke to the back of your throat making you choke. Plumes pour from your nose and mouth setting your airway on fire. Your pathetic sputtering for air is greeted with a gentle hand rubbing your back.

“Easy now darlin’. Don’t need you passin’ out on me.” He says, placing the pipe between his teeth, leaving his hands free to caress your thigh and back as you catch your breath. Whatever Mary Jane was made you feel warm and fuzzy, your eyelids fall a bit as you cradle into the feeling and sink into the Ghoul’s broad chest. Your head moved with the rise and fall of his chest as he smoked, enjoying the impossible closeness and reveling in his tender touch. One hand held onto your waist working to keep you upright and balanced in his lap, the other hand lazily kneaded the softness of your thigh.

Touch starved, and dazed you spread you legs ever so slightly in hopes of a wandering hand. The warmth brought on by the Mary Jane mingled with the growing need in your core, your threadbare underwear soaked. A pitiful whimper escapes your lips when a hand dips lower, brushing your achingly still clothed mound, and your hips roll desperate for more pressure.

"Feelin' alright there sweetheart?" The question punctuated with another plume of smoke.

You don't bother to look up, yet the words to express your need are fleeting, swirling around in your mind, your tongue dumb. All you muster is another whimper. He tilts your head up and you greet him with a lidded dopey smile, taking some pleasure and pride in feeling his cock harden under you.

"Now darlin', I need you to use your words." One evil, teasing finger trails the damp cloth of your pants, lingering on your clit in small circles. “If there’s somethin’ you’re wantin’ you just gotta ask.” The Ghoul’s voice is low and warm. He watches you writhe under his touch, soft pants leaving your lips as he continues to torture your needy cunt.

Wordless, you take his hand and guide it under the waistband of your pants, cursing the barrier your underwear still posed. You could feel how hot his hand was even through the leather of his gloves as he cupped your soaked mound. His heartbeat picked up in your ear from your bold request, and much to your disappointment he removes his hand. Your eyes shoot up to glare at him and you watch as he sets the pipe aside before taking the tip of his glove between his teeth, pulling it off with ease to reveal his scarred hand which quickly returns to its place in your pants. The waistband of your underwear tightens as he wraps the fabric tightly around his fingers, threads popped in time with the crackle of the fire as the time worn fabric gave way. Dutiful fingers now at your bare wet slit worked their way up and down, teasing at the entrance to your needy hole. Marled lips find their way to your neck, peppering your sensitive skin with featherlight kisses pulling whisper like moans from you. Your hands slither around his neck creeping under the collar of his duster, nails digging into thick, pitted skin pulling him closer, swimming in the intoxicating scent of Mary Jane, tobacco, and leather. The kisses move up your neck, tracing your soft jawline up to your ear his breath warm against you.

“You smell like a bitch in heat.” The Ghoul growls in your ear, a rough finger dips into your entrance slowly drilling away at your sensitive spot. “Best keep quiet darlin’. Don’t want somethin’ findin’ us in such a compromisin’ position don’t we?” He nips your ear as a second finger joins the first, stretching you and pulling a loud moan from you. His fingers work at the soft spongey spot, your core twisting and flipping from every coax of his digits. Your legs are unable to still themselves as each motion brings you closer and closer to the long needed release your hips writhe in his lap unintentionally grinding on the cowboy’s achingly hard member. You don’t even notice his low groans of pleasure, enraptured in the intense euphoria he’s working you towards, your needy cunt tightening around him, as your pleasure reaches a crescendo, crying out in wanton ecstasy from the gunslinger’s skilled fingers. He moves his roughened hand to your clit, rubbing tight circles as you ride out your orgasm, head fuzzy from the chems you shared and drunk on orgasmic bliss. Your head falls into the rad-warm crook of the Ghoul’s neck, eyelids heavy and breathing shallow.

‘Th-thank you, Sir.” You murmur nuzzling into him.

“Call me Coop darlin’.” He says, planting a soft kiss on your head. He pulls his hand away from your pants inspecting the glistening mess on his fingers in the firelight. “Only makes sense, considerin’ our proper introduction.” Coop mutters to himself, licking your slick off his fingers, tasting his hard work.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul smut #fallout #cooper howard smut #fallout ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #vaultghoul #ghoulcy

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typewritingyip · 7 months ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Five - Rust and Rain

Part Four

———

Sending organics through a space bridge without the proper shielding wasn’t just dangerous or deadly, it was simply reckless. They could pop or worse and spread their bacteria across the universe in a single second, so why did it keep happening? Greed primarily. It was handled in time by some intergalactic agency somewhere, but those things took time and the organics weren’t getting anymore dead or alive in that moment. Reports like those were shuffled to the bottom of the stack with ease. Cybertronian technology should be watched over by the cybertronian’s, especially when the incidents are happening so deep into their space.

Besides, no one should be entering intergalactic space without the proper shielding for radiation, organic or not.

—

With the first few hours, hours? None of their watches were working anymore and they all had removed the internal digital clocks from their suits, a waste of energy and something that caused unneeded anxiety during a fight. Those first few hours were spent getting nowhere as exhaustion tried to take them down. Feet dragging and sliding along the solid but damp ground, unable to really get the typical footing that they’d have in dirt or sand, where their feet would just about sink in. The choice to return to the Odyssey had been made after around four hours, they hadn’t made much progress and the exhaustion was weighing them down literally. It hadn’t taken long at all really, Hound made up his mind when Sideswipe had to prevent Sunstreaker from falling over for the fifth time; they’d needed to rest and recharge before making the trek to the town or whatever was causing the artificial lights.

They were drained, they were sick, and just that morning when they’d been in space; they’d been fine so whatever brought them close to this planet had likely caused it. Sitting back against the Odyssey, Hound powered down his visor and closed his eyes; they’d been walking for hours even before they had gotten back together and now they were all almost too weak to move. His head was pounding painfully and even though there was nothing in his stomach for the moment if there was, it wouldn’t be sticking around. Everything on the ship had reset not long after they’d entered the atmosphere and now was giving them fits, or more specifically Breakdown as he had re-attached his suit to go inside and get some sleep not in his piloting chair. The twins had slumped down together and fallen right to sleep, so even though Hound was technically on watch he had his scanners going with proximity alarms set up to go off should anything other than the mechs around him show up, it would wake him.

Dreams or more so nightmares plagued them all, of Jazz and his mutilated corpse, of his destroyed mech filled with blood and the damned aliens laughing their horrific laugh through it all. It was gruesome and grotesque, but not abnormal. Part of becoming completely compatible with the suits was to hand over part of yourself to your government, company, or even just a hand full of scientists to prepare you to drift. It left its scars and one of those scars was the connection between you and your suit, sometimes between you and your suits network.

Hound woke with a start, jumping up as an alarm went off, alerting him to something approaching and fast, above them. Standing on shaky legs, his gun comes up as his visor comes back online, desperately trying to track the supersonic object above them. One second there, the next gone, “What the hell.” It certainly didn’t resemble any of the objects that had the capability to fly supersonic on Earth, looking around, there was a glow to the horizon that resembled a sunrise. Taking slow and deep breaths, Hound looks to the twins, who were still sound sleep and leaned against each other. Activating his comm, he connects to the shuttle first, “Breakdown, you up?” Pacing a bit, he walks a bit away from the Odyssey before walking back, no answer. Switching to the common channel of all mech suit users, Hound sighs before queuing his microphone, “This is Pilot 1124, Harold Jackson, callsign Hound. Anyone listening out there?” Hound’s hand shook slightly with nerves, waiting.

Sunstreaker was the next up, groaning slightly as he turned down the volume on the main channel, “Hound, not so loud, please.” Shoving Sideswipe off him less then gently, it took him a second to gain his footing, slipping slightly on the damp ground. “Damnit,” his mech stretches as he does, looking far too human for any non-pilots comfort, “I forgot where we were for a second.” Sunstreaker looks around slowly and sighs, rubbing his jaw carefully, “Feeling any better?” His gaze turns to Hound, who was still looking towards the glowing horizon, “Hey, Earth to Hound.” Walking over, his hand lands on the older mechs shoulder, “You listening to me?” “Huh, uh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Hound clears his throat a bit, shaking his head, “I’m feeling more alive if that’s what you mean.” Sunstreaker smiles a bit, patting his shoulder, “Yeah, me too.”

They both looked at the horizon as, whatever star they were orbiting on the planet began to rise in the distance, “Any word from home?” Sunstreaker kept his voice quiet, watching the sun rise, “None, but I haven’t check in the Odyssey, wanted to wait for Breakdown to be up before attaching.” Sunstreaker nodded, watching as the gently glow turned to a shine on the somewhat metallic surface of the planet. Though a great deal of it was orange and red, as if rusted, “Beautiful sunrise.” Hound hummed, staring at it for a while.

—

Breakdown was in fact the next one awake and quick to contact Hound, “You might want to get in here.” Words you never wanted to hear from anyone, especially in that tone.

Stumbling out of the tunnel into the Odyssey, Hound made his way over to Breakdown at the comms terminal, resting his hand on the mans shoulder, “I’ve got Sunstreaker keeping watch.” Breakdown grunted, “Watch, while we’re being watched maybe. There is so much overhead traffic, I can’t tell if it’s satellites or space debris.” He sighed and knocked his knuckles on the terminal, “That’s not why I called you in here though. These are.” It worried Hound, looking to the comms logs and staring at the screen there, their out going messages to Mission Control on Earth were not getting a shorter receiving range, but a longer one. Ticking over the seven years mark already and still counting up, wherever they were, it was far from Earth; “Fuck.” Nodding, Breakdown clears the screen briefly before pulling up received audio logs, “My thoughts too, then I found these.” The dates ranged, with the largest bunch being from five years ago. Sharing a glance, Hound pulled up the first one.

“1061 on the comm. In case there’s any way you can hear me… ah shit. You guys wont believe what happened…”

They stood there together, listening to the first log for over ten minutes. Looping it at least once, just listening to Jazz’s voice as he talked about finding other mech suits out here. Hound’s hand lightly covered his face, staring at the screen, he was alive, he was alive as recently as a year ago. He could be alive right now.

Then Hound’s blood began to boil, whoever Jazz had run into was probably what brought them here, for who knows what reason and sharing a look with Breakdown said enough. Whatever those people were, they certainly weren’t defending Earth and had hold of Jazz, whether he really realized it or not. “Load these into everyone’s suits and get supplies, we’re heading for the artificial lights, if it’s a civilization then we figure out where we are and where Jazz is. Then what direction we need to head to finish our mission.” Breakdown nodded, saluting briefly before pulling the main comms drive and heading for a different part of the Odyssey. Hound moved over to their make shift kitchen and got out water pouches along with food packets, they had enough for a significant amount of time but their mission just had a wrench thrown into it so who knows how long it would actually last.

Turning around, Hound moved to climb back into his suit as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe climbed from theirs, faces red with anger.

There would be hell to pay and it would be paid in spades thanks to four pissed off mecha pilots.

—

It was raining when they got back into their mechs, adjusting the setting to keep the cameras and scanners clear, preparing their weapons and adjusting comm frequencies to avoid the disturbances from the rain. Hound’s suit was the first to alert to the fact that the rain was not made entirely of water, a rather small amount of it actually, “It’s acidic.” Sideswipe was holding out a hand, sensors and scanners checking over the rain, “Oh that’s just great, acidic rain.” Sunstreaker puts his hands on his head and paces away for a second before untying his parachute from his mechs shoulders, “Think this will protect my paint job?” He sounded so hopeful, turning to look at Hound, who was using his chute to cover the Odyssey, “I doubt it, but it would be better suited to protect the Odyssey, since it will be sitting out here in the wet.” Sunsteaker clutched the chute, like a small child holding a blanket before groaning and moving over to help, “It’ll be fine Sunny, I’ll fix the paint later.” Sideswipe tried to sound reassuring, hiding his laughter, “Better your mech than your own body.”

Once the Odyssey was covered, they fell back into position DC-19, one on point, two just behind to the left and right, then one at the back. Hound was on point, gun up and splashing through the acid rain puddles. The surface of the strange planet was smooth, though as the rain continued to fall it felt more brittle with each step. It was rather obvious to them at this point that wherever they had ended up, it was not like Earth, not at all.

Out of all their suits, Breakdown’s was probably the best equipped to deal with the worsening conditions, the dense armored plating was less painted and more sealed than anything else so a great deal of the acid rain was slicking off. The others weren’t as lucky with their fancy upgrades and lighter armor, streaks of where paint was coming away went down the arms and shoulders, leaving marks of green, red, and yellow in the puddles. Their feet were experiencing the worst of it unfortunately, but tread replacements were stored back aboard the Odyssey, along with printers for temporary replacement parts. Hound kept throwing his head, to get the worst of the rain off his visor and visual feeds, the entire area turning into a hazy red mess as if caught in a dust storm instead of a rain storm.

“I can’t see a thing.” Sideswipe shifts his sword some and wipes at the cameras nearest his face, “How far have we traveled Hound?” Light conversation was good, important even, “Right around 43 miles,” Sideswipe hummed, “So we’ve been walking for around an hour or so?” Hound glanced up at the sky, but the sun was no longer visible with the dense clouds, “It’s more than likely, yes.” There was a pause, “Our systems are out of alignment, it took you hours to walk thirteen miles yesterday and now it’s fine?” It hung in the air for a moment, “The Odyssey’s trajectories are fried.” Breakdown’s voice almost wavered, “Hound, check to see how far you actually walked yesterday. Whatever sent us here might have messed with the cockpit systems.” So Hound checked, swearing once the actual number came up, “That bad?” “Worse.” They walked in silence for a minute, “We need to get our suits on the same page, we can worry about the Odyssey later, it’s not going anywhere any time soon regardless.” “But the systems in the main bay seemed to be working fine, the comms array,” Sunstreaker looked to Hound, “Is better shielded, better tech than the shuttles navigational systems for certain.” They all sighed, Sideswipe worried his lip, Sunstreaker rubbed his jaw, Breakdown looked up at the sky and Hound shook his head, “We need to stay on focus, finding answers.” A hum went through the comm line in acknowledgment.

It was still incredibly hazy, orange and red, but the rain was starting to finally let up. 93 miles of walking, almost two and a half hours, roughly, as a best estimate. When the first signs of the artificial lighting appeared. Sideswipe was the first to trip on it, a strip inlaid into the ground before a field of shifting solar panels. They were dusted in a red paste, that would be the best way to describe it. Hound frowned down at Sideswipe’s prone form, “You are in a several ton, multi-million dollar mecha suit. And you’ve fallen over.” Sunstreaker found it the funniest thing in the world, laughing almost painfully loud, bet over and nearly falling onto more of the solar panels. “It’s not funny! Help me up!”

Gun fire erupted from over head, “Take cover!” Hound was quick to grab hold of Sideswipe and pull him back towards the dense haze, raising his own gun while his targeting systems came online. Breakdown was directly behind him, his mounted canon going from a hum to a deep whine before firing through the haze, the advanced targeting system seeming to tag something through the fog, Sunstreaker was right on their tail, grabbing hold of Sideswipe, “Hound, I’ve got Sides, you help Breakdown.” Nodding, Hound was quick to join Breakdown at the line, his targeting system coming online.

There were several targets within his range, more gun fire came over their heads, he leveled off his gun and started firing.

———

A/N

Wow, the last few days have been actually insane with this story. Never in my life, or all my years of writing have I gotten responses like this. Whether in comments or tags, it’s been such a motivator for me.

Now, I plan to write my little section for Arcturus Two soon, I promise, but I’m so invested in Arcturus One at the moment.

I’ve also started posting these over on my archive, if anyone was curious or had their preference. I have it linked in the master post.

How many parts of this are there going to be? I have no idea, however many I can manage before my inspiration dies on me.

Tags! I love being able to tag those who seem to be enjoying the work, it’s the least I can do with you showing support.

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger

And of course thank you @keferon for inspiring us all in this crazy AU.

#transformers #jazz #prowl #tf mecha universe #breakdown #hound #sideswipe #sunstreaker #maccadam #the Arcturus missions

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that-gay-guy-from-hell · 2 months ago

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Put a divide because there is a slight eye strain warning. There's some very bright orange with some pretty heavy shadow in the middle so I'm just playing it safe lol (/gen /pos)

"Good people do not need law to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws." -Aristotle

"Anybody can become angry- that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way- that is not within everyone's power and is not easy." -Epicurus

I didn't realize that I never posted these here but here's my Rust drawing that I did for Day 10 of Tombstober 2024 (prompt was just "Rust")

First time trying to draw a car and I swear to god I never want to try and draw one again lmao Also, I know that Rust having a TAC-50 in this setting makes 0 sense but whatever- I like the gun lmfao The drawing/pose is based around Ludovisi's Ares

For those of you who don't know- My big plot twist/point with Rust is that they were Ares before dying; which they were revived by being (metaphorically) glued to the helmet and chest plate. Rust has no memory of their past life (at the moment this drawing would be from, anyway). The irony comes into play when you consider the character differences- Ares was (mostly) hated by the people of Greece because Ares represents the "bad" parts of war (bloodshed, death, etc). Rust is a champion of, and for, the people representing hope (in a weird way). So if Rust were to ever- I dunno... fully realize what they used to be, it would shatter them; they'd have a complete mental meltdown due to conflicting ideologies But I'd never do something like that to a Tombsona- I treat them all very nicely and give them all lots of love and happy stories ( : (Oh and that's why both quotes are Greek- cause Rust is a part of the pantheon lol)

(/lh /sarcastic)

The reason the butterfly is there- besides for just being like dramatic- is that Monarch butterflies represent: hope, transformation, and rebirth (which Rust has gone through the closest thing a Tombsona can to being reborn). Plus Monarchs are just endangered so it fits Rust's theme lol

So yes, lore wise- Doc and Rust are the only two of the 6 main canon Tombsonas who were/are gods/goddesses. This makes Rust both the second strongest and the weakest of the Tombsonas (if Rust were to figure out a way to depart from their objects, it would remove the cap on their powers, allowing them to return to the state they were when under the name of Ares). Rust is also both the second oldest and the second youngest; Doc is older and Geist is younger. Doc knows something is weird about Rust but just chalks it up to Rust being bound the way they are is why Doc gets weird vibes off of him.

Prometheus and Rust (Ares) did know each other- Menoetius also knew Rust lol. They didn't really like each other and, without spoiling too much, Prometheus and Ares left off on a very sour note. So the jokes about Prometheus being like upset or leery of Rust come from this part of the lore lol

If anyone has any questions or wants to know more, by all means, feel free to ask me!

TLT Masterlist

Oh and if anyone wants, here's a link to my wiki page about my Tombsona lore and stuff- it's pretty in-depth and I'm really proud of it. Four/Five years of work and love have gone into it lol

Time and Time Again: TLT AU wiki

#SLIGHT EYE STRAIN WARNING lol #I seriously love how this turned out tbh #Rust looks so gruff and ugh- I need to draw more serious tlt stuff #the living tombstone #tlt #tombsona #digital art #tlt Rust #Rust #Rust tlt #lore dump #Tombstober 2024 #(god I still can't believe that I didn't post this here lmao)#tlt ares #ares tlt #lots of headcanon stuff #headcanon

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toyybox · 6 months ago

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Spiderwebs #48: Rust

Masterlist

content: bludgeoning, gore, murder

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It was so cold. All over, Jackie felt numb. His head was ringing. It was a high-pitched whine, like the keening of a machine. He was aware, vaguely, of a voice, of rushing water, but it was all so far away. All the world was one step removed. It was a strange dream, but any dream was welcome. Any escape from reality, from concrete walls and floors.

Water splashed over his face. He spluttered and gasped. His eyes snapped open.

White ceramic and the scent of citrus, the light bright enough to make him squint—he recognized this place. It was the inside of Heather’s bathroom. That meant…

I’m out. Out of the basement. He could have wept at that thought. Oh God. Oh my God…

“Finally. You’re awake. Stop gaping like a fish and look at me.”

And he would recognize that curt, cold tone anywhere. Heather! Although terror ran incessant claws up his insides, he was happy to see her. Unreasonably happy, to the point his chest ached. He could have died at that sight. Perhaps he would. She didn’t seem too pleased.

He looked up at Heather, to where she was standing.

“Sit up,” she said.

With another shiver, he sat up. Water dripped down his sleeves—water? He was in the bathtub. What a strange sort of baptism. He was waist-deep in freezing water. The shower curtain hung down at his left, creased up on the metal rod, the sheets plastic and pale gray.

“What—” He shifted, which made the water splash. “Why are we here?”

“You'll see.” She then patted his damp, dripping hair. “Sit tight. Don’t move. Understood?”

He nodded.

"Good." She walked away, out the bathroom door. It shut behind her. Silence followed.

Jackie took this moment to study his surroundings. The tap was still running. He shut it off, though it took a great deal of effort. By now, the tub was just over half-full.

Cold water. To wake me up, I guess. Jackie had fainted, hadn’t he? That was the last thing he remembered: his vision going white, and the pale certainty that he would pay for his exhaustion.

Above him, he saw the shower head. In front of him, to the right, he saw the sink and cabinet-mirror. And so much light. Once, he believed nothing could replace sunshine in his heart, but now he was grateful for any method of sight. It was so dark in the basement. The lights had quickly burnt out. For the first time in weeks, even months, he could see his hands. His palms, his arms. The curls falling over his eyes. The damp gray-white of his shirt. Colors and shapes.

The door opened with a whine. He lifted his head.

Before he saw the rusty length of pipe, he heard the sound of grating metal. It dragged against the smooth floor. Scraping against it. He shivered again.

Heather stood above him, poised with the pipe. “Get ready.”

He could not take his eyes off the rusting metal. His voice was painfully small. “Ready? For what?”

She just reared the pipe back. Up above her head. Aimed at him.

Even in his current state, Jackie knew that it was a lost cause. She had lost it. It, that undefinable variable that kept everyone glued together. His brief defiance had been the last straw—or this was simply an inevitable thing running its course, a spinning spool of thread well on its way to unraveling.

But none of those pretty words would save Jackie now. He stared, past the pipe, at the tiles behind it. There was a design, fleur-de-lis and ferns in a blue accent. He tried to focus on that instead. It would all be over soon.

She took a step forward.

He held his breath.

“Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. Just focused on his breathing, on the blue design, anything but Heather.

“Look up,” she said.

And there—just above his head, just barely above him—there was a sharp crack, as the pipe slammed down on the wall. A sound louder than any gun, that split the air in half.

Jackie flinched. Now his stare was on the pipe. He couldn’t help it. Right above him, copper-red splotches on silver. There was a crack in the wall, a starburst across the ceramic. That could have been his skull. He was shaking badly.

“I should kill you,” Heather said, in between heavy breaths. “I should. I should give you a proper punishment. Something you'll remember."

The pipe lifted, then slammed down, fracturing another tile. The sound of crashing metal was closer than before. A shard of ceramic fell into the water. Jackie shut his eyes and let his nerves wind down, trying to get his heart to stop stuttering, keeping as still as he could. He felt such a wild, sharp fear that it was nearly enough to make him faint again.

"I should do it. Maybe I will. Maybe." There was a long pause. Her breathing slowed, slightly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Right, Jackie? I know you still don't understand what I'm telling you. You never learn."

The pipe didn't land again. Carefully, he opened his eyes, and saw it motionless by Heather's side.

"I'm giving you another chance," she said. "We can move on and pretend none of this ever happened.”

He nodded quickly.

“Fine. That's enough. Now—”

They both looked towards the door. A cane tapped against the tiles.

Even Heather seemed to be caught off-guard. “Callaghan?”

Yes, it was professor Callaghan—or doctor Callaghan, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate—in the doorway, still professionally dressed. There was an air of remarkable calmness about him. His expression was simply bewildered, nothing more.

“Miss Rodriguez,” said the professor with pleasant serenity, as if she wasn’t holding a heavy metal pipe. “Are you alright? You haven’t answered my calls—or anyone’s calls, in fact—for several months. It was good that you left that window open. I was starting to think that something unfortunate had happened.”

“N—no, I'm fine, professor." Her expression was blank, however.

Callaghan frowned, this time. “Miss Rodriguez, I must insist you put that…” He glanced at the pipe and finally noticed it was there. “That piece of metal down. There are more dignified methods, I’m sure.”

“Methods? For what?”

He scrutinized Jackie, who stared back. “I assume you wish to dispose of him?”

“Who? Jackie?” Her voice was more than just startled. Urgency was seeping into it. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

“Miss Rodri—”

“Please. Just leave.”

“Heather, it’s alright. I’m here to help you. You’re in ill health. Sit down. And if this is really such a pressing matter, I would recommend using a firearm, if not the anesthetic we discussed. I don’t understand how this is safe or hygienic.”

She raised the pipe once more. “A gun? That’s it?”

Callaghan nodded.

Jackie tensed. He pulled himself further away, sinking deeper into the water.

Heather reared her weapon.

Then the pipe swung in the other direction, away from Jackie. The sound of metal against flesh split the air.

Professor Callaghan dropped to the ground. His body thudded against the tiles. It was a low, soft sound, heavy and damp on top of the solidly smooth floor. It was an unnatural sound. It didn’t feel right. Something snapped—he heard it, quietly, like a twig, like cartilage.

They waited. The seconds dragged on. The professor did not move.

“You killed him,” Jackie whispered.

“Quiet.” She stepped back. “He’s not dead.”

No, he was definitely dead. The professor’s skull was cleaved in two. There was a great crater of split-cherry red in between. The one eye that wasn’t crushed to jelly looked sightlessly to the floor. His jaw hung limp and open. There was blood everywhere. On the ground, on the pipe, splattered on her face, smeared against the tub’s edge. Dripping down from Heather’s hands in thick clumps.

Jackie whimpered, his stare fixed on the professor, and sank even deeper into the bathtub.

It happened so quickly. Callaghan’s shoulder was flush to the tub, his mangled head just inches away. There was a wet mass that might have been his brain. Some of it had splattered against the tiles, pink and soft.

Heather dropped the pipe. It banged on the floor, then rolled under a cabinet, leaving a spotted trail. Although the sound gave Jackie a start, the professor did not react to it. Perhaps Heather was hoping he would.

Still, she waited a few more minutes before turning away from his body, her eyes vacant all the while.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @inkwell-and-dagger

#whump writing #whump #my writing #Spiderwebs toyybox #happy holidays everyone ☆☆☆

14 notes · View notes

skzpixie · 1 year ago

Text

Taglist: @mynameisnotlaura, @palindrome969

Kai: Hey, you want some leftovers? Minho: What's that? Kai: You've never had leftovers??? Minho: No, because I'm not a quitter.

Chan: I drink to forget but I always remember.

Kai: You're drinking orange juice.

Kai: Can we talk about that mass email you sent?

Changbin: Why? It was important.

Kai: All it says is, "I'm back on my shit".

Hyunjin, shrugging: The people need to know.

Kai: *pitches an idea*

Jeongin, impressed: Huh, there might be something here!

Seungmin, under their breath: Yeah, a lawsuit.

Kai: You know the sound a fork makes in the garbage disposal? That's the sound that my brain makes all the time.

Kai: Twilight Sparkle was the main character because she represented the element of friendship—

Hyunjin, tied up: PLEASE, I JUST WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY AGAIN!

Kai: I'M NOT DONE!

Kai: And Rainbow Dash was the sporty girl—

Felix: Coca Cola can remove rust from metal, imagine what it’s doing to your body.

Seungmin: Pfff, getting rid of the rust, idiot.

Felix: THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!

Kai: Hmm... I've been drinking soda and my body's rust free... not sure where you're getting your facts from...

Jeongin: Don't have a bookmark? Try ketchup instead!!

Kai: What makes you think I read?

Kai: Christmas lights?

Chan: Check.

Changbin: Thermos of hot cocoa?

Chan: Check.

Felix: Santa suits?

Chan: Check.

Kai: Shovel?

Chan: Check.

Minho: Alibi and bail money?

Chan: Check- wait, WHAT?!

Han, taping a knife onto a Roomba: Be free, my child.

Kai, entering the room with a small cut on their ankle: Who the f-

Changbin: I love you.

Kai: I love you too. I've waited so long to hear you say that.

*Kai and Changbin kiss passionately*

Minho, to Seungmin: You owe me 20 dollars.

Seungmin: Changbin, I don't like you.

Changbin: What did you say?

Seungmin: You heard me!

Changbin, internally: And it turns out I actually didn't hear what the fuck you just said.

Chan: WHOEVER CAUSED THIS MESS IS GOING TO-

Felix: It was me...

Chan: ...Is going to be forgiven because everyone deserves a second chance.

Felix: We call that a traumatic experience.

Felix, turning to Seungmin: Not a "bruh moment".

Felix, turning to Kai: Not "sadge".

Felix, turning to Han: And DEFINITELY not an "oof LMAO".

Jeongin: You use emoji’s like a straight person.

Kai: That’s literally the worst thing anyone has ever said about me.

Hyunjin: What do you think Kai will do for a distraction?

Han: She'll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That's what I would do.

*Building explodes and several car alarms go off*

Han: ...or She could do that.

Kai: Am I a boy? Am I a girl? It doesn't matter. I'm going to burn your house down.

Kai: *cocks gun* Go to Bed. This is no longer a request, This is now a Threat.

Hyunjin: I’m not stupid, you know.

Kai: Well, you’re doing a really good impression of it!

*Kai and Felix texting*

Kai: Come downstairs and talk to me please. I'm lonely.

Felix: Isn't Hyunjin there?

Kai: Yes but I like you more.

Jeongin, referring to Han and Felix: Those guys are dorks.

Kai: Yes, but they’re my dorks.

Seungmin: Is anyone going to tell me what's going on in here?!

Changbin: It's kind of complicated, but Kai-

Seungmin: Got it. Forget I asked.

Seungmin: Hey do you wanna hang out this weekend?

Kai: Generic excuse.

Seungmin: I can’t believe you said that out loud, to my face.

Kai: I can.

Felix: CHARACTER. FLAWS. ARE. FUCKING. IMPORTANT.

Kai: Me when someone tells me to stop eating mayo packets like they’re gogurt tubes.

Changbin: If you want my advice-

Han: No offense but you’re the last person I want relationship advice from. You tried to kill your significant other. Multiple times.

Changbin: First off, that was before we started dating. Secondly, they’ve also tried to kill me.

Hyunjin: It’s true. It was mutually attempted murder.

Kai, singing to the tune of I Kissed a Girl: I killed a guy, and I liked it-

Seungmin, whispering: Should we call the exorcist?

Hyunjin, also singing: The taste of his cherry chapstick.

Chan, appalled: Call the exorcist.

Kai: What’s your name?

Changbin, whispering to Jeongin: Can I tell Her my real name?

Jeongin: No!

Changbin: I’m… Jeongin.

Jeongin, whispering to Himself: The ONE TIME he gets my name right…

Kai: The shadow realm? No, I’m sending you to Ohio!

Hyunjin: Subs are so fun to play with. All you have to do is hint at what you might do, back them into a corner with a look, or grab their wrist in a certain way and they're a wide-eyed mess.

Kai: What the fuck kind of Subway are you going to?

Han: Substitute teachers deal with so much shit.

Seungmin: Guys.

*at 3am*

Felix, holding the vlogging camera: *runs into Changbin’s room and turns on the light* Wake up sleepyhead!

Changbin: *wakes up* Dude!

Felix: *cackles*

Kai: *sits up from where they were sleeping behind Changbin* What the fuck, Felix?

Felix: *jaw drops* Wait WHAT-

Kai: Clownery. Tomfoolery. Absolute fuckery, I am going to revoke your life privileges.

Changbin: Stay foxy.

Han: Die lonely.

Kai: How many children do you have?

Chan: Biologically, legally, or emotionally? Because there is a difference.

Chan: Hey, Changbin? Can I get some dating advice?

Changbin: Just because I'm with Kai doesn't mean I know how I did it.

Kai: “Ladies and gentlemen” is unnecessarily gendered, overly formal, lengthy, and honestly, I’m falling asleep already. “Cowards” on the other hand, is inclusive to all genders, to the point, and dramatic.

Kai: Hey guys, I’m making french toast sticks in the oven. I’m gonna take a quick nap, so wake me up in 5 minutes to flip them over.

*5 minutes later*

Jeongin: Kai it’s been 5 minutes, time to flip your sticks.

Kai: snnnzzzz...

Jeongin: KAI YOUR STICKS!

Han: Life is like Kai. It's short.

50 notes · View notes

her-devils-advocate · 6 months ago

Text

Through the Mist | Part 4

pairings: Femshep x Garrus

summary: When a routine mission to rescue and recruit a handful of scientists goes wrong, Shepard and her team are left to fight against something they had never expected to face. Now stranded on a heavily fog-covered planet, they realise there is more to the strange weather than they originally thought, especially when they hear things from beyond the fog; calling for them.

word count: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60592000/chapters/156559765

ao3 link: 3,618

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“This is where you– or what I thought was you– led me,” Shepard speaks slowly, her eyes cast down at the steel cover on the ground between them.

“Led you?” He questions, which only gets a shrug in response.

Garrus lifts the heavy object with ease and lets it fall back. It hits the ground with a loud bang that echoes down the newly revealed stairway, winding deep underground. Despite the ringing in her ears, Shepard hears movement in the distance behind her. An out-of-sync shuffling that roams around aimlessly, searching for its prey. The bang has stirred something up around them.

“Are you sure you want us to go into the creepy underground bunker? That one of the fog…things lead us to?” Garrus queries. Shepard just nods in reply, sending out a small shockwave down into its depths to gauge how deep it goes. She watches the bright ripple of light shoot down the stairs, growing dimmer until it hits something solid at the bottom.

Her back begins to prickle, the heavy weight of eyes falling upon it. “We might not have a choice, I think the scientists are back.”

“Oh great,” he mutters dejectedly, “I was really hoping for them to show up again.”

Shepard snorts, the sudden sound causes her to startle and she feels her cheeks redden. She pointedly ignores his smug smile and begins to march down the stairs, following her shockwaves and refusing to let her limp slow her down. Garrus is glued to her back, staying as close as he can. He methodically checks the opening behind them, making sure nothing has the chance to sneak up on them again.

The walls are too narrow. Spacious enough for a human, but not so much for a turian. The sides of his armour scrape against them, producing an ear-piercing sound. Shepard rubs at her forehead, trying to soothe the budding headache. She can’t tell if it's from stress or the sound, and at this rate, she’s willing to bet on either. Garrus mutters a small apology from behind her and grimaces at the angry lines it’s likely leaving behind on his armour.

The fog refuses to follow them down, giving them relief from its heavy presence; without its ghostly visage, the staircase is revealed to them in short, bright bursts. The walls surrounding them are cracked, the plaster peeling off in thick, heavy clumps and littering the rusted metal below them. The more they descend, the more Shepard begins to notice the rise in temperature. Her underarmour begins to cling to her skin, her braid sticking to the back of her warm neck.

“You know,” Garrus drawls out, if only to break the silence, “Your gun’s torch would provide a more stable source of light.”

“What? You mean to say you don’t enjoy seeing in short intervals? I think it adds to the atmosphere.” She keeps her voice light and lets herself smile when he releases an amused huff. “If something happens to be hiding at the bottom, they will become visible sooner and then get knocked back before they can strike.”

“I think you just want to show off your biotics.” He retorts playfully, his hands itching to hold his rifle, just for his own peace of mind.

“Is that jealousy I hear?” She jokes back before holding up a closed fist, signalling him to stay behind when she reaches the door. The pair fall silent and Shepard holds her breath, only a faint buzzing can be heard beyond the door.

She unholsters her rifle and removes the safety, giving the weapon a quick once-over before toggling its torch. She cocks her eyebrow at Garrus before tilting her head towards the door, he gives her a nod and moves closer, getting ready to grab his own weapon the moment he follows her into the room; ideally one that has more space than the current stairwell.

Shepard slowly opens the door, letting out a sigh of relief when it doesn’t put up a fight. She rushes into the room, shining her light into each corner as she advances.

The room is dimly lit with the blue and orange glow of functioning consoles. Large screens, flooded with data, cover the wall opposite the door. A black leather chair sits in front, it’s back turned towards Shepard. She slowly creeps towards it, keeping her steps as light as her sprain will allow her. Once it is within arms reach, she violently swings it around, keeping her rifle trained on its every move.

Her finger twitches against the trigger and she recoils when the sharp scent of decay reaches her.

A figure sits in the chair. Its limbs are long and bony, the skin having started to flake and peel. Its ribs and shoulders jut out of its body, revealing the hollow depths of what remains of its skin between the bones. What remains of its hair hangs limply over the face. The long, brown strands cling together in thick clumps. Through the greasy strands, Shepard catches a glance at its face.

Its eyes are wide open and bloodshot. Translucent and inky tears stained its sunken cheeks.

She nudges its knee with the muzzle of her gun and thankfully, it remains still. “It’s dead,” she declares after a moment.

Garrus lowers his weapon and steps closer, his eyes scanning every inch. “The uniform is similar in style to what we saw earlier, but the colours are different. The previous ones wore white, but this one is wearing light green.”

“Maybe a higher-up?” Shepard thinks aloud and her eyes fall upon the name badge. Scratches cover the surface, rendering all the information unreadable. She stares at the uniform, her eyes tracking over the textured material before falling on the missing armband. “None of the uniforms have logos.”

Garrus moves towards one of the consoles, his three-fingered hand running across the keys with practised ease. “No, which is strange for a group of scientists apparently good enough to catch Hackett’s eye.”

“So, we either have a group of underground scientists working independently, or we have a group that is purposefully hiding themselves.” She pauses for a moment, glancing over at the door, “I’m going to put my money on the latter.”

Garrus hums and his fingers pause, his index finger tapping the edge of the console. “Or a smaller, independent team that was working alongside an organisation that kept them in the dark. Effectively using them as a cover-up. Think about it, Shepard. Everything has been too clean until now, too careful.”

She nods, biting her lip and crossing her arms as she moves to lean against the console beside him. “Then something went wrong and everyone was either killed or managed to get out. But what were they developing and why here of all places?”

Before he can reply, the large screen flickers. A hexadecimal face slowly appears in the lines of code scrolling down the screen.

Shepard is the first to notice, her muscles lock in place when its binary pupils fall upon her.

“Garrus?” She whispers harshly, trying to remain as still as possible. He quickly picks up on her distress and turns to look at her. She flicks her eyes in the direction of the screen, watching as he slowly drags his eyes over to it.

He pauses for a moment, eyes squinting around the room before he turns to stare at her once more. “Shepard?”

“Over there. On the screen,” Shepard mumbles, her eyes not once breaking away from the monitor.

“Shepard, I don’t… There’s nothing there.” Garrus’ voice, full of certainty, hits her hard. Shepard feels her stomach drop and shuffles away from the console. The glowing green digits that form its eyes follow her movements, carefully sliding across the screen to keep her in focus.

“Great, just perfect.”

“Nothing has hurt us yet. I’m beginning to think that it isn’t able to, not physically, at least.” Garrus says, his eyes flicking through all the information popping up from the console in front of him. He pauses, breaking his eyes away to look at her for a brief moment. “Not that I’m in a rush to prove that or anything.”

“If that massive face begins to crawl out of the screen and tries to eat me, I’ll let you know if it hurts,” Shepard says, sarcasm coating her words.

“Much appreciated.”

Shepard rolls her eyes and finds the strength to finally look away from the screen. She takes a deep breath and steels herself, doing her best to ignore its presence entirely as she moves around the room. She spots something on the desk, glistening in the vibrant lighting of the tech surrounding them.

She moves closer and feels her heart freeze in her chest. A dainty hairbrush sits atop the desk, its silver back is engraved with a dainty “R.S ”, and the letters are almost worn away with constant use.

“How is this here?” She mutters, her fingers ghosting over the top of the item. Her eyes glaze over, missing the way her fingers glide through the object, rather than across. Small tendrils of fog, thin enough to be overlooked entirely, wrap around her fingertips.

“Raven, if you keep refusing to let me cut this mane of yours, you’re going to need to learn how to look after it yourself.” A gentle voice floats around her and a hand is placed on her shoulder, guiding her to sit on top of a large bed.

She follows the hand without question and the room around her warps into a memory.

“But it makes my arm ache, so you do it for me.” She replies with a wide grin, her voice sounds more carefree and youthful as she lets her legs dangle over the edge, too short to rest comfortably on the ground.

The warm evening sun slips through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. She feels the familiar bristles pass through her hair, tugging slightly as it reaches the tangled ends. Her mother hums a lullaby and keeps one of her hands on Shepard’s shoulder, holding her still whenever she tries to squirm when the brush passes through a stubborn knot.

She hears someone shouting her name outside, the deep rumble feels familiar, but it is too far away for her to discern. She lets her eyes flutter shut, but the voice is persistent. The hand on her shoulder twitches, the lullaby halting for a second before picking up once more.

The notes float around the room, weaving and diving through the air with ease. The offbeat ones catch against Shepard’s ears and send a sharp jolt to her brain. An unpleasant buzzing sinks through her skin, down into her very bones and travels through her nervous system like cracks across a frozen lake.

Her mother is never offbeat.

“Can we go to the market tomorrow?” She asks, letting the dying warmth of the sun sink into her skin.

“Oh honey, there’s no need.” The gentle voice replies. She places the brush on the bed beside Shepard and runs her fingers through her long, black hair.

“Why not, mom?”

“Because there won’t be a tomorrow, silly girl.” The hand on her shoulder tightens; the smell of smoke and blood fills the air. Shepard turns her head and glances at the hand. The skin is grey and its black veins try to break free from their confinement of flesh.

The voice outside tries again, growing more desperate.

She feels her muscles contract, her nerves set alight, yet she tries to remain calm. Her mother moves behind her, leaning closer until they are cheek to cheek. The other woman’s skin is clammy and warm and almost sticks to Shepard as she presses against her even more. Her mother brings her other hand up to clutch the side of Shepard’s head, pulling her as close as physically possible.

Shepard squeezes her eyes shut, biting her cheeks to hold back the scream that wants to tear itself out of her throat.

“You always regretted surviving Mindoir, didn’t you?”

Before she has the chance to reply, a sharp pain startles her and causes her eyes to fly open. The warm sun is missing, chased away by the colourful fluorescent light emitting from the room. She looks down and spots Garrus’ hand wrapped around her arm, his eyes both apologetic and full of concern.

“Are you okay? I lost you for a moment.” “Did you pinch me?” She asks, slightly bewildered as she lightly rubs her cheek.

“Ah. Sorry. You zoned out pretty badly there. You weren’t responding to anything, then I remembered something James mentioned a while back, something about pinching him to make sure he was awake.” He brings up a hand to hold hers while the other strokes the small red mark on her cheek.

“Thanks, I don’t exactly know what happened.” She glances at the desk, now void of any personal memorabilia. When she looks up at the screen, she sees the face continuing to stare down at her. She sighs before squeezing his hand. “I was back on Mindoir, Garrus. It felt so real. It wasn’t a flashback though.”

“You’re back here now, it’s okay.” He tries to give her his best, most reassuring smile. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart as much as she can and nods.

“Well, considering the circumstances…is it really ‘okay’?” She uses her free hand to mimic air quotes, grinning when he gives her an unamused glare. “At least we’re not out there with all the creepy not-quite-zombie people still.”

"Shepard, are you really joking at a time like this?" Despite his expression, he struggles to hide the humour in his voice. The planet hasn’t broken them yet, despite its many attempts.

"It's that or throw up, so I'd prefer to try and joke."

Garrus replies with a quiet hum and gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder. She wobbles slightly and struggles to find her footing without putting too much weight on her ankle. She fiddles with her gloves, apprehension etching itself onto her face.

“This isn’t real, that much we know. We can also guess that it has something to do with the fog.” Garrus nods along with her, confirming her rambling without interrupting her thought process. “The why and how is still up for debate.”

“Shepard, is it just me or does it seem like it’s been, I don’t know, helping you?” He asks, a talon steadily tapping against his thigh in thought. The gentle melody floats around them, chasing away her unease, if only for a moment.

Her theorising comes to a sudden halt and she gawks at him for a short moment. “It’s you.”

“I’m being serious, you said it led you here earlier.”

“Yes, and it also said that I was supposed to have died when I was a teenager, Garrus. I’m not entirely certain that it has our best interests at heart.” She shoots back and moves to cross her arms against her chest. She glares down at the floor, silently damning the planet to every deity in the galaxy.

“Hear me out, at least? It led us to the bases, it brought me back to you when we got separated, and now it brought us here. There’s some correlation there.” He mirrors her body language but keeps his eyes locked on her instead.

“Or it could be one huge coincidence. We still don’t know where the hell Vega is, it doesn’t seem to be helping us find him.” Shepard says, ignoring the pointed look he gives her.

“I know you don’t believe in coincidences, Shep.” Garrus leaves her to her thoughts, moving to inspect the corpse as best he can.

She watches him carefully poke and prod, trying to get more information out of it. Much like all the other bodies that littered their path, this one remains an anomaly. Garrus’ frustrated growl does little to fill her with confidence as each inspection grants him more questions. He continues despite each roadblock if only to find something to focus on before having to begin the trek outside once more.

He peels back part of the name badge, his mandibles flaring out in surprise. “Recognise this logo?”

Shepard inches closer to look at his discovery, squinting her eyes to get a better glance. The familiar symbol sits proudly behind the fake name badge, haphazardly thrown on top. Two white lines encasing a green less-than sign.

“Exogeni?” She whispers, almost as if saying the name aloud will breathe life into the body before them.

She spots his eyes flickering to the corner before falling back on the body. His visor glitches. The blue light that drowns half of his face dies before coming to life once more, but he doesn’t seem to notice. She stands a little straighter when she watches him flinch. His head snaps up to face the corner fully, abandoning his search. He steps around the chair almost mechanically, his body as still as stone when he comes to a halt.

Shepard warily drags her eyes away from him to look at the corner of the room. Besides the slight shadows hiding from the reaches of a technological glow, the corner is empty.

She slowly approaches him to stand by his side and if he hears her, he doesn’t show it. When she looks up at him again, his mandibles are pulled painfully tight against his face. His eyes are wide in terror and Shepard feels her own beginning to return to her.

“Garrus, tell me what you see.” Despite being the only two in the room, Shepard keeps the order confined to a hushed murmur.

He shivers and finds Shepard’s hand with his own, all while his eyes stay glued to the walls. “You don’t see it?”

She shakes her head, knowing he would catch the movement of her inky hair in his peripheral. He sucks in a shallow breath through gritted teeth.

“There’s a human. A woman, but her hair is closer to wet string than human hair. It’s all clumped together, but it’s patchy in areas like it’s been pulled out. Her scalp is inflamed in those spots, I can see the swollen skin from here.” His voice wavers as he rattles out descriptions. His training at C-Sec falters in the face of his fear and Shepard squeezes his hand in reassurance.

“Her skin is too pale, almost grey and her veins-”

“Are black and protruding?” She finishes his description for him, a quiet dread falling onto their shoulders with her words.

“Yes. Do you see her now?” He asks.

“Sorry, Garrus, all I see is an empty room. But I did see something similar in my… I don’t know, not-quiet-a-flashback?” She rolls her head to and fro as if the action could bat the memory away. “There was a woman behind me, I thought it was my mom and I didn’t see much of her besides her hand, but the skin was almost identical.”

“Could…?” He falters, not daring to finish the question that neither of them wants the answer to. Shepard simply sighs, resigning herself to it anyway.

“Does she have black hair?” Garrus shakes his head, the action is so rigid that Shepard can feel her own neck ache in sympathy. “Then it's something else entirely.”

Her words do little to reassure him, if anything, he manages to grow even more tense. His fingers grip hers as if she were a lifeline. She is almost certain that if she were to remove her gloves, there would be light bruising in the form of three fingers wrapped around her hand. Not that she minds, considering Garrus most likely has a matching set on his.

“That’s not all, Shepard. Her face… she’s smiling. Her eyes look sad, but Spirits, it’s not natural. It’s so wide, Shepard. Her skin is cracking at the corners.”

A heavy dread settles within Shepard’s stomach, sending ice into her veins despite the warmth of the room. She slowly unlatches her rifle and aims it towards the corner, she catches Garrus’ eye out of the corner of her own, waiting for his signal. He gently nudges her gun, lifting the nozzle higher and then gives her a small nod.

Shepard quickly pulls the trigger back, shooting straight ahead. The impact of the shot hitting the wall rings around the room, only to be interrupted when Garrus lets out a sharp intake of breath and scrambles backwards, dragging her along with him.

“It moved closer.” He replies, a quiet shiver infiltrates his subvocals.

“What happened when I shot it?” Shepard asks, reloading her rifle with a glare aimed at the air in front of them.

“Nothing, it just went through her.” She lets out a silent sigh at his reply but continues to point her gun forward. “But the smile grew even wider if that helps?”

“It really doesn’t, Garrus. I hate to say it, but I think I’m shooting at a hallucination.” She does her best to keep her voice calm and steady, but the lingering anxiety refuses to unlatch itself from her tongue.

“Yeah, knowing that doesn’t make it any better though.” He frantically scatters backwards again, putting the chair between him and the unknown figure. A loud crack breaks their attention and when Shepard looks down at the ground, she spots an old datapad, clinging onto life under his boot.

“That definitely wasn’t there before, was it?” Garrus gives her a small shrug, but before he can vocalise his answer, the datapad wins against its struggle and flares to life.

A familiar static fills the room.

#♥. writing #♥. Raven Shepard #Mass Effect #Mass Effect 2 #shakarian #shepard x garrus #femshep #commander shepard #garrus vakarian #garrus x femshep #garrus x shepard #garrus romance

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cinnamongorll · 2 years ago

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a fragile line - chapter 6

read on ao3 (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 2.6k

Chapter 6: 'Hearing Damage'

“Get down.”

Joel’s heavy hand pushed against Juliet’s uninjured shoulder, forcing her to the ground, sheltered behind an eroded vehicle cloaked in rotten branches and thick moss. He was crouched next to her, his hand wrapped tight around his gun, finger hovering over the trigger.

Juliet did the same, her gun now thankfully back in her possession. Juliet thought back to earlier that morning when Joel had silently handed it to her, the glare from his dark eyes reflecting the memory of the bullet hole she had left in the soldier’s head.

She gripped it tighter now, her hands sweating.

Joel lifted his head to peer through the car’s clouded glass, careful to keep his gun from knocking against the rusted metal. Juliet stayed down, both to avoid Joel’s agitation and the attention of the infected currently stumbling across the road in front of them.

They crouched there for at least ten minutes until Joel was sure the infected was out of sight, now hidden behind the collapsed building to their right. Neither of them would dare shoot a lonely infected, not wanting to chance the sound of the shot alerting other infected to their presence. So they sat, waiting for it to pass on its own while scanning their surroundings for others.

Juliet understood it was a necessary practice but her legs burned from her ankles to her thighs, her bad shoulder now incredibly stiff. A quiet groan left her mouth as she pushed herself up. Joel’s head whipped towards her at the sound. The pressure of his gaze was lethal until it dropped to her shoulder and his eyes softened slightly. Juliet looked away, stretching her good arm.

They started walking again, their steps quiet as they weaved around the piles of cars that littered the road. Juliet was too young to remember when they would clog the streets with traffic and fumes instead of just decaying glass and metal. Cars, vans, trucks were all part of the architecture of the world now. Their presence as permanent and enduring as the weeds and vines growing around them.

They headed towards the museum, Joel had told her that morning that they would exit the city that way. His commanding tone had left no room for any arguments from Juliet or a chance to offer her own suggestions. Not that she had many, though, her entrance into Boston three years ago was a dark blemish on her memory she was desperate to remove. Juliet had just nodded, performing the continued act of obedience that would get her back to her old community.

The light from the sun bounced off the broken windows on the crumbling buildings around them. Juliet turned slightly to avoid the glare and her eyes hovered over Joel’s side profile, the soft yellow glow from the sun was intertwined through the thick strands of his brown hair. It made him appear younger, less worn.

“Do you come this way a lot?” Juliet asked, the question erupting from the butterflies in her stomach.

Joel turned his head to face her and then back to the road ahead, his feet continuing their rigorous stride. “I guess,” he finally replied.

So much for a conversation starter, she thought.

“How often?” Juliet probed.

Joel’s head turned quicker this time, the irritation unmistakeable on his face.

“Often,” he deadpanned, staring straight ahead again.

Juliet rolled her eyes, speeding up to match Joel’s steps.

Okayyyyy.

…………………………………..

The sun beat down as they continued their walk to the museum. Juliet’s head was spinning from constantly looking over her shoulder. Thankfully no other infected tried to join them on their journey. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sounds that travelled in the air were birds squawking and buildings settling. She was confused, Juliet had heard from the more recent members of the QZ that the open city was entirely overrun with infected, too dangerous to even attempt to pass through in years. An egregious exaggeration, apparently.

When they finally reached the museum Juliet was stunned. She had never seen it in the daylight before, never noticed how beautiful it was in a strange, twisted way. The building was infected with cordyceps, the twisted vines plagued every red brick and white trimming. Juliet should be disgusted, horrified even, by the staggering display of the infection that destroyed her world. But she couldn’t help but be intrigued by the fungus and its fascinating patterns.

A sharp cracking sound pulled Juliet from her perverse curiosity. Joel was bent low over a dried out husk of cordyceps as he smashed the bottom of his gun into it. Juliet’s head turned, searching for any sign of infected who might hear them. The area looked clear, and Joel didn’t seem to care about the repeated crushing sound he made.

“What are you doing?” Juliet hissed.

“It’s bone dry,” Joel asserted, not taking his eyes off the decay at his feet.

“Do you think there’s any infected in there?” Juliet asked, her pulse starting to pound.

“Shouldn’t be,” Joel replied, then he stood up and kicked the dust covering the ground with his boot. “This should mean they’re all dead in there.”

“Should?” Juliet questioned, her voice higher than usual.

Joel didn’t answer, no reassuring words uttered. He just met her glare then swung his backpack off his shoulder and reached his hand inside.

“You got a torch?” He asked as he pulled out his own, smacking it a few times on his palm to get it working.

“Yeah,” Juliet said as she did the same. Her gun and her torch now firmly gripped in her hands, her shoulder straining as she moved them on top of each other, ready to face whatever lurked inside the decrepit building.

The door to the museum was cracked open slightly and a thick inky darkness poured out. Juliet steadied herself, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, then she turned back to Joel who was glancing at her shoulder. Juliet looked down and noticed the stain of blood which had soaked through her bandage and smeared her already disgusting jacket. Not a good sign. The ache increased at the sight.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, then stepped forward, ready to enter the museum.

A hand stopped her, stretching across her front, holding her back. Juliet turned to face Joel’s hulking figure now almost pressed to her side. His features tense.

“From this point forward, we are silent” he began, his voice a low whisper. “Not quiet,” he continued, then paused with one sharp shake of his head. “Silent.”

Juliet was struck by the severity of his gaze, his words deadly serious. She looked up at him and nodded. If following Joel’s rules would get her back to Ethan, she would agree to anything he said. He held her eyes for a moment before he looked away, blinking fast.

Joel took the first steps into the building, the creak of the door hinges reverberated a ghostly echo around the bottom floor of the museum. Juliet cringed at the sound as she followed Joel close behind. He moved with practised precision, stepping around the lifeless cordyceps, his boots barely touching the ground with the pace of his stride. The glow from his torch ricocheted off the walls, sweeping every inch of the room.

Juliet knew that he was looking for clickers, the silence was suffocating but she could hear no sign of the familiar ticking noise. Thank god, Juliet did not want another encounter with those monsters, she had barely survived the last time.

A few minutes later they were climbing the large staircase up to the first floor, Juliet held her breath every time she had to step over another vein of fungus. Joel stared straight ahead, trusting that Juliet was following. His steps faltered, though, when a piercing groan of splintering wood and whining metal rang out in the stillness. Particles of debris began to fall above their heads, the dust settling in the ashy brown strands of Joel’s hair. He turned sharply, his eyes meeting Juliet’s before he mouthed ‘ run’.

More plaster rained down on them as their steps pounded up the remaining stairs, not caring about the sound they made, it was swallowed by the crumbling structure as it thundered down. When they reached the first floor everything went silent. Juliet’s breaths left her mouth in ragged gasps as they both turned to look at the destruction behind them. The entire staircase was gone, now piled in a cloud of dust on the level below.

Alarm covered Joel’s face, his torch panned the whole first floor in frantic movements. Juliet could see the window they were attempting to reach across the room, the light from outside offering a slight reprieve from the aching darkness of the bottom floor. Juliet met Joel’s eyes then looked towards the window, ready to make a run for it. She stopped when he held out his hand, her torch illuminated his clenched jaw. ‘No’ he said with the look in his almost black eyes, then he raised his finger to his ear, urging her to listen.

It was at that moment that Juliet picked up the soft tick, tick, tick in the distance. She couldn’t make out what direction it was coming from, but the wet, strangled sound was getting closer.

Juliet raised her gun in front of her, a cold focus seized her mind. Survival mode descended on her body, her limbs tightened, ready to fight. Terror choked every silent breath released from her tight lips.

Joel began to move backwards, behind a glass display cabinet as he titled his head upwards, the motion a sharp command to follow him. When they were both pressed against the clouded glass, Joel turned to face her and raised his finger to his lips, his hand steady without a single tremble. Juliet leaned her head back against the cold glass and squeezed her eyes shut. She held her breath as she listened for the sound of clickers behind the darkness of her eyelids. A minute later, her eyes flew open at the echo of another click from the opposite direction of the last. Fuck. There were two of them.

A second later, her body jumped in a hard flinch as the first clicker rounded the corner, its open skull turned in their direction. Juliet knew it didn’t have eyes but she swore the clicker was staring right at them. She shifted slightly, attempting to position her body in a more defensive stance. The clicker’s head lifted when her boot accidentally scuffed against the hardwood floor. Juliet’s mouth fell open. Then the clicker moved.

It released a deafening squawk and stumbled towards Juliet’s frozen body, its movements irregular and hurried. Before it could reach her, Joel stepped forward, grabbing the creature by its festering arms and pushing it back towards the wall opposite them. The side of Joel’s gun was pressed against its oozing face but he couldn’t angle it to get a good shot, his hands desperately pushing at the clicker’s body to keep its rotten teeth from meeting his flesh.

Juliet moved, terror electrifying the action as she raised her gun, took her aim and pulled the trigger. Three shots one after another, her aim never missing her target. The force reverberated up her arm and into the wound on her shoulder, a pained gasp leaving her lips. She dropped her hand as Joel stumbled back, the dead clicker now slumped against his chest.

“Shit,” she choked out. “Are you okay?”

Juliet raised her hand up to Joel’s back, attempting to turn him around to check for any bites, but he flinched and shrugged off her grip.

“I’m fine,” he seethed as he turned around, now staring down at Juliet. His eyes traced down her arm to the gun in her hand, surprise blazed on his face. “Thanks,” he murmured, then looked away.

Another click rang out in the dark room, the sound of Joel’s struggle and Juliet’s gunshot had alerted the other clicker. Juliet whipped her head around, searching for the window in the distance. They had to get out, now.

“Go,” Joel breathed, and they ran.

Their steps pounded against the ground in the previously silent room as they moved around various artefacts and display cases. The other clicker was gaining on them, its limbs flailing at odd angles when Juliet dared to sneak a glance behind her. They were both breathing heavy, Joel’s gasps coming out fast and rough.

They turned another corner and Juliet's torso was met with hard stone. The blow knocked her down, her gun slipped from her fingers and slid across the floor. The stone pillar she had run into lay beside her in a crumpled heap.

Joel’s steps came to an abrupt stop as he turned and ran back to her. The clicker was faster, though. Its grey fingers gripped her calves and pulled her along the floor under its legs. Juliet used the momentum to flip herself over, now facing the split open skull just inches from her face. She released a strangled scream as her hands pushed against the clicker’s body. It was unbearable, the fear that pulsed through her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t strategise some way to get this clicker off of her, she just pushed and pushed.

She kept struggling until cold, oozing black liquid splattered her face and neck and the weight of the clicker fell onto her. Juliet was utterly frozen, her body locked up as the clicker was pushed to the side, rolling onto the floor. She opened her eyes to find Joel standing over her, his red face covered in a sheen of sweat.

Juliet sat up and vomited on the ground next to his boots.

The clicker lay next to her, a blade now plunged into what was left of its skull. Joel made a face and bent down to pull his knife from its head. Then he hovered a hand in front of Juliet to pull her off the ground. The room spun when she stood and her body began to tilt, unable to stop herself from tipping over. Strong hands caught her before she could fall. Joel gripped her elbows as his gaze scanned the exposed skin of her neck and the front of her t-shirt, searching for any scratches or bites which would mean the end of their journey together. Once he was satisfied that she was clean, he let her go but kept his hands lingering around her arms in case she stumbled again.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice rough.

It took Juliet a few seconds to respond, her mind still trapped under that clicker’s body. That was close, too close. Shock coursed through her as the adrenaline drained from her bloodstream. That could have been it, she could have died right there on that stained hardwood floor. What would have become of Ethan? What suffering would her father inflict on him if she never returned?

Joel had saved her life, just as she saved his only minutes earlier. His eyes bore into her now, waiting for her response. Juliet stared back, gratitude shining in the depths of her gaze. She held his stare as she nodded, then bent to the floor and lifted her gun. Joel gave her one last searching look, examining her still form for any other injuries, then he turned towards the window now only steps away.

A renewed energy crackled between them as Juliet followed, the delicate edge of what felt like mutual trust beginning to forge in their prolonged stares.

#joel miller x female oc #joel miller x original character #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller hbo #joel miller fanfic #joel miller angst #joel miller #joel miller fic #ao3 fanfic #Spotify #joel tlou #pedro pascal

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