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yaespook · 7 months

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Run 4 - In Progress.

✧ Room Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Android! Wanderer, no gendered terms used for reader, no actual penetration, unhealthy obsessive and possessive relationship from Wanderer, memory manipulation. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: If possible, use the InteractiveFics extension to change the phrase “My name” (without the quotation marks) to the name given to your Wanderer.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

You must have picked him up two or three weeks ago, when he was still worse for wear. In your memory, he was in pretty bad shape when the two of you first met, his main panel wrenched open leaving his circuitry a mess and rough scrapes all over his superficial layer.

Now, with your constant repairs, he’s been more lively, tailing you around the house as you go about your day. While fussing about, dusting off a muzzle laying on a fur pelt, you sense a presence lingering outside your room.

"You know, I don't recall androids being quite so clingy." In return, you get a light huff from behind the door frame.

"And you’ve come across other androids? I didn’t know you run a junkyard here,” the eye roll in his tone is audible.

His feet pad into the room and his gaze hones in on the clerical collar placed on a nearby shelf, glaring at it. Clicking his tongue, he crosses his hands on his chest.

“Whatever, what you do is mostly up to you anyway. Do you think you’re almost done cleaning? I think there’s an internal problem again, I’ll wait for you at the worktable,” the android saunters off nonchalantly, throwing you a light wave over his shoulder.

Sighing, you quickly finish up your task at hand before complying to his request, briskly making your way over to the worktable where he's already perched smugly on, his gaze expectant.

You easily go through the rehearsed motions of plugging him up to your computer, your muscle memory kicking in as you boot up the required softwares before gingerly prying the main panel located on the front of his torso to gain access to his internal workings. Over time, you've gradually figured out the parts that make up the android sitting before you, growing used to the sight of the lengths of wiring and cables running throughout his body, the faint low mechanical whirring of motors and cooling systems.

Most importantly, you now understand how sensitive his central core is. Nestled securely in a latched transparent casing, his core is what powers and sustains him. It emits a constant turquoise light and is also reflected in the glowing markings that lay beneath his synthetic skin that occasionally activate. (Although, you haven't quite gotten an answer for what makes them light up yet.)

“So what's your problem today?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from him as you go over to your computer to check if any bugs have been identified.

“I think that cable all the way at the back came undone and got tangled with the rest.”

You shoot him a pointed look, “Again? Didn’t we just fix that same cable last week?” Shifting your chair so you’re seated before him, poised to conduct your repairs, you make a passing remark, “Maybe taking you to another mechanic might be the better choice, get everything checked out, you know?”

How long have you kept at your task of finally fixing him up to tiptop condition? It’s almost daily when he reports back to you with a new disconnected wire or another loose joint somewhere on him. Diligently, you’ve been trying to repair him but the android is like a never-ending to-do list. And it’s only natural to be concerned if the constant damage stems from a more serious underlying issue that you haven’t managed to discover. The only next logical step would be to get another pair of eyes to help discern the root cause in case anything takes a turn for the worse.

But the reaction you get from him is one unexpected. His head snaps to face you, a scowl evident on his face.

“So you’re handing me off like an unfinished project to someone else now?”

You know how snippy he can get however, this is on a different level from his previous behaviour. Maybe something left over from the days before you found him. It’ll be a good idea to look into his past logs to diagnose any present problems, you make a mental note of it.

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. What if there’s an urgent issue I can’t fix alone? And we both know I can’t leave you as is.”

His expression mellows to an annoyed pout, looking away as his core glows faintly along with the patterns under his skin, he mumbles, “I’ll be fine.” (“I just need you.”) (“I'm the only one for you.”) (“No one else deserves you.”)

He allows you to work without another complaint, silently watching as your hands venture into his chest, a focused air to you while you look for the problematic cable. He senses your touch when you make contact with it, sucking in a sharp breath as you grip it between your fingers, twisting it around to free it from the surrounding wires before you finally connect and plug it into its rightful place.

“That’s it for your cable issue. Anything else?” He quickly shakes his head.

Giving it a few light cursory pulls to make sure it’s finally secured, (if you weren’t mistaken, his core brightened in time with your tugs), you spare the rest of his parts one last look over. Then, shutting the panel, you unplug him from the computer.

Immediately, he scampers off the worktable with a clipped “thank you” and runs into his room. You hear the door to his room close before its lock clicks.

The next few days prove to be better, the repair requests for any troubles that seem to have cropped up overnight growing more and more infrequent. Perhaps, bit by bit, the end of the repairs start to come into sight.

Although, you have noted that his internal temperatures have been hiking recently whenever you have his chest panel open to patch him up.

This time, you have him lying on the worktable on his back to access the further areas in him. He’s positioned facing upwards but his eyes are darting everywhere, unable to meet your gaze. Once again, the programme open on your computer screen shows how his temperatures are quickly rising even though there are no obvious reasons for such a sudden change. It records the recurrence into its troubleshooting log like before, more times than you can remember.

He’s panting lightly, the android’s chest moving up and down as your ears pick up the sound of his inner fans whir louder, his pre-programmed functions activating to try to cool him down. With no clue as to what could cause this issue, you reach in to look for a fault. Yet, the more you poke and prod around, the higher the warmth within him rises.

Left with more questions than answers, you turn to his core for a closer look. When your fingers brush against the transparent casing, a moan slips out from him, and instantly his head whips to look at you dumbfounded.

An artificial blush takes over his face, a low pink glow blooming from beneath the synthetic layer. A beat passes before he cracks his lips apart, voicebox working as he pleads.

“...Again.”

Gently, you let your fingertips dance over the clasp hinging the casing shut and his response is instant. A shudder rolls through him, as real as it can be, and a shaky exhale leaves him. The android’s back arches up slightly, hastily chasing after your touch when you remove your hand.

Your caress returns when your hand dips deeper into his circuitry, where you hook two fingers underneath his thicker cables, attentively stroking them between your thumb and fingers, before tugging on them forcefully enough to elicit a reaction from him.

His eyes fly open at your ministrations, a greed for more overtaking his processors. You’ve always been so gentle with him when he’s opened up for you, when you have access to the deepest parts of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. So, to have you toy around with him, show him the indulgence of human flesh, can you really fault him for falling for you?

The tips of your fingers ghost along the length of his metal spine, and the android keens from under you.

“Please, more, I can take it!”

Taking his cue, your hand encircles his spine, grinding the heel of your palm against the ridges of the sensitive metal elements as you pump up and down.

“Sss- so good! Hah…!” He can’t control how he behaves when you treat him so well, like he’s the only one worthy of your attention. He shakes under your touch, trembling as the addictive pleasure overrides his programmed commands.

“No more blubbering, just focus on me.” Your other hand goes to cup his chin, and obediently, he parts his lips for you, allowing you to slip your thumb into his mouth. You can feel his tongue work and when you press down, he jolts suddenly. A gag reflex? In an android? How amusing.

When you stop stroking him, he whines pitifully, muffled moans and begging for you to continue but his complaints stop when he feels you unlatch the lid of his core casing.

“Would you let me?” And the flurry of nods from him confirms his enthusiasm.

With bated breath, he counts the seconds before you make contact with his core. And when he senses your caress on his glowing core in his exposed chest cavity, he breathes out a gasp, as if he requires the intake of air. None of this is written into the basis of his behaviour, not fed into the dataset that makes up how he’s supposed to act, so everything he feels for you must be real.

His eyes go unfocused as his neural network is flooded with the raw pleasure of being enveloped with love and lust down to his literal core. Desire burns within him, evident from the fans whirring even louder than before to bring down his temperatures. It’s just so much for the android’s computations to handle. Broken moans leave him as he tries to vocalise his love for you (as best as he can with his thumb in your mouth).

And when you press a kiss to his unprotected core, his vision whites out.

Eyes wrenched shut, his whole mechanical body jerks upwards, back arching off the worktable as his body propels himself to sit up, his limbs trying to ensnare you in his embrace, to keep you with him as long as he can. Every command in his system is overwritten to hone in on all the sensations of you on him, your touch, your warmth.

The patterns under his skin glow with a pulse, akin to a human’s heartbeat and when his eyes open again, glimmering faux tears roll down his face. His chest heaves as you close the distance between the two of you, cupping his face with both your hands and kissing his tears away.

The android breaks the intimate silence as he quietly asks you, “Can you give me a name?”

When you whisper a name into his ear, he breaks into sobs in your hands.

The days pass by, uneventful, and the time for a final cursory check before deeming him fully repaired comes. He’s poised on the worktable like any other previous session, a bored expression on his face as you flit back and forth between him and the software on your computer.

“You really are a clingy case,” you say and get a huff in return, “But a welcome one.”

Remembering your mental note from before about accessing his past logs, you access it from your computer, pulling up the window with his stored recorded data. The log operates in the background constantly, one of the built-in functions of the android and a quick glance over just to make sure everything is in order should do.

However, the logs prove to be worrying in a completely different way.

[Log: Day 10 - Run 1 - Failed. Werewolf. They’re with that mangy mutt. I don’t know what they see in him. I still remember the care they showed me. There’s always the next run.]

[Log: Day 20 - Run 2 - Failed. It seems I’m too late this time around. That vile selkie captured them first. How irritating. I need to stop hesitating. It’s my love on the line after all.]

[Log: Day 30 - Run 3 - Failed. Incubus. That damn priest and incubus. I can feel my temper reaching its breaking point.]

[Log: Day ??? - Run 4 - In progress. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.]

Your eyes rake across a multitude of grainy snapshots of yourself, all with different people that you can’t find the ability to recall, your mind pounding from the discovery.

He’s gazing expectantly when you look back up at him from the screen. A grin twists its way across his face, canines glinting under the dizzying harsh lighting.

“So now you’ve seen how much I love you, even if you don’t remember it.” There’s a sick obsession dripping in his tone, an uncanny level of emotion that androids normally shouldn’t be able to replicate, one that sends a heavy uneasiness through your whole being, one that roots you to the ground.

When he doesn’t get the adoring reaction from you he expects, the proud expression on his face falls instantly.

He’s despondent, despairing as he tears the connecting cables off of him, launching himself off the worktable, lunging across for you, frenzied, pure scorching mania surging through him.

“You… even after all these runs. You’ve always given me the same thing. My name. I thought this time- You-”

Voice shaky, “It’s a shame this run didn’t work out either.”

He steels himself, hand outstretched, “No matter.”

You blink.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

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yzzart · 6 months

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"Oh, hello, Vogue!"

pairing: Tom Blyth x actress!reader.

summary: invited by Vogue, you and Tom participate in a famous panel about answering quick questions.

word count: 1.323!

notes: here it is! i focused all day, without drama, on this writing and finished it minutes ago. — enjoy!

"We're, like, Patrick and Kat!" — Tom nodded in agreement, looking and paying attention to your words and almost forgetting that you were being recorded. — "Anakin and Padmé?" — You wrinkled your nose gracefully.

"Lady and the Tramp?" — He suggested, smiling tenderly and was won over by your laugh and a long touch on his arm made by you.

"Oh my god, yes!"

"Hi, Vogue!" — In a gesture of introducing yourself, you waved to the camera in front of you accompanied by an inviting and friendly smile. — "I'm Y/N."

"And I'm Tom Blyth." — Tom introduced himself to the camera and future viewers. — "… and we are about to play Off the Cuff." — He moved the small cards, which contained countless and random questions, and directed his eyes to you.

"Uh, a great entrance!" — You crossed your legs, making yourself comfortable on the chain, and held out the small cards as your eyebrows arched at Tom.

"Thank you, my dear." — He winked at you and took, carefully and planning a bit of suspense, one of the white cards; the topics were random, they could be about TBOSAS, behind the scenes or something related to your relationship. — Everything was a mystery. — "What was the last song you listened to?"

"Hm…" — You rested one of your hands on your chin, trying to fake a thoughtful image. — "A song, which is still unknown to me, that you hummed in the morning." — Your laugh was registered and echoed throughout the room, and Tom was amused when he remembered what happened. — "I should have recorded it!"

"It was a little chorus, and it stuck in my head." — He explained, placing the small card in a reserved place next to him. — "I don't remember the name of the song, but it must be saved on my phone" — His eyes fell on you again. — "Then i can sing for you again." — Tom uttered with melody and his lips curving in a shy smile.

"So adorable and romantic" — You tilted your head, with a pleasant and welcoming smile, at your boyfriend finding your words cute. — "Oh, i think i know the answer to that, what is an item you never leave the house without?" — Your hands shook the small card, waiting for your boyfriend's response.

"You definitely know the answer!" — Tom stated in slurred words accompanied by a laugh. — "In New York, the key to my motorcycle and i have it all the time." — His chin bowed a little. — "And maybe, in the future, in your bag."

"One day i'll ride it, you can be sure." — One of the cameras focused on her face, capturing her words, or rather, a promise that you would love to keep one day.

"And i'll be there, my love." — Blyth took another card. — "Among all the characters' looks in the film, which one would you wear?"

"Definitely, all the looks worn by Tigris." — You moved your hands. — "In addition to being beautiful, they seem to be so comfortable, especially the one where she talks to Coriolanus after he tells her about Lucy Gray." — The image of the aforementioned scene was then shown in the video with editing. — "Hunter looks so beautiful in them."

"Definitely." — He agreed

"With all the sets and locations in the film, which one was your favorite?" — Another card was discarded by you. — "Tell us!" — His voice sounded curious and excited by the older man's response.

"Hm, i loved recording them all." — Tom turned his eyes to an invisible fixed point. — "But, i think i choose the cabin." — His attention returned to you. — "Even with those mosquitoes and little bugs that i've never seen in my life."

"You were scared of most." — Your laughs came in sync.

"It was impossible not to be scared!" — Tom added. — "There was one that almost got into my shirt and another in the river." — Taking another card, Tom read the words written on it and continued with a peculiar and curious expression. — "Name one unforgettable thing i've ever done for you." — The question came out slowly, delicately and with a touch of enthusiasm; and several moments, memories flashed in his mind. — "I'm excited for this."

"My god, it's impossible to give just one answer." — A slightly euphoric and nervous question left your lips, and you laughed nervously as you tried to think and choose just one of the moments and deeds that Tom has done for you. — "It's so hard to choose one." — And it wasn't exaggeration or drama.

"You don't have to think so much, darling." — Tom's voice calmed your mind so tight and focused on the answer; nervousness was visible on your face. — "I see the gears in your head locking up." — He joked, trying to relax you and leaving the cards in his lap and resting one of his hands on your leg.

Finally, something landed in your mind; It was completely automatic. — Like a lamp being turned on when touched.

"Well, it's recent, but, it's stuck in my head!" — You started. — "Ah, during the L.A premiere and you were wearing a pendant necklace and there was my initial." — The way you responded was sweet, soft and passionate in front of the camera lenses and people in the room. — "And i was speechless, just admiring that little piece and feeling like the most loved person in the world." — You sighed, with your eyes shining against the oldest's blue orbs.

"In my world, you're." — Tom confessed, looking directly into his eyes and his hand still remained on his leg. — "It was a surprise and i was so excited that i wanted to show it to you ahead of time." — That tall, young British man smiled with passion, which burned in his chest and had no embarrassment in showing it.

"A secret that no one knows and can now be revealed?" —Another slightly peculiar question.

"I have a photo, actually, a polaroid in my wallet." — Tom ran his hands through the pockets of his pants, looking for what he had mentioned, but, from his disappointed frown, the object was not present. — "It's not here, so it must be in your bag."

"100% chance." — Your head nodded, nodding in confirmation. — "Which photo is it?" — You asked, curious and wanting to see her later.

"One of the ones Rachel took backstage and it quickly became one of my favorites." — Without specification, several photos scrolled through your head. — "It was in the forest, and you were wearing a helmet, that of Coriolanus, of peacekeeper." — Oh, that!

"I think I even posted it on Instagram!" — Either it was still in your gallery, with a favorite star next to it, or, actually, in your feed. — "She's so adorable, i had her as the wallpaper on my phone for a long time."

"Now, that one I know very well." — Your boyfriend looked at the card between his fingers and then at you. — "A song that reminds me." — Tom bit his lip, vibrant and with the answer on the tip of his tongue.

"Definitely Daylight by Taylor Swift." — You pointed your index finger in his direction, thinking about more songs or explaining why you chose her. — "It's impressive how you manage to fit so well into almost all of her songs.

"And in all of our playlists, you always, always add this song." — He wasn't lying. — "I'm sure it'll be in my Spotify retrospective."

"Oh, and also that line." — You sat down in the chair again. — "In a world of boys, he's a gentleman." — Tom's ears, and those of some people behind the cameras, were witnesses to your quick and small singing; a lyric, which was also from Taylor, where fans marked it and made a point of putting it in each of his edits. — They've already shared it with you in your DM and you've already saved some videos. — "There are so many songs, i can't choose just one."

"Perfect." — Tom murmured, as his deeply, crystal clear irises admired and contemplated you.

#tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus #snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus imagine #the hunger games #the hunger games x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #ballad of songbirds and snakes

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bywrios · 8 days

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"c'mon, giddy'up back there," boothill mutters, his knee bouncing restlessly as he resists the urge to turn over his shoulder and check on your progress again. you grumble behind him, one hand smacking his metallic waist, and he can picture the furrow of your brow and the way your tongue sticks out in concentration in his mind's eye. one of the metal panels of his back has been removed, exposing the wires and circuitry of his mechanical organs.

the whole reason for this impromptu examination was the fact that he had been feeling... strange after his last bounty, for some reason. it had involved a high-speed chase in a roofless car, hot on the heels of some ipc scumbag. he’d done his best to dodge whatever shitty bullets the scumbag’s entourage had shot at him, but clearly, something had stuck—which is why he sits between your knees now as you check him up for damages.

his boot thumps on the soft, dusty earth under his heel. “well?”

“hold your damn horses,” you snipe back, muttering under your breath. he can feel a light pressure against the cords and connectors in his spine, the artificial replacement of his nerves. “i need to—oh.”

“what? whatsit?” he asks, a note of urgency in his voice at your silence. he isn’t particularly worried about getting fixed; his bounties ensure he has more than enough credits to spend on spare parts. it’s just that it’s a pain to have to travel to the nearest non-ipc mechanic feeling all funny.

(he ignores the voice in his head that tells him the true source of his worry: that his faulty body might not be able to protect you.)

“what’s wrong?”

he’s about ready to spin back when he hears a choked exhale rush out of your nose, followed by the airy sound of your giggles. it makes him still, but this time out of confusion, rather than concern.

“what the fudge has got you laughin’ your boots off back there?” he grumbles, and you only laugh harder. he glances over his shoulder and sees tears lining your pretty eyes, and then he glances down and sees… some sort of flying insect between your fingers? a very dead, and very fried insect. it had probably slipped in through one of the chinks in his plated skin during the chase.

“i guess you— i guess you could say there was a hardware bug,” you wheeze, free hand gripping onto his shoulder to steady yourself in between your fits of laughter. boothill gives you a withering glare, and plucks the dead, charred bug from your fingers, grinding it to dust between his own. he pretends to be annoyed, lips curled into a frown, but there’s a lightness to him he hasn’t felt in a while.

“hardy har har, yer so dang funny, ain’tcha?” he scoffs, shoving you lightly into the dirt.

you answer him with another burst of sweet laughter, unbothered and too lost in your own mirth, and it reminds him of the sound of the wind blowing through the mountain valleys, and how it whispered into his ears when he used to ride horses and not roofless cars.

with an exaggerated sigh, he lets your enjoyment at his expense slide this time.

(he doesn’t have a biological heart anymore, but even that mechanical thing in his chest can’t bring himself to interrupt you.)

#muse.boothill #boothill hsr #boothill x reader #boothill

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commodorez · 11 months

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What was the purpose of the panels of blinking lights on those big mid-century computers? Were they showing calculations in progress?

Excellent question, this is one of my favorite subjects! Blinkenlights serve a number of functions. Hollywood tended to use just the lights to make it look like a computer was busy doing something, but real computers had more than just lights on their front panel. Let's walk through a few examples of use cases with photos of computers I've seen over the years at museums and vintage computer festivals:

Some front panels were built to be used for diagnostics. Computers like these were primitive enough that they required constant care and debugging to do their jobs, especially the early vacuum tube machines (everything pictured here is transistorized). You could tell what peripherals were being used, but also check the status of registers, carry flags, status flags, data, various buses, etc. It was also a way to see if a program had "gone off into the weeds" and started doing things that were irregular, possibly due to a software bug, or a problem with the hardware.

On many of these machines, you can enter programs directly into the main memory using the front panel, but it's an incredibly tedious process -- something to be avoided if possible. Consider it a last fallback.

Other times, it's a starting point, which we call "bootstrapping" (this eventually evolved into the term "booting"). You aren't likely to program everything on such a limited interface, but you are more likely to enter in a small program that can tell the computer how to run a more complex peripheral, like a paper tape or punch card reader, or maybe some type of magnetic storage device. Once you can get a program loading off of a larger permanent storage device, you can load up software to interface with a terminal of some kind which is much easier.

Eventually, the microprocessor made home computers a possibility, but many were only equipped with a front panel out of the box. You would have to add in a serial card, more RAM, possibly some ROMs, and either a teletype or glass terminal in order to get a more sophisticated and intuitive interface from the computer, capable of programming in a higher level language. Some were considered more like trainers, or hobbyist devices, and simply lacked that ability, meaning all you got was a front panel with switches and lights.

I made my own front panel to see what the experience was all about:

Then everything changed in 1977, with the introduction of these three machines: the TRS-80 Model I, the Commodore PET 2001, and the Apple II. They were what you might call "appliance computers" and they had no need for a front panel.

Hopefully that answered your question!

#front panel #blinkenlights

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tailschannel · 6 months

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Balance and difficulty adjustments featured in latest patch for Sonic Frontiers 3rd post-launch DLC

The third and final post-launch downloadable content update for Sonic Frontiers has received a significant patch late Wednesday.

Released to all major platforms, version 1.41 of Frontiers included several bug fixes, balancing patches, and movement improvements for the last content update of 2023, "The Final Horizon."

Here are the official patch notes, courtesy of SEGA of Japan:

Made Balance Adjustments to Easy Mode

Trial Towers: New level designs have been added.

Towers of the Master: The default difficulty and Sonic's attack level have been adjusted.

Master King Koco's Trial: Your maximum Ring capacity and the health of each Titan have been adjusted.

Made changes to some of the controls for Amy, Knuckles and Tails

The parry window for perfect parries was adjusted to be more forgiving. (The window will be extended even further when playing on Easy.)

Knuckles' maneuverability during gliding has significantly increased.

Adjusted the stats of some special moves for Amy, Knuckles, and Tails after leveling them up

The attack and defense of certain special moves for Amy, Knuckles, and Tails after they level up have been increased.

Made it Easier to Retry After a Game Over

The pink panels in the Trial Towers will respawn after a certain amount of time has passed and you are a certain distance away.

If you make a mistake before a Cyber Space checkpoint and you have to restart from the beginning, the timer will now reset so you don't need to manually restart. (Excluding Cyber Space Challenge)

Various bug fixes, including the issue where audio would not play during sub-events, have also been addressed.

#sonic frontiers #sonic frontiers the final horizon #sonic frontiers update #sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #amy rose #knuckles the echidna #sonic #sega #gaming #sonic news

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peachesofteal · 1 year

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Picture

Same pairing as "I got you". When I first wrote these, I also wrote a hefty chunk of an entire Simon Riley series that just ended up sitting in my drafts. I've been editing it slowly and now it's being uploaded.

Simon Riley/female reader Part of the Sassy series - 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, pregnancy, pregnant reader, blow job, praise kink, blood, violence, injury, PTSD, anxiety, trust issues. Simon is bad at feelings. Soap is a good friend. POV switches. Soap gives Simon a picture.

There’s a gun in your nightstand. You don’t use it, ever. You don’t need it, haven’t needed it, haven’t touched it. You think, after the baby comes, you’ll put it away for good. Bury it in a locked box somewhere beneath a pile of boxes in the basement.

Speaking of boxes, you’re standing in a sea of them. Different boxes for different parts of the crib, dresser, and little bookshelf. The old recliner you used to have downstairs is up here now, nestled in the corner next to where you think you’re going to put the crib. It’s not a rocking chair, but it will have to do. It’s a sage green, the soft hue calming to your nerves, which you think helps the baby. Your baby, who the internet says is the size of a banana and can hear your heartbeat, who likes to kick you in your ribs at all hours of the night. You rub your palm over your belly as you shift your weight, staring down at the instructions for the wood paneling of the bookcase. You’re rotating the shiny paper in your hand, trying to understand which piece fits to which when your doorbell rings.

You frown. You weren’t expecting anyone. You didn’t really have friends, anyone who would visit.

Your mind wanders to the gun for a split second, but you shake it off. You’re home. You’re not in danger. There is nothing to fear. The mantra grounds you, solidifies you enough that you make your way down the stairs and peek through the peephole in the door.

When you see Soap’s face on the other side, you can practically feel your blood pressure drop.

“Hey, Johnny.” You say in greeting, face apprehensive. He lights up when you open the door, and then freezes like you’ve shot him.

“Sassafras.” He whispers in disbelief. You sigh, and step to the side.

“By yourself?” Soap stares at you like you’re nuts. You nod.

“Yeah… not like I could get in contact. Not like I wanted to, either.” He grimaces.

“So, he has no idea, you’re having his kid… you’re five months pregnant, and he doesn’t know.” You scoff.

“You make it sound like I’m helpless.” He looks from you to the pile of furniture pieces on the ground at your feet, and then to the screwdriver in his hand.

“You’re not helpless, lass.” He says softly, eyes sympathetic as they glance over your belly. “But this is a lot, for anyone to do alone.”

Later, you and Johnny sit on your back porch. He sips a beer; you drink a decaf iced tea. Bugs chirp in the grass of your little yard, the yellow glow of the string lights that you managed to get up twinkle above your heads.

“So, what’re you havin’?”

“It’s a boy.” You whisper, smile on your lips. You remembered when the doctor told you, remembered everything you felt when she said those three words. You were so… angry. How dare the universe give you a boy? How dare it give you the reminder, the carbon copy of a ghost.

Now, you’re not angry so much anymore. Only sometimes when you think about how he forced you away. How he ruined your rep with Price just to get rid of you. How he held you the last time, body pressed to yours, nose smashed against your cheek.

You’re not angry when you think about the baby. His son. Yours. You love him, already. You knew you loved him the day you decided you were going to keep him. He was your baby. Yours to love. To protect. You weren’t going to let the memories of his dad get in that way of that. You weren’t going to let yourself be haunted.

Johnny stays for a few days, sleeps on the couch. He helps you build the crib, and the dresser, and the bookshelf. You two spend the time catching up, reminiscing about the time you spent together, tromping halfway around the world.

“Trauma bonded.” You joke with an elbow to his stomach, on the good side. Not the side that he took the piece of shrapnel to that shredded his abdomen.

“Never thanked you that day. Saved my life.”

“You saved mine too. We’re even.”

When he says goodbye, you give him an ultrasound picture. You have a ton, at least six tacked to your fridge. You watch his eyes get a little misty, and you laugh.

“Come on Johnny. It’s just a picture.”

“Yeah. Of yours… and LT’s… kid.” He practically chokes on the last word, and you roll your eyes.

“Come back and see us, okay? Little guy will need an uncle.” His lips part and the he swallows before hectically nodding, sputtering promises about coming to visit as much as he can. He gives you a cell number, his, to call if you need anything or want to talk.

“Can’t imagine you’ll be available too often.” There’s no way. The 141 has a no contact rule, no communication. It’s for their safety, and everyone else’s. You both know this. He rubs his neck with a frown.

“Yah lass. But I’m still here if you need anything.” He gives you another hug before tucking the picture into a pocket and stepping off your front stoop.

If you had known what he was going to do with it, you would have never given it to him.

Simon parks two blocks away, worn print of a black blob in his hands. The edges are starting to fray, the two pieces peeling away from each other from overuse, being held too much. He’s been holding this picture in an iron grip for over a month, pulling it out from the pocket in his vest to stare at it until he forces himself to look away.

He remembers the night he got it, the night everything shifted, when the world tilted on its axis.

“LT.” Johnny had called to him that day, sought him out immediately after he got back. He didn’t want to see Johnny, didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He knew where he went. He knew he had wanted to visit you; see how you were doing.

See if you were okay. After what he did.

“I need her gone.” He had told Price, voice full of conviction. You were a distraction. A liability. Sure, you had every right to be there, but he didn’t care. He had seniority and he couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t work. You were everywhere, in his mind, on his skin. He felt like he needed you. He tried to break himself of it at first, tried to cast you out. Disappeared on you without a word, hoping you’d give up on him. But after the bombing, the one that almost killed Johnny, and almost killed you, he couldn’t do it anymore. He could still hear the buzz of the comms, the dead silence echoing back to him when he called for you, over and over. It played on repeat in his nightmares. It dredged up old memories, reopened the scars in his mind of other losses, terrible losses that he’d never escape.

“Ghost.” Johnny’s voice was sharp, urgent. Like he sounds when something’s gone wrong. “LT, stop. I needa talk to ya.” Simon turns, stomach full of dread. He can’t place the expression on Johnny’s face. It’s grim, sure. But there’s something underneath that’s gleeful, excited. It puts him on edge, and he grunts.

“What?” There’s something in Johnny’s hand, a folded piece of paper, and he thrusts it into his chest. “What’s this?” It’s a picture of a blob with some dates at the top. There’s a name too, one he doesn’t recognize.

“Your son.”

Simon doesn’t remember a lot after that. He remembers finding a chair to slump over in, remembers staring at the ultrasound picture for a long time. Long enough that the sun went down, Johnny’s voice filtering in and out of his ears as he fought the rising panic in his chest. “- she’s doing okay but seems tired. She was trying to put the nursery together when I showed up-“ Nursery. A Nursery, like where a baby sleeps. A baby. His baby. His kid. Your kid. You were having his kid. “and she gets sick in the mornings, I could hear her throwing up from the couch but other than that she says she’s got it handled. I think-“ You were having his baby. You were making him a…. father. His mind stumbled over the word. Buried memories of his own father fought to rise to the surface, and vomit tried to crawl up his mouth. His lungs felt like they were drowning in concrete. His ears were suddenly ringing. “Ghost?” Johnny reached for his shoulder, and he pushed him away, harder than he needed to. “Whoa. Hey, LT.”

“Johnny. Shut the hell up.”

He spent the next month with the picture tucked close to his chest. He pulls it out at night, or when he’s sitting in the same spot for an extended period of time, waiting. He stares at the image, trying to work out if those are toes, or fingers, or a face. He wonders if you’re okay, if you’re taking care of yourself, if you need him. He stares at your name printed at the top, the name that he didn’t know, until now. The one you never wanted to give him, and he never understood why.

“You don’t show me your face.” you countered him one night after he made you come until you lost count, and he glowered in response, lips still wet with the taste of your cunt. The truth was, he wanted to show you his face. Wanted to take you away from the god-awful city the 141 was working through, hide you away somewhere safe and show you his face, let you memorize it the way he memorized yours.

He realized, with a carnivorous pit opening in his stomach, since he knew your name now, he could find you.

And if he could find you, others might be able to, too.

He parked two blocks away because he didn’t want to spook you. He didn’t think you’d take too kindly to a stranger pulling into your driveway at night, and he figured you’d take less kindly if that stranger was him. So, he walks. He walks down your street, eyes cataloging every house on the block, every car. Which houses have soccer nets and toys in the yard. What the speed limit was. When the last time the street had been paved or had its potholes patched. He listens to how many dogs are barking, how many engines are starting or already running. He distracts himself with it, the awareness, until he’s stepping up onto your stoop, hand hovering above your doorbell.

When you open the door, your mouth goes slack, and you stare at him like you’re seeing a ghost. He swallows, throat dry, words jammed behind his tongue. You look… off. Different. Sick. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes, and you seem exhausted.

“Simon.” You say, voice half a whisper. He’s about to say hi, say sorry, say ‘can I come in?’ when he looks the rest of you over quickly and sees your belly for the first time. It’s swollen behind a sweatshirt that’s just a little bit too big, and he watches as your hand moves to rest on top of it protectively.

“Sass.” He croaks. You sigh.

“Want to come in?”

You’re dreaming of a memory. You know you are. You remember, this, this night, like it just happened yesterday. You’re on your knees, crowded against Ghost in a shitty dive bar bathroom. The music is thumping loudly through the walls, the floor sticking to your boots.

“Thas’ it.” He mumbles, hand folding over your hair as you rock back and forth. Your mouth is stuffed full of him, lips stretched and cracked, drool dripping down your chin. So full, you can’t even flatten your tongue against your molars, but you think he likes the scrape by the way he groans every time he touches the back of your throat. “Bloody hell, Sass.” His fingers flexed against your scalp, and you feel the muscles is his legs tightening. He’s close, you can feel it, so you swallow him deeper until your eyes are leaking tears and he’s panting harshly. “That’s a good girl, just like that, so-“ He floods your throat with his come, salt and sweet and metallic filling your senses as it spills down into your stomach. He pulls you up to standing, pushing your back against the wall while he tucks himself back into his pants, and you’re about to tease him for being so quick off the mark when a fist pounds against the door, Soap’s voice on the other side.

“We got a hit.”

“Now?” you whisper, and Ghost shrugs. The 141 has been here for three weeks, tailing some small fish arms dealer, waiting for him to meet with his big fish buyer. He rights his mask, calloused fingers coming forward to adjust the collar of your shirt.

“You keep your eyes open for me, yeah?” His touch traces along your cheek, and there’s something wild running beneath the surface of his skin, something you can just barely see. You nod quickly.

“Yeah, Simon. I’ll keep em open.”

The dream shifts. You’re sprinting down the street behind little fish, after he got spooked and tried to take off. He ran in your direction. You were the only option.

“Northwest!” you spit into your comms, rapidly changing direction as he does. He turns left, and then right, and then left until you’re in an outdoor market, turning in a circle as you realize you lost sight of him.

“Sassy, report.” Price calls and you swallow against your heaving breaths.

“Lost him. I’m at… don’t know. Don’t have coordinates. Some outdoor market.”

“Roger. Make your way east, we’ll scoop you.” You sigh in relief. You were a bomb tech, not a sprinter, and certainly not a stealth operator. You give another cursory glance around before turning to leave.

That’s when the shots ring out. Small pings that turn into loud screams as people run in every direction. Inwardly, you groan, and find yourself wishing you were still on the sticky bathroom floor with Simon’s cock in your mouth. Instead, you’re out here, out of breath, dodging bullets.

You duck behind a stall to pull your gun free.

“I’m taking fire.” You speak into the comms, fidgeting with your gun as you hunch over.

“Repeat.” It’s Ghost. His voice is tense, strung tight.

“Taking-“ bullets whiz by you and you pause, but keep the line open. “fire. They’re on top of one of these buildings.” It’s radio silence for a few seconds as you crawl along the stalls, low to the ground. There’s an alley a good hundred feet away, and you definitely could make it.

“Hold your position, Sass.”

“Affirmative.” You sprint for the gap between buildings, pinning close to the wall and settling into a crouch, finger light on the trigger. You want to ask why you’re holding, but the answer comes when you hear responding fire, echo for echo against whoever’s on the roof. Price calls for you, seeking your location, and you answer quickly.

Two minutes later, Ghost is kneeling in front of you, gripping your tac vest and shoving you behind the blockade that is his body. He leads you out of the alley, steps slow and sure, confident… until you hear a pop, and then a shout.

The dream shifts, again. You’re standing in the med tent with your arms crossed while he’s getting a slug dug out of his shoulder, eyes tight behind the mask. He’s saying something to you, but the words are mush coming out of his mouth, slurred together and off beat. The medic gives him a nod when he leaves, and you release a breath

“I’m alright, Sass. It’s nothin’. C’mere.” A big hand finds yours. More words, jumbled nonsense.

A doorbell rings from behind you, towards the front of the med tent and you frown.

A doorbell.

Your eyes open and you sit up in bed, curling over your ever-present bump that seems to get in the way of everything right now. You had heard a doorbell, right? You pull the ratty old sweatshirt over your body and creep down the stairs to check the door. It’s ten o’clock at night, for Christ’s sake. Who could it be?

Fucking. Soap. You curse the Scot in your head. No good, piece of shit, sweetheart John MacTavish and his bleeding heart of gold, god damn him, you’re gonna-

Simon clears his throat behind you, from where he stands, his massive body shifting uncomfortably in your living room. You close your eyes and try to breathe through your nose. Anxiety builds in your stomach, fear prickling along your scalp. What does he want? A dark thought shudders through you, the realization that if Simon Riley wanted, he could take your son. He could wait you out, disappear with him, and never be seen again. Two ghosts.

“Simon-“

“Were you gonna tell me, Sass?” He has the gall to sound put out, indignant, and you take another deep breath to calm yourself.

“That’s a joke, right?” You turn, face pinched with irritation. “You know, maybe I could have told you, if you hadn’t gotten me fired, if you hadn’t gone and destroyed my credibility with Price.”

“You went on bloody leave, and your credibility is not destroyed.”

“Yeah, sure.” You roll your eyes and then take a second to look at him, closely. His massive legs are straining in a pair of jeans, black sweatshirt with a hood pulled over his head and the infamous balaclava. He’s not wearing the paint, which surprises you, but you keep it to yourself. He looks good, and your hormones rush in your blood.

You don’t care. Just deliver the speech and give him what he wants. The out.

“How-“ he starts but you cut him off. He’s not in control here, you are.

“Am I? Or how far along am I?” He says nothing. “I’m okay. And I’m just over six months.” Your hand strokes your belly almost subconsciously, trying to settle the incessant kicking. He tracks you with his eyes, watching your palm move back and forth. You sigh. “Do you want to sit?” You motion to the couch, and he nods, slowly, lowering himself down next to you, posture rigid and stiff. He looks so uncomfortable, you almost laugh. “Look, Ghost-“

“Simon.” Simon. His accent is thick when he corrects you, and something tightens in your heart.

“Simon, you don’t have to do this. We don’t need anything from you. You’re off the hook.” His head snaps from the clenched fists that sit in his lap to your face. “I can do this. You don’t even have to be on the birth certificate. I have it all handled.” Lie. You’re lying to him, straight to his face, but he doesn’t know that. You don’t want him to know that you don’t have it handled. That you could be on bedrest in a matter of weeks, that you’re sick all the time and your PTSD is lingering in the back of your mind like a monster, waiting for you, watching for the moment you break so it can devour you whole.

“Who’s we?” his question snaps you out of your spiral.

“What?”

“You said ‘we don’t need anything from you’, who’s we? Is there someone else?” The words cut. They’re sharp, expectant, and he takes another look around the house. You know he’s already catalogued it, already looked for signs of another, checked to see if anything was amiss. For a moment, you’re tempted to tell him there is someone else in your life, someone else in your bed. Someone holding your hand at all the appointments, someone rubbing your back as you chuck your entire stomach into the toilet every morning.

“N-no. It’s just me and-“

“Our son.” He finishes for you, and you close your eyes again against the swell of anger.

“My son.” You snap and if possible, his body gets even more tense. Your skin crawls under the sweatshirt and you stand abruptly, desperate to put distance between the two of you. “He’s my son, my baby. You haven’t been here; you have no right to just waltz in here like nothing’s wrong or like you have some claim to him.”

“I put him in ya, Sass. He’s my kid too.” Your breath catches in your throat. His entitlement burns in your blood, and you want to lash out. You have half a mind to hit him, strike him as hard as you can in hopes that maybe he’ll get the hint and leave you alone.

“You screwed me, Ghost.” You hiss his call sign, reverting back to it, distancing yourself from the man behind the mask. “I don’t know why you’re even here. You used me, then you treated me like trash and kicked me to the curb. Don’t pretend like you care now.” He stands from the couch, fingers raking down his thighs. You take a step back immediately.

“I wronged you. I know you hate me, but we should talk about-“

“Don’t. Just, let’s not do this, okay? We’re fine without you. We’re okay on our own. You don’t have to be here.” Silence fills the air between you two, and you curl your fingers into fists before you turn on your heel and stalk into the kitchen. Your hands are shaking, and you lean against the countertop to steady yourself, head spinning when you close your eyes. Why is he doing this? The floor creaks beneath his steps, and he turns the corner into the kitchen, coming to stand in front of you. He dwarfs you, and the size difference that used to thrill you now fills you with anxiety. You were going to have to give birth to his baby, after all. His giant, 94% percentile “large for gestational age” baby, as your doctor called it. He huffs a breath, and you glance up at him, noticing the furrow of his brow, the tense lines of his muscles. He looks nervous.

“I- I’d like… I want to show you something.” Without giving you a chance to respond, he reaches for the bottom of the balaclava, peeling it up his neck before pulling free of it completely. Your brain short circuits. What, did he just… what? Your mouth drops open in shock as you stare. You can feel your heartrate increasing, and you blink in disbelief. He’s so… handsome. Handsome in a way you weren’t expecting. Not soft but, gentle in a way that surprises you. Strong nose, small scar on his cheek.

“Simon.” You whisper. He takes a hesitant step towards you, and then another when you don’t move away. He says your name, your real name. Not Sass, and you freeze where you stand. He knows your name.

“It’s on the ultrasound.” He murmurs. He’s still standing so close to you, you can smell him, can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“Simon-“

“I’m mad for ya. Always have been. If you give me a chance, I’d-“

“Stop.” You cut him off before he can say anything else, before he can wear you down even more. “I… this… it’s complicated and… it’s late. I’m tired.” Cop out. You weren’t mentally prepared for this. You had hoped you would never have to have this conversation, you assumed you’d never see him again.

“Okay.” You breathe a sigh of relief when he relents so easily. Simon was used to executing and resulting, immediately and favorably. “I’m staying close.” Your sigh of relief catches in your chest. Fuck. “I’ll come by… tomorrow.” It’s not a request, but you’re too tired to argue.

“Okay.” You agree. You can button this up tomorrow. You can figure out what he wants and then send him on his way, get rid of him. You’re not giving into him, into whatever this is, so easily, just because he took the mask off. You can-

“Sass.” His hand is reaching towards your belly, and he’s watching you with an almost hopeful, longing expression. It’s hard to tell, because you’ve only ever been able to see his eyes. Now, the eyes that you were so used to interpreting on their own had suddenly become much more complex. “Can I?”

“Um. Uh… sure.” You’re treading into dangerous territory here, but you can’t find it in yourself to refuse him. Our son. His words from earlier echo in your mind. His palm presses to your skin, resting softly against the swell, thumb stroking into your sweatshirt. There’s a kick, a soft one, right near his hand, and you watch his face change, the mystery and wonder encompassing it sparking pesky hormone tears behind your eyes. Oh no. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You try to hold them back, but it’s useless. You’re staring at his face, his whole, unguarded, unmasked face while he feels his son kick for the first time.

It's too much. You step back.

He clears his throat.

“Right. Well, tomorrow then.”

The next fic in this series is here.

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