#this is not like. absolute canon or anything. but it is entirely possible!
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How would Ford get kicked out instead of Stan?
So, a bit ago, @ckret2 posted an essay expressing frustration about the fandom portrayal of Filbrick. Filbrick is often characterized as violently and irredeemably abusive, whereas ckret2 cites some very convincing evidence that he was a well-meaning but authoritarian father - not a good dad, but not an evil person.
This discussion was prompted because ckret2 was considering an AU in which Ford never goes to college and ckret2 prefers the smallest possible change in AUs.
I wanted to link those posts because they have absolutely gotten me thinking about the subject. The following will make more sense if you've read that essay and this follow-up about Filbrick's regret over Stan's behavior. I accept the contents as canon for the purposes of this post.
(For completion's sake, the entire discussion was prompted by a Ford as a Trucker AU, but the following doesn't actually have anything to do with that.)
Let's make Ford the kind of person Filbrick would kick out of the house
Stan's eviction is the end result of many, many years of contention between Stan and Filbrick - an earnest last-ditch effort by a desperate father to get his delinquent son to shape up, and a decision he only made because he thought Stan was legitimately malicious. Most AUs in which Ford is kicked out instead of Stan will just rewrite the Science Fair scene so that Stan has more to lose than Ford. If we're talking "smallest possible change," though, I don't find that convincing. If Filbrick was an unpredictable maniac who's ready to ditch his kids at a moments notice? Yeah, fine, any small mistake by either one of them would work. But if Filbrick has been earnestly trying to be a good father, and just didn't feel like he was getting through? One mistake, even a big one, from his less troublesome son would be unlikely to prompt a disowning.
So, my question is: what "single small change" early in life would lead Stan and Ford to develop in a way that flipped Filbrick's expectations of them?
Personality traits and how they affect the relationships
Let's talk about Filbrick, Stanley, and Ford.
So, first of all: Filbrick wants is sons to be industrious, tough, honest, and hard-working. Those are the qualities that matter to him. He makes them box so that they'll be able to stand up for themselves and others. He fights with Stanley because Stanley is a thieving scam artist. He demands the kids be profitable and successful because that is a mark of success as an adult for him. If we assume that the twins were an unplanned pregnancy, then he also firmly believes in taking responsibility for your mistakes -- in owning up.
Stanley is a born liar. Like, even his playful and friendly interactions with his family involved good-natured lies. (He reminds me of one of my uncles, who was an avid prankster up until the time he went up against me, but that's a whole story that I won't get into here.) I think in order to be on Filbrick's good side, he'd have to prove that he was honest in his own way - for example, by defending people when it really mattered even at the expense of his own reputation, or by refusing to take advantage of someone who has wronged him. I don't think canon Stan would do either of those things for anyone except family, but canon Stan is also convinced that nothing he does will ever be good enough. His last, dying words were "I guess I was good for something." He never until that moment thought he was. We need to make sure that he earns some self-respect earlier in life.
Now we need to find a flaw in Ford to exacerbate to the scale Stan had in canon. This isn't really hard, honestly. Ford may have been the less troublesome kid in high school, but he is ruthlessly ambitious, and as an adult he will steal or destroy anything to get the results he wants. I think that the reason he was the less troublesome kid is because there really isn't a good way that a high schooler can be ambitious at the expense of the people around them on a scale that matters. The stakes are just too low. Maybe Ford put down his classmates to secure a win in a spelling bee or stole an answer key once or twice, but it's hard to imagine Filbrick caring about schoolkid drama. That said, if Ford did have an aspiration - a science project, for instance - that he became truly obsessed with, it's easy to imagine him stealing or breaking things to achieve it.
So, how would we make stealing and destroying things a pattern of behavior for Ford, instead of a single one-off mistake? And how would we make Stanley's good-heartedness and self-sacrificing nature something that is visible to his father and overwhelms his tendency to lie?
Oh, and one more thing:
The big fight didn't just happen because Ford lost something he wanted. The entire Tale of Two Stans is about two twins who are very close to each other when they're young drifting apart over time as their needs, ambitions, and hobbies begin to diverge.
How do we make this separation happen in a way that flips the script?
Ford as a more isolated kid
Ford has a one-track mind.
In order to make this alternate canon work, I want to isolate Stan and Ford from each other very quickly. Filbrick might not be violently abusive, but he does ignore the kids, and Ford is already isolated from his peers due to bullying and poor social skills. If Stan isn't spending all of his time with Ford, then Ford might become more and more withdrawn. I don't think he would even be unhappy! Maybe a little lonely, but he's a bright kid with varied interests, and he'd keep himself occupied. But he might get a little... unhinged.
My Ford sans Stan is a kid that gets into trouble. A lot of trouble. Way more trouble than parents should have to deal with.
He gets arrested for disassembling abandoned cars. He gets detention for melting things in the chemistry lab. He gets stitches and tetanus shots after climbing under bridges, or ends up in the burn ward because he stuck a fork in an outlet. (I knew multiple academically gifted children who did this, what is wrong with you guys.) He might make a weapon like a nail gun because he thinks it's cool, and while that wouldn't cause as many alarm bells in 1980 as in 2020, it gould get someone seriously hurt. And, moreover, no matter how many times he's yelled at or bailed out or suspended or has his privileges revoked, he just
doesn't
get it.
He'll express genuine remorse every time, but Filbrick will stop believing him after a while because he never changes. He never changes because... well. Because he is incorrect about what's wrong.
This version of Ford is isolated from his peers and doesn't have his brother to entertain him, so he's extremely self-centered. He doesn't think about the consequences of his actions and he doesn't think about how they might affect others. Let's say he snuck into the chemistry lab after hours, did an experiment without adult supervision, and ended up catching a shelf on fire. When he is punished, he's contrite and apologetic. He earnest in his expression of grief. He feels horrible. You'll tell him what he did wrong, and he will say, "I know," and accept his punishment without complaint. But, if you were to actually ask him what he did wrong, the answer will be:
"I used the wrong solvent."
Or, at best:
"I wasn't careful enough."
Nothing about disrespect for property. Nothing about breaking the rules. Nothing that reflects the fact that he is a child using someone else's resources to try a dangerous experiment without permission or supervision.
I don't think the adults around him, least of all Filbrick, would notice the communication error. Filbrick isn't in the habit of asking young boys about their feelings. Even if they did notice it, I don't think they would handle it well; this is before modern mental health science, and it might actively frighten the adults around him to realize that he doesn't understand morality in the way the kids around him do.
I think that if we start with this version of Ford, it would be very, very easy for him to screw up so badly that Filbrick felt the need to kick him out.
Some ways we can reduce Stan's influence
Option One: Stan might actually be worse off.
Usually, these reverse AUs are about Stan being the golden child and Ford being the one who Filbrick has it out for. However, that doesn't necessarily have to happen in order for Ford to be the one who gets kicked out. If Stan gets caught (or framed) for a crime big enough to send him to juvie for a while, or for Filbrick to send him off to a reform school, Ford would be left alone for years - long enough for Ford to develop the habits I just described.
This AU would fit really well with the themes of canon, too. The show is about how, even though family has its ups and downs, we're better together than we are apart. If Stan is separated from Ford against his will, and the rest of the Pines live to regret it, we address that theme head-on.
In an AU where Stan goes to boarding school, juvie, or something like that, I personally think Stan would still love Ford dearly and do his best to support him. Ford would do his best to make his own way in the world after his falling out with his father, and Stan meets up with him whenever he can. They have their own lives but remain friends.
Option Two: The ever-so-beloved Sports Stan option! If Stan ends up in a successful hobby, it might keep him out of trouble enough to curb his more dishonest tendencies. If that's the case, Ford's isolation comes from Stan having more friends (teammates!), more extracurricular responsibilities, and possibly the kind of social life that keeps him busy during school hours. I figure that in this version, Stan might stand up for Ford getting bullied, and he would be listened to, because you don't fuck with the football team. That would leave Ford with neither friends nor enemies. Ford might hang out with the sports kids for a while, but it would be really awkward, since he's just Stan's brother and doesn't have much in common with these guys.
This version leaves Stan slightly less delinquent but otherwise the same as his canon counterpart. Sports keep him out of trouble, might get him a scholarship, but otherwise leave him pretty much intact.
My problem with both of these two options is that I feel like, for maximum effect, we need to isolate Ford in middle school or earlier - I think fifth grade would do it. Sports don't really get that serious until late middle school or high school, and it's hard for a ten-year-old to get in enough trouble to get sent away.
The sooner the twins begin to separate, the better for this narrative.
Option three: Boy Scouts (or something). In this version, Stanley doesn't just have a hobby he likes - he has a hobby that becomes a lifestyle. He joins a club or meets a mentor that has a profound impact on him as a person. This, I think, would be the biggest possible impact with the smallest possible change.
I'm going to use Boy Scouts as my example, even though I can't really imagine Stan joining a troop without Ford. Just know that this is a placeholder, and it could be anything: he might find a car repair shop with a kindly and avuncular war veteran mechanic, he might fall in with a volunteer group, et cetera. If we go with the boy scouts, though, here's what happens:
Stan is bored and frustrated and has too much energy as a prepubescent or barely pubescent kid. He ends up hanging out with some boy scouts, and they do things that he thinks are really cool. They're the first kids he meets who like boats as much as him, and they know all the rigging knots. Maybe one of them tells him all about how to take care of lizards, and that other kid knows how to light a fire using a flint.
He convinces his parents to let him join the troop. At first, he doesn't fit in at all. All of the other kids have been doing this since first grade, and he's bad at making friends. However, one of the troopmasters becomes a mentor to him: this man intentionally gives him attention, spends time with him, asks him about his interests, teaches him skills that he's missing, et cetera.
If you've ever been or known a young kid who didn't get enough attention and then, suddenly, met someone who made them feel included, you know what happens.
Stan would sell his soul for this guy.
Stan memorizes his handbook, he attends all the functions, he mentors the cubs, the whole shebang. I think Stan would have a blast, too. Boyscouts make up bullshit to tell the little kids constantly. They play pranks on each other and the troopmasters. They haze the new kids. The develop complex internal mythologies for their troops. They get up to all manner of ridiculous shenanigans, oftentimes with the help of knives, ropes and fire. Stan would love it.
By high school, he's working hard toward his Eagle Scout badge, and that means he isn't just attending troop functions. For those who have never been scouts, the whole program is supposed to be about leadership training. The Eagle Scout status is one you earn by doing a project of your own - usually some small but tangible improvement to your hometown, such as building some benches or making an improvement to a museum. So, in the Sports Stan version of events, Stan is busy because of regularly scheduled team sports; in the Scouts Stan version, he's spending a huge chunk of his own free time planning, fundraising for, and building his project.
But there's another thing at play here.
Boy Scouts have a strict code of honor. If Stan was a gung-ho boy scout, he would probably become exactly the kind of person Filbrick wants him to be.
And, well,
I think he'd also become judgemental as hell.
Yeah, he still loves his brother, but here Stan is living his best life and being a good citizen who contributes to society, while Ford's out there... drawing pictures of ghost he insists he saw? Reading about mermaids? Catching the chemistry lab on fire?
Like, seriously bro, you need to get a real hobby.
You know how by the end of high school, Ford was treating Stan as an immature and ignorant kid with no real aspirations who wasn't going to amount to anything in life? You know how Ford was so sickened by Stan's relative lack of ambition that he really believed that Stan would deliberately sabotage his science fair experiment just for a chance to hang out more?
Yeah.
Now imagine that reversed.
#I need to proofread this#Gravity Falls AU#Meta Analysis#Gravity falls#Stanley Pines#Filbrick Pines#Stanford Pines#Fan essay#AU discussion#Boy Scout Stanley Pines#My post
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I was writing a much longer post about this, but more concisely, I had a kind of horrifying idea:
Tolkien ultimately attributes the specialness of the House of the Stewards, especially Denethor and Faramir in LOTR, to their indirect descent from Elendil. The founder of their house, Húrin of Emyn Arnen, was a cousin of King Minardil on the Anárioni side, but had no claim himself (most likely the descent was through a woman). So if the weird shit we see with Denethor and Faramir is ultimately coming from Elendil, then it’s possible that Faramir’s frequent dreadful dream-visions of the Akallabêth are not specific to him, but (like the RL dream that inspired them) inherited. Specifically, inherited from Elendil.
Basically, it’s not certain, but possible, that Elendil was so incredibly scarred by the Akallabêth that non-royal descendants thousands of years later are still haunted by the horror of that moment.
#this is not like. absolute canon or anything. but it is entirely possible!#could also be anárion but it was elendil who wrote the akallabêth iirc so that makes the most intuitive sense to me#a lot of people talk about how terrible the akallabêth seems (esp for people who were themselves victims!)#but while i have a lot of feelings about tar-míriel's death and the just. random people who got drowned#i also have a lot of feelings for the people who had to see it happen and then /survived/#and they were númenóreans so most survived for a very long time!#fasdfjkdaf#i've wondered about the purpose of faramir's dream tbh... it could be sent to him specifically bc he's particularly receptive or whatever#definitely a possibility#but if it is inherited i think there's very decent odds that it was inherited from elendil himself#and in that case it's not—this is not a message (however unclear) but just a trauma so profound that it can't be contained to one lifetime#:(#anghraine babbles#legendarium blogging#faramir#elendil#jewel of the seashore#nature of middle earth#númenórë#the silmarillion
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𝕻𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕺𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕷𝖎𝖕𝖘
Summary: You didn't expect that chasing after a bounty in the middle of the desert would lead to perhaps the most insulting and upsetting predicament of your entire career. But after being lead across barren land and scathing heat, you know that you're running out of time to escape.
All you can do is hope that you can beat the clock before your luck runs out.
Warnings: 18+ MDI! Canon typical violence; violence against reader (not by Cooper), depictions of gore and death. AFAB Reader, some fem pronouns used, PiV sex, unprotected sex, boot riding, oral sex (M!Receiving), deepthroating. Mild overstimulation, multiple orgasms.
Notes: 23.1k words. I lied and told myself that this was going to be a short story . . . two weeks later. . . Ended a little bittersweet, which was entirely unintentional, but oh well. Not proofread. A little bit of sweet Cooper but not too much.
The sun is a crippling thing, beating down on you with a stifling heat that nearly feels like a physical presence driving down and tugging on your limbs and the crown of your skull. Intent on wringing your strength and every drop of moisture from your body in its torrid grip. It's debilitating and the only thing that you could ever possibly compare it to is standing next the roaring flames of a bonfire, or maybe, from what you've heard, like opening an oven door and being blasted by the rush of the preheated air. But it's the weight of your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth that really seems to wave your circumstances in your face. It feels like sandpaper; brittle and harsh, like one attempt at swallowing could cause the walls of your throat to grind and split along each other.
You remember specifically when your last drink of water was. A few casual sips taken from your canteen only a few hours earlier, close to thirteen now to be exact. You've been counting. Torturing yourself with each passing second and every weakened, slipping step. It goes by slow in your mind, dripping by like molasses, and the scorched, barren ground cracking beneath your feet and giving way to loose, lifeless sand just makes it all that much slower. But truthfully, it's the sound of their laughter that's really getting to you. The group of them chortling like a pack a wild dog's; coyotes giggling and gloating over a kill. You aren't sure what they're all joking about. Probably something twisted that would make your stomach turn if you paid it close enough attention, but you've been making an effort to focus your concentration on absolutely anything else. The crunch of the rock underneath your boots; the lonely, empty whistle of the low wind brushing across the ground; your own panting breaths. Even the gentle clink and jingle of the rusted handcuffs that dig into your wrists like a taunt.
You're not supposed to be the one in fucking cuffs, trudging across the desert with a bunch of lowlife criminals keeping you hostage.
In your defense, you were only expecting one, not four. It's a flimsy excuse. Even in your own eyes, but to be fair, coming by caps as of late has been difficult. And no caps means no food or water, and your supply of RadAway has become concerningly low. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to come by funds without murdering someone over it. It had made you a little reckless. Desperate honestly, and the need to get some actual currency in your palm, instead of scraps, had hung heavy on you. So when you had caught sight of some random wanted poster fixed behind the counter of a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, you had all but jumped at the opportunity. He was low rung and inexperienced by all accounts. Just another random, petty man with a propriety for violence who had shaken down the wrong establishment. He wasn't anything special. There are thousands of others just like him, just as there always will be.
It was supposed to be a low effort job. You were planning on shooting him dead and taking just enough of him with you to retrieve your money. But what you hadn't accounted for was getting jumped by three (four technically, you did manage to kill one) other men when you confronted him. But they had been like ghosts, leaping out of the empty shadows of the night in the manner of creeping phantoms when you had approached the bounty with a loaded gun trained at his head. The cocky, gnarled grin that had stretched across his chapped lips should have been a big of enough clue to let you know you were on losing side of your fight.
But even now you aren't sure where they had even come from. You had been tracking your bounty for a couple days across the desert landscape, and not once had he met up with a single person. You hadn't heard a word of gossip about him running with any groups or raiders either. So imagine your surprise when the figures that had stepped from the dark had all been familiar. Familiar in the regard that you've seen the rough sketches of their faces pinned up along just about every business and dilapidated building in the Wasteland. Drawn out on rough parchment that declared them all wanted, dead or alive. The Silva Gang; a small band, but a notorious one. They've been making a name for themselves as of late, snatching up people in the cover of the night to sell them off to organ harvesters and sex slavers.
You aren't sure which of the two they have planned for you, but you aren't exactly psyched to find out. Regardless, if they have a buyer in mind, it'll be a wonder if you even manage to survive the trip there in your current condition. After you had shot down one of their members, made his head explode in a splatter of red and brain matter, they had all been quick to gang up on you. Knocking you to the ground to kick your stomach in with their steel toed boots until your lungs couldn't manage much more than a pathetic, airy wheeze. You had bit the inside of your cheek in the middle of the beatdown, tearing it open until iron had flooded the inside of your mouth and stained your teeth scarlet.
Every breath hurts. It's like your bones have been rattled loose, and you swear you can feel them wiggle with each sharp gasp, just barely held in place by the bruised sinew that binds it all together. All you can do is hope that there isn't any internal bleeding, but it's difficult to tell with the wound in your cheek tainting your mouth with a coat of blood. Though, if you can't manage to find a way to escape, then passing out from hemorrhaging might actually be a blessing in disguise. A mercy carried in on violent wings. But then again, the Wasteland has never been known for its mercy.
A brittle, whistling laugh breaks out with all the subtly of a gunshot. Though it sounds closer to a cough with the way that it sharply cuts across the atmosphere like cracking a bone-dry branch over your knee. It's about the only warning you get before the man strolling in front of you - your bounty - harshly tugs at the chain connected to your cuffs, jerking your joined wrists forward and forcing the rest of your body to follow in an ungraceful lurch. Your legs scramble to right themselves, weakly trying to balance the entirety of your body's weight on feeble ankles. For a split second you think that you might actually collapse and get a face full of sand, but you just barely manage to catch yourself on time, flinging a foot forward to get a hold of your equilibrium.
He doesn't give you proper time to gather yourself before he's nudging you along again with the chain, flashing you a nasty grin over his shoulder in a show of filed down teeth. You've seen the pictures of sharks before. A few years back when you had stumbled upon the old remains of a school building. You had meandered through the halls, searching for what little you could find, anything that might have been useful. For a moment your mind had wondered and wandered as you allowed yourself to entertain what the halls and rooms may have looked like all of those years ago when the paint wasn't chipping and brimming with radiation, even though you really had no basis to go off of. And you were quick to find yourself sidetracked, digging through old textbooks and sheets of homework. It was just some biology book, with wrinkled, stained pages and dust collected on the hard cover. There had been a chapter about marine animals: dolphins, fish, and the like. But what had really caught your attention was the drawling of a shark that had been in the corner. Particularly its teeth. Massive rows of lethal points designed to slice through meat and tear flesh. Underneath the depiction of the great white there had been some offhand little fact.
Did you know that you're more likely to die by bees than a shark?
But this shark, you're certain has taken countless lives; sank his teeth into human skin and gorged himself on their bodies. And you might just be next if you don't manage to find an opening soon. You aren't certain where they're taking you. How many more miles you have to cover on shaking legs and bruised lungs, but the longer they lead you the closer you're getting to a death sentence.
"What do you say, lovely." The voice jumps out with the pressure of a dead weight linking across your shoulders, pulling you close into the cradle of someone's chest. The stink that rises up to greet you is abhorrent; stale and putrid from weeks, if not months' worth of sweat and dirt and grime. You could choke on it. "You ready for a break yet? You look like shit."
A brief scathing glance upward reveals that it's the one that you had shot in the leg. Right in the artery. It would have killed him too if they weren't fortunate enough to be in the possession of a stimpak. He still has a bit of a limp in his stride, but now he's here to gloat. Squinting at you to combat the unrelenting glare of the sun with a crooked smile, his tongue reaches to slip across his teeth in an unsettling leer. If all the posters haven't left you astray then this would be the one that calls himself Vulture. A fitting moniker for a cannibal and a scavenger, you suppose.
You want to shove him off and flee. Even with the cover of your jacket still secure over your torso, his body heat feels like acid on your skin, biting and stinging. He has your gun on his hip, secure and snug within his holster. The silver steel of the handle glints like a taunt. Your fingers itch with the urge to slip around the familiar grip. To feel the heft of it in your palm and the recoil reverberating up your arm as you squeeze the trigger. But the chain pulling your hands taut and forward isn't very giving. Even if you managed to tug your bounty down by the tether in his hands and grab ahold of Vulture's gun (your gun), with how sluggish you are the other two would be on you in a blink. And then you really would be dead and left to bleed out on the parched ground and give it the only moister it's probably seen in decades.
Though you might have an opportunity soon. Reluctantly, you lift your head up and shift your focus from him to survey the horizon, and in your unsteady vision you notice a few buildings nestled close along in the distance. A weathered sign is fixed to the roof of one of the structures, declaring something in a mixed bold font. But what those letters spell you're unable to make out from the large gap of space, about a half a mile, give or take. But you think that one of them may be a gas station, based of the old pavilion posted out front; tilted and threatening to lean over on its columns.
"What do you say, Vernon?" The man with his arm still cinched around the back of your neck asks, shouting over his shoulder to look at one of the men walking behind you. "I say we give her a little break. She might collapse otherwise, and we wouldn't want the goods to spoil, now would we?"
He leans in low when he says it, wafting his humid breath over your face in a revolting puff. You don't even bother fighting of the grimace that crosses over your expression, letting disgust twist up your features into an offended sneer. But Vulture doesn't seem to be insulted in the slightest. If anything, you catch a glimmer of amusement pass through his bloodshot eyes in a mirthful wink. A part of you entertains lunging forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh above his cheek bone; letting the sun burnt skin there break underneath the weight of them to ease the way that his words sear across you mind like a brand. But you can't lose your head yet. So you keep your mouth firmly shut, teeth tucked behind your dried lips while you fantasize about gutting the four of them open from pelvis to groin.
You let them lead you across the desert floor, still guffawing and cackling over their perverted jokes and braindead banter. It still makes you nauseous how you've managed to let them get advantage on you and drag you miles across barren land. Humiliation settles in your gut like you've swallowed oil and salt. And despite your lethargic limbs and tender stomach, it's safe to say that your pride is the most damaged thing out of this entire situation. It's tart on your parched tongue. No respectable bounty hunter should ever be caught in a state like this. You can hardly even recall the last time a query has managed to get the upper hand on you, much less captured you in handcuffs and held you hostage. It's pathetic.
You can practically hear that grouchy bastard's voice berating you in that lazy, accented lilt. Chiding you for getting caught. For slipping up like some kind of rookie.
Well that just ain't like you, sweetheart, lettin' a coulpa shitkickers get the jump on ya.
But as harsh as the echo of his voice is, it does serve as a sort of comfort in a paradoxical sort of way. Like a soothing balm on a fresh, stinging wound. Bittersweet from the familiarity of it; sharp and smarting like a fresh bruise, but also dulcet and homey like the swaddle of a soft blanket. As big of a pain in the ass as he is, a part of you has to be curious how life has been treating him these past couple of months. You're sure he's fine. No matter how dire the situation, he always manages to survive somehow, whether that be by sheer luck or by the skin of his teeth, he always makes it out. He's older than you by decades; experienced in horrors and calamities that you would struggle to imagine. Still, sometimes you can't help yourself from being a little . . . worried. It's so nonsensical to be fretting over a man that has the blood of a thousand souls on his hands; who's just as hardened and unforgiving as the land he walks. Especially when you're the one with your hands fastened together by old metal, and the damaged taste of iron in your mouth.
Despite your hard exterior, you've always been a bit of bleeding heart deep down. And somehow, someone as brash and knavish as him has managed to worm himself past all your defenses and latched onto that tender little piece of your soul. He was purely competition at first. A rival. A thief is what he was. Then a reluctant acquaintance, and eventually a . . . tentative friend. A vulnerability, really. But you can't ever keep yourself from wondering about him. Even now, with a violent band of criminals crowded around you and guiding you like a twisted procession towards death or slavery, you can't fight of the impression of a smile that begs to lift at your lips. You have to contemplate the next time that you might see him. If you'll even have the opportunity to see him again, so's long that this doesn't go tits up and you end up dead on the ground. If he'll still smell with the subtle musk of the earth; the residue of soil staining his tattered duster, all damp and rich hidden underneath a layer of dust, and at times blood.
That bastard. That old, mean bastard -
"What are you over there grinning about?" Vulture queries, slipping his other arm up to clutch your jaw between his dirty fingertips, squeezing your cheeks close like an uncle with boundary issues would do at a family reunion. It has you mouth splitting into a snarl and the urge to bite is back again, like an itch on your gums. But you hold yourself back.
"I was imagining what your blood might look like on the sand," you snap, jerking your face from out of his tight grip with venom on your tongue. It nearly could have surprised you when a splitting white-hot heat erupts across the side of your face with enough force to swivel your head to the right, licking an electrical current down the back of your neck, but you were honestly expecting the strike. You draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way that your lungs rattle while you focus on keeping your legs steady. You can feel him when he leans in close again; you can see the hint of him in your peripheral vision too, a little blurry and unfocused from how close he is.
"Well, keep dreaming. Cause that ain't never going to happen."
You don't agree or refute that remark. Not even while you picture wrapping the chain lead hooked to your cuffs around his throat and watching the light dim from the pale blue shade of his eyes. It's then that you decide, even if they do manage to kill you today, you're taking at least one more of them with you.
You let yourself fall silent again, counting the soft tread of everyone's footsteps. The way that the dry, dead earth splits underneath the soles of your boots in a weary whisper. But you mostly try to think about all of the weapon's secured to everyone's person. The gun - your gun - cradled in Vulture's holster. The idiot had tossed his away earlier to swap it out with you own. And you're pretty sure that it had still had a few rounds left in its chamber. There's the handle of a small hunting knife peeking out from past the lip of your bounty's (Thatcher is his name) boot. You didn't see him brandish any other weapon when you had tried to corner him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have any.
As for the other two following closely behind, you know for a fact that the one called Vernon has a 10mm pistol, and the other's been totting around an old baseball bat with nails buried through the barrel. The nails are rusted, tinged red, but you're certain that the dusty, maroon and vermillion is old caked up blood and not just oxidation.
There are too many guns. Too many of them. And you're weakened from exhaustion and dehydration; sore from getting your stomach kicked in. Running as of now is entirely out of the question. But if you make it to the gas station you should be able to use it as cover. There should be counters in there, shelves and a backroom. All of which can be used as protection against you and them, and the possible spray of bullets. But if you aren't careful enough, the tight quarters can also be used to box you in and keep you trapped between the four of them. You'll have to be cautious.
The twin buildings ahead of you are much closer now, and you're able to make out the worn, crippled details of the ancient establishments much better now. Old remnants of a time long before yourself, left shabby and broken by harsh conditions and war. The paint is all chipped and sun faded on both the motel and gas station; the colors muted down into dusty, pale shades that are probably a far cry from what they used to look like. Windows are opaque with dirt, and some of the panes have been busted out entirely, making some of the curtains still hung above the sills to billow softly. There's an old Nuka-Cola machine posted out front of the station with bullet holes peppering its metal casing; and a long bordering piece of the of the pavilion's roof is hanging from the edge, creaking and trembling with the influence of the wind, groaning and squeaking sharply with each tremor. Like the cries of a wounded, wild animal.
Apprehension settles deep in the pit of your belly like a stone, and you can feel it prickling along your fingertips and toes. The presence of the four men walking along you is like a heat on your skin, searing and stifling. It makes you hyperaware of everything. The brush of your own clothes, the weight of their eyes burrowing into your body; the light, shifting sounds of the desert. It's putting you on edge, making your muscles longing to tense and lash out but you have to keep yourself collected and calm. If you were to act out prematurely or let your nerves get to you, you might just end up with a bullet lodged between your eyes.
Thatcher stops short of the threshold of the gas station, which is left wide open from the twin doors that seem to have been blown from their hinges. He pivots on his feet suddenly, turning to you with another one of his nasty smiles. "Lady's first," he coos obnoxiously. That's the only warning you get before he's jerking the chain a second time. This time is much harsher than the first, and it sweeps you off your feet in a rush that snaps your neck back. You don't even register yourself falling. It's the pain that washes over your knees and eventually your right side that your mind notices first. Blossoming over your flesh like boiling water, and you can feel the stinging tingle of fine glass shards burying past your clothes to poke at your skin.
The hiss of pain that slips past your lips is overshadowed by the boisterous laughter that rings out around you. The sound of it has hatred simmering along your chest and slipping up your jaw, making you clench your teeth together so tightly that a part of you distantly worries that they might break. A string of curses and pyrophanites are heavy in your throat, but you don't want to give them the satisfaction of openly swearing. To let them know that they're getting under your skin. You keep your focus forward instead, ignoring the way they all chortle around you while you scan the dilapidated space. All of the freezers and shelves have been picked clean and left like a discarded skeleton. They would give you ample enough cover to hide behind, but there's still a decent amount of space between you and the aisles, and you aren't sure if you'll reach them in time. The counter ahead might be your best bet. It's thick enough that it can block a decent number of debris and bullets alike. But there's only a small gap of room provided between it and the wall behind it, which would end up working against you if one of them manages to follow you and evade getting shot. And coincidentally, you only have four bullets left in the chamber. One for each of them.
You can't afford to miss.
You have to swallow back a groan when you rise up on your feet, lifting yourself slowly to properly collect your balance; building up the tension your muscles while anticipation and adrenalin run heavy in your veins. Their body language is all still relaxed and unbothered, and in their comfortability, Vulture has trailed close to you. Apparently insistent on sticking to you like a disgusting shadow, but for once in this entire journey you're actually counting on his close proximity.
Something almost close to excitement trails down your back, lashing a familiar buzzing fire down your palms; thrumming like a living thing. You can almost taste it too, sharp and prickling in your mouth, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing along your tongue. It flutters in your chest like something wild and stirred; but not panicked. This is something you've done a million times. It's like breathing almost. Like your brain giving your body a command without you having to consciously tell it to; it's second nature.
You jolt forward like a blur, fluid and quick even with bound hands. And when your fingers slip around the grip of your gun it's almost peaceful, subtly warm and familiar within your grasp. But you remove it from Vulture's holster even quicker, and in a blink you squeeze the trigger. The burst of sound that rises out is deafening, making your hearing fade out and go dim. Vulture's head lolls back on his shoulders from the bloody crater that splits into his skull, driven there by the speeding bullet that lodges into the wall behind him. You're already pivoting on your feet before you can relish the sight of his body collapsing on the old tiles in a heap of dead weight. But your sense comes back to you just enough to hear the dull sound of him striking the floor when you raise your pistol up to line up the shot, training your weapon up on Thatcher, who looks like he's preparing to tug the chain again in the hopes of knocking you off kilter and ruining your aim. But you set the gun off with a single twitch of your finger, and just as his companion's had, his head swings back like he's been struck and a crest of red sprays from the back of his skull.
As soon as his hands go slack, you're tugging the chain from his grip, making it swipe across the floor like a wounded snake towards your feet. But you don't get a single moment to enjoy your freedom before a bullet whistles past your ear, splitting and hissing. It doesn't allow you time to return the fire before Vernon begins unloading his clip in your direction with an angry cry. And without any other options you move back to spring away from him, launching yourself across the floor on shaky legs; burdened and aided by both adrenalin and exhaustion, but your desire to keep yourself in one piece has you hurtling yourself over the counter. You knock over an empty rotating shelf as you go, and the chain drags behind you with a harsh, metallic drag, striking against the front of the counter as you slip over the edge and fall on the floor.
When you land, it's on your ass, and heat sears across your tailbone and trembles up your spine, but you don't give yourself time to dwell on the pain when a spray of bullets erupts around you, bursting through the air and eating up the bit of wall above your head in a scatter of fraying wallpaper.
"You fucking bitch, you killed 'em!" A voice shrieks, hoarse and raw in its distress. "You fucking killed them!"
Based off of the tone, you're willing to be that it's Vernon, and the near relentless flurry of bullets is definitely coming from the pistol he had hanging from his hip. He has to run out of rounds soon, and hopefully it'll give you an opening when he has to load up the chamber, which shouldn't be too far off. But you still have the other one to worry about too, with his stupid bat. It has you looking around at your surroundings for anything that may held you pick the lock of your cuffs, glancing behind you to check the empty cubbies built into the counter for an old paperclip or a bobby pin, but there's nothing except for dust and an old candy wrapper. There's another scathing swear on your lips, and you can't help but spare an aggravated glare up the water damaged ceiling; cursing the universe, or bad luck, or maybe even whichever god is out there. But you choose to take your frustrations out on the remaining raiders instead.
"Yeah, and I'm planning on you two being next!" You shout loud enough to be heard over the onslaught of bullets. They've got to have another gun at this rate, there's no other way. "I just hope you don't go out as easily as your friends did!"
It's then that you notice the fisheye mirror posted along the corner of the wall, just above the counter, giving you a clear view of the front of store and some of the shelves that stand along the right. But you're concerned with the two figures that are posted near the door, standing close to the fallen bodies of their partners. And sure enough in the other man's hand - Rocky? Rocco? You aren't entirely sure - he's holding a pistol up in the direction of the counter you hide behind, his baseball bat long forgotten and discarded on the floor near his feet.
They both have ammo pouches strapped to their thighs and cartridge belts strung around their waists. Your only saving grace might just be that the majority of the loops are empty of bullets, but between the both of them, there's still enough to be a problem. You've been counting the number of bullets that Vernon has blindly planted in his maddened onslaught. One, two, three, . . . He has a few more in the chamber. Four or five more, at least.
You should have a clear opening soon. And Rocco dares to creep forward, most likely in the hopes of coming around the side of the counter to close you in. Unfortunately for him, he was also taking it as the time to reload his pistol. Probably lured into a false sense of security while Vernon continues the assault with his own gun. His bullets should be running out shortly if your count isn't wrong, but Rocco will reach you by the time that Vernon's supply of bullets has been drained. It's an ill-timed assault on their part. Sloppy. You can hardly believe that they're the gang that's been ravaging the towns made from the remnants of old Los Angeles. The same gang that had trapped you in a pair of rusty handcuffs. This is going to be salt in the wound for years to come.
It must be the deaths of Thatcher and Vulture that's made them messy. But it is working in your favor, so you can't complain much.
You keep your eyes trained Rocco as he approaches, hand raised to slip another bullet into the cylinder. He curses when he drops it, fingertips probably shaking and slick with sweat and twitching from the rush of adrenalin and the deaths of his companions. It clatters on the floor, metallic and chiming, skipping over the tiles, sounding like a bell. You draw in a breath then, forcing your body to gulp in the stale air even though its hurts and sears around the edges; even while fire licks at your lungs, you never wince or remove your sight from the mirror posted along the wall. You keep your focus trained on their reflections; the even, calculated steps that Rocco takes in your direction, nearing closer with every movement. All the while Vernon continues to fire, gun blazing while he screams himself hoarse. And for a moment, one wicked moment, you worry that he isn't going to run out of bullets.
You might have to risk jumping out of cover and hoping that you aim is true while your hands are bound with metal and dragging a heavy chain. But then, like a blessing you hear it: the harsh, hollow click of an empty chamber. It's a dull sound, echoing across the confined space of the tattered gas station with a pronounced finality.
Click, click, click
He repeatedly presses down on the trigger like he might jostle loose a magic bullet and kill you with it. You hear him swear. A low, scathing, shit huffed under his breath. The sound of the empty gun is like a countdown, and you're quick to act before the timer runs out. With an aching pain in your gut and the taste of blood in your mouth, you scoot yourself across the floor to line your shoulder up with the edge of the counter. Rocco has just one more bullet to slip into the chamber of his gun before it's fully loaded, and he already has his quivering fingers clutched over the copper casing of a bullet, ready to drop it into the last empty slot.
It's like you're tugged forward on a string. Muscles twitching and lead by pure memory; instinct. You have your gun drawn before you pivot yourself around the corner on the point of your knees. You know where Rocco is standing. You marked his place in the mirror above. It's bleached behind your eyelids now; fixed across your mind like a picture. It's a blueprint, a set of instructions, and all you need to do is follow your body's orders.
The trigger is warm when your squeeze it. Rocco's head jerks up as he notices you, eyes rolling and a little frantic when he registers the glint of the gun in your hand. In that spit second, you see so much pass through his eyes: surprise, disbelief, fear, and finally, a fleeting shred of what might be angry acceptance. It's a look that you've seen on all of the faces of the people you've felled. The five stages of grief compacted into a singular, short moment before the killing blow lands. And the blow lands in his chest, puncturing a clean hole through the flesh and sinew and clipping his heart. His breath rattles. A nastier sound than the labored gasps that have been ailing you, and you can't help but relish in the wet noise of blood welling up in his throat.
The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the ground long before he stumbles back on weakened legs and collapses backwards with a death rattle. But you don't have any time to gloat. Vernon cries his friend's name in protest. Like it'll keep the blood in his veins if he does. And then his eyes are on you like a rabid dog's that's been crowded into a corner and is coiling to lash out. He doesn't even bother finishing up on reloading his gun before he tosses it like it's useless trash, and then he's lunging forward to cross the bit of space that's between you.
It has your body twitching to spin your focus onto him and shoot. But the abruptness of it all, the hindrance of the cuffs has your aim off by just a few inches, and instead of hitting his heart like you had intended, you miss your mark by a few inches and get his left shoulder instead. That was you last bullet. Your chamber is completely useless, and your pistol might as well as be dead weight. You try to right yourself. To shift yourself on your feet properly to launch yourself out of the way and behind the cover of one of the shelves, but you hardly make it more than a few scant feet or so before he's pile driving you to the floor with a violent snarl. The weight of him pinning in place is crushing. Digging your bones into the tiles and forcing the air from your lungs in a brutal press; squeezing a cry from your aching chest.
Your lips peel back into a feral sneer when one of his hands slip around your throat to wring the oxygen from your body. Your hips writhe and feet kick in some mindless scramble to shake him from you, but he might as well as be made of lead; fixed in place and unwavering. And for a horrendous moment your brain is reduced to an animal's. Wiped blank and clouded over with pure primal instinct. You hand claw up towards his face, desperate to feel flesh underneath your nails to tear, but he leans himself out of your reach with a caustic, demented laugh.
"You brought this on yourself," he hisses harshly and flexes his fingers to make you choke. You can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull; your muscles draw up tight when your lungs seize, empty and burning. Tears threaten to fall, prickling at your waterline while your brain fogs over in a suffocated haze, and for a brief, drifting second you wonder if this might be your final moments. But then you feel it. The pull of the chain tugging at your handcuffs. Tender around your wrists. And while he's distracted watching the life fade from your eyes, you slip your fingers around the groves of the chain, drawing up the metal links until you have it gripped tightly within your sweating palms.
You bare your teeth when you swing your hands up to launch the chain in the air. It cuts across the atmosphere with a heavy whoosh, and when it meets his cheek, it splits the skin underneath the force of it, parting his flesh with a rivulet of red. His head jerks on his shoulders harshly and his body twitches and tugs to the side from the sheer weight of the hit, but his grip around your neck doesn't so much as flinch. His free hand strikes out like a serpent, snatching ahold of the chain before you can strike him again and he pins it to his side, immobilizing your defense. And in some mad scramble your frayed mind catches onto the glint of red pouring from the hole in his shoulder. It guides you to lift a hand up to burrow your fingertips into the wound, pinching and tearing at the torn flesh until blood flows over your hand, all warm and damp.
The angry, anguished roar that he lets out could have been deafening if your hearing wasn't already tarnished and fading from the pressure of his chokehold. But instead of getting him to flinch away or weaken, somehow it makes him grip you harder. The sheer strength behind his fingers has your lips parting in a silent, tortured cry. It's here and now that you decide that your luck really must have run out. You suppose that the Wasteland can only do you so many favors before it comes to collect, and you've evaded horrors and troubles that would have shaken and killed the Devil himself. You were honestly just hoping that your death would be a little more honorable. A blaze of glory with fire and blood. Not delivered by the hands of some cheap raider. But you can't always refute the hand you've been delt - no matter how shitty it is.
You can feel your vigor and breath slipping. The blood rushing in your veins while your heartbeat pulses in the cage of your chest - all frantic and panicked in a hail marry to keep your body functioning while your lungs starve. Even with all of the adrenalin thrumming hot throughout your body, the exhaustion that tugs your limbs down is too great. It's like you've been dipped in syrup and glue and have been left to stick to the tiles like a rat caught in a trap. Your eyes roll again. Slipping back to focus past the sadistic grin curling on his lips; past the form of his head which has faded into a sort of silhouette. A dopey sort of smile blossom on your face when you catch sight of a stain marring the ceiling. Its shape is all random, made from a scattered assortment of moldy blotches that bleed into each other, made from shades of tan, and brown, and gray. It's nothing. Just stain on the ceiling. But if you squint your eyes a certain way, it kind of looks like a cowboy hat.
It makes you wonder if he'll miss you once you're gone. If he'll even notice that you're gone. That maybe, after a few more months or maybe even years, after fate or circumstance hasn't led you to cross paths again, that he'll realize that something has happened to you. That life has finally struck down the hammer on your head and snuffed you out. Maybe he'll look out ahead one day when the sun's brushing along the earth and painting the sky in searing shades of orange and red and rose in its descent and realize that you're well and truly gone. All you can do is hope that he'll think back on you fondly; that his deadened heart might actually miss you - if that is something that he's capable of. But the Wasteland is a vast place. It's so big that it can swallow individuals whole; get them lost in its sweeping landscapes and violence. It's so easy to forget people here. Family, lovers, friends can all get swept away and distant until they're hardly more than a mirage on the horizon. A ghost on the fringes of the mind. And maybe that'll be you. Just another ghost lined up alongside a thousand others.
And while you choke and sputter on your last remnants of breath you continue to stare up at that murky little cowboy hat on the ceiling with something akin to hope in your chest, taking the place of air. But he probably won't remember you at all, the asshole. He's too brash. Too guarded. The sharpness his eyes is always hardened and a little distant behind the sardonic glint in them. He's shown you parts of himself that others could only dream to know. Small pieces in the grand scheme of things. Like broken, trivial shards torn from a greater image. Hardly enough to make a full picture. But it still lets you see him a little more clearly. You've seen all the ugliness. The callous, indifferent brutality; the sarcasm and guarded emotions. He's a walking mystery. An impenetrable fortress. But every now and again you see a hint of the human underneath it all. The man, the movie star.
You can't believe that he's going to be your last thought while your lungs burn and draw up tight. His wicked, playful grin; the charming, languorous drawl of his voice; the gentle chime of his spurs when he walks. You can almost hear it over the wild roar of your blood in your ears and the relentless string of Vernon's swearing and gloating; repetitive and ringing and light. Like old useless coins jingling in someone's pockets. Almost musical in the rhythm of his phantom steps.
You always did like his walk. Always lazy and confident like a saunter.
When Vernon's head explodes like a ruptured balloon you think that you're imagining it. One second he's grinning down at you with his teeth bared and glinting, and the next his face seems to fracture. It erupts and cracks into tiny fragments and slivers like a dropped vase. But instead of water splashing out, it's sprays of warm, wet blood and chunks of brain matter. In your oxygen deprived daze, you're certain that you see a scatter of teeth soar across the air like nuggets of porcelain. The blood lands against your skin like the drops of a rare rainstorm. But it's still hot from the heat of his body, like something molten on your skin.
His torso wavers unsteadily, rocking and unbalanced from the sudden absence of its head, rolling back on its weakened spine like an old tower swaying in a strong wind. The debilitating grip around your throat slackens when the body finally gives underneath its own weight and topples over on the tiles in a bloody heap. The greedy, hoarse gasp that you draw in instinctive, but once you start, you can't stop. Not even when the air catches on your throat and threatens to choke you again with the twitching, painful coughing fit that wracks your body, clawing and itching at your lungs.
Clarity comes back to you slowly, nudging at the disoriented cloud that fills your skull like drugged stuffing. You shift onto your stomach with another long gulp of air, kicking at the corpses legs that lay across your own; and finally, it begins to feel like a cool balm inside of your chest instead of a fire. But the world is still sluggish. Muted and slow from your distress and you relax your belly on the tiles, suspending yourself on shaking elbows.
It's then you notice the figure standing in the open doorway. Your body coils up tight, sucking in a few more desperate puffs of air while you brace to fight again, even though your limbs are drained and quivering, and your stomach and chest ache and burn. But then you notice the little details of the silhouette. The worn brim of the hat, the tattered and torn edges of their duster, the relaxed and confident way they hold themselves. It has you thinking that you really are dead. That you passed away right on the floor from the pressure of the raider's hand around your throat. That he really did succeed in squeezing the life out of you. This must be some sort of deathly hallucination. Your mind playing tricks on you as pass out to the other side - into an afterlife or into nothingness, you aren't sure.
But then a tepid, clement wind brushes into the store, and it's perfumed with the scent of something earthy and rich and familiar: Soil. The figure tilts their head like a curious dog before they holster their gun against their hip. On the right side, just like it should be. He steps forward, and you can feel the weight of it pass over the floor in a gentle thrum; joined by the soft chime of a spur. Of the disk jingling and spinning in its rowel pin. He crosses the distance in a few calm strides with the metallic, melodic sound following each step, and pauses to consider you once there's little more than a foot of space between you and him just before he lowers himself into a crouch.
You watch his descent with a rapt, dazed sort of fascination, and you can feel the impression of a smile on your lips when the shadow made by the brim of his hat fades from his proximity. The familiar weight of his eyes surveying you is comforting, and the delirious grin on your face grows even more.
"You look like you've been dragged through ten kinds of hell," he observes tactfully. But you can't even manage so's much as a flicker of annoyance when the only thing you feel is pure relief. You want to greet him properly, like you usually do. Something witty or sarcastic, but your lethargic brain is about as useful as a bottomless bucket.
"I was just thinking about you," you blurt, and your voice is raw and shredded when it grates up your throat. You notice the way that his hairless brows perk up at the confession, and something amused passes through his eyes while he considers you from your gore-soaked place on the dirty tiles.
"Is that right?" He turns his head to scan the rest of the room, taking in the sight of the rest of the bodies that are strewn about like discarded toys. "Well, given the predicament I found you in, I'd say you need to get your priorities straight, sweetheart."
There it is. That damned pet name. Even though it's spoken with an air of derision, it always sounds so syrupy and sweetened. Cradled softly within his accented drawl like it's saturated with melted sugar. Even with your mind all muddled and scrambling to form a coherent thought, it's still lucid enough for you to register the uncomfortable thrum of embarrassment at the remark. But most prevalent is the sense of bewilderment that nudges up at you and breaks through all of the confusion and pain. You can feel your eyebrows furrowing on your head, openly showing your puzzlement.
"What exactly are you doing out here?" You ask around your cracking voice, drawing yourself up onto your knees with a ragged groan.
"That's no way to talk to someone who just saved your ass," he chides without any real bite. He rocks back on his heels just a bit, making the worn leather of his boots creak in a low protest. "I heard there was a bounty for the Silva Gang; a pretty hefty price is out for 'em. I just didn't expect to see Ezra Thatcher here. " His focus settles back onto you then, and the familiar, devious glimmer that shifts through his stare immediately has your hackles rising. "There's a pretty hefty price out for him too."
A snarl perks at your lips, and you can feel anger flaring in your chest; hot and searing around the bruising ache, and it singlehandedly douses out every bit of joy and relief that you initially felt upon seeing him. He appears to be nothing but amused by your apparent outrage. Not that he ever isn't. But you're sure that shackles still secure around your raw wrists only serve to cement his security. Plus, you don't look particularly threatening, all glistening with a layer of sweat, bags under your eyes while your lungs gasp and shudder harshly. But you're a little tired of this little cycle of yours. Ever since the day that you two have met he's been sweeping bounty's out from under your feet. Sneaking up like a shadow to rip out criminals from your grasp to take the prize money for himself.
"No!" You snap, lurching forward on the points of your knees to lean you face close to his. Close enough that if he still had a nose, it would probably brush against your own. "You are not taking another one of my bounties."
He doesn't answer you yet. He cocks his head again, slow and intrigued while his vision lowers to the handcuffs binding your arms. The smile that lifts at his rough lips is patronizing all in itself, but the way that he slips a gloved finger through the link of metal that secures your wrists together is just more salt on the wound. He tugs it lightly like he's testing its hold, checking to see if it'll give underneath the weight, but you know that he's really just rubbing in your current situation in further. Letting you see how well and truly helpless you are with your hands literally and metaphorically tied.
"I really don't think you're in any position to be making demands," he responds easily. "And considering that I just saved your skin, I'd say that it would properly suffice as payment."
You settle for rolling your eyes. An otherwise childish gesture, but as much as you want to argue, you know by now that trying to reason with him once his mind is set is about as successful as trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. It's a waste of air, and as of right now you're in short supply with how ragged and strained your lungs are. You're in no condition to be trying to pick a fight with someone as treacherous as the Ghoul. Sure, the two of you are . . . somewhat friends. But his sympathy and courtesy are a delicate thing, separated by an even weaker sense of resolve that often blends in with his cunning and brutality. Associating with him is like befriending a feral dog. He has his moments where he's cordial and even companionable. But those moments are few and far between. Borrowed time. At the end of it all, he's still wild. Corroded and shaped by the harsh, ferocious nature of his environment. Even when he's laughing and smiling, you know that he's really just baring his teeth. Waiting for a moment of weakness so that he can lunge for the throat and rip until rich blood flows, and he can drink.
It's like reaching your hand out to pet something vicious, even when you know that it can twist around and sink its fangs into your flesh; saliva dripping with poison.
He can see the defeat weigh down at your body, shoulders slumping as a part of you relents. His satisfaction glints in his gaze like an ember. Buring with the potential to become something greater; something roaring and consuming if need be. But there's no need for that fire today. You know when to give in. Even when it makes your pride curl up into something brittle and pathetic in the center of your chest.
"Take these damned things off at least?" You nudge them up as much as you can while he still has one of his fingers looped around the small metal rings. The pause that takes over is a little stifling. It's like all of the walls have drawn up tight, and for a second you dread that he might not answer. That he'll leave you to suffer in silence while he snatches up what he needs from the bounties and vanish off into the desert while you rot away in this damaged little gas station in the middle of nowhere.
"That very much depends on you. 'Sides, I kinda like you in these." He replies, tugging lightly on the cuffs with a glint in his eyes that could be considered dangerous, voice dipping down low like he's sharing a secret or reprimanding you for a sin you haven't committed yet. And you know him well enough to know that he's doing it on purpose, dropping his tone down into something smoky and warm. "Are you gonna behave?"
For whatever reason it has a smile perking at your lips again. It's soft despite the simmering affect that his voice has on you, rushing your body with a dull flutter of heat. The smile is far from beaming or broad, but you can still feel a delicate trickle of humor spread over you; peeking through the pain that riddles your body. "Come on, Coop. We're friends, aren't we?"
A huff rises from his chest, not quite enough to a laugh or a chuckle but close. "Didn't you shoot at me the last time we seen each other?"
You hum in agreement. There's no way that you can deny that accusation. That was roughly five months ago on the outskirts of Junktown, on what should have been another easy job. But it had been quick to go tits up when bounty hunters and desperate residents alike came scrambling and crawling out of the woodwork to get ahold of a single criminal; like a circle of starved animals stalking a wounded rabbit. And Cooper had been one of those animals. As dangerous and troubling as his presence had been, it did work in your favor with the other hunter's serving as a distraction and an obstacle for him to get through. Still, he had picked through the majority of them fairly quickly, and once the dust had mostly settled, he was free to turn his attentions onto you and the rambling lowlife that had been clinging onto your forearm - begging to be spared. He had even drooled on your coat while in the midst of his blubbering; hanging from you like a dead weight. So yes, you had shot at Cooper. Actually, he was being generous. You didn't shoot "at" him. You shot him. A light graze really, just along the thigh. But it had worked to waver his concentration just enough for the remaining hunters and armed citizens to sweep in and unintentionally give you time to flee the scene of the chaos with your sobbing bounty in tow.
So, you can't exactly blame him for being for being wary.
"And the first time we met you nearly put a bullet between my eyes. It was nothing personal, you know that." It's hard to tell what he's thinking with how unchanging his expression is. That amused edge is still heavy in his features and keeps you from seeing if he's willing or not. "Look, I'm tired, I'm dehydrated, and I feel like I've swallowed a handful of nails. All I want is the stuff that they lifted off of me, and one of the stimpak's they've got, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to start bleeding out of my ass if I don't. You can have the bounties. I don't care."
When he pulls in a deep sigh you nearly think that he might be ready to deliver one of his famous quips. Some sarcastic remark on how little he cares, or that it sounds like a personal problem. But you notice something subtle shift on his face, and you know his answer before he speaks. It has your body relaxing, muscles unwinding and going lax without you consciously telling them to.
"All right then, sweetheart," he relents and shifts up to rise on his feet. His eyes don't leave you once, fixed on you with an intensity that could make you breathless. Evaluating you and weighing your soul with a single casual glance. Always stripping you bare with the disarming hold of his eyes. "Better not do something you'll regret."
All you manage is a nod. Looking up at him from your place on the bloody, dirt coated tiles with a promise lodged in your throat. You must look sincere enough because he doesn't ask you for any verbal confirmation as he pivots his feet to survey the bodies again. It's only then that you manage to spit any words up, forcing the shape of them out with a soft breath. "I'm not sure where the key is specifically, but Thatcher's probably our best bet."
He doesn't respond when he strides across the floor in the direction of the fallen body, leaving you to stew and sit in silence. As soon as he's crouched beside the fresh corpse, he's rummaging through the pockets. Slipping back the layers of the dead bounty's coat to search the inner, built in pouches when the rest of his pockets come up empty. You stare at the expanse of his back with bated breath, tracing the shape of the rifle secured behind his shoulders and the way that his ragged coattails drape along the tiles as you wait. Suddenly the pressure of the rusted metal around your wrists feels so much tighter. Grating and stinging around your skin. It has you shifting uncomfortably, tracing the nails of your thumbs underneath your fingertips to distract yourself. And then, blessedly, he's lifting a silver key from the depths of Thatcher's coat and jingling it in the air like a trophy.
The relief that floods you could make you double over on yourself. But luckily, he's standing in front of you before you can give into the weakened sway of your spine and grabbing ahold of the cuffs to slip the key into its slot. You let yourself admire him. It's a little shameless, you know, but you also can't be bothered to care. You always manage to get swept away by harmless little musings. Tracing his gaunt features with your eyes while you try to reimagine what he looked like before . . . all of this. And even though you've caught a glimpse of his former self, before the radiation and the horror, you still always fail to properly imagine smooth, unblemished skin in the place of leathered, marred flesh. The nose that would have filled out the place where a vacant cavity sits underneath the ridges of his browbones, gapping and almost painful looking. At one time he had hair. He could have been a dark blond, or brunette, or maybe it was an auburn color, or black.
"Take a picture, darlin,' it'll last longer."
Despite the low register of his voice, it snaps you from your trance like a gun shot. You're forced to meet the hold of his eyes; attention held and stuck by the dark shade made in flecks of a light green and rich brown and amber. For a pause too long, you're left to sit with your words lodged in your chest as the cuffs around your wrists come undone with a metallic rip, and the absence of their harsh pressure around your tender skin is like heaven on your flesh. All light and soft, even while they sting dully. It's only then that you manage to speak as you shake your hands out in the hopes of knocking loose the rest of the pain that thrums through your wrists.
"Yeah, but I doubt it would compare to the real thing," you quip back. It's completely corny, but it doesn't keep a smile from perking at Cooper's lips even though you can see a hint of what could be exasperation in his gaze.
"Careful," he chides and lets the cuffs fall onto the floor with a clatter. "You'd give a lesser man idea's." And with that he's rising himself up again
to shift around you. Stepping past your shoulders to analyze Vernon's body for anything that might be useful. You can't see anything with him sitting behind you, but the sharp sound of a knife being freed from its holster is enough to tip you off to his plans. Knowing him, he's probably inspecting to see whichever part of Vernon might be the plumpest to make some jerky out of the meat. The thought does have a grimace threatening to curl at your features, but you're able to hold it off. You've seen him carve strips and chunks out of people more than once, but the sight of it will never truly desensitize you.
But you've got scavenging of your own to do, and with a quick sweep of the floor your eyes land on Vulture's body near the entrance of the store; limbs strewn outward and skull bleeding in a crimson pool like some sort of morbid halo. But none of that is important. The only thing you care about is the backpack that's still clinging to his shoulders.
You try to mentally brace yourself before you lift yourself from the ground, but you're quick to find there isn't a single peptalk that could prepare you for the aching, bone deep throb of pain that lashes through your body. It's like you've been gutted at the atoms; cut open from your throat to your bellybutton. You think that you could actually sob, but the last, worn remnants of your pride keeps the water secured within your body as you limp over to Vulture's. He's only a few feet away from you. Eight at most, but it feels like an eternity passes before you're able to collapse beside him with a soft gasp.
His eyes are dull and faded now. Completely devoid of the violence and arrogance that had once lit them up, but no they stare at the ceiling; dead and unseeing. Maybe at one point, a younger version of yourself would have felt a twinge of guilt. Some sort of remorse, even though his death is more than deserved. But now all you feel is relief. Peace. It's like a drop in an ocean, but at least the Wasteland is devoid of one less asshole. One last violent soul who was even more guiltless than you.
Of course, he landed on his back, pinning the back underneath limp, spiritless weight. With a reluctant, tired sigh you grip ahold of his shoulder and forearm to start flipping him over. It takes a bit of effort, with the burden of his slack limbs and the searing pinch in your lungs and ribs fighting you in your endeavor, but you do manage to flip him. You're face twists up when you palms make contact with his chest, soaked and warm with a fresh coat of blood, but you swallow your complaints down. Once you get him on his side and shove, gravity does the rest of the work for you and his corpse lands face first with a blunt thump and you're quick to reach and slip his arms through the straps of the pack. You've got it free and stripped from his body in a manner of seconds and in your desperation you're quick to unzip the pack and hold it upside down to jostle its contents out, letting it all spill onto the tiles with a layered clatter. When you drop the bag, you're too engrossed in surveying the strewn jumble to fully register the thud that sounds out when you carelessly drop the pack on the floor.
Your eyes scan over various items; a box of matches, an old watch, and a balled-up piece of tissue that reveals a morbid collection of teeth when it unfurls. But the most important is the familiar sight of a needle with a rusted gauge crowning the opposite end of the barrel. Your fingers are a little clumsy when you reach for it, slipping with sweat and fried nerves as they wrap around the chilled metal and wires. You try not to focus on the deep ache that wracks through your body when you shrug your coat from off of your shoulder, draping it low enough to expose the expanse of your arm.
It's with a shaky breath that you lift the needle up to your forearm and sink it into the tender flesh of your inner elbow. It stings when you inject it, flooding into your veins like a dull, white heat. You have to hiss through your teeth, trying to block out the pain until it finally gives into something soothing. You can feel the effects of the medication spread throughout your body like a balm, shifting a near unbearable discomfort into a faint echo of itself. The crushing sting around your throat melts into something soft and docile and the burning in your lungs is nearly doused out completely until your finally able to breathe without gasping and choking around your own breath. It's relief, finally. After hours - almost a day of pain and misery.
"You never did say how they managed to get you all caught up." Cooper's voice sounds out again, pulling your focus behind you even while you slip the needle from your flesh and let it drop to the floor. Though, you almost wish that you hadn't started listening in on him, because you can hear the sharp and tearing sound of a blade flaying through meat.
"I was only ever aware of Thatcher. The other's got the jump on me." It's such an awful excuse. You've known that this entire time. But actually, speaking it aloud - admitting it to someone else is entirely different. It tastes rotten on your dry tongue, and you swear you could gag on it.
"Made you look like a fuckin' fool, huh?" You can hear the delight in his tone. It's grating and acidic on your nerves, but you distract yourself with the dry feel of your mouth. It has you remembering faintly the way that the bag had thumped against the floor when you had dropped it, and with some new hope in your chest, you slip a curious hand inside the pack with some strange optimism that there might be some water tucked away inside. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and cool, and your brain distantly registers that it might be glass.
"You don't have to rub it in," you snap, gripping your fingers around what must be the neck of a bottle.
"No. I don't," he agrees, but it's all sarcasm and selfish amusement.
You pause in your current task, a bit of confusion and frustration setting over your face. "You said that you were tracking the Silva Gang. How long were you following us for?"
"Caught up to ya when y'all entered that canyon."
"That was about five miles back," you say with a scowl. Honestly you aren't sure how to take that little revelation, and it has irritation thrumming over your entire body and settling in deep.
"Yeah, it was," he confirms casually, and another wet slice rips across the air before his voice dips into something teasing. "Truthfully, I wanted to see if you'd try and make an escape attempt. Imagine my disappointment when you didn't."
"Asshole," you curse hotly with the rush of anger that flares over you, and you tug at the bottle, but it snags on the clothe lining of the pack, stubbornly staying fixed in its place. The wet sound of Cooper's knife slicing through another chunk of flesh rings out, all damp and soaked with blood. You nearly groan aloud; at your wits end from your dehydration and exasperation, but instead of openly lamenting about or turning your attention onto him, you focus that energy and wiggle the container free from the bag. When you finally work it free, the sound of liquid sloshing against the glass could be considered musical. If your body wasn't already wrung of all of its moisture, you could have drooled. So when your eyes and brain finally realize that the fluid contained in the bottle is a rich, dark amber, nearly brown in the shade, the disappointment that prickles at you and pulls at your limbs nearly feels like it could become a physical thing. Your muscles bunch up with the flaring urge to hurl the bottle across the room and watch it explode in a burst of glass and bronze and gold.
But defeat settles afterwards, dousing out the rage into a faint simmer, and it leaves you to stare at the bottle wordlessly. Your eyes scan over the faded label, probably once a clean, soft white now soiled and stained by years, if not centuries of dirt and grime. The words and artwork that decorated the sticker are now muted and completely incoherent, but you're certain that the liquid inside is a type of alcohol. Most likely a whiskey or bourbon based on the color of it. You shake the bottle lightly, absentmindedly watching as the fluid inside ripples and lulls against the glass, glinting and twinkling in highlights of gold from underneath the dimming sunlight that pours in from the threshold.
"Hey, Coop," you call and dare to look over your shoulder. It's an immediate regret when you see that he's tugged Rocco's pants down and has been slicing of generous strips of the dead man's thigh meat. A large pool of blood surrounds Cooper's feet, staining the tiles in a heavy red that taints the air with iron and fresh death. An inquisitive hum rises from the depths of his chest; a low rumble that seems a little irritated from being disturbed. He flicks off another ribbon of flesh with a quick, practiced glint of a knife and leans a little to place the dripping piece down onto the saddlebags he's sat beside himself; lined up along the rest. "Feel like sharing?"
It's then that he finally bothers to look up at you, forcing his eyes away from his task, and they're quick to gravitate towards the bottle of liquor that you now hold up in the air. You brandish it like he had done with the keys to your handcuffs, and the look that crosses over his face is answer enough.
"Well, shit," he grins, all sharp and a little teasing. "Pull my leg, why dontcha."
It took a little while to move all of the bodies over from the store to one of the rooms in the neighboring motel. Cooper had been able to carry the majority of them like they were a sack of potatoes, but that hadn't kept him from nearly leaving you drag Vulture's corpse all on your own; abandoning you to grip onto the corpse's feet in an effort to drag it across the burning sand. It had taken a good amount of glaring and the threat to leave the body out in the open for him to help you in lug it inside with the others, tossing it on the ratty rust colored carpet for safe keeping. By the time you're both finished up the sun has already dipped low in the sky until it's brushing along the shadowed mountains in the distance while you both tuck away in the adjoining room. Still fully decorated and furnished. Frozen in time from a past that's well beyond you with various pictures of cowboys on ranches and looking over sweeping landscapes from the saddle of their mounts are hanging on walls where the wallpaper is peeling and stained. There's even a landline phone on one of the nightstands and a water damaged Bible tucked away in the drawer.
But the air in here is stale from dust, almost cloying with the scent of mildew even with the glass from the windows blown out, allowing a soft, summery breeze to drift in and circulate throughout the room. It does nothing to chase out the dirt and probably mold. But it all becomes little more than an afterthought with the warm thrum of alcohol simmering through your system, making your fingers and toes feel as though they've been dipped into steaming water. You've only taken a few swigs from the bottle, but it already has the beginnings of a decent buzz stuffing your head. Granted you haven't eaten in quite some time. So it probably isn't a good idea to be drinking in the first place, but you're a little beyond caring right now. All you want to do is relax after the absolute disaster that these last fifteen hours have been. To forget it entirely, even if it's only for the night. Though you didn't manage much more than a few sips of the old alcohol before the burn of it had become too scathing and nearly nauseating, and you've long since passed up to Cooper who's downed the majority of it in nothing more than a few gulps.
A low groan erupts from across the room, drawing your attention over to its origin like a magnet to steel. It's low and raspy, and it has your fingertips curling in on the canteen you have clutched in your grasp, nails burrowing into the thick leather like it might distract you. But it's an awful diversion when your eyes are unable to tear away from where Cooper has slumped himself against the cushioned backrest of the old armchair nestled in the corner. The expression on his face could nearly be described as euphoric - or maybe that's just your own perversion talking. The sunken lids of his eyes are closed and nearly fluttering while he tilts his head back to let the liquor flow down into his waiting mouth. Some of it slips past his lips, trailing down the shape of his jaw to trickle across his throat in a shimmer of faint amber before it vanishes underneath the edge of shirts collar.
The sight of it could have made your mouth run dry, and suddenly you're even more thankful for the canteens of water that you had both managed to find on one of the bodies. It's shameful the way you watch him, and you can feel embarrassment prickle at your face in response. But it's even worse when his eyes open and pin themselves on you as he lowers the bottle away from his lips. There's something knowing in his glance. It's amused and a little too perceptive, making you feel as though you've been caught red handed, and it has a fresh coat of what must be guilt rushing over you. But you don't have any reason to be humiliated. You were just looking at him. You've done it a thousand times; this one wasn't any different.
Still the way that he watches you is stripping, like he's weighing you again and finds what he's discovered entirely entertaining. So when he finally drops his attentions down on the bottle cradled within his palm it makes you feel as though you can breathe clearly again.
"It's been about over two hundred years since I've had some of this," he remarks aloud, shifting the glass in his hand to watch the contents lap and sway inside. "Old Maverick's."
Your eyebrows perk up curiously and you shift slightly in your position settled on the dingy carpet as you consider him. "You can tell what type of whiskey it is? "
He nods just the slightest, letting you know that he's heard you even though he doesn't spare you as much as a glance; too caught up in his own thoughts and reminiscing to bother. "I had an old buddy that used to drink this like water."
You can't hold back the disbelieving huff that rises from your chest at the comment. It's odd, as small as the remark is, for Cooper to make any allusions to his past. He's always been so guarded in what he shares with you - with anyone. Even when he told you that he was an old movie star, he had said it so jokingly that you had assumed he wasn't being serious. That he was pulling your leg to try and make a fool out of you. It wasn't until about a year after he had shared it with you, that you had truly believed him. It was back when you were trying to make a purchase inside of some trader's cabin, staring at the withered face of an old man that was trying to highball you on a pack of ammo. The smarmy grin on his face had made irritation itch down your spine, and the urge to reach out and strike him on the nose had been strong. But it wouldn't have gotten you anything other than kicked out or shot at, so you had slipped your attention off of him and onto the old TV set that sat behind him on the counter. It was playing some vintage grainy film - long before your time when the air wasn't tainted and radioactive, and families sat around a dinner table to eat steaming hot meatloaf and talk about work, and baseball and the quality of their lawns.
It was the man on screen that caught your eye. He was doused under the monochrome hue casted over the film, which projected a deep shadow over his face from the brim of his cowboy hat. Though it had done nothing to dull the quality of the pleasing, dulcet smirk on he wore while he leaned against the wooden support beam of one of those old western styled buildings. A smirk that had been directed at a pretty starlet whose mouth was busy delivering some sarcastic remark at his expense. But it was his eyes that had really struck you. Even though it was impossible to make out their true shade - turned dark under the black and white pigment of the movie - the familiarity of them had given you pause. The snarky trader's rambling had faded into the background while you squinted at the screen across from you, trying to place a man that you weren't even sure that you had ever met before, and the smirk on his lips had grown into a large, mostly one-sided smile. The familiarity of it had your realization hitting you like a ton of bricks, all abrupt and a little disorienting.
He hadn't been joking, or mocking you with the tales of some past, fancy life. He really had been a movie star with his face drawn and printed across newspapers and gossip magazines. He had a mother and a father, friends, a lover. He might have even had a family of his own that dined with him and sat at his dinner table to gossip about baseball and the lushness of their house's front lawn when he wasn't standing behind a silver screen and dressed up as a cowboy. Or a marshal, like he had been in that particular film; hunting down criminals and fighting for the decency and virtue of the Wild West.
It's kind of ironic actually, in a dark and depressing sort of way.
Cooper's attention shoots up to you in the form of a glare from the sound of your amused, disbelieving snicker. You can see the defensive way his muscles coil underneath the cover of his coat, all bunched up like he might jump at you with his teeth exposed in a wicked snarl. "The fuck are you laughin' at?"
You shake your head softly, and you can only hope that you properly show your apology on your face. "Nothing. I just - I'm surprised you had friends, is all."
Luckily, he seems to catch the jest in your tone and the subtle tension that had been there melts back into his casual indifference. "And why's that now?" He asks, angling his chin lower as his expression shifts into something impish and mirthful. "You can't say that you haven't been at least a little bit enthralled by my boyish charm. "
"Boyish? There's nothing "boyish" about you." You nearly laugh again, but this time your reaction doesn't do anything to dull his own amusement. If anything, it seems to amplify it with that way that it seems to dance and glint in his unwavering stare.
"But I am charming?" He says queekily, and the rough ridge of his eyebrows lift with the question. "Come on, I'm sure this ol' ugly mug does something for you."
It always throws you a bit when he gets like this. Playful in a way that isn't violent or sardonic, almost soft - not that'd you ever tell him that. These moments are always few and far between, nestled between the gore and brutality of the Wasteland like something rare and delicate. This is when he lets you see a hint of the man he probably was once before, back when his concern was house payments and landing a role for an upcoming film. It's a type of humor and demeaner that's so different from the venomous delight and selfish sarcasm that he often indulges in, and it never fails to make a melancholic ache gnaw away at the pit of your chest. It's always a painful realization, that he had a life and loved ones at some point. He was a person who loved and was loved in turn, and now it's all gone. Scattered away and volatilized by the consuming rushing plumes of heat, and energy, and pressure. But you couldn't tell him that. Just how much sorrow and regret you feel for him. He'd lash out and bare his teeth. For him it wouldn't be sympathy, it would only be pity, and that's something that a man like Cooper just can't handle.
And you do like feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your skin, just for an entirely different reason.
"And what if it does?" It comes out easily enough, even though it's anything but unsubtle. The tone of your voice is too telling to be considered a joke, and the knowing look that crosses his face lets you know that he's caught onto the insinuation. The dark glint in his eyes is one that you've been pinned under more than once, yet it never fails to make a shiver shoot down the separate ridges of your spine; like an animal that's wandered to close to danger but isn't smart enough to flee. It's gone so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop with the unhurried atmosphere around you slowing down into a sluggish but striking halt that makes it difficult to believe that the two of you aren't the only people left alive in a world so dead and violent.
"You sure you can handle this tonight?" His tone has taken on the low, graveled sort of edge. It serves as a warning, and it's only amplified with the way that his eyes glimmer from the receding sunlight that trickles in from the window in the shades of an ebbing gold and lavender, shining like the lethal cut of a blade or the barrel of a gun. It makes you feel frozen in place even though something molten licks through your veins and begins to smolder deep in the pit of your stomach. And you know what he's asking you, what he's cautioning you against. He won't be gentle, or sweet, or nice. Cooper is all want and greed. He takes and takes like something starved and gluttonous that's sole purpose is to devour and pick you down to the bone, all flayed open and quivering. But you don't want sweet, you just want him.
You could sit and tell him all the way's that you crave him, and all the things that you need him to do to you as proof of your desires, but you know that Cooper is a man of action and not words. If you really mean to prove to him that you need him to touch you, then you'll have to meet him halfway. It has you lifting yourself from the dingy mattress, making the springs groan and whine as you shift and rise to cross the floor. You could try to be sexy about it, swinging your hips enticingly to draw his attention in a performance, but you don't. He has to know that you're being serious, that this isn't a decision that you're making because of the stress or alcohol, but that it's something genuine and raw.
He watches you like a hawk as you approach, vision fixed to you like he might spring forward and snatch you if you so much as flinch. His fingers run across his thumbs, causing the leather of his glove to creak dully. There's a hunger in his gaze that should make you waver or reconsider your steps, but if anything, it only serves to have a dangerous rush through your body, fueling you with a risky sense of empowerment. It's like a drug almost, having one of the most dangerous men in the Wasteland looking at you like he could rip you apart and piece you back together again, all at once. Like he's going to break you with his tongue and draw blood.
You're close enough now that your knees almost brush along his. When you lift one of your legs to climb onto his lap, he's quick to place the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside him before settling both of his hands your hips, gently guiding you sit up top him even while his fingertips flex and threaten to bruise your skin. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once, entirely zeroed in on you with the rapt, analyzing sort of focus, like he's trying to notice everything about you at once, searching for a vulnerability to make you malleable and pliant if need be.
You let your hands settle along his shoulders, feeling the smooth but worn leather of his coat underneath your palms, all buttery and warm from the tepid air and the heat of him. Almost as though it has a mind of its own, one of your hands sweep close to his neck and you glide the pad of your thumb across the textured skin peeking out from his button up's collar, all raised and slightly gnarled from radiation exposure. You've always wondered if it ever hurts him to be touched, if the brush of your hands along his skin might sting or prickle. But you suppose that he might be too dopped up to even register the pain that might come with the old burns and damaged nerves. A look of relief always takes over his features when he drinks that pale amber liquid from those chem vials. The chems that keep him from turning Feral; all drugged and dulled as the effects of it course through his body to soothe and suppress those mental and physical ailments. But even with the chemicals in his system, he is still able to feel you. This you know for certain. You've witnesses the influence that your hands have had on him before. You've reveled in how he's pressed into your palm and demanded more while his chest has risen in greedy, panting breaths.
And that's all you want. To see his control slip again while he grips your hair to bare your throat to him so he can scatter more bites along the delicate skin, breaking capillaries underneath the wet suction of his tongue and parting flesh from the pressure of his teeth.
"I know what I'm asking," you answer firmly, fully resting yourself on the support of his lap. "And right now, I'm asking for you to touch me."
A dangerous smirk breaks across his face; the kind that immediately lets you know that you're in for nothing but trouble. He cocks his head when he considers you, eyes glinting underneath the brim of his hat. "But I am touchin' you, sweetheart."
This is another one of the moments where you could probably slap him if you weren't already so taken with the charming mischief dancing in his stare, the honeyed drawl of his voice. It never fails to make you a little weak in the knees, and it's a crack in your armor that he never fails to exploit to the fullest. There's already a dim pang of desperation growing in your chest, but you won't dare to let him know that. It's always a constant push and pull in this little dynamic that you've cultivated with him - a constant state of cat and mouse. And unfortunately for you, you're typically the mouse. But every once in a while, if you play your cards right, you can get his claws to slip just the slightest.
You lean close to him, angling your head just enough to keep from nudging his hat from its perch but also close enough to brush your lips against his. They're rough against your own, rugged from the texture of his skin and a little chapped by the baren, harsh elements just outside the safety of the room. But the shiver that trembles down your spine is far from disgust. It's excitement, clear and burning; thrumming along your nerves like an electrical current. The scent of him only strengthens it, perfumed with the earthy musk of soil and smoky with leather, and there's whisky on his lips, spicy and wooden, and you long to taste it. But you can't be too hasty, not with him poised to strike and sniffing out even a hint of weakness.
You take ahold of the lapels of his coat, running your fingertips over the stitching worked along the edges as you lock your stare with his own. "Come on Coop, do we really have to do this tired routine, again? " You murmur it lowly while leaning in to nip your teeth along his ear, relishing the subtle salt of skin when it washes over your tongue. "Can't we just treat ourselves, and give in?"
The grip on your hips tightens just a bit and you can feel him sweep his thumbs over you, though its agonizingly dull through the material of your pants, making it almost impossible to properly feel the way he caresses you. And then his voice rumbles out with the pleasing lilt, dousing out the tiny flicker of hope near your heart. "Oh, call me old fashioned, but I've always been at the mindset that it's best to take these sorts of things real nice 'n slow."
He wants you to beg. To give in and whine. And pathetically, with the way that one of his hands slips around your front to tease and toy with the button on your jeans, it already has fissures breaking along your sense of restraint. It's such a small touch, but the graze of his knuckles gliding across your skin leaves something blazing in their wake, making kindling out of your bones and threatening to set you on fire. But in your defense, you haven't been in the company of someone in a good while. The last person that you had touched had been him, and that had been all of those five months ago in Junktown, tucked away in some shady back alleyway before you both turned on each other in favor of trying to snatch up the bounty. You had left the dingy passage with your back clawed up from the rough exterior of a building and your knees smarting and stinging, and those little scratches and bruises have long since healed and vanished.
But you don't want to break just yet. You want to try and hold onto those slipping, fraying little pieces of your pride for as long as you can, but this his deft fingertips are popping the button of your pants open and gripping the zipper to tug it down on its tracks with a sharp, metallic hiss. It has your breath catching in your throat, and the oxygen is all but siphoned from your lungs when one of his fingers softly plucks at the elastic band of your underwear. Like he might finally humor you and slip it inside to properly touch you. But that's such a foolish idea.
"You know, I think I've missed you," he muses against your throat. You can feel the vibrations of it softly reverberating along the skin and tendons there, sinking in deep and humming along your blood. "Have ya missed me at all?"
It sounds like such a genuine question, but the tone he's using is entirely too mocking and yet your clouded over brain wishes to give him an authentic response. It's right there on the tip of your tongue, a single, devout yes. But you snap it shut behind your teeth before it can escape. Instead, you settle for a strained maybe, that nearly hurts to say, a bitter half-truth that taste like chemicals and ancient coffee grounds.
"Don't be like that now," he nearly coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. His face shifts, brushing the rough drag of his lips over the edge of your jaw as his free hand lifts to cradle your chin, guiding you to tilt your head and meet his eyes again. The leather covering his thumb glides over the shape of your bottom lip, while the colorful glimmer of his eyes captivates you and holds you hostage with shimmers of green and amber and rich brown. "I think you did miss me, my little hunter. "
You hate the heat and want that bleeds throughout your limbs and chest and trickles down from your spine to settle between the cradle of your hips. It nearly feels like a type of betrayal, that way that your body longs to give into him so easily, with nothing more than a few calculated touches and some honeyed words. And when he slips his thumb past your lips and into your mouth your mind nearly draws a blank, falling flat and fuzzy like radio static at the smoky taste of old leather. He flashes you that charming, crooked smile, and you're certain that you must look just as dazed as you feel. When you run your tongue along his thumb, brushing it along the stitching and seams, you see something spark in his stare, all starved and restrained like he's trying to keep himself from eating you alive.
"Why don't you get down on your knees and show me just how much you really missed me?"
Those words enter into your brain like a burning bullet splitting through empty air, piercing through the fog and stuffing packed into your skull abruptly. It draws all of your attention onto him, narrowing all of your senses down into a point to latch onto him. Even with the hunger and greed shining through his expression, you can still see a clear sense of patience showing through it all and it grounds you like a stream of warm sunlight cutting through the cover of heavy storm clouds. And despite his words, you know that he's waiting to see if you want to back out. Cooper is a lot of things: a murderer, a cannibal, and easily one of the most underhanded individuals that someone could cross paths with in the Wasteland. But if you uttered the smallest no or showed even the faintest hint of hesitance, then that would be that. You'd be back alone at your place on the bed, and he, sitting across from you while you both catch up on your lost time and exchanged stories and recite the past few of months in words and passing comments. But that's far from what you want right now.
You don't look away from him when you shift and slip down onto the floor, and his eyes trace you hotly when you settle between his spread open thighs and place your palms just above his knees. His warmth radiates through the worn fabric of his pants, soothing and grounding, but what really draws your attention is the familiar shape of his cock making a heavy impression against the hidden zipper. The sight of it alone has your mouth watering, and you swear that you can already taste him, all salt and musk and like a rough velvet against your tongue.
His head tilts and the action has the brim of his hat casting a soft shadow over his sunken eyes. "Get on with it then, it ain't gonna take care of itself," he remarks, a little condescending. His brows perk upward when he speaks, and the rumbling edge that his tone has adopted as anticipation and electricity singeing over your limbs and fingertips. And it has your hands lifting forward like they've been drawn up on a string, all impulse and instinct driving you forward to start working on the buckle of his belt and then the clasp of his gun holster. You're a little impatient when you slip the leather strap through the metal ring, with your movements all a little hurried and the amused huff of laughter that rises from his chest has you openly glaring up at him. The way that he casually meets your scowl nearly feels like some kind of challenge. There's an unsaid taunt in his eyes when you pinch the zipper of his pants between your fingertips and tug it downward over the metallic tracks.
That smug smile is pressing at the corners of his mouth, growing wider and threatening to show teeth when you impatiently tug at his pants, hooking your fingers into the belt loop to try and shift them down his waist. But it's only when you shoot him a pointed, unamused look that he finally lifts his hips to help aid you in your efforts and allows you to drag his pants down around his thighs. It's almost a little surprising when his cock springs from his pants, half-hard and already leaking a few drops of precum. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear.
You can see another taunt rising up in his expression, probably at the ready to leave his mouth and mock you, and that wicked glint in his eyes is more than enough to have you leaning forward with the desire to finally have him speechless. A challenge for sure, but you're determined. You take ahold of him in the grip of your palm and drop your jaw open to lick up the length of him. He's warm along your tongue, just as textured as the rest of his damaged skin, but it isn't unpleasant in the slightest. The taste of him spills over your palette like salt and a little musky, and the familiarity of it has you eager to take more of him. You hardly give yourself time to adjust to it before you slip the head of his cock past your lips and work more of it down until your nose brushes along his groin, and you can feel the weight of him press along the back of your throat until water threatens to well up in your eyes.
You hear hiss sharply through his teeth over the haze in your skull and the obscene sound of your tongue and mouth gulping around him wetly. His thighs clench and flex underneath your palms, hips twitching like he might already start thrusting until you're gagging around the thickness of him, so it surprises you when he holds himself back. His impulse control is such an unpredictable thing that seems to revolve entirely around his terms. Usually, he's intent on seeking out his pleasure. Not to say that he's entirely selfish - he always makes sure to leave you a breathless, boneless mess, no matter if it's an impromptu quickie behind a random building or an entire night spent on top of the roof of some old, dilapidated diner with the stars scattered above while coyotes cackle and yelp in the distance (that won't be a moment that you forget any time soon). But he's more than a little self-serving, and that often translates into sex. Particularly when getting head, he enjoys fucking your throat until tears are pouring down your face and you have to remind yourself how to breathe.
But he's being gentle, almost - something that you never would have associated with a man like Cooper. Though there's no other way to really describe it when he slips on of his hands over the side of your face, curling his fingers near the nape of your neck and gliding his thumb across the swell of your cheek. It's how you touch something that's delicate; made of porcelain or glass, and it might shatter and crumble if it's handled too harshly. It makes your heart ache and long for something that you weren't even entirely sure that you wanted from him.
Maybe he's sudden display of uncharacteristic sweetness is just his way of extending a sense of control to you after the sorry state that he had found you in, all clinging to air and bloody with a hand around your throat. It's such a simple thing really, but in a world as greedy and stripping as this one - from a man as selfish and ruthless as him, it almost feels a little vulnerable. And maybe it is a little stupid how a simple touch has a tender gash opening inside your chest, and a small barrage of emotion welling up to the surface and threatening to spill out. It doesn't help that you can feel his eyes on you when glide your mouth over him, all heavy and unwavering when you trace the subtle veins that trail across his length with the tip of your tongue. And even with the chaotic torrent of emotions that are trying to bubble up to the surface, you can't help but to delight in the way that his hips twitch and roll upward to meet you when you bob your head down on him.
It's all sort of pathetic. The flurry of admiration and want that pools in the center of your gut and pours downward in rivulets of liquid heat to settle in the apex of your legs, where you're already certain that you're wet. And when you dare to look up, glancing through the tears that blur your vision and cling to your lashes, you have to all but slam a door shut on every single one of those dangerous little feelings, packing them up tight and shoving them deep down when you meet the weight of his stare. His head is leaned back against the back rest of the chair, threatening to nudge his hat from the crown of his head and his lips are already parted to release quiet puffs of air that rise and fall from his chest.
It's dim. Sort of blink and you'll miss it, but you swear that you can nearly catch a kind of glazed over glint to his eyes. Like if he allowed himself, the pleasure could take him apart. It has the warmth smoldering within you fuming into a licking, desperate heat that feels like it could devour you whole. The expression on his face has you mind flatlining into something thoughtless until all you're nothing but impulse and want. You need to see more of that look. To watch the pleasure overcome him until his voice stretches out into rumbling sighs and fucked out swearing.
It has you doubling your efforts. You lift one of your hands to twist it over the girth of him, adding to the stimulation when you lap at the head of cock and take his balls into your free palm. The low, almost strained fuck that you get in response is like a reward, brushing a shiver down your spine like fingertips and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. It has a whine slipping from your chest, nearly choking you when you take more of him into your mouth and the walls of your throat flex and ripple over the girth obstructing your airway.
A dazed, bewildered moan escapes you when one of his hand grips you from its place around the back of your neck and guides you up until you only have the flat of your tongue against the head of his cock, catching the beads of cum that trickle from the slit.
"Easy there, now," he warns lowly. "Wouldn' want you to hurt yourself, now do we darlin'?"
The saccharine implications of his words and the subtle mocking of his tone has a conflicting set of responses rising in you. A part of you preens underneath his attentions and the other bristles from the taunt. In a small act of defiance, you halt the stroking of your fingertips from his balls and drop your hand entirely from him in favor of slipping it underneath your pants and the elastic band of your underwear. You can't help but to think him for unbuttoning your pants earlier when you nudge them downward until they glide along your clit in tight circles, spreading sparks and heat across your nerves and you mouth drops open even further into a drunk gasp. "Maybe that's what I want," you reply, even though your voice is already a little raw.
"Well, with way you're touchin' yourself from just suckin' dick, I'd say you'd like that," he rumbles softly with that sharp grin on his face. You can see the lust and delight burning in his eyes when you lick against the head of his cock and eagerly swallow the taste of him - too shameless to even register a shred of embarrassment at his taunt. It feels like your body might turn itself inside out when he grips ahold of his length just above your own hand; stroking himself and making the leather of his glove creak lowly when he guides the tip across your lips to smear them with spit and cum like perverted sort of gloss. "Oughtta grab those cuffs you were in earlier. Bind you up nice 'n tight and use you up until there's nothing left. . . If only I could remember where I tossed 'em."
It's disgusting how the thought excites you. It should be abhorrent. Something you should shy away from or openly reject considering that you had just been cuffed and dragged across the desert only a few hours earlier, but it only has something burning and heavy filling up your skull again. It threatens to sweep you under, clouding you mind over like a haze and the scent of him only intensifies it, all earth and dust and leather and salt. It's enough to have your mind twisting up and fraying around the edges until it might become completely useless. It makes it difficult to notice the impression of his hand slipping back around your neck again, digging into the tender flesh of your nape to guide your mouth back onto his cock.
You yield underneath the nudging pressure of his hand easily, allowing it to coax you downward until your throat is flexing and swallowing around his girth; saliva slipping past the suction of your lips to drip and coat him in a way that's entirely filthy. But you welcome and bask in it completely, relishing in how it aids you when you begin to work your hand back over him, syncing it up with the drag and glide of your mouth.
The hinges of your jaw are already beginning to ache a bit, straining from how he stretches your jaw wide to fit between your lips, but you still have absolutely no desire to stop or take a break. You can hardly even focus on the dull throb while you sweep your slick fingertips around your clit, flooding your veins with molten lust and endorphins. And it isn't long until you're rolling your hips against your own hand, and it has you almost completely pulled under, enraptured by the weight of and taste of him in your mouth and the pleasure you have building between your thighs. It makes you completely helpless. All caught up and moaning lowly around his girth when you sweep your tongue along the head of his cock in each upstroke before you glide your head down until he nudges the back of your throat.
"You know, I never did give you permission to start touchin' on yourself like some cheap slut," he comments, all casual and sardonic, but you can still a sweetened edge to his tone. A little too sweet honestly. It would have concerned you if you weren't already hazed over and unbothered, but you should have taken it as a warning, because he's suddenly shoving one of his legs between your thighs and rudely grinding the toes of his boot up between your thighs. The pressure of it crushes against your knuckles and forces you to remove your hand from your pants to try and evade the sting of pain that spreads along your tendons and the back of your hand. It has you split in your reactions, and in your confusion, it has an almost melancholic whimper bubbling from your chest at the loss of your fingertips while you also glare up at him through the blur of tears from you place on the floor. Though, you can't imagine that you seem all that imposing with his dick completely stuffed in your mouth.
The smug grin that he sports is confirming in that little assumption, and the arrogant glint in his eyes has a little trickle of irritation skipping down your back. "Don't worry, now. You've caught me a generous mood," he says, much too composed even when a soft groan rumbles from him at the wet glide of your mouth. "I'll play nice with you; just this once."
And then he's pressing his boot up against the heat of your cunt. Even with the layers of your pants and underwear still secure around your hips, the friction and weight of it against you is exquisite. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feel of it as you get caught up in the fire and burning, liquid honey that scolds and eats at you bones and flesh. The fit of your jeans is loose enough that it has the seam of them dragging along your clit, and it's only amplified by how he nudges the firm leather of his boot against you. It has your hips twitching and rolling over him mindlessly; your body instinctively seeking out pleasure before you have to consciously tell it to.
It all already entirely too much and too little. You can feel the creases in the leather along the top of his boot pressing underneath the material of your clothes, firmly grinding against the wet heat of your cunt in a way that's almost mean. A sob rises in your throat, begging to slip free but the gentle press of his hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned in place as he rolls his hips to work himself into your mouth. It's obscene, the way that you can hear yourself, whimpering and moaning weakly around the ceaseless thrusts of his cock; the sloppy, wet glide of your spit slipping past your lips and tongue.
You should be ashamed of yourself. A bounty hunter reduced to a mess with your knees digging into the dingy carpet while your mouth and hands are full of someone who should only be a rival. A threat to your survival and lively hood. But you know damned well that even if you weren't currently blowing him like you'd been paid for it that you could never bring yourself to see him as such. Cooper - even with as infrequent and unplanned as your interactions always are - has been the only constant in your life. The closest you've ever come to a friend or anything of the like. Everyone else is dead and gone. Killed off by time, circumstance or bad decisions. Ever since that night in the Mojave when you were both strangers with nothing more than the driving force to survive and the need to claim the same bounty there was an intrigue there. A morbid sort of curiosity that comes with leaning over to admire the depth of a canyon and wondering what it might be like to just dive in, and like a glutton for punishment you had been unable to resist the call to it. You had flirted with danger every chance that you had gotten; nearly each time you had crossed paths. He's been a sort of shadow in your life ever since. Always looming in hanging in your peripheral vision, even when he isn't close. Always present, despite being miles and months apart.
Maybe that's why you always end up on your knees or on your back whenever you cross paths with the ghoul. Not that you're complaining. Especially not now with fire searing at the base of your spine and settling deep inside the cradle of your hips. It has your cunt clinching around nothing, begging to be filled while you desperately roll them against Cooper's boot in a fruitless attempt to nudge yourself close to the edge that seems to rise and fall and extend out in front of you with no end in sight. You swear you could sob. And with the dim groans and rumbling breaths that nearly pant out of Cooper's chest he seems to be getting just as worked up as you. But you can feel his cock pulsing along your tongue and his thighs tense and clench, signaling that he's about to reach the precipice that you're helplessly dangling along.
You can hear him whispering over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears; hushed praises and snippets of "that's it - just like that." His head is still lolled back against the rest of the chair, chin tipped upward, and lips parted while his eyes are all lidded and dark and threatening to slip shut while he watches you. It's almost lethal, how gorgeous he looks like this. Just a little glazed over with pleasure, but still coherent enough to have a hint of that smug smile pressing at the corners of his mouth. Despite his viciousness; all jagged, rough edges and scathing sarcasm; gaunt and worn features crafted by the Wasteland, there's a brutal sort of beauty about him. A kind of repartee and charm that you don't find in many anymore, and you can still see a faint reflection of that suave, chivalrous move star in that smile of his. Even if it's just a vague ghost. A faded reflection of something - or someone - who's dead and gone and buried.
You like those old glimpses of Cooper that you've seen. The star that graced the silver screen and entertained and enraptured the masses with his gallant declarations and witty one-liners. That old version of him seemed kind with a sort of virtue and gentleness glinting in his eyes. Something that you're always unable to find reflecting in Cooper's gaze now that centuries of war and violence and bloodshed have carved him into an entirely new being. One that has to fight and tear and kill to survive. But you like this version of him too. Maybe just as much, skeletal features, jagged edges and all. You can't tell him that. Not when you can hardly admit it to yourself. Not when the revelation could tear apart this delicate little friendship that you've curated with him throughout the years.
But you can show him as best as you can. As best as he'll allow. And you'll pretend that every tough of your fingers, the stroke of your palms and the brush of your tongue along the salt of his skin is completely detached, even while it digs and cracks at some pathetic little piece of your soul.
You swivel your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the precum that's collected there as your work both of your hands along the base of him. You're desperate to taste him, to feel him pulse in your mouth as that long, guttural groan slips from his throat, and his thighs twitch and shudder. Just the thought of it has your hips working against the firm shape of his boot with even more fervor, shooting electricity throughout you with each grind along your clit. It already has your stomach clenching, muscles seizing up tight in the preparation to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy from your body.
You're both right along the edge, you can feel it. The anticipation of it has that smoldering, debilitating wave rising over you and cresting up higher with every roll of your hips. You can feel him throb in your mouth, only seconds away from coming. It has your body twisting up tight, moaning wantonly around the length of him while you eagerly await the rush of cum to spirt from his cock. But that's when the guiding hand on the back of your hand suddenly grips ahold of your hair, grabbing it tight to use it as leverage to pull your mouth from his length with a nasty pop just as your orgasm sweeps over you like a burst of fire and smoke. It forces you to make eye contact with him while bliss and heat ravages every ounce of you and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.
He doesn't even wait for the bliss and pleasure to subside or for you to get your bearings before he's all but lurching forward with a quickness that's frightening. You just hardly catch the dark, starved glint in his eyes before he's on you and sweeping you up from your place on the floor with a jarring speed. Taking you into his arms as his rough lips meet yours in kiss that's mostly teeth, and then he's backing you up, guiding you towards something that you can't see and nearly dragging you in his urgency while his hands grasp the back of your neck and hip with an iron grip. The ferocity behind it has you moaning, all wanton and depraved when he licks into your mouth, tasting himself and biting at your lips with the ardor of a man possessed. Your hands are everywhere they can reach, sweeping along the expanse of his chest and shoulder, slipping up his neck and knocking his hat free from the crown of his head to land somewhere forgotten on the floor.
He follows you down onto the support of something soft yet firm when the back of your knees hit what must be the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeak and groan in your shared weight. When he speaks next, it's nearly mumbled against your lips, grumbled out between the sharp, starved nips of his teeth. "You're too pretty for your own good," he drawls, breath tasting of whisky and salt. He pulls back just enough to look at you, supporting his hands on either side of your head as he wedges himself between your thighs. "I could just eat you alive." He dips his face into the crook of your neck and biting into the tender flesh there just harshly enough to sting. It's just enough for you to think that he might actually follow through with it and eat you alive; sink his teeth into you while you're vulnerable and dazed to lick your blood from his lips. It should disturb you that you wouldn't really mind it. But then his voice speaks out against your ear, thick and slow like molasses. "I think I'll just settle for fucking you."
That's when he starts shoving your pants down your thighs, shifting back enough to peel them down your legs roughly. When he reaches your boots, he doesn't bother with any sort of finesse or tact, he just starts tugging them from your feet and tossing them like he's being timed for it and is running behind. It has you worried that you might slip from the bed and your fingers sink around the old comforter to try and stay latched on as he finally pulls your underwear and jeans free from you, digging your nails into the stitching sewn into the blanket like it might help you stay put. But he's on you with all of the fervor of a wild animal, eyes blazing even in the dark that's fallen over the room.
You're completely enraptured while you watch him slip two of his fingers between his lips, biting into the tips of his glove to tear the leather from his hand before spitting it out somewhere on the mattress. But even with the entirety of your focus zeroed in on him it still takes you by surprise when he reaches down and swipes his fingers along your cunt, spreading you open to glide one of his knuckles along your clit. It has your back bowing and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream from the pressure of it. You're still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and your nerves feel as though they've been zapped with an electrical current. It has you hissing through your teeth, your breath snagging in your lungs while your body writhes and jerks like it isn't sure if it wants to squirm away or lean closer to his touch.
"You're fuckin' soaking," he gloats openly with a shameless grin.
"Cooper - I don't know if I ca-"
"You can," he insists. His voice is coated with a layer of satisfaction and perhaps even humor, but there's still an edge of patience to it despite the boastfulness. It almost seems like enough to center you, quieting your thoughts down in to dim background noise. But it's the brush of his lips along your own that truly silences everything, drawing you attention onto him when he licks into your mouth, still tasting like whisky. It's almost enough to distract you from the tight circles he draws around your clit, forcing a broken whine from your throat when he replaces his fingertips with his cock, smearing your cum along his length in filthy, teasing glides.
Now you find yourself pulling him forward, slipping your hands around the back of his neck and hooking your legs around his waist to tug him closer even though you're still too sensitive; lit up like a live wire from his touch. It has you gasping into his mouth, nipping your teeth along his bottom lip like you might be the one to eat him alive this time, and the pleased rumbling sigh that rises from his chest feels like a reward all in itself. For a moment everything is all soft. Placid and unrushed despite the frantic, zealous edge to it. Like you've been drawn into a hushed pocket of time. But it's just as dangerous as it is gentle. Begging to lure you into a sense of comfort and adoration that you can't afford to succumb to. An adoration and comfort that you know that a man like the Ghoul will never be able to give- the vicious, maverick creature that he is.
Loyalty in the Wasteland is a liability just as much as it's an advantage. It's the people you cherish the most that cut the deepest. They slow you down and keep you tied. A death sentence for a world so violent. It makes your time with him limited. Always borrowed until the seconds tick down to zero and either one of you slink away until you cross paths again weeks or months later. After tonight you aren't sure when you'll see him next. If you'll ever see him again. There aren't any guarantees in this life, and at any moment your days could be cut short. A single bad decision or one bad move and your breath could be snuffed out like a weak fire on a short wick. You aren't sure how much longer you have left, but here and now it's safe to pretend that there's more waiting for you. That he won't slip away into the night as soon as the rush has worn off and the tension has ebbed from your bodies.
It's the drag of his cock slipping over you harshly that snags you from the chaotic scatter of your thoughts, forcing your attention to snap onto him abruptly. The look in his eyes fixes your focus onto him like it's magnetized. There's a weight and fervor burning in them that leaves you completely breathless, pinned underneath his gaze and left malleable and wanting. But the smug, calculating glimmer to it should have tipped you off that he's planning something, because it's the only warning you get before he's notching the head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt and shoving himself into you in a single thrust.
Your jaw drops in a silent cry as your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands scramble for purchase, clawing and clinging to the leather of his coat, slicing along the material and probably leaving visible marks along the tanned hide while you try to hold on and survive the wild pace that he's set. He's driving into you with a sort of ardor that already has your back bowing, driving his cock into you with debilitating strokes that punch the air from your lungs each time he bottoms out. You feel like you've been set on fire, all tingling, burning nerves and electricity rippling up your spine while he splits you open on his length.
It's stupid how easily he always reduces your mind to a useless pile of mush. But no matter how many times you wind up underneath him or on top of him, he always manages to strip you down to your basest levels. And the way that a bout of low, guttural groans slips from him with each thrust has you squirming even more, meeting his rhythm with the roll of your hips. You feel the sound of him more than you hear him with his breath puffing against the crook of your neck and reverberating along your chest as he mouths along your throat with the sharp scrape of his teeth and the soft brushes of his tongue. The sounds echo along the room are filthy, filled with the sharp, repetitive squeak of the mattress's springs and the wet slap of skin on skin. It's all a little filthy. The unrestrained way that he fucks into you, the tender bruises that he's leaving along your neck - like he's trying to leave his claim on you. Like he wants to carve a place for himself inside of you that no one else will ever be able to fill. Making you a wreck and mess just for him.
The buckle of his belt has become pinned between both of your bodies, and the chilled brass and silver rubs against your clit with each and every thrust. But it's the bumps on the plating that really make you twitch, almost forcing your body to tighten and clench around his girth with each deep drag. It has you gasping in seconds, clinging to his shoulders like the support of them underneath your palms might save you.
Sharp, warbling moans split across the air, and it takes your sluggish brain a few moments to register that it's your own voice that's whining and sobbing. You can feel your lips moving, the shift of your tongue in your mouth but you can hardly comprehend what you're even saying. It could be anything from rambling pleas to cries of Cooper's name, but you can't be entirely sure. Not when your body is already coiling up tight, muscle seizing and your abdomen bunching up while that familiar surge of smoke, and fire, and ecstasy rises up to take you over and apart.
It has you entirely conflicted, mourning the thought of already reaching the end and what might happen afterwards, but your body also craves the release. It has you staring up at the ceiling while you cling to him, darting your vision along the cotton webs and dust that sticks to the surface like it might stave of the wave of bliss that threatens to pour over you. But he must be able to tell that you're resisting somehow, because of course he can.
He nudges his head back from its place along your throat, and his bare hand rises to grip your face between his fingers. Stroking along your chin and your lips as he stares into your lidden eyes with a sharp grin. "Come on now, sweet girl, what'er you holdin' back for?"
It almost sounds rhetorical in your dazed out state, but honestly, you couldn't answer him properly even if you wanted to. The way that he pistons himself in and out of you gives you no breathing room to form a coherent sentence or even so much as a word. Your tongue is useless in your mouth, and it leaves every little motion that you make nothing more than instinctual. Driven by pure impulse and bodily desire as you scratch your nails along his back and cry out into the dark. And it's now that you realize that you are indeed saying his name. Whispering it out brokenly alongside wild, broken cries of rapture.
One particular thrust from him brushes along that devastating spot inside of you and it has your spine arching in almost painfully and you toss your head back with a noise that's close to a sob. Like a feral animal drawn to a weakness, he's unable to resist the exposed collum of your throat and suddenly you can feel the wet, hot heat of his tongue laving along your neck. No doubt feeling the scattered thrum of your pulse and blood beating wildly and coursing throughout the veins underneath your tender skin. The damp drag of it continues upward until glides up to the edge of your jaw where he nips and bites with his teeth like he might sink them in deep and gulp down the rivulets of red that would pour from the wound.
"I can feel you fuckin' squeezin' me," he groans raggedly, now staring into your eyes. His glimmer faintly in the final scraps of light that trickle in from the twilight. Searing and gleaming like the vision of some sort of otherworldly entity that's come to take you in the night and drink you of all of your vigor and affections; leaving him incomparable to anyone else who may touch you.
You try hard to bite back the scathing fire that's ripping across your nerves and atoms like something molten and consuming, but your body is yielding to it despite that fact that you don't want to give in yet. You don't want this moment to end. You aren't ready for the quiet that may come afterwards. The way that you'll have to pretend to be indifferent and unaffected when he begins to buckle his belt and holster before he disappears into the dark. And you'll be left to wonder if he's alive or hurt as he trudges across the barren earth in search of the thrill of a fight, and the gore-soaked glory that comes with it. But even with all of your fears and anxieties looming in the back of your mind like unwelcome phantoms it's too difficult to stave off the bliss scorching at your flesh and rushing alongside your blood. Not when he's holding you so closely, and the scent of him hands heavy in the air like leather and rich soil. Not while he's still holding your face in a grip that could almost be taken as soft with the sensation of his bare palm cradled against your skin. It's warm and intimate.
You can hardly see him anymore with the final traces of the sunlight having finally wanned behind the distant mountains, but you can still make out his silhouette above you. You can still feel him, firm and real and present; you can hear his breath and words in the hushed, heavy atmosphere. It's such small things. Little minute details that hurtle you closer to the end. It makes you latch on to him with even more fervor, hitching your legs around him tightly and digging the heels of your feet into his lower back.
"Quit holdin' yourself back," he it urges in a snarl against your lips like a devout prayer, like an addict asking for absolution or another fix, and the hot coil in your gut burns hotter. "Let me fuckin' feel you. Just let go for me - you can let go."
That's all it takes for the band to snap and the waves to crash down on you in an unforgiving torrent. Everything in your winds up tight simultaneously as a rush of an almost violent sort of euphoria tears throughout you and leaves your lungs gasping for even a shred of oxygen. You're certain that you might be screaming. Your throat feels raw enough. But it's difficult to make sense of anything while stars dance across your vision in a flurry of burning white like you've gone lightheaded and might faint. And you might would have if not for the support of the ragged mattress underneath you or the grounding weight of Cooper above you, still driving himself deep inside you with heavy, practiced strokes as he chases after his own release.
The aftershocks of you twitch throughout your body, forcing weak sobs from your empty lungs as the pleasure melts back into that electrical sort of overstimulation. It makes you weakly lift up your head to bite into the leather draped over his shoulder as your body bears down on the girth of his cock to wring out his pleasure. And the ragged string of curses and loud, guttural groan that breaks out across the room is quickly followed by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout your cunt, stuffing you with his cum with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before he collapses on top of you.
The hush that falls over the room is almost jarring now- a complete juxtaposition to the desperate pleads and blissful sighs that had filled the space just moments before. You can still smell the scent of sex in the air, all tangled up with the fragrance of tobacco and leather that always clings to him like a kind of cologne. It seems so bittersweet now. And when he pulls out of you - the both of you hissing lowly from the sensitivity that it brings - you expect to hear the familiar metallic chime of him slipping his belt through its buckle so that he can right himself to leave.
But he doesn't do that.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he huffs and rolls over onto his back with a ragged groan, situating himself next to you before he curls one of his arms around you to guide you to lay alongside him. Your head is cradled along his chest, allowing you to listen to the wild, steady thrum of his heart raging underneath all the blood and bone while you both pant and collect yourselves. It brings a comfort and fondness to you that you still know is stupid to entertain, but it's so damn easy to give into. Everything with Cooper is always so damn easy with him even though he's as difficult as they come. And you suppose that's what's made you so helplessly stuck on him. How easily you've been lulled into this relationship with him, this cat and mouse game; the constant, simultaneous state of both confidant and rival. It's isolating and welcoming all at once. Despite being such an infrequent presence in your life, he's also managed to become such a permanent fixture as well. The mere thought of his absence always leaves you completely lost, and you aren't sure how to deal with that.
"You should try and get some shut eye," he mumbles, and you swear that you can feel the brush of his lips against your forehead, much too gentle and delicate for a man so rough. It has a smile threatening to break across your face and suddenly you're thankful for the darkness, and the cover it provides. The last thing you need is for him to taunt you for going soft, even though you certainly could do the same to him with the way that he's got you curled against his chest. But for once you don't have the urge to ruin with moment with sarcastic quips or well-meaning insults. You want to stay here forever. Even though you know it's impossible to remain paused in this moment with the delicate, cooling desert air gliding into the room to brush along your bare skin like a lover's fingertips.
For once in this hellscape, everything is quiet. Intimate and peaceful. But just like always it's all on borrowed time. And come a few minutes or maybe hours, if you're lucky, Cooper will lift himself from the old bed and slip into the dark to claim whatever poor soul manages to catch his eye. But here and now, you can play pretend. You can imagine that when you wake up in the morning, while the horizon is blossoming with the golden hue of the dawn, that he'll still be here to greet you with that honeyed drawl. It's a fool's dream. But dream you do.
#the ghoul x reader#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#cooper howard smut#the ghoul x you#cooper howard#fallout x reader#fallout
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⭑ HC’S OF SLASHERS WITH A BIMBO S/O
⭑ authors note: this was very fun to make so feel free to request any similar head canons also lmk if i should make a part two with more slashers :)
⭑ warnings: small mention of kidnapping, some of them immediately make your appearance sexual (sorry but they’re very mentally unstable), stalking, mention of panty stealing, corruption kink, aged up stu as if he got away with the killings and went on to college, small mention of fucking in a bathroom, basically they’re all perverts to some extent (sorry)
⭑ characters: thomas hewitt, michael myers, bo sinclair, lester sinclair, vincent sinclair, stu macher
no detailed smut, but minors don’t interact please!
THOMAS HEWITT
- living in the conservative and rural south, i doubt he’s seen many people decked out in as much pink as you while also simultaneously wearing as little clothing as possible
- luda mae will definitely judge you by the way you dress but once she gets to see how well you treat her tommy she’s letting it slide and excusing it by saying that it’s necessary to dress like that in the heat or something
- once you’re an established person in the hewitt residence i feel like they wouldn’t really have to hide their cannabalism from you too hard due to you being you know . . . oblivious
- hoyt would 100% make some sort of remark to you that has thomas fuming, like he knows you’re such a kind and gentle person and hoyt should not be trying to get with you like that, even if you don’t necessarily notice that he’s being sleazy toward you
- i know thomas would low key struggle to contain himself around you and is definitely ashamed about it because he should not be feeling this way when you’re not even doing anything necessarily sexual
- like he feels pathetic palming himself in secret while thinking about you in your short skirts and tight tops but after you find out about this he’ll absolutely let you help him out with it
- imagine trying to calm the creaking from his bed so his family doesn’t hear as you ride him silly with your skirt rolled up your thighs and his big hands holding onto your waist . . .
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
MICHAEL MYERS
- the amount of pink you’re wearing is what first catches michaels attention. he definitely stalks you at first and just watches you waltz around in your bright pink attire, oblivious to michael watching you, very obviously too.
- to be honest i think this would frustrate him at first, like why aren’t you noticing that there a dangerous man following you around?!
- oh my god and if you’re someone who constantly forgets to lock their doors? michael is literally taking that as an invitation to break into your place. he doesn’t even bother to hide whenever you come walking down stairs in your short and cutesy matching pajama top and bottoms, he just waits for you to notice.
- mans is absolutely baffled whenever you turn to him and instead of freaking out, you just smile and ask him if he’s hungry. i would like to say that he would take this invitation and take a container of whatever food you have and then just awkwardly leave and question his whole entire existence.
- he comes back though, because even murderers have to eat, right? he just keeps coming back to your house frequently until he’s practically living with you.
- i feel like one day you would probably see him on the news while looking for something to watch and be like oh my god my new roommate is a killer? well . . . he hasn’t hurt me so it’s whatever i guess . . . wait! that’s why he never pays rent?
- once you guys cross the line from roommates to a couple, he will honestly be a little concerned for your well-being, like how does someone as oblivious as you even make it through the day?
- don’t worry though, michael will absolutely stalk you to check in on you and will murder anyone who does anything to you :)
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
BO SINCLAIR
- to be honest, this mf is gonna sexualize you immediately. He’s turning his charm levels all the way to 11 and trying to win you over in his own manipulative and slightly hot way though.
- he definitely gets annoyed by you being clumsy, but he uses that as an opportunity to 100% be a pervert by letting his hands wander or just straight up staring down at your tits or ass.
- trust me, as soon as this man is in your vicinity he is rock hard because he literally has the dirtiest mind ever and has absolutely no chill. ( this makes the sex 1000% better though )
- he for sure has nude polaroids of you in his wallet, like imagine gifting them to him sealed with a bright lipstick stain on the back and a cutely drawn heart. he also jacks off to these in the back of his shop because he has no shame when it comes to you as i said earlier.
- he probably wouldn’t worry much about you leaving due to you being oblivious to the situation you’re in but he would definitely be more protective of you because of this when you get to know each other more.
- like if any tourist tries to do or say anything to you that he doesn’t like? he’s gonna try and keep his act together with clenched teeth and a strained smile before killing them off himself instead of sending them to vincent or something.
- definitely makes fun of you for being a naive klutz though. like he will manipulate you to the max to get you to comply for him, he’ll say things like “just please do it for me, okay sugar?” and have you wrapped right around his finger.
- the same kinda goes the other way, just to an extent. after a while of you laying some sweet loving on him he’ll definitely be asking lester to pick you up some pretty lipsticks and anything that he thinks you’ll find cute.
- over all, you’re bo’s walking wet dream and he literally can not get over you especially after you guys get in a relationship and to you he’s just your silly little mechanic boyfriend who lives in a weirdly empty town.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
LESTER SINCLAIR
- lives for the aesthetic and finds you so pretty but is a total pervert and he, like bo, uses your naivety to his advantage
- he gives panty stealer vibes to me, like i know he probably acts all innocent and puppy eyed around you but as soon as you look away for one second he’s going into your room and stealing your panties you know? (he still does it while you’re in a relationship too, because this man can not be stopped)
- say you work at a cute little diner he likes to frequent (because of you) he will go there every other day and butter you up only to leave the parking lot of the diner and jerk off into his hand on the side of some abandoned road . . .
- he will find a way to be with you whether it be literally stealing you away or finding you on the side of the road after your cars broken down and convincing you to stay with him. and with the second option being more likely (he will mess with your car and plan out the whole thing) you won’t even realize he’s got you tied in with him forever
- you’ll just think lester is the sweet southern man from the diner who’s turned into your boyfriend who takes care of you and let you move into his place really quickly
- He absolutely has a corruption kink, like he loves the idea of being with someone so perfect and just absolutely ruining them. he also definitely has you christen his truck for “good luck” by fucking you in there until you’re a sticky sobbing mess.
- but on the softer side of things, i know lester is so greatful for you and can’t believe that someone as sweet and pretty as you could love him. especially as someone who wasn’t loved properly as a child :(
- and he’s so protective over you too because he knows how mean the world can be and he doesn’t want anyone else to hurt you. so he’s definitely extra careful when he has you in the car and is picking up tourists. it’s low key funny because he’s over here worried they’re gonna say something mean to you and not that you’re gonna find out what he’s luring them into. if they do something though, he makes sure to tell his brothers to make their death slow and painful :)
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
VINCENT SINCLAIR
- he absolutely adores you, like he loves having a silly lil naive pink loving partner.
- anytime you’re having one of your airhead moments he will calmly explain to you in more detail until you understand what he’s talking about :(
- he loves drawing you, he does it so much it’s to the point where his pink colored pencils are getting shorter and are always dull from use. he hangs the drawings up all over his walls and stuff too, which literally has you leaving kisses all over him and drowning him in compliments (he gets very flustered)
- tries to keep you away from the fact he turns people into wax statues, but is glad that you don’t even seem to notice! imagine you complimenting him on how life like they look and he’s like :-|
- probably very protective over you, especially if you come into contact with bo . . . who has no shame in flirting with you but you’re just like no thanks i have a perfectly awesome and cool boyfriend :) (bo’s ego was very hurt that day)
- this immediately has him rolling all over the house and happily dancing because he loves you so much and you’re all his
- just because he feels like this doesn’t also mean he’s not a perv like the rest of them though (you thought you were safe muahaha) he probably has so many nude drawings of you, mans absolutely gets every detail in them too
- he hides them from you at first but if you find them . . . oh my lord he’s gonna be so embarrassed . . . and hard. seeing him depict you so beautifully, probably splayed out on pink sheets too, immediately has you on your knees for him.
- i don’t care i would suck this man dry to show my appreciation, like until he has tears in his eyes and he’s just uncontrollably bucking his hips into your mouth
- basically he loves you in pink and is your #1 supporter!!!
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
STU MACHER
- absolutely whipped for you and you have him following you around with heart eyes all over campus
- doesn’t tell you about his side hobby of killing people, because he honestly doesn’t feel the need too since you believe him anytime he says the red staining his shoes is paint.
- absolutely gives you the princess treatment since he has all that money from his rich parents, so he buys you new clothes, gives you mail money, money to get your hair done, ect, ect.
- but he also does it with his actions you know? like he absolutely opens the door for you with a dramatic bow and says something like “after you, m’lady”
- he’s the type of guy that will go out of his way to look up your skirt to fluster you though
- he’s still a pervert but he’s more jokey about it, for example, he makes all sorts of dirty jokes and giggles like a maniac when you don’t understand them. when you do though, you’ve got him down on his knees for you, if you respond back by flirting, just know he’s taking you off to some bathroom and absolutely fucking you dumb and when you’re done he’s flipping your skirt back down and leaving the bathroom with a spring in his step.
- basically you’re just his sweet lil bimbo partner who he spoils endlessly in kisses n’ nice stuff who thankfully never notices the blood staining random items in his apartment :)
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
#thomas hewitt x reader#michael myers x reader#bo sinclair x reader#lester sinclair x reader#vincent sinclair x reader#stu macher x reader#slasher fucker#slashers x reader#dahliaslove horror#slasher smut#bimbo reader
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Types of obnoxious batfam stans
Written by an obnoxious batfam stan
Not really a rant but something I've noticed over the years interacting in different spaces and I've decided to make your problem now.
Please note that I'm not saying there's any "right" way to be a fan because we all suck by virtue of being comic nerds, but there are certain kinds of batfamily fans that stick out to be in particular.
Anywho, here are 12 kinds of annoying batfam stans that you've probably run into and you better get a laugh out of it *points gun to your head*.
1) The Newbies Who Never Heard of Google
There's no shame in being new to something. It's a phase that we're all guaranteed to go through, whether we're 11 or 101. However, in this day and age, so many things can be easily googled that you don't need to shout every question you have into the VVorld VVide VVoid. If you need comic recs or a reading list, google it. If you wanna know a character's origin story, google it. If you need to know the color of Batman's underpants in a particular issue in 1965... well that's probably too specific for Google but Reddit will definitely have an answer.
2) The Middle School Authors
Before the 13-year-olds get up in my notes, I'm not saying everyone that age writes like this. Middle school is a state of mind. These fanfic writers usually stand out in a few ways.
They're oftentimes first-person POV or reader-insert. Give Y/N a break, she's tired.
The grammar is stunningly atrocious. I get if you're inexperienced or if you're writing in a second language, but we are in the prime era of autocorrect. If you need help, it's right there. Also, fuck c*nsoring b*d w*rds and fuck "unalive."
The characters do things that are out-of-character because the author is projecting their own personality. Bruce Wayne is a lot of things but he does not listen to the fucking Mountain Goats.
There's a lack of experience or research when it comes to certain topics. That's not how physics works. He can't walk that injury off. And that's definitely NOT how you do the horizontal hokey pokey.
3) The Neckbeards
Unfortunately, these basement-dwelling mouth-breathers tainted the image of what a comic fan is, though that's been changing recently. Still, we've all seen them. They gatekeep via pop quizzes, 'cause obviously you're not a real fan unless you know what page 10 of Batman #138 smells like. They give unsolicited commentary on people's cosplays, nitpicking the guys and being gross toward women. And heaven forbid the comics add a little diversity.
4) The Moviegoers
Nothing inherently wrong with getting into the fandom via the movies, nor is there anything wrong with sticking to that. I just feel like we're two different species of Galapagos finches, you know?
5) The Christopher Nolans
Separate from casual fans of the Nolan movies. I'm calling them the Christopher Nolans because these people have a tendency to reach for the grimdarkest thing possible. It's like they cannot fathom Batman having any other emotions besides punching and gargoyle brooding.
6) The Canon Purists
Wanna share a fun headcanon? NO, because Stephanie Brown never used cherry lip balm in the comics so therefore that must be the absolute truth. These people are a stickler for comic accuracy to the point where it's like... why bother interacting with the fandom in the first place? The worst part is when they're adamant on following a single continuity and refuse to consider anything else. This is comics we're talking about. Everything either has been or will be canon at some point.
7) The Fanon Worshippers
On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the people who base their entire perception of the characters on something either they pulled out of their ass or that their mutual with 16 followers came up with, despite evidence directly contradicting it. I love WFA, but I feel like that's partially responsible for further perpetuating certain popular myths. Also, these fans tend to focus solely on the batfam/their ships. It's one thing to have some people in the foreground vs. background, but put some respect to Bart Allen's name you goddamn cheesecakes.
8) The Golden Age Dads
These guys aren't really obnoxious. I actually find it kind of cute how they think Jason Todd is still dead.
9) The Chronically Online
I have a rule of thumb when it comes to discourse: if it's not something I'd hear about at a bar, it's not worth my mental energy. Some people haven't gotten the memo, though.
These are either the well-intentioned but misinformed teenagers or grown-ass adults beefing with children because they don't have a life. They have takes that are oversimplified, rage-inducing, TikTok algorithm attention-grabbers that no one cares about in real life.
Don't get me wrong, we've got a bunch of issues in comics and fandom that are worth discussing. However, there comes a point where you're splitting hairs and need to go the fuck outside. I'm not gonna link the post 'cause I don't wanna call them and their 7 notes out, but the other week I saw someone saying Stephcass was a racist ship because something something colonialism parallel. You gotta be Elastigirl to have that kind of reach.
10) The Corporate Simps
I love comics. I appreciate the writers and artists. However, you will find my carcass in a ditch before you catch me licking the boots of DC/Warner Bros. Basically, these fans, fewer as they are, can't seem to fathom that their favorite franchise can (and does) put out some steaming motherfucking garbage.
11) The Hot Cosplayers
Not actually annoyed, I'm just a little jealous. Stop being hotter than me, please and thank you.
12) The One With A Punchline For Everything
Wait–
#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#duke thomas#stephanie brown#cassandra cain#barbara gordon#kate kane#alfred pennyworth#selina kyle#bruce wayne#batman#batfamily#batfam#batboys#batbros#batkids#batsiblings#batman family#dc comics#dc fandom#comics#comic books#fandom#fandom culture#discourse#personal#tw swearing#long post
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Hello! If you’re taking headcanon requests, may I please request headcanons for what Count Dracula & Erik the Phantom would be like as husbands?
dracula and erik as husbands !
✧ warnings — some mentions of death and possible spoilers for dracula and phantom of the opera. also like 2 sexual jokes i think
✧ additional info — i got so so excited by this request omg <3 if u wanna id rlly appreciate it if u sent me more requests for phantom of the opera and classic monsters!! also not really specific versions of them but i mainly had the book versions in mind
✧ m.list — nav.
ೃ༄ erik destler
he wouldn’t wait to marry you
like at all
the second you show him you’re willing to be in a relationship with him and he’s sure you won’t leave him he’s already planning your wedding
of course if you wanted to take it more slowly he might be a little impatient but he’d try his best for you :)
but he’d be so happy if u were ready to get married as soon as possible
the sad thing is he’d get so stressed while trying to plan it because he’d want it to be absolutely perfect because that’s what he didn’t get with christine
and he’d try to convince you not to worry about it or help plan the wedding becaus he wants it to be a surprise for you
however he’d talk to you about what you want <3
so unfortunately he doesn’t know a lot of people 😭 so your wedding audience consists of daroga, mme giry, and maybe christine and raoul if ur lucky and manage to convince them (but they’ll be a little on edge)
and u can invite ur family if they’d be accepting of erik!
once y’all are married it’s so sweet and romantic ohmygod
he’d make u breakfast and dinner every single day, even if he’s had a particularly bad day
he just loves doing things for you
he’d also love writing even more songs and sometimes even entire operas for you or about you, you’re his muse
before he was able to take breaks from bis work to focus on you for awhile
but now you’re married he just can’t be away from you for two minutes
will sit on the floor and talk to u while u shower
or he showers with u
his love language is spontaneously twirling u around and redoing ur wedding dance in the most random places
also carrying u to ur bed if u fall asleep on him or somewhere else, before marriage he’d just let u sleep there and make sure he doesn’t wake u up
such a sweetheart <3
ೃ༄ count dracula
takes his time to marry you
but that’s only because he takes a lot of time working out when and where to propose and shit
and then probably has the wedding planned before you even say yes
which obviously you do
he’d be a little cocky abt u saying yes ngl cause he already knew u would
but the wedding itself obviously takes place at night and mainly other vampires will show up, but he won’t let them remotely near you assuming he hasn’t turned you yet
if he has then go talk to them!! there’s no risk of u dying or getting turned by someone else!!
he’d also rlly like cooking for u and shit since he canonically had to sprint around his castle to make it seem like he had butlers or whatever 😭😭
how good is fucking amazing btw
like god damn
and obviously he has a comfortable ass vampire bed that he’d let u put 60 pillows on if u want
he’d also like have a thing for ur hair no matter how short or long it is
he likes standing behind u and running his hands through it when u do literally anything for funsies
and his fingers are really pretty and long and cold so they feel nice
he also brushes it a lot esp in the mornings
he also doesn’t even look another persons way when he’s with u
ever.
and his brides are now just. draculas sisters or wtv 😭
unless u want them to be ur wives too he won’t complain
as much as he loves you there’s time where he js like. wants personal time to go kill people think
id also imagine ur very close with renfield
like draculas kinda mean to him but ur rlly nice to him <3
like for example waving at him when u see him or just going “hi renfield!!”
renfields probably the one who found u ngl
i can’t think of anything else for him mb pookie 😔 i’ll add to this later
#mars writing 🧈#dracula#dracula x reader#dracula novel#phantom#phantom of the opera#erik destler#poto#phantom of the opera headcanons#erik destler x reader#dracula (marlees version 🩸)#phantom (marlees version 🎻)
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Good Omens Season 2: Some Thoughts (and also Screaming)
First, /screams
Second, obligatory disclaimer that this meta contains MAJOR SPOILERS for all six episodes. If you somehow have managed to remain virginally unspoiled, look away now, scroll past, or add "good omens s2" and "good omens spoilers" to your block list, as those are the tags I have been using for all posts and reblogs.
Third, /screams more
Okay okay okay. Deep breaths.
Anyway, so, uh, how about all that, huh? First, the good thing about the tone of the season overall was that it felt considerably darker and more adult, in a good way. We didn't have the precocious kiddies, the kitsch and literally-comphet Anathema and Newt, the so-clever narration, etc. All that was gone, which makes sense when you consider that a) the end of last season saw them reboot into an entirely new universe, and b) the fact that God has gone silent is, in fact, a major plot point for the season. We don't have Her slyly telling us the story, or indeed anything, and everyone is left to make their own judgments and take their own actions. Which, obviously, gets them into a lot of trouble, especially when Metatron (the Voice of God, aka someone acting in the belief that they're speaking for God and therefore doing terrible harm) swoops in with the ultimate buzzkill at the end of episode 6. But we'll get to that.
The downside was that the main, present-day plot (hiding Gabriel in the bookshop and trying to get Nina and Maggie to fall in love) was fairly thin, felt stretched out and at times weirdly paced, and otherwise existed mostly to get us to That Ending and the setup for season 3. But the ending was so damn good (if obviously, very painful) that I can't be TOO mad, not least because we spent six episodes with them just making absolutely no pretense about the whole thing being as incredibly homosexual as possible. I'll be honest: I did not think they were going to actually, explicitly go there. Neil Gaiman has been so consistent about "your interpretations are valid and you're welcome to read it however you want, but the only canon is what's on screen," which I think is frankly a good thing (not least since the Neil GAYman Cinematic Universe is consistently very, very good to us queers), that I just... didn't quite think they'd pull the trigger. Sir Terry is dead and can't have active input, this is based on a book published 30 years ago, maybe they didn't want to make it LIKE THAT... etc. I certainly hoped, but I didn't really think they would.
Uh. Well.
As I said in my various semi-coherent liveblog posts, I honestly don't think there was a single straight person in the entire season, among both major and background characters. Aziraphale/Crowley and Maggie/Nina are the obvious paralleling couples, but Beelzebub (using "they" pronouns and addressed as "Lord" despite presenting as femme/femme-adjacent) is clearly nonbinary and therefore also queer, and the countless gay/queer side characters were just /chefs kiss. From Job's son making a sassy pass at Aziraphale, to the random Scottish goon with Grindr on his phone (which he then gives to Aziraphale, because what is subtlety), to the interracial couple with the trans spouse at the Pride and Prejudice ball, there was just a lot of casual, unremarked, non-story-critical queer representation visible at every turn. It's like the NGCU saw the bigots wailing about Sandman season 1 being extremely gay and went CHALLENGE ACCEPTED, LET'S MAKE GOOD OMENS 2 EVEN MORE GAY.
God bless.
Obviously, Jon Hamm as Amnesia!Gabriel stole the show (he was SO fucking funny) and it was also incredibly fun to watch Miranda Richardson repurposed as a scheming demon. Nina Sosanya also reappeared as Nina the coffee shop owner, which leads us into the Maggie-and-Nina subplot. They're obviously, wildly, incredibly clearly an analogue for Aziraphale and Crowley themselves, but they're also each, crucially, a mix of both. On the surface, Maggie is Aziraphale: the plump, blonde, earnest, sweet-natured one owning a slightly dated book music shop and somewhat clueless about emotional nuances, while Nina is (also on the surface) Crowley, the hard-edged dark loner who doesn't want to open herself up to people or be spotted caring. But emotionally, Maggie is Crowley: the one openly pining, clearly besotted, only wanting to hang around their crush and do whatever they can to make themselves useful, while Nina is Aziraphale. Interested but reticent, attracted but conflicted, trapped in an abusive relationship with a demanding offscreen "lover" (Lindsay/Heaven) who tries to constantly control and shame them without ever offering much, if anything in return. By the end, they bring themselves around to what Maggie/Crowley are offering, but by then, well. We've got a lot more problems on our hands.
As I also said in my earlier posts, this entire thing has always been a metaphor for religion, queerness, and what religion -- especially abusive, fundamentalist, organized religion -- does to queer people, but they really cranked the FUCK out of that metaphor this season. Aziraphale is guilt-tripped, controlled, and shamed for his attraction to Crowley at every turn. He is torn between his imagined duty to Heaven, in all its ignorant, uncaring, bureaucratic, gratuitously cruel system that he still insists on seeing the best in because he can't bear the alternative, and the chaotic and sometimes grey but genuinely more good morality that Crowley offers him. (Can I just say, we were explicitly shown that the two of them together doing "just a little miracle" are more powerful than Heaven AND Hell combined.) And at the end, he's told that the only way he can be with Crowley -- what Metatron explicitly blackmails him with -- is if they both go back to heaven, submit themselves to the cruel system again and give up everything that has made them who they are: their home in London, their human friends, their reliance on each other, their independence, their own ways of doing things. You can be queer in this (religious) framework, but only the limited, watered-down, controlled, controllable, constantly-under-supervision kind of queer, which relies on both you and your lover "converting" back to the true faith. And if you don't cooperate, they will literally kidnap you, lie to you, manipulate you, take you from your soulmate, and force you right back into doing the one thing (destroying the world) that you never, ever wanted to do in the first place, because in their minds, that is still better than this. It's for your own good.
Ouch.
And the thing is: that's why the ending a) hits so hard and b) is so fucking painful, because of course Aziraphale agrees. He has no conception of being able to defy Heaven on his own; he has always, always needed Crowley for that. In the flashbacks, when Aziraphale is faced with an order from Heaven that he desperately does not want to carry out (such as letting all Job's children get killed), he still relies completely on Crowley to "outsmart the rules" and find a better way. Crowley is A Crafty Demon; that's what he does, and so Aziraphale rationalizes it to himself that therefore that must be fine. Even in season 1, when he really didn't want the Apocalypse to happen but initially thought it was his duty as a good Heaven footsoldier, he relied on Crowley to talk him out of it and allow him to do what he really wants instead. That's their whole dynamic in a nutshell, as exemplified in that scene in episode 2, where Crowley tempts Aziraphale with the "pleasures of the flesh" while sprawled on his back in Ravish Me mode like the giant walking gay disaster that he is. (Sorry, buddy. That beard. Can't do it.) Everything that Aziraphale's existence is, that makes him who he is, that he loves and cherishes the most (in this case, food and wine) comes from Crowley. Everything else is just background noise.
Throughout the season, what we see is Aziraphale increasingly coming around to the fantasy of being with Crowley. He's coy and flirty; he talks about "our car" and expects Crowley will let him (which he does); he wants to have a Jane Austen ball and for them to dance together (oh my heart); he even thinks, at the crucial moment, that the best way for them to be together is to go back to heaven just like they were in the beginning, once more perfect angels, as if those entire six thousand years of struggle and grief and pining and separation and falling didn't happen. And Crowley -- poor, poor, brave, devoted, heartbroken Crowley -- has just heard for the first time in said six thousand years that actually telling the person you love how you feel is an option. Maggie and Nina tell them point-blank that their whole stupid plan failed because people aren't chess pieces who can be moved and automatically achieve the desired result. And of course this gobsmacks the dearest and dumbest Ineffable Husbands, because they can't conceive of anything else. People are chess pieces in the Great War of Heaven and Hell; Aziraphale and Crowley themselves are chess pieces who have been desperately trying to get out of being moved by external forces, but that doesn't change the fact that that's what they are. They don't have volition or agency aside from that which they can sneak for themselves in brief and stolen moments. That's it.
Until, well. It's not it. They discover that this whole would-be war is actually an elaborate ruse to cover up another angel-demon romance, that of Gabriel and Beelzebub. (I'll be honest, I'm 99% sure they did this storyline because they saw the fans crackshipping them, but I appreciate a fictional narrative that values and incorporates its fans' input, rather than trying to constantly "trick" or "outsmart" them or "do what they don't expect.") And Gabriel and Beelzebub get to be together, but only by leaving their world forever. They have to desert their homes, their structures, even their own identities, and never return. And Crowley and Aziraphale are so rooted in their "precious, perfect, fragile" life in their little corner of Soho, with their bookshop and their Bentley and their dining at the Ritz (which they didn't get to do in the end because METATRON /shakes fist), that that just doesn't work. Neither of them can conceive of doing that. So Aziraphale thinks "go back to heaven and try to make the terrible system do some good and take what we can in terms of being together" and Crowley just... pours out his heart. He's ready to fucking propose. He barely stops himself from saying something to the effect of "I want to spend eternity with you." He begs, he pleads with Aziraphale to go away not in the literal sense, but the emotional/metaphysical: to finally break this toxic dependence on Heaven and tell them once and for all where to stick it. And because he is desperate to make Aziraphale understand, he finally throws all caution to the winds and recklessly, desperately, adoringly kisses him, the one thing he's wanted to do for ages and...
Gets. Shot. Down.
Ugghhhhh. I'm suffering all over again. Aziraphale wants him, hungers for it, for them, and yet he's been so abused and so conditioned by Heaven (he's still blithely repeating to Crowley's face that "Hell are the bad guys!") that he just cannot accept that kind of desperate, blind, limitless, lawless affection. He even forgives Crowley for this "transgression," just to really twist the knife, and Crowley just can't take it, can't face up to how terribly this has all gone up in flames, after he went to heaven trying to find the answer for Gabriel's situation. Gabriel, who he fucking hates. Gabriel, who tried to kill the angelic being he loves (and for which Crowley has transparently never forgiven him). And yet at one pouty puppy-eyed look from Aziraphale and a warning that whoever is harboring Gabriel might be in danger, Crowley leaps headlong into the Bentley again and rushes to the rescue while "Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy" is blaring. He stoutly protects Gabriel; he does a miracle to disguise him; he lets him have hot chocolate and stay in the bookshop; he guards him from the literal demonic horde outside. All because of Aziraphale. That's it. And then, it still doesn't work. Not only that, Gabriel's absence and decision to forego Armageddon gives Heaven the one tool they finally need to take Aziraphale away from him.
I repeat: Ugghhhhhhhh.
(In a good way. Ngl, I love this angst. This is the kind of angst my brain Thrives on, the Thematic Parallel Romantic Character Arc kind. Nom nom nom. But also: AGONY.)
I also need to talk about Aziraphale driving the Bentley, aside from the obvious metaphor of him being in Crowley's home while Crowley is in his. Last season, we had the "you go too fast for me, Crowley" scene with them sitting in said Bentley, which was Aziraphale saying he's not ready for a relationship. In this season, as noted above, we see Aziraphale increasingly embracing the potential fantasy of being with Crowley. But here's the catch: when he's in the Bentley this time, driving it, setting the pace, acclimating to the idea, he's driving his own idea of what the Bentley/his relationship with Crowley is. It's not the real thing. He plays classical music; he supplies himself sweets; he turns it yellow; he drives too slow. Crowley calls him in another old-married-couple snitfit to complain that Aziraphale's messed it up, but what Aziraphale has actually messed up (or will, by the end of the season) is far more consequential than just a car. He's changed the entire shape of their relationship to the one he thinks can make it work, and it just doesn't. It has to be them -- "we could have been... Us" -- or it's not even close to the truth. It's not worth their time.
I repeat: Ouch.
Speaking of the writers validating fan theories, I know we all picked up and screamed about on Crowley's idea of Peak Romance Guaranteed To Fall In Love being sheltering from rain and gazing into each other's eyes, which confirms that that poor bastard was indeed ass-over-teakettle gone as soon as he met Aziraphale (again) in Eden. I also need to talk about the 1941 redux, because wow. This time, the danger comes from Hell, which we see being its usual self: gleefully, pointlessly cruel, pettily backbiting, dirty, sniping, tedious, endless, determined to mindlessly destroy because They're The Bad Guys and they like it. So they blackmail, spy on, miracle-block, illicitly photograph, and try to prove that Aziraphale and Crowley are secretly a couple, right after Aziraphale himself has just had the Light From Heaven realization that he's in love (which we all also picked up on in s1). They're forcibly outing them (to speak of more Religious Queer Trauma) in order to break them up/get them into trouble with their authorities/families. Aziraphale and Crowley manage to escape it mostly by dumb luck, but Crowley having an altogether freakout, hands shaking, barely able to actually point the gun at Aziraphale even in the knowledge that it's supposed to be fake, is just... wow. He can't even fathom the idea of ever trying to destroy him in earnest, especially when he knows on some level that Aziraphale also finally just realized his own feelings. So I just need to --
/screams
Anyway, Aziraphale's entire arc this season is doing what he thinks is the right thing and then inadvertently causing harm and damage as a result. In the Edinburgh flashbacks (live slug reaction of me: SEAN BIGGERSTAFF???!!) he tries to stop Elspeth from stealing bodies and gets Morag killed and Crowley drinking the laudanum to save him (though that part with David Tennant just riffing left and right, using his natural Scottish accent, and being Tiny Crowley/Huge Crowley was hilarious). He invites his neighbors to a Pride and Prejudice ball and makes them all the target for demonic attack. And of course the Job episode: Aziraphale, horrified at Heaven's callous cruelty, desperate not to get Job's children killed, willing to go along with Crowley's tricks to save them somehow, tempted by Crowley to do the fucknasty with their angel bits eat some food and decide that he likes it. As mentioned, the whole thing about God being silent this season is a major thematic choice. The only time we see/hear God is Her communing with Job from afar. Aziraphale enviously imagines the answers he must be getting (he's not, he's baffled and perplexed), while Crowley longs beyond words to even have the opportunity to ask the question: why? Why do this? Why is this your plan?
And of course, this absence culminates in the Metatron, the Voice of God, the person arrogantly claiming that they're speaking for God and know exactly what Heaven wants, being able to seize Aziraphale by the short hairs and absolutely fuck him over. Gabriel is gone/decommissioned/eloping with Beelzebub, so Heaven needs a Supreme Leader (God apparently is no longer a factor in the equation). And what this Supreme Leader needs to do is finally unleash the Apocalypse that Gabriel decided to pass on (the Second Coming). Aziraphale needs to be punished, taken away from Crowley's influence/love, and put back under Heaven's explicit control, so Metatron spots a great opportunity to do all three at once. It's not an accident that the exact tool he uses to get Aziraphale to agree is "now you can actually be with Crowley!" Aziraphale and Crowley have been trying so hard to hide out from their respective Head Offices, but now all at once, there's this seemingly miraculous opportunity for them not to have to do that anymore! They can be together! They can be sanctioned by Heaven! They can give up all this hiding and sneaking around and lying! Isn't that better?
... As long as, of course, they give up absolutely everything that makes them who they are. No big deal. Minor catch. Probably nothing.
Metatron doesn't let Aziraphale have time to escape, or think it over, or reflect, or anything. He pressures Aziraphale to come with him immediately, or be once more subject to Heaven's implicit wrath/destruction/judgment. Believe me, Aziraphale already KNOWS he's made a huge mistake, as soon as he hears what Metatron really wants: bringing him back to unleash the Apocalypse that Aziraphale and Crowley have given up literally everything to prevent. He doesn't need time to reflect. By the time my man is in that elevator, he's well aware of what a catastrophic misjudgment he's made, and yet --
Aziraphale needs this. He has, as noted, literally always relied on Crowley outsmarting Heaven's cruel orders in order to prevent himself from having to do them. He's relied on Crowley rescuing him ("rescuing me makes him so happy," WELL BUB, IT'S BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS NEED IT). He admits to Crowley's face that "I need you!" He hates Heaven's sadistic meanness, but he has absolutely no framework, in and of himself, to defy it. When the rubber hits the road, he will crumple and try to go along with it, and now he's been put in a position where he's going to have to stand up, defy Heaven, and make the break once and for all BY HIMSELF. He doesn't have Crowley around to do it for him, he has no support, he is going to arrive in Heaven and be shuttled straight off to the Apocalypse 2.0 War Room. The only way he gets out of this is if he actively stands up, if he chooses himself and Crowley and their life, and he has to.
The thing is:
Aziraphale has lived his entire eternal existence Looking Up. Up is the direction of Goodness and Heaven. Up is where Angels go. Up is where Aziraphale comes from and where Demons and Hell are not. But now he's going Up, in a position to take over the whole shebang, and it's the last thing he wants.
So he's going to have to come back Down.
He's going to have to Fall. He's going to have to get back Below at all costs. He's going to have to finally, once and for all, understand what led Crowley to make the choice to leave Heaven and never come back. It's only then that they can possibly be together on any kind of conscious, equal, deliberate footing, claim their own agency, reject Heaven AND Hell, and try to really earn that South Downs cottage and that happy-ever-after, and it's gonna hurt so good.
Now if you will excuse me, /screams
#good omens#good omens meta#good omens s2#good omens spoilers#ineffable husbands#look this probably could have been twice as long#but i had to stop somewhere#I JUST HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS
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AITA for asking someone not to make my art about a ship I hate?
This happened a couple months ago, but I’m still kinda unsure if I handled it correctly.
Basic rundown of events: I posted some art of a character on their own in the evening, and when I woke up the next morning, someone had reblogged with an addition about a ship that’s a big notp for me. I messaged them to ask they delete it as politely as possible, because people had been interacting with that version of the post specifically and it made me uncomfortable. They responded by saying I was being immature and needed to learn not to police what other people do on the internet. We exchanged a couple more messages, and I tried to explain my position my throughly. Neither of us was overtly hostile or anything, but I felt extremely talked down to by their tone of voice. After our conversation, we both blocked each other, and that was that. They never did delete their addition.
Why I think I might be TA: we weren’t exactly friends or anything. Neither of us followed each other. I’d seen them around in the fandom, and they’d reblogged some of my art in the past, but I think messaging someone I didn’t know instead of just blocking them might have been a bit of an overreach. Plus the ship in question is canon, and not particularly controversial or anything, so most people in the fandom probably wouldn’t have minded.
On the other hand, the ship being so unavoidable is a big part of the reason it upset me so much. It’s hard for me to exist in this fandom without having to see it constantly, and I don’t even ever mention the other character in it for fear of this exact thing happening. I’ve had people be assholes on my posts about the ship I prefer, or go out of their way to interpret my romantic posts about them platonically, or add tags to my art about how they only like my ship as backstory and not endgame. I don’t want to have to put a disclaimer every single time I post about this fandom. I just want to enjoy the things I like without being negative all the time. Which is why I figured messaging privately was more polite than making a stink where everyone could see. I specifically mentioned that I knew they wouldn’t have known and wasn’t mad.
No one actually ended up reblogging their addition, which is also a strike against me, but I got a lot of likes on specifically that version of the post, which made me scared they were going to. I hated the idea of having to turn off reblogs on a piece I’d worked pretty fucking hard on because a version I found so upsetting was in circulation. If it was just tags, I’d have blocked, but it being an addition is different. I don’t think asking people not to make my posts about it is “policing what other people do on the internet”. You’re in MY house, on MY post with MY art I spent hours on. Making additions to art posts already seems somewhat rude to me, that’s just not something you do, but I guess that’s a matter of the corner of tumblr culture you’re used it.
Also, their response felt very aggressive and condescending. They implied I was, like, a kid, and I do think I’m somewhat younger than them, but the only information about my age in my bio at the time was that I’m an adult, so it felt like a rude assumption. My age doesn’t have anything to do with it.
Again, though, I do absolutely see how my initial message could read as entitled. During the rest of our messaging, I did lose my temper a little bit at one point; I said something about how I’ve had to deal with shit in this fandom before, and I don’t remember the exact words since, again, we both blocked each other, but I know I swore at them. That might’ve come across as more aggressive than I wanted, and probably didn’t exactly help deescalate. (Can’t say for sure, I don’t have their side of the story)
Like I said, this situation was a bit ago now, but it upset me pretty bad at the time, and I’m still not entirely sure who’s in the wrong. So, AITA?
(Also to get ahead of this: please don’t make this about shipcourse in the comments. It’s not about that. They and I have similar opinions on that discourse from what I’ve gathered anyway. Thanks.)
What are these acronyms?
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Congratulations on the followers⭐️ I have a scenario I think you’ll absolutely smash! If possible can I have the prompt “I want to help you… if you’ll let me.” With Hunter and a F!reader.
Hunter is quite hard on reader but only because he’s protective but it comes across super badly and one night you had enough of his nagging and go to a bar for a drink but start getting a bit hassled by a drunk patron and hunter comes to help you out? BUT reader can fully handle herself bc bossbitch 😆 Would love it to be angsty, classic enemies to lovers and it may end with a little smooch?
Thank you if you do this and no worries if not ♥️
4000 Follower Prompt Celebration
Hunter X F!Reader
word count: 3.3k
prompt:
“I want to help you… if you’ll let me.”
authors note: thank you for the request! Love this idea. Enjoy and sorry for the wait 🤍
warnings: enemies to lovers, drunk patron who can’t take no for an answer, canon typical violence, angsty, mild injury to reader, reader gets insulted, female reader, hunter is a bit of an arse at first, first kiss which is a little steamy, protective hunter. I
The aftermath of the latest mission left a sour taste lingering in your mouth, the tension between you and Hunter palpable in the crowded bar. Despite the success of the mission, Hunter couldn't resist injecting his bitter critique into the - what should be - celebratory atmosphere.
As the squad was basking in victory, clinking cups and allowing Omega to indulge in a very sugary concoction that almost had her bouncing off the walls, Hunter's biting words tainted the mood.
His critique of your tactics cut deep, branding you as reckless and a threat to safety, all delivered in front of the entire squad.
Flushed with embarrassment and fueled by anger, you hastily abandoned the bar, seeking refuge in another dimly lit establishment down the strip. Unbeknownst to you, the others exchanged scornful glances, Echo remarking, "She gets it from you, you know?" A subtle nod to your adoption of Hunter's techniques, albeit with less finesse.
Swallowing his pride, Hunter trailed after you with a heavy sigh, the weight of his words hanging heavy on his shoulders as he tried to find a way to make it up to you.
Meanwhile in the new bar, a sketchy run down looking thing with flickering strobe lights, you find yourself situated between two patrons in a world of their own.
As you waited for the service droid to serve you, a small shift from you caught the attention of the man on the left. A rugged looking man with a rather stale odor to match.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” His inquiry, laced with unwanted charm, sent a shiver down your spine as you maintained a polite smile, avoiding direct eye contact.
“In this dump? Not quite sure. But, just here for one drink,” you replied, hoping to discourage further conversation.
The man chuckled, a smug grin etching lines on his worn face, followed by a troubling cough that was hacked into a dirty rag that makes you squirm. “That so?” He asks after his coughing fit. “Mind if I get ya one?"
"I'll get it myself. Thanks for the offer," you replied, freezing him in his tracks.
"Heh, you think you're too good for me?" he retorted, his gaze piercing.
Sighing, you turned to face him, attempting to maintain composure amidst his growing aggression. "I didn't say anything like that. I'm here to buy my own drink and leave."
But as his tone escalated and his proximity grew, you reached your breaking point. Despite your attempts to politely decline, he persisted, his invasive advances refusing to relent, leaving you feeling increasingly uncomfortable and trapped.
Until you snapped.
Hunter found himself darting his head into every bar and club, your current whereabouts unknown. Frustration gnawed at him as he went to check your location only to see you had switched it off, thwarting his attempts to track you down.
However, a subtle whiff in the air caught his attention, and his stomach churned. The same sensation he developed whenever the smell hit him. He finds himself gulping a little as he instantly recognised the faint scent of the floral soap that only you used.
It left a lingering trace, teasing him that he was on the right track. A part of him wanted to clear the scent away; he had smelled it so often in the Marauder that it always sent his mind into a spiral of confusion and found it rather distracting.
His thoughts on your scent dissipated as the sound of loud banging reverberated down a stairway to a rundown bar. Hunter froze, his senses sharpening as he listened intently. The familiar sound of your voice had him bolting down the steps, instincts kicking in as he rushed to your aid. Or so he thought he had to.
Upon entering, Hunter's heart quickened its pace as he was greeted with the sight of you, hands raised in a defensive stance, facing off against a man whose laughter echoed brashly in your face. The tension in the air was thick as you snapped, “Keep your dirty, mucus breath away from me!”
The man, undeterred by your sharp words, retorted with a smirk, “That ain’t very ladylike of you, sweet cheeks. Calm down and have a drink with me.”
Your nostrils flared in anger, steam seemingly emanating from you as you glared daggers at him. “I said no,” you snarled, your voice dripping with venom. “And call me ‘sweet cheeks’ one more time, I’ll kick you between the legs so hard it won’t be the cough you’re choking on!”
As the confrontation intensified, Hunter's eyes widened in surprise and concern as he watched from a few feet away, momentarily frozen by the scene unfolding before him.
Then, his protective side kicks in, taking a step forward, the need to intervene pulsing through his veins. He speaks your name which causes you to freeze and glance over your shoulder to meet his penetrating gaze. Great.
Meanwhile, the man, sensing the shift in dynamics, glanced over your shoulder too and directed a question at Hunter. “Oi, bandana, does she belong to you?”
Your eyes flashed with defiance as you interrupted before Hunter could respond, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I don’t belong to nobody, let’s get that right,” you hissed, your gaze locked in a fierce glare with the patron.
“You best listen to her,” Hunter piped up, stepping in between you and the man with a protective stance. “But,” he continued, turning to look at you, “I think me and you should get going.”
You stared at the clone, a wave of anger and confusion washing over you. What game was he playing? First, he mocked you, and now he was trying to act like Prince Charming? So, you shook your head adamantly. “I’ve still not had my drink.”
“I said I’ll buy you one,” the patron quipped.
“Will you shut up?” Both you and Hunter snapped at the same time, sharing a surprised glance at the oddity of the moment, but quickly brushing it off. You nudged past him and leaned back on the bartop, determined to get the attention of the service droid.
Hunter's sigh was loud as he stood beside you, gesturing for you to follow him, but you persisted with a shake of your head. You came for a drink, and you would leave with one.
Just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, the patron approached you, reaching a hand towards you. But Hunter was already on the case, swatting the man's hand away with a swift motion. “Lay a finger on her and I’ll break all of yours. Leave.”
You stared at the back of Hunter’s head, your eyes wide in surprise at his tone and sudden threat. He was always a commanding presence, but never to this extent. It made you feel a strange mix of emotions, a tingling sensation spreading from your belly to the tips of your fingers.
The man glanced between you and Hunter, his expression a mixture of defiance and resignation, before taking a final swig of his drink. With a nod of his head, he seemed prepared to leave, but not without delivering a parting shot.
“Put her on a leash next time.”
Despite Hunter's heightened senses, he was not quick enough to respond as you pivoted on your heel and unleashed a hefty punch straight to the man’s nose. The force of the blow sent him sprawling to the ground, landing hard on his rear.
The man, stunned and ready to retaliate, found himself abruptly halted by a boot pressed firmly to his chest, courtesy of the tall Clone. With his hands raised in defense, he hesitated.
“Apologise to the lady,” Hunter demanded, his voice firm and unwavering.
“Forget it, Hunter,” you muttered, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you shook out your hand. “I’m not going to ask someone or force someone to apologise to me.” There was a certain edge in your voice, a subtle reminder of Hunter's own failure to say sorry for his earlier words.
Unfortunately, the disruption had drawn the attention of the service droid (finally), and you and Hunter were promptly forced to leave.
As you were ushered out, you wasted no time in striding ahead, your steps heavy with frustration. The rhythmic tap of your boots echoed against the pavement, a stark contrast to the fading sounds of the bar behind you.
"Hey, wait up!" Hunter's voice called after you, but you were resolute in your determination not to stop. You didn't want him to see your tears, didn't want to show any vulnerability in front of him. Not after everything that had just happened. Not after that painful punch that felt like hitting a brick wall.
Ignoring his calls, you continued forward, your jaw clenched tightly to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. But your pace was abruptly halted as Hunter caught up to you, using his body as a barrier as he stopped directly in front of you.
"Come on, we need to talk. I need to—Are you crying?" Hunter's voice softened, concern evident in his tone as he noticed the telltale signs of tears glistening in your eyes.
"No!" you snapped back, a reflexive denial, but the tremble in your voice betrayed your true emotions.
Hunter sighed softly, his shoulders slumping slightly as he realised the depth of your distress. "Let’s get back to the ship. We can talk there," he suggested gently, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder.
A part of you wanted to stay stubborn, to refuse his offer and continue on your own path to perhaps another bar. But the night was growing darker, and the pain in your hand from the earlier punch was becoming increasingly unbearable. With a resigned nod, you reluctantly allowed Hunter to guide you back to the port.
Once inside the ship, the air felt heavier with tension as you stood in the cramped space, watching intently as Hunter meticulously sifted through the clutter of supplies and equipment scattered around. With a focused determination, he located a medkit.
When you insisted that you didn't need him to attend to your injury, considering it wasn't that serious, Hunter's expression hardened, his voice taking on a stern edge. "Yeah? Want to explain why there’s now blood on the ship floor?" The sharpness in his tone made your face flush with embarrassment as you glanced down, noticing the small tear in your skin that had resulted from the brief scuffle.
"Oh," you muttered awkwardly, feeling hot under Hunter's scrutiny.
“Sit here.” Without missing a beat, Hunter gestured for you to sit on a nearby crate, his demeanor firm yet oddly reassuring. As he patted the surface in front of him, you couldn't help but wonder about his motives. Was it your earlier words about his lack of apology that lingered in his mind, prompting this gesture of care? Or was there another reason behind his actions? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but deep down, a part of you couldn't deny the comfort of his presence in that moment.
“I don’t need coddling,” you mumbled half-heartedly, attempting to maintain a facade of independence despite the conflicting emotions swirling within you. Nevertheless, your feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying you towards Hunter as you settled yourself onto the crate in front of him.
"Oh, I know, you handled yourself well," Hunter chuckled softly, his hands moving deftly as he pulled out pads to dab at your skin, preparing to disinfect the area. “I want to help you… if you’ll let me.”
You grumbled in response, your eyes trained on his hands as they worked. "Ha, next joke please."
Hunter raised a brow at you, his expression serious for a moment. "I mean it," he insisted, his tone earnest.
You couldn't help but scoff, the bitterness of his previous criticism still fresh in your mind. "Yet I’m reckless and a danger to others?" you retorted, your voice tinged with sarcasm and frustration.
A heavy sigh escaped Hunter's lips, and he paused in his actions, looking you directly in the eye, though you were doing your hardest not to meet his gaze. "I want to say sorry for what I said. I… I should have said it to you alone. And differently."
You could hear the slight awkwardness in his tone, but it did come across as honest. Yet, you were still annoyed. “Yeah well, you completely embarrassed and upset me.”
He blinked, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as your voice took on a gentle tone tinged with sadness. “I know, and I am sorry. Truly. But, I only said it because…” he trailed off for a moment, his eyes trained on the medkit again, as if searching for the answer within.
“Because?” You prompted him, giving his leg a small nudge with your foot.
“Because I care. I don’t want you taking risks like I do. Like what the others do.” Hunter's admission hung in the air, revealing a layer of concern and perhaps a touch of vulnerability.
There was a gravity to Hunter's words, a weight that seemed to hang in the air, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within you. It was as if his sudden sincerity reached out and tugged at the strings of your heart, tempting you to lean into the warmth of his presence. But you resisted, holding back the urge to act on the tumultuous feelings that were suddenly swirling inside you.
“You certainly have an odd way with words in that case,” you found yourself saying, your voice slightly breathless as you struggled to make sense of the complex emotions churning within you. Hunter seemed to notice the subtle change in your demeanor, his senses catching the telltale signs of your heightened heartbeat.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted quietly, his own voice apologetic. With gentle precision, he applied some bactaspray to your knuckles, his touch light yet reassuring. As he dabbed away the blood, you couldn't help but hiss in pain, the sting overlapping the odd flutter in your heart.
“My apologies,” Hunter murmured, his gaze meeting yours with sincerity.
Despite the slight discomfort, there was a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you watched him meticulously care for your hand. Never had you seen him so gentle and so indulged at the task at hand.
As you watched Hunter, the smirk gradually faded from your lips, replaced by a sense of awe as your eyes traced the finer details of his face. His strong jawline, the depth of his intoxicating eyes, and the tattoo that adorned his skin, its colors slightly faded but still complimenting his rugged appearance perfectly. His long locks, usually tucked back by his bandana, had fallen forward, framing his face in a way that emphasised his rugged charm.
You came to a sudden realisation of just how handsome he was. Of course, you had always known it on some level, but now it struck you with a new intensity that made your heart quicken and your cheeks flush with a sudden shyness.
“So, do you forgive me?” Hunter's voice broke through your reverie, pulling you back to reality and you found yourself momentarily lost in the depths of his gaze.
“Sorry, what?” you blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks as you snapped out of your reverie, realizing you had been lost in awe-struck admiration of Hunter.
He chuckled softly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he raised a brow at your dazed stare. “No, it’s me who is the one saying ‘sorry’ this time.” With a gentle touch, he guided your attention back to your injured hand, his movements careful and deliberate as he applied a dressing before neatly packing the medkit away. “But I’ll ask again, do you forgive me?”
“Oh,” you mumbled, feeling a mixture of confusion, shyness, and bashfulness under his attentive gaze. “I suppose… just please don’t do it again.”
“You have my word,” he nodded, his smile warm and reassuring. When his gaze met yours, the swirling storm of your emotions came back, and your heart raced even faster than before when he extended his hand towards you.
You tried to play it off as a simple gesture to help you off the crate, but as you placed your good hand into his, there was a gentle squeeze in his touch before he effortlessly pulled you forward, almost causing you to stumble into his chest.
“Oh!- oh,” you stammered, quickly steadying yourself but growing increasingly aware of the proximity between you and the Sergeant.
His eyes remained locked on yours, his head tilting slightly to the side as he studied your reaction. “Everything alright?” he asked, his voice soft, the warmth of his hand still lingering on yours.
“Yes, I’m fine,” you nodded firmly, though the erratic thumping of your heart betrayed your composure, and you couldn't shake the feeling that Hunter could sense it, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Tell me,” his voice was hushed, his warm breath brushing against your features as he leaned in closer, “why is your heart beating so fast?”
You gulped, feeling his proximity overwhelming your senses as you searched his eyes for an answer, but all you found was a reflection of your own turmoil. The truth was written in the depths of your gaze, but your words failed you, and you found yourself stuttering over your thoughts, unable to form a coherent sentence. It was as if the weight of your unspoken feelings hung heavy in the air between you.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Hunter spoke aloud, his other hand moving to gently push a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “I can’t help but wonder if you…” He trailed off, uncertainty lacing his words, but he couldn't ignore the palpable tension that crackled between you any longer, “if you have feelings for me.”
“Do you truly care about me?” you asked, your voice a delicate whisper tinged with a shyness as you found yourself yearning to inch just a tad closer to Hunter's body. Every nerve in your body seemed to hum with anticipation, the air thick with unspoken desires.
Sensing your feelings, Hunter gently pushed you back with his body, his touch sending a shiver down your spine as your legs hit the crate behind you. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t understand how much I care,” his voice rumbled low, the depth of his emotions evident in his tone. “I’ve never cared about anyone so much in my life.”
With just the two of you here, the atmosphere crackled with an electrifying tension, each heartbeat echoing in the silence as you teetered on the edge of something unspoken yet undeniable.
“Well,” you whispered, your injured hand reaching out to touch his chest, your fingers tracing the contours of his shirt as if seeking reassurance, “maybe I do too. Maybe I do have feelings for you.”
A sigh, almost a mix of a moan and relief, escaped Hunter's lips at your words. “Come here to me,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire.
Without hesitation, you closed the distance between the pair of you, your lips meeting his in a somewhat long-awaited embrace. Hunter's arms enveloped you, one hand cradling your body with a firm yet gentle touch, while the other slid to the back of your head, holding you close with a tenderness that made your heart flutter as his fingers tangled in your hair.
Lifting you, you're placed on top of the crate once again, Hunter sandwiched between your legs as you both savor the quiet and serene moment. Your bitterness had vanished, replaced with the soft taste of his tongue dancing with yours. An alcoholic tang.
For a moment, all the tension, all the longing and arguing melted away as you molded into each other, lost in the sweetness of the kiss and the warmth of each other's embrace. “Hunter,” you whimper breathlessly.
You hoped the others wouldn’t come back for a while.
Masterlist
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Tags: @andyoufollowyourheart @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @ashotofspotchka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova a @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san n @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @seriowan @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @raevulsix @mssbridgerton @cw80831 @imalovernotahater @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad @photogirl894 @id-rather-be-a-druid @the-bad-batch-baroness
#happy bad batch eve to my hunter girls (gn)#Hunter x reader#Hunter the bad batch#bad batch Hunter x reader#nahoney22 writes#the bad batch#tbb hunter#tbb hunter x reader#bad batch Hunter#star wars#tbb#clone wars
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umm. pause. guys. guys. gay tommy has been canon this entire time. what the fuck. like. oh my god. no. like. okay. okay. so. 2x9 (hen begins), sal [deluca] is talking about his girlfriend dragging him to see twilight. he makes a homophobic joke about tommy being team jacob and tommy's like "i don't even know what that means." chimney says "he's insinuating that you're gay" and tommy blows deluca a kiss. fine. whatever. but THEN you skip to 2x12 (chimney begins), and—i stg it's a blink and you miss it moment—tommy and gerrard (racist captain) are having this conversation in the background
tommy: what about that burger place?
gerrard: tommy i hate that place. hey wasn't your girlfriend supposed to come and cook us dinner?
tommy: uhh. next tuesday.
gerrard: promise?
tommy: uhh. uh. yes. yeah. i will promise.
and it's like. number one, this sounds like a conversation they've had before. something to the tune of "hey, how come you never bring your girlfriend around" which i can't help but think was intentional considering the members of the old 118 were entirely familiar with deluca's girlfriend gina. but number two, no straight man who has a girlfriend sounds that unsure that they have a fucking girlfriend. it was very much giving "ah yes. this human lady that i love that most definitely exists. absolutely. also i like breasts." and it's just like. ok. what the fuck. like. i don't know if this was the plan all along. i don't think it was. i still maintain buck/eddie were supposed to go canon after the shooting and the powers that be got in the way. but. but. the idea that this canon queer character has been hiding in plain sight (subtext) is just. wild to me. like. i've always headcanoned tommy as gay, mostly because every character he plays seems fruity as hell. but bro. i don't think it's a headcanon anymore. and i don't think it ever has been. what the fuck.
there's also the idea that. like. so i've been watching the begins episodes again trying to figure out what, exactly, tommy's crime against the members of the 118 has been. like. he worked in a -phobic/-cist environment. he was definitely complicit in making hen/chimney feel like outsiders in their workplace yes yes all these things are true. but as far as i can tell, tommy has rarely ever actively been anything except spineless. deluca makes a homophobic joke? tommy laughs. gerrard makes a bunch of sexist and racist comments? tommy looks, but doesn't say anything to encourage (or discourage him). hen gives her monologue? he looks chagrined.
and his complicity would be absolutely shitty and inexcusable if he was just a cishet white man. no questions asked. but if — if — you view his behavior through the lens of the fact that tommy is queer himself? that tommy is, and always has been, a member of a marginalized community who felt it was easier and safer to assimilate than it was to be openly queer and have a target on his back? his behavior becomes a whole hell of a lot more understandable. yes, it's still shitty, but. there's a purpose behind it. and this idea is supported by the fact that, when gerrard leaves (flashing forward to bobby begins again), even before bobby gets there (because we always credit bobby with making the 118 the family it is today), like. the atmosphere is completely different. tommy and hen? are friendly with each other. chimney and tommy? also friendly with each other. which we also know because in 2x14 broken, he calls him up for help. which lends credibility to the idea that the problems tommy had (or thought he had) with henchim were not about them as people but more about whatever manufactured conservative boys club bullshit gerrard fostered.
and it's just like. motherfucker. bitch. what the hell. like. first of all, leave it to 9-1-1 to tell a story like this in the most subtle way possible. like if that was indeed the intended implication, i'm throwing my tv off a bridge immediately. but also. second of all. what is wrong with this show. they're crazy. i want to eat it like a loaf of bread. just shovel it in my mouth because the idea that tommy has been queer all along, that he wasn't brought back just to be a stopgap on buck's queer journey to eddie, but that he's been haunting the edges of the narrative like a gay ghost is sooo like. ohhh. okay. [throws up]. like????? okay. anyway. i'm going to be thinking about this the rest of the day.
#tommy kinard#head in hands.....................HEAD IN HANDS#tv: 911#jack.txt#There's also something to be said about the idea of FOX main characterizing Buck/Oliver#around the same time they put a stop to Buddie#Something about like. Conventionally attractive (dark hair / light eyes) white men are not allowed to be loudly quee#and like. I KNEW there was something there#I knew it. And I love Michael and David and Karen and Hen don't get me wrong#those are my emotional support gays#but I was just like ''hm. kind of funny how every queer character connected to the mains is a person of color right?''#and I never vocalized this thought to ANYONE but I always kept it in the back of my mind#even the men michael would be seen with *before* David — always black#and there's nothing wrong with it it's fine#but the idea becomes a LOT more insidious when I consider FOX's politics—when i consider that both racism and homophobia are inherent to#their brand. and then it's just like ''ohh. you guys made the black people dirty queers because white is right. okay got it''#anyways. let me stop talking. lol
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Allspice (c.b oneshot)
♡ O.S Inspo: Forever & Always - Fearless (TV) ; "Was I out of line, did I say something way too honest, made you run and hide like a scared little boy?"
♡ Pairing : CarmyxAFAB Reader as little physical description possible | She/Her pronouns used, NO use of Y/N :)
♡ Summary: You have a very successful Culinary Review blog, the social media manager of one of your new hometown restaurants 'The Bear' has been dying to get you out to try their food. But since the EC is a bit of an overzealous competitor, you end up having to go back for round 2- you end up having a delicious dinner, and a free show.
♡ W/C: 4,381
♡ Posted Date: 03/18/24
♡ A/N: FIRST THING: I am HORRIDDDD at writing Claire- I'm much better at writing Carmy cause were alot more similar- so this Claire isn't gonna be CRAZY canon, but I think she got the job done. Anyway- EEEEEP!!! Here is my VERY FIRST ONE SHOT EVER!! Inspired by my amazing, wonderful, PRECIOUS FLOWER @daysofyellowroses that can be found here :) AAAAA!!! My precious Rose I hope you enjoy this, It could ABSOLUTELY have a part 2 if y'all like it. I ended it here cause I'm sooo wordy and I didn't want it to turn in to a multi-chap. fic by mistake...but ofc if y'all want more just tell me and ill get RIGHT TO WORK!!! I really hope this comes off how I saw it in my head. There's no smut/sexy stuff, just mutual pining and flirty teasing, I hope thats ok!! aaa here we goooo!!! Enjoy <3
♡ Warnings for BTC: Swearing, Drinking alcohol (Literally it LOL)
➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡
Being a Food Critic wasn’t an easy gig, as much as people wanted to believe it’s simply going to famous restaurants, trying their most popular dishes- and giving your opinion, it was much more then that.
Each and every aspect of the restaurant was under your review, from the second you walked in the door, you were judging everything. From the atmosphere, to the music, to the decor, to the comfortability of the furniture all of it, was to meet your expectations if the owner of the establishment wanted a good review.
Today was finally the day you'd review one of the restaurants that had sent 3 requests for you to feature a review of them on your blog.
The Bear. Interesting name, you thought.
With the rugged name- you’d assumed a more millennial hipster-New American vibe. But when you’d arrived- you were quite…impressed? That instead of leaning into that all too common aesthetic, it was more of a classy, comfortable vibe.
They’d not even had bear art, anything of the sort. It was pure comfort, mixed with subtle class. The kind that spoke to the cost of the dishes- but wasn’t in your face obnoxious. The only ‘Bear’ was the little golden bear embossed into the leather menu you’d been handed when seated at the table.
The way you did your reviews was…a tad unusual - some chefs in the industry called it ‘unfair’ but you called it…the fairest things could be. Instead of telling them when you’d be swinging by for a review since where’s the fun in that you’d call, make a reservation under some random name, and they’d know you’d accepted their offer when the review had been posted on your blog.
It felt most honest and fair because you were one of the most renowned food critics in the country right now. If they knew you were coming- any EC with a brain would spend the night before your arrival, prepping the entire restaurant and staff - assuring they’d be on their best behavior to try and squeeze a higher grade out of you.
But you were just a reader once upon a time, years ago- when you realized in culinary school that the making of the art didn’t interest you, it was the observing. Food wasn’t just about taste, but rather the whole experience. And if every famous food critic you’d taken interest in back in the day- never got a true experience due to their notability? You’d never have gotten into this field. So, you were most keen on keeping things fair.
A woman with mousey brown hair comes up to your table, dressed in the typical waitress slacks and black button up shirt. “Hello! Welcome to The Bear. My name is Sam, have you dined with us before?” she asks.
You sit up in your chair, peeling your eyes from the menu. You give her a small kind smile “I haven’t” you replied, urging her to continue her script.
“Well welcome in, we're so happy you chose to spend your evening with us. So for our menu” she opens it in front of you. “Here” she points “are our wine options, fabulous selection this month. Then we have draft beers right next to it. On the following page” she points “all of our craft cocktails, then this,” she points in the bottom corner.
“Our house cocktail - Just called The Bear. It’s wonderful, if you like old fashions you’ll love this - made with Bearface Triple Oak Whiskey.” She said and you nod.
“That please. That’s what I’ll start with” you said and she nodded.
“I’ll get that right in. But quickly, just so you’re aware” she flipped the page and pointed.
“These - are the dishes of the month. Each crafted by one of our two head chefs, they change monthly so if something calls to you I recommend you try- because it won’t be back” she said. You raised your eyebrows a bit in surprise and nod.
“Thank you” you said and she gives a nod before heading off to the bar to put in your drink order before heading off to tend to other tables in your section.
Having an alternating menu intrigued you, for such a high end establishment- one with a Michelin star at that- implementing such a menu would consistently have their star at risk. One dish, one app, one drink- that was not up to par and it would be revoked. You guessed the owners of this place liked living on the edge, as if being in this industry wasn’t already being constantly on edge.
You gaze over the menu, the Chilean Seabass sounded like a fair assessment. Seafood was quite difficult to get right, especially in the springtime before peak season, and you’d be able to judge the consistency of the chopping and such because there was a fresh tomato corn salad that came with it. That was your rule when you came to judge restaurants, one main course, and one dessert.
You’d felt like the main courses were the true stars of the show anyhow, and it would be unfair to muck up your palate with an app that was usually something easy to get right (since they were usually fried, covered in cheese, or some kind of carb). And the dessert usually showed the restaurant's creativity, which you loved to see, so 2 dishes was your max.
The waitress returns with the cocktail, setting it down with a napkin under it. “Here you are, now- have you decided on a starter?” She questioned and you shook your head.
“Straight to the good stuff, I’d like the Chilean Sea Bass please. And for dessert,” you flick the page and your eyes settle on the words savory cannoli - hmm, imaginative indeed. “And uh- The Michael Cannoli?” You said, shutting the menu and handing it to her.
She nods with a smile, jotting down the order into her notepad before taking the menu and holding it to her chest. “That will be out soon as possible. Enjoy your drink” she said and headed back to the kitchen.
You sit back sipping the cocktail and humming. She was right, much like an old fashioned, but floral notes. Almost…chamomile? Yes! That was it. Very interesting.
You slipped your iPad out of your bag, opening up your journaling app and grabbing the pencil out of the little sleeve. You quickly snapped a picture with your phone of the drink, airdropping it to yourself and adding it into the entry and writing;
‘To start; ‘The Bear’ house cocktail- initial thoughts ; not too sweet, strong (but not overpowering), chamomile? Some kind of herbal tea flower’
You take another sip, letting the flavors sit on your tongue a moment before swallowing. “Mmm!” You hum to yourself, finally realizing where the herby taste beneath the chamomile was coming from that gave it that oaky piney taste.
‘Angostura bitters- will confirm!!’ You wrote just as someone approaches your table. You look up to see a man, short brown hair, stubble. He was smiling, holding a plate.
“Hello! Here we have Arancini with our house-made pesto, courtesy of Executive Chef Carmen” he placed the dish in front of you next to your iPad. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking up at him, scarcel confused.
“Wrong table” you murmured, thumbing the dish back in his direction lightly. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Nope- ah, he- he said this table.” He replied. It did smell fantastic, and any other day you’d never deny delicious, deep fried balls of risotto dipped in smooth, decedent pesto- but you’re working right now and it’s not fair.
“Well, you can tell him” you lifted the dish, offering it back. “I have a system. And I’m unsure how he realized that I’m coming here, tonight, but I dislike cheaters. And he should know if he’s read my blog- I don’t muck up my palate with grease before I try the main course.” The plate was so close to him now it was nearly digging into his chest.
He nodded quickly, taking the plate without another word and briskly walking back to the kitchen. You sat back in your seat with a slight scoff.
He thinks he can win you over just like that? How did he even know you would be here?
You picked up your pencil once again, adding a note.
For the chef; Arancini smelt delicious. Didn’t order it, so I didn’t taste it . Presentation wise; 7/10. Pesto looked like it was spooned in the dish a tad bit messy to me.
You smiled to yourself, you knew he’d read the final review once it was posted. And since he wanted to be a little cheater and get a overall higher score since he was trying to weasel you into trying extra dishes- you’d kick his ego down a few extra pegs for fun.
You sat, nursing your drink, adding extra little notes here and there, as well as editing a blog post about Ghost Kitchens you’d been working on and how they were ruining the mobile order industry on the side. You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly.
Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh.
“Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table.
You swore even in the ambient lighting, his cheeks flushed slightly. “You- uh- you declined, my Arancini. Why?” He asked, holding his hands behind his back, the position making his already toned and tattooed arms appear more muscular. It makes him all the more impressive he has all these tattoos and still made it in this industry. I can only imagine the shit he got for them.
You raise your eyebrows in surprise at his boldness. “Because that’s Cheating. Mr.Berzatto. I’d assume you know my work well. Considering you know what I look like, so- why try to cheat? You know how I feel about appetizers. It’s a scapegoat.” You shrugged, locking your iPad when you realized he’d been peeking at the notes.
“Messy” his eyes narrow. He scoffs a bit, alluding to the note you’d written a short while prior “Messy?” He asks again, you laugh a bit.
“Mmhmm! Oh, was it you chef? Wow…I mean- now that I think about it” you shook your head, now just messing with him since you see how much he was dying to impress you. “I could’ve sworn- the pesto it just..was too loose. Overblended maybe? That’s why it was impossible to plate without making a mess.” You shrugged, cutting up your fish carefully and spreading the vegetables with your knife to observe the cohesivity of the cuts.
He scoffs, “too- too loose?! W-y’know what. No. No. It- you’re gonna try it.” He demands and you look up at him, nearly laughing at the seriousness of his tone.
“That depends. Bring me a pesto worth trying and I’ll think about it. Now” you wave him off casually “I can’t work with the chef over my shoulder. So- Shoo chef don’t bother me” you teased and he shook his head.
“Game on.” He muttered, heading back to the kitchen.
You smiled to yourself, the Arancini absolutely isn’t going into the review. But you’ll humor his ego by trying it.
You cut the fish thoroughly, checking the texture and the evenness of the seasonings slathered on the skin, writing little notes as you go along. The cuts of the vegetables were pristine. Nearly perfect. The only misshapen pieces were clearly cosmetic defects of the vegetable. The chef that cut these was immaculate with a knife.
When you took your first bite, you nearly moaned. The fish was buttery, the skin was crispy, slightly spicy, tangy, the flesh melted in your mouth. The risotto was so cheesy and buttery and wonderful. You could eat this meal every night for the rest of your life and never get sick of it. It was the best Sea bass you’d ever tasted.
You opened your iPad again, jotting down notes about the flavors, the mouth feel, all the usual points you hit in your review.
This meal is a 9.2 out of 10.
You write at the bottom. Very fair score, you never had rated something as a 10. Something being a 10 would be- you don’t even know what it would be. But it would be what the score says, perfection. And while this dish was wonderful, and very very good- it was not perfect. At least to your heavily trained palate.
You finished what you wanted out of the meal, pushing the plate to the side and not soon after, Carmen was back at your table. He placed the plate in front of you, 3 perfectly circular Arancini discs were placed equal distance on the plate, and truly beautiful pesto, sat in the dish alongside it. It frankly was immaculately plated.
“Unbroken pesto. Sorry again, about the last one.” He said, watching you carefully. You hum as you grab your fork, splitting one of the discs and digging out some of the risotto.
“Could be firmer.” You said, eyes flicking to his. He nods, clearing his throat a bit.
“It’s not- uh- it’s”
“Fresh” you finished for him, raising your brows and he nods. “So- since you’re frying it. You cook it for about..a minute- maybe forty seconds less than you usually would.” You said, daintily taking the bite off your fork.
“Heard..” he nodded, waiting for your reaction. You hummed a bit.
“Great balance of parm and butter though. I’ll give you that. Neither overpowers the other, that’s hard to do considering the notes” you added, cutting up the crust and tasting it.
“Mm-“ you scrunch your nose and his face visibly drops. “Mm-mm…no- not peanut oil…why would you do that? It totally overpowers the breadcrumb with this like…cheapy taste. I’d say it would be way better if you fried it in sunflower oil” you added, digging out more of the risotto and dipping it in the pesto before having a bite and humming.
“This though” you point at the little dish of green sauce with your fork. “This is great.” You add and he nods.
“Ok-yeah…ok…” he nods, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Thank y’for trying it.” He said and you nod.
“I’ll be back for a fair assessment. I think I’ll pass on the cannoli tonight, and just get the bill. Thank you” you slipped your pencil in the case before putting your iPad in your bag and holding your hands on the table in front of you.
“Y-y’re coming back” he said, sounding slightly surprised.
You shrugged “well- you clearly want a full review based on your behavior tonight, Chef. So I’ll humor you. I won’t tell you when of course, so just pray that it’s a day like today-“ you paused, looking around. “Where things seem to be running…alright.” You sat back in your chair casually with a small smile.
“I look forward to your review.” He gave a nod and headed back to the kitchen.
It was 3 weeks before you’d decided to return back to The Bear spring had quickly turned to early summer, and you thought you’d given enough time for your little conversation with the head chef to slip his mind.
It was 9:20, 40 minutes before closing. You did promise to come back at a random time, and no time is more random then a Friday night less than an hour before the kitchen closed.
You pulled open the door, stepped in and headed up to the host stand where the same man that originally offered you the Arancini stood. “The picky critic returns.” He said, tapping his pen against the reservation book absentmindedly.
“She does” you smiled a bit.
“Well lucky f’you cousin said you get a table any time, right this way” he leads you to a booth near the back, where you had a perfect view of the restaurant. Much cozier then before, right next to the doors of the kitchen where you could hear the back of house crew buzzing about.
“Same cocktail as last time?” He asked and you raised your brows in slight surprise as you sit.
“No waitress?” You asked, getting comfortable and setting your iPad down next to the empty plate.
“She’ll be over, just figured a friendly offer couldn’t hurt” he said with a small smirk.
You roll your eyes playfully. “House cocktail please, and thank you. But don’t count on kindness boosting your hospitality score-“ you stop, realizing he never gave you his name.
“Richie” he said, sticking his hand out to shake.
“Richie.” You repeat, giving him your firm professional shake.
“House cocktail comin’ up” he said and headed back to the bar. You mulled over the menu, lemon chicken picatta, that sounded like a perfect dish to judge this time around.
A few minutes later, Richie returns, setting the glass down in front of you. “Waitress should be by momentarily, enjoy your meal” he said, heading back to the host stand.
A bit after the waitress came to take your order, the restaurant had begun to die down. You were going to be the last person served tonight it looked like, since in 5 minutes they would stop seating people.
You added additional notes to your section about the cocktail, getting a better photo of it for your blog when you hear a bit of commotion up front.
You look up, to see a woman with curled brown hair in navy blue scrubs, her hands on her hips, talking with Richie with a frustrated look. There were tears in her eyes, you couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation.
“Richie, please let me see him- he- he hasn’t said anything and I…I just need to hear him say it to my face. Please!” She begs, tears were streaming down her face now.
Richie looks around nervously, tugging her to the side so they weren’t standing right in front of the host stand. You lean over just a bit- not so much it would be noticeable, but enough your nosy ears could continue to pick up what was being said.
“Claire. You shouldn’t be here…I’m sorry- he told me-he said that..that you can’t come here anymore. It’s too much and he will apologize when he can find the words. But he can’t. So please before he sees you. Leave” he said softly, attempting to soothingly rub her arm and she jerks away like his touch burned her skin.
“Fuck you, Richie. Get him. Now. I’m not working on his time anymore. This is my time now. I’ve waited around enough for him. I’m done waiting. Either get him yourself? Or I swear to god I’ll go in that kitchen and embarrass the fucking shit out of him” she hissed.
Your eyebrows raised, shit. Whoever fucked her over should at least be warned.
He snorts, clearly amused before stepping back and raising his arms in defeat. “Have at it ClaireBear.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think he’s gonna take kindly to you startin’ w’him in his house? Be my guest.” He shrugged, going back over to the host stand.
And then it clicked. She’s here for Carmen.
She laughed dryly, sarcastically, like a woman who’d had it. “You think I’m scared? Richie? You think I’m scared of little Carmy who couldn’t even check out a library book by himself? mm?” She goads him, arms crossed, chest heaving with rage.
His head snaps back to look at her, brows raised in shock. “Kid- I really think you should go calm the fuck down, because Y’re not gonna like the way that this conversation ends w’him- at all.”
And with that, she shoves open the kitchen door. You couldn’t just sit there and not watch- this was the juiciest drama you’d ever been privy to in person, and this means he’s single. You slightly curse yourself for being so giddy that this means the sexy chef would likely be on the market.
Your foot catches the door before it closes, leaning against the frame. She storms in, eyes frantically darting over the kitchen.
“Carmen.” She barks, the entire kitchen stops moving and looks at her, as if they were in shock and awe someone would ever raise their voice to him in such a way.
He rounds the corner, holding a pan of focaccia dough that he nearly drops at the sight of her. He blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as if she’d disappear when he opened them again.
“The fuck are you-“ his eyes meet yours, his face going pale quickly, he looked white as a sheet. “Leave.” He orders her, slamming the dough down on the counter.
“Leave?!” She laughs coldly, “you’re gonna tell me to leave?! You’re a fucking pussy Carmen. A pussy. Y’know- it was charity giving you a chance. Pity work.” She spits and you blink a few times, taken aback by such harsh words.
Is she serious? She thinks anyone could believe dating a super hot, ripped, talented, chef prodigy - that was charity work in any sense of the word?
He scoffs, “Charity?” He chuckled dryly. “Claire- you begged me to fuckin’ be with you! You-you-y’re a fuckin gnat! Claire! You- all you do is-is fuckin’-” he runs his hand through his hair, his chest heaving in anger, “You dont know me, Claire! Alright? There- And I-I-I don’t want you i’m-i’m sorry-”
She laughed, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. “You-” she whispered, her chest shaking with a sob. “You- fucker- I- I gave you a chance…” she whispered and gripped her wrist sadly. “I- I was there for you, Carmen- when no one else could fucking stand you.” she croaked.
“And I never asked for you too- please- just…leave me alone-” he shook his head. “Leave. Please…just-pretend we never happened, it was a mistake, Claire.” he breathed, clearly utterly defeated, and It sounded like he’d told this girl these same words multiple times.
“M-Mikey would be sick- Carmy, he’d- he’d hate who you’ve become…” she said meekly, and with that- something behind his eyes snapped.
“Claire I’m not DOING THIS I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKIN’ RESTAURANT. WERE OVER. YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! YOU MEAN NOTHING CLAIRE!” He roars, the veins in his neck popping out, angrily and aggressively pointing to the door. “OUT. get the fuck out. G-get out, b-before I-I-I fuckin- holy fuck” he finds his composure once more, even though his breath was still ragged from his outburst, flicking his hand next to him his entire body trembling with panic.
She looks to her left and right, she’s not that-
Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong, when you see she was stupid enough to grab a pan off the stove to whip at him.
“Aht!” the spanish woman standing a few paces to the right said, quickly grabbing the arm with the pan and twisting it behind her back. “Drop it.” she hissed.
Carmen looks between the two of them, utterly in shock. “Y-y’were gonna hit me?” He asked her, face twisting in rage. “Fuck you. Fuck you Claire.” He seethed, taking the pan from his employees grasp and tossing it in the sink with a loud clatter.
“Get the fuck out” you told her, grabbing her from the handle of the woman who’d stopped the assault, shoving her towards the kitchen door and into the front of the restaurant. “Y’re a fuckin crazy bitch.” You laughed dryly, giving her a hard shove for good measure.
“Oh and who are you” she straightened herself out, pushing her bag up on her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Glad to see that Carmy still needs someone to protect him. I’ll gladly give up that spot.” she said, causing you to laugh.
“Oh my god- you are pathetic. He just spelt it clear as day sweetheart- you are over. O-v-e-r. He doesn’t want you babe! And no, he doesn’t need my protection- I was enjoying dinner and apparently a show until you went batshit bitch.” You snip, plopping back down at your booth.
She scoffed “he doesn’t want anyone. The only thing he wants - is to remain miserable. Good fucking luck, whoever you are.” She said before stomping out.
“Yo she was really gonna throw somethin?” Richie asked as he walked over. Thankfully, it was just you, him, and the bartender in the front of the restaurant.
You nod “thankfully she didn’t realize I was there- Carmen would have had a nasty burn, and a concussion.” You said, taking a large sip of your drink.
Carmen comes out, eyes meeting yours immediately. “Fuck- I- don’t worry y’re meal is comped and don’t…don’t worry about a review, i’m sorry- I-I guess it wasn't in the cards f’r us to be featured on y’r blog... I’m really so sorry… Shes- ah..” he rubs his arm nervously, trying to find the words.
“A woman scorned” You teased, and he snorts a laugh, nodding a bit.
“Hell hath no fury, right?” He joked, sighing a bit. “It’s uh…it’s my fault I guess…I uh- I should’ve dealt with that…I've been putting it off” he said and you nod a bit.
“You off the clock?” you looked at your phone for the time, 10:07.
“Shit- fuck- sorry- I’m so sorry- give me like- I was making y’r food…and then-” you shook your head, stopping him.
“No- No…I was uh-Asking to see if you maybe wanted to..have a drink with me? Not-not like…professionally…” you shrugged, stirring your half full cocktail with the bar straw that floated in it.
“Sure- uh…sure- I’d like that lemme..lemme go change, i’ll be right out” he nodded, heading back into the kitchen.
#carmen berzatto#the bear fic#the bear fx#carmy berzatto#the bear hulu#carmen berzatto fanfiction#carmy berzatto fanfiction#the bear fanfiction#carmen berzatto fluff#the bear#carmy berzatto smut#carmy x reader#carmy berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto smut#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto x you#carmy berzatto x oc#carmy the bear#carmy x claire#carmen x reader#carmen berzatto blurb#carmen berzatto imagine#carmy berzatto blurb#carmy berzatto x you#carmy berzatto imagine
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Escape - Part 2 to Per This Agreement
Alastor x Reader // word count 3.2k
In which your worst fear returns, and nothing about it (about him) is as you remembered
Tags/Warnings: noncon, blowjob, come swallowing, mention of substance use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms™️, Alastor poorly suppressing a mental breakdown, not a good ending for either party, angst with a side of smut
A/N: I see this happening before/during whatever the fuck happened seven years ago. Is it canon compliant? Only time will tell.
As always - 18+, read the tags, if you don’t like the tags then don’t go below the cut (or into my inbox). Thank you and enjoy.
It’s been almost a year. That all-consuming paranoia that haunted you in the aftermath still lingers. But it’s not as sharp as it once was. It even disappears sometimes, when you keep yourself busy, when you give yourself other things to think about (there are other ways to tune it out as well, but they don’t last, and leave you more of a wreck than you started). So you stay moving. Stay distracted. And the results? You have a job, a dingy apartment, a scattered collection of hobbies, and people who you might consider friends if you weren’t scared of bringing them in close. It’s enough to keep the worst of your thoughts at bay. Enough to keep you sane.
And yet, you know that he is coming back. He made it clear, on that horrible day, that your existence is not your own. That you will see him again. You’ve pictured this reunion many times - it pops into your head, unwanted, at the worst possible moments. When you’re alone, when it’s dark, when you’re trying to sleep. Even after you fall asleep. Some of your nightmares are so vivid that you swear you can feel that chain around your neck, even once you wake up gasping for air. Sometimes, after a string of bad nights, staying busy isn’t enough, and you look for other ways out. If you drink enough, you don’t dream. And of course, you don’t dream if you don’t sleep and all.
You slept well last night, though. It’s been weeks since the last broadcast, and for once, your sleeping mind has given you a reprieve from its horrors. The day was good, too. Full of the pleasant boringness of everyday existence, the empty chatter that almost makes you feel at peace. You went to work, and did not jump at any unexplained noises. You ate your lunch, and did not feel the urge to vomit at any point after. You walked home, and did not stop to buy the sort of poison that would help you forget. You turned corners, and did not fear what you might see when you did. You ascended the stairs of your apartment building, and unlocked your door, and thought of nothing but mundane things the entire time. It was an uneventful day.
It was too good to last.
You step into your apartment, and immediately, something feels wrong. You can’t place it. There are no flickering lights, no ominous shadows on the wall, no faint, distorted voices echoing from places you can’t see. And yet, the feeling remains. You proceed cautiously through your home, and slowly open the door of your bedroom. Step inside.
And freeze.
Alastor is standing motionless in the middle of the room, like he’s been staring at your door for hours, waiting for you to emerge.
Running would be so pointless that it doesn’t even occur to you. In fact, absolutely nothing occurs to you for some time. For you to have any thoughts, you’d first have to admit that this was real.
His eyes register your appearance, but he doesn’t move or speak. Not yet. Your mind slows down - or perhaps time slows down, to give you a chance to see, to understand anything beyond your initial horror. And you realize, after your thoughts finally catch up with your eyes, that nothing is as you remembered.
He looks different. He is different, in every conceivable way.
You remember him standing straight. Even when he bent down, his spine was rigid. Now, he is folded in on himself, like a marionette with half its strings cut. His chest visibly rises and falls. His ears are pressed back against his head. His hair is frayed at the ends, individual strands escaping his control, pressing out in every direction. He is still grinning, but it’s not cruel, or confident. In fact, it looks like it might slip off at any moment. And his eyes…
They’re wide. Expressive, a far cry from the sadistic calculation that had burned in them a year ago. In all the times you imagined this moment, you never imagined him like this. You don’t think you could have conjured such a desperate expression in your imagination, even if you’d tried. Something is wrong, and not in the way you expected.
Even the place where he’s standing is wrong. In your nightmares, he always appeared over your bed when you were sleeping, or materialized in your desk chair, his boots kicked up at the corner, a menacing grin pasted to his face. And he always had something to say. But here, in what is unfortunately your real, waking life, his silence stretches on, until it’s too much for you to bear.
“What do you want?” You hate the way these words curdle in your mouth, fall thickly from your tongue. You shouldn’t have to ask. In your dreams, he was always very clear about what he wanted. Revenge for your insolence, in one way or another. On the good nights, your soul is ripped at its seams, and you scream for all of hell to hear. On the bad nights, you’re torn apart in a different way, and no one hears you except for him.
He doesn’t answer you. Not immediately. Just inhales deeply, presses his clenched fists to his side. For no reason that you can think of, you take a step forward - the door slams shut behind you, and you hear the click of a key in the lock. You don’t bother turning around, or checking your pockets for your own key. Somehow, you already know that they’ll be empty.
One of his hands rises into the space between you. His fist falls open, palm raised to the ceiling. It curls shut.
This is exactly as you remember.
It plays out like your nightmares, in perfect detail. The golden chain unfurls, you take one last free breath before the collar snaps tight around your neck, and you lock eyes with him as your face falls. But you don’t struggle, this time. And he doesn’t move more than he has to. He drops his gaze, stares down the length of the chain, holds its end limply in his loose fist.
It shakes and bends, capturing the small spasms of his hand. “I didn’t think”-
Your breath catches in your throat, at the same moment he cuts himself off. He sounds different. There is no filter over his voice, nothing for it to hide behind.
“I didn’t think I’d ever”- Again, he stops. He seems to become aware that he’s speaking only once the words have left his mouth. “A year ago…I didn’t intend on following through”-
You wait. He’s not drawing this out on purpose. You almost wish that he was. That would make sense. Taunts would make sense. Arrogance, deceit - those would make sense. This does not make sense. This is not real.
He starts again, and this time, it sticks. “I’m suffering in ways that you couldn’t even fathom.” His eyes, dull, burned-out red craters, leave you no room to question him, although at this moment, you don’t think any kind of suffering is out of reach for you. “There’s a reason the airwaves have been so quiet for the past few weeks. This… thing that’s hanging over me…” His eyes narrow, fingertips scratch against his covered palm. “It’s stripping the pleasure out of everything.” Finally, he looks at you. Seeing your face seems to strengthen his resolve - he grips the slack of the chain, slowly wraps it around his hand. “And I’m sure you know…despair makes us resort to strange things, just to feel alive.”
You do know. And you want to scream that you know because of him. But for many reasons, your mouth stays shut. He already knows everything that you’re thinking. Everything you fear. He’s thinking about it, too.
“I can’t escape. But I can forget, if only for a moment. And I suppose that’s a form of escape in itself.” He tilts his head. “Isn’t it?” His gaze is fixed on the chain link protruding from his fist. Some battle rages in his head, with no sign of abating.
The doorknob is close to your hand. So close that you’re beginning to think that fleeing is an option for you, after all. The Alastor you saw in your nightmares would never have permitted it - but he has little in common with the man standing before you. You eye the golden links flowing out from his hand. If you pull hard enough to make him let go, will the whole thing disappear? You don’t think it would take much to catch him off guard. Not in his current state.
Your stomach drops as his eyes flick upwards, catch you in the act.
“Oh…” To your horror, his ears perk up, eyes narrow in an all-too-familiar way. “No. I’m not that far gone.”
You stop, and wish you could force yourself to keep moving, just enough to cover your ears. The static is back in his voice, biting into you. You think he’s angry, like he was the time before. Or at the very least, he wants to be angry.
Your mind escapes of its own accord. You see yourself, almost a year ago, in the wake of your terrible mistake. Wiping your tears away, dressing in the finest clothes you owned, marching into the street. Buying two things at a nearby secondhand shop: a radio, abandoned and cheap because it refused to turn off, and a baseball bat. It was a stupid idea, one that sucked up your money and left you sitting on your kitchen floor in a sea of broken metal parts, feeling even more hopeless than you did before.
But it felt good, while it lasted. Better than you’d felt in a long time. It gave you something to do with your misery, other than let it tear you apart. And for a few seconds of blissful destruction, your mind went entirely quiet.
His voice drags you back to the present. “Even if you did manage to get as far as that doorknob,” he spits, “it would still be locked. I’m afraid that you’re trapped.” His grin stretches at the corners, and he bitterly laughs at some joke that you truly don’t understand. “We have that in common. But at least I still have a few places left to run.”
You don’t say a thing. Only let your hand fall from its upwards climb, back to the outside of your thigh. Limp.
“So few that I ran to you.” His lip twitches in something like disgust - whether at you, or at himself, you’re not sure. It stills quickly, and the mask of his smile hardens on his face. “Pitiful. But I can’t say that I regret it just yet. And perhaps I never will.” He clenches his fist tight around the ethereal chain, and for the first time since you set foot in your room, his eyes are alight, glowing exactly how you remember. “I certainly can’t turn back.”
Maybe this, the return of what you knew, is the only part that is real. Or maybe it’s the only part that isn’t. It goes on, either way.
A sudden tension on the chain pulls you forward, until you’re sprawled on the floor with only a vague understanding of how you got there. You look up, and see a gloved hand tugging sharply upwards. You scramble to your knees, because fighting with the metal band around your neck will result in you hideously gasping for breath until you surrender. You try to look away. To your surprise, he lets you, but you find your gaze returning to him before long. There’s no escape. He made that clear a long time ago. He can quell any struggle that you attempt, so it’s better not to struggle at all.
No way out…and yet, there is a hesitance in the way his hand leaves your face, a clumsiness in the way it falls at his waist. One last spark of uncertainty. It’s gone, after a moment - he clutches your chain harder, and quickly undoes his trousers, pulls everything down just enough to let his cock spring free. He looks at you in the moment that your stomach knots in anticipation, in the moment your face betrays your rage at being dragged down to this place. He sighs in delight, at that. But he closes his eyes as he urges you forward, as you let your tongue fall from your mouth, as you drag it up his length and close your mouth over the tip of his cock. He inhales sharply, but makes no other sound. His mouth has fallen open, revealing the sharp ends of his teeth. You wrap your hand around his shaft, meet it with your lips, stroke in time with the movement of your mouth, try to ignore the sound of his breath. You don’t know what he wants, what he likes - you’re not sure if he knows, either. All you can do is keep going, and pray that it will be over soon. Your eyes are closed. His breathing is louder than it was a moment before.
You’re not sure what, exactly, shifts. All you know is that suddenly, his hand is on the back of your head, nails sharp even through his gloves, curling through your hair and pressing into your scalp. His eyes have snapped open. They bore into you as he forces himself into your throat, as he makes you gag and sputter until you’re fighting against his hand, against the chain that pulls you tight to the base of his cock. You can’t breathe. Drool trails from the sides of your mouth, drips to the floor - and he holds you there, exhales raggedly as your struggles become increasingly desperate, until give out entirely.
There’s the clink of chain unwinding from his hand, and then the relief of being yanked back, of taking a deep breath - only for your stomach to drop again as he raises your face. You’re not sure when you started crying, but the tears are there, and he sees every one of them. Lifts a finger to wipe the freshest one away.
His eyes are wide and shining and dark. Edging on black, the same color as the ill-fitting shadow that pulses out from behind him. He tugs at your chain, and his voice hisses out from the gap between his teeth, a low, ravenous command. “Smile.”
His finger pulls at the corner of your mouth, but you’re already obeying, pulling your lips back to show your teeth, arranging the drool-stained lower half of your face into exactly what he wants to see. His hand twitches. The shadow on the wall lets its mouth fall open. Then, his grip clamps down on your jaw, erasing your grin and forcing your lips open. He shoves into your mouth, thrusts relentlessly until all you have room for in your head is the clink of the chain by your ear, the pressure of his hand on the back of your head, and the taste of his cock on your tongue. The chain tightens, he holds you tight as you choke, his hand stiffens on your scalp -
He gasps out an oath under his breath. His body shudders, convulses. His cock pulses into you, and his come releases into your throat, so deep that you don’t taste it. You don’t think about it. You prepare to fight for breath, once again, to be held cruelly and tightly until saliva pools in your mouth and spills from your lips.
But you don’t have to. The moment after it happens, he’s already stepping away. Pulling in on himself, in a perfect mirror of the way you crumple to the floor beneath him. Another oath falls softly on your ears, this one the opposite of pleasure, panicked and accompanied by a different sort of shudder.
The chain disappears. You swallow hard. And with your spine curled in, with your forearms pressed to your thighs, you watch him. He dresses himself quickly, erratically, fumbling over the fasteners before stumbling back to fall onto your bed. To ruin it with the weight of his body, the curl of his fingers on your blanket.
His breathing, unlike yours, doesn’t even out as the seconds tick by. It catches, releases, sputters. And finally, it becomes so perfectly slow and measured that you know, beyond a doubt, each inhale and exhale is a conscious act. He’s dazed, eyes lidded, his grin faint compared to moments ago. You get the odd impression that you shouldn’t be seeing him like this - that no one should.
“My mind went quiet, for a moment…” Again, he’s not really speaking to you. The static in his voice is gone. And that look on his face, the deadened eyes, the panic only betrayed in the jittering of his hands, has sprung back into place. “It wasn’t worth it.”
“No.” You’re not sure if you say it out loud, and you don’t care. Your mind detaches from your body, floats to the highest shelf in your cramped kitchen, the half-empty bottle of liquor that stands bitter and alone against the peeling paint of your wall. It’s never worth it. And yet, you know that it will be empty, before long.
He looks away from you. “There was a time…a time when I had rules...control…”
There was a time when you had control, too. It ended when you met him, and it won’t come back.
“Your soul…” His chest rises. Falls. Heavy. And slowly, shaking, he pulls his hands up from your bed. In one, he rests his face, the attached arm pulled close to his body, elbow pressed down into his thigh. The other hand unfurls in the empty air beside his head. From it emits a soft green light. “Have it.” The light streams towards you, connecting your body with the tips of his fingers, enveloping you with such intensity that you have to close your eyes. You gasp as it seems to pierce your heart, sending a jolt vibrating through your ribcage as it’s sucked into you, until the green glow on the other side of your eyelids has disappeared, and a strange warmth radiates inside you.
He’s let you go. You feel it, know it - but the relief does not come.
You open your eyes. He stands, turns away. Ears pushed back, fists clenched, spine rounded, moments from giving out entirely. And this is the last you see of him. He does not leave by the door. Instead, his image melts away, melds with the remnants of his shadow and retreats into some dark corner, out through whatever crevice he manages to find.
Away from you. Away from the unswept bedroom floor that you’re curled upon, away from your eyes, which have become every bit as hollow as his own. You hate yourself for wondering what happened to him. But you hate yourself more for wondering if he’ll ever come back. Wondering what version of him you’ll see, if he does.
***
The broadcasts do not return. Not in weeks, not in months, not in years to come. But you never really stop wondering. Only pause. Only live, and escape the best you can for as long as you can manage. After enough time has gone by, you can barely make out his face in your dreams - but you always know it’s him. And they never go away.
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I've always said that kubota did orihime soooooooo dirty >:( she literally has god powers and they get diminished so harshly... I've always viewed her power as her having the ability to Reject phenomena. In canon she rejects the fact that people are injured. What would happen if she rejected the fact that someone was alive? That someone was in her way? Reject the injustices that led to her and her friends' world being turned upside down. Anyway I love that your hime has the spine she deserves and I'm so excited to be completely normal about aeiwam
Some Important facts about Orihime from canon:
Orihime is the #3 student in her entire (fairly large) high school. Girl Ain't Stupid- if anything, the fact that she's wildly unorthodox in her projects and STILL pulls those kinds of grades and test scores suggests that her teachers are grading her like that because her weird-ass approaches to assignments demonstrate a thorough understanding of the material, so she may actually be smarter than Uryuu, the #1 student who gives me very strong "I'm very good at taking tests and telling teachers what they want to hear, so I can pull good grades even if I have no clue what the subject is" Vibes.
Orihime cooks weird damn food, and enjoys it. She also has strange ideas about what's cute, exceptionally brightly colored clothes relative to everyone else, and does things like get lost following dragonflies for hours on end. Screams sensory processing Weirdness to me. Maybe I'm projecting a bit here, but Sensory processing disorders come with sensory euphoria too- I get to enjoy a huge variety of strange foods and the sound of rain gives me physical joy.
Orihime's best friends* are:
-The School's Self-affected "weird boy who might be a delinquent or possibly just insane" guy
-A Butch Jock With Anger Issues
-The Crafts Club president who has So Much Gender Happening, and also sort-of grew up in a cult
-The Giant, scary-looking guy who keeps smuggling small animals into school.
-A Genuine sociopath whose family probably has Yakuza Connections
-An extremely powerful supernatural being who is like five times her age
-Keigo.
This is not the friend group of a "Normal"
Taken together, these points form a constellation of THIS GIRL GOT AUTISM.
LIKE SO MUCH.
LEVEL 999 AUTISM MAGE.
She's full of strange joy and magnificently weird and experiencing reality four steps to the left of everyone else AND SHE IS SO, SO SMART.
So in the fic, when she sees Ichigo freaking out because Rukia has been Kidnapped back to Soul Society on Bullshit criminal charges, Orihime does what every autistic person I know does, and immediately begins drafting a Solution.
Namely
She begins drafting an extraction plan.
She gets slightly in over her head with details about what data they need, how much and what kind of resistance they'd be facing etc. etc. until she realizes she needs some concrete answers and, without regard to social conventions like "time" and "Personal space", more or less kicks in the door to Urahara's shop at 2AM, marches directly into his bedroom and starts interrogating him about the civil services in soul society, yes it's weird you sleep naked with your cat sir but I'm not here to pass judgment I'm here to get answers you can put pants on later.
After the resounding success of their operation in Soul Society, the hardest part when Ulquiorra comes to kidnap her and gives her the completely insane circumstances of "you will be invisible and go through walls for 12 hours, prepare yourself." is not vibrating with the absolute mania of the chance to go to Los Noches and FUCK. SHIT. UP.
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Shades of Red
art in the cover by @ave661 and @shkretart !
chapter one | chapter two | ao3 | masterlist
✦ Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x civilian f! reader
✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you'll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won't.
✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;
A/N: Hello girlies! This is the very first time I get the courage to actually post something I wrote. I've been reading y'all fics behind my screen for so much time now I figured I could start postingggg; so please be gentle with the feedbacks, but be also sincere ♥ also, English is not my first language and although I'm fluent, there might be a mistake or two along the way. Don't feel shy in pointing it out if you see any! Moreover, this will be a long ass one I'm pretty sure, but I might get myself some more courage to post my smut oneshots in some near future. Hope you enjoy! x
Chapter 1 - The Incident | 3.3k
There was ash in the air everywhere. That scenario didn’t frighten him – in fact, Ghost was absolutely sure that at that point in his life, almost nothing could fright him. He had seen much worse things before, he thought silently as he walked towards the building completely destroyed. There was debris everywhere – the building had not collapsed completely, but some parts did not survive the flames and now there seemed to be not even a little bit of life in that place. There were still small portions of flames spread through a few heaps of debris, a terrible smell of wood and burnt concrete; but nothing of that could be worse than the smells of dead, flattered human flesh that once or again invaded his nostrils.
His eyes rolled around in search of any record of life. In vain, he knew: there was no chance that any civilian had survived that. A cruel, dark bombing, a violent and destructive terrorist act. The only goal was to destroy any form of life that could inhabit there, and possibly it had been obtained without any further circumstances. When Price sent the radio search order to all members of the 141, he made it very clear that those efforts were in vain. They would find nothing. We lost today, he said. We could not foresee this, nor can we remedy it. It was a burden they had to cope with on a daily basis - the often inability to do something, to act, was a burden that a soldier should carry. It was part of the job.
Ghost pressed the point button in his ear. “Is anyone listening?” He asked, his eyes checking the entire perimeter of the building behind the skull mask that covered his face. “Have you found something, LT?” Soap answered, his voice hushed by the efforts. “No. I’m making an entrance, there’s nothing out here.” the lieutenant stated, kicking off a few remaining pieces of concrete from the front of his feet and laying the rifle in his hands. Ghost stood in front of the main entrance to the building – that place that should have looked like a reception at some point in the near past - and the movement of his boots against the ground caused the roof above his head to shake a little, and some ash particles fell onto his helmet. He observed the movement, standing still for a few seconds, only for warranty; he did not want to end up becoming one more of those burial victims.
When the concrete whisper finally stopped stirring his ears, he entered. The lamp of his helmet lit up, and he looked around. His eagle eyes did not lose an inch of that entire perimeter, his ears attentive as those of a bat. He was looking for a sign, whatever it was: a presence, a scream, voices, calls for help. Anything. Anyone.
All he could hear were the sounds of the structure of the building, apparently ready to give in. Ghost tried to enter one of the apartments; his boots sole hit the semi-destroyed grinded surface of the door, and he broke in. He looked around. An enormous smashed chandelier rested violently against the bloody body of a child.
Many people said Simon was the type of man to have no feelings anymore. That time, scars and trauma had taken from him all and every kind of humanity. He had become a soldier—one of the good, one of the invincible, but nothing aside from that. Nothing but a soldier.
Perhaps that sentence became so repetitive that at some point, he, himself began to believe it. His face remained motionless. The sound of the blood drops hanging on the floor filled his ears, and he snorted for a moment, pressing the point into his ear. “First floor, apartment 102,” he said, coordinating other operators to head to start collecting the bodies.
His eyes went up to the ceiling, facing the huge blunt in the structure that caused the luster to fall. Maybe the parents' bodies were still there somewhere to be found, he thought. But that wasn’t his job, and unfortunately he didn’t have all the time in the world. He then traced his steps out of the apartment, looking around. As he kept going upstairs, the lantern lit up one hand or another thrown out of a pile of debris. Broken legs, the kinds of horrors that haunt the dreams of ordinary people.
As Price had said and as he imagined to be fact, there were no survivors. Even when he reached the last floor, without any hope that he would find any movement that were not spasms of lifeless bodies, he tried. He tried to find someone, to do his job with all the mastery he could. His voice echoed through the entire floor, looking for anyone who could answer, but as expected, there was no response.
All that was left was the subsoil, the garage. When he came down the lobby again and found a portion of the staff dragging out some bodies, placing them in black bags, one of the doctors caught his attention. “Lieutenant. Have you finished checking around? Nothing up there?” The man asked, pulling his glasses from the tip of his nose. Ghost is negative. “No, nothing,” he said bluntly.
The doctor seemed to bite his own jaw with some strength, in disappointment. He has baffled. “You don’t even have to check down there. If those above didn’t survive...” he said, giving on his shoulders. Ghost watched him in silence for a few seconds, before finally answering, “Focus on your work, doc. I’ll finish my own.” He said in a nod before starting to push with his crude hands the stones that covered the entrance to the stairs that led to the garage.
His steps echoed. Ghost walked through the parking lot, passed pillar by pillar, checked every car. There were bursting pipes releasing hot steam, a gas leak as well he could tell – and he didn’t want to be there to see what would happen if some kind of ignition occurred. He hastened his steps. He took a deep breath; he was about to press his point and give up, claiming that there were no survivors, but a stifling sound interrupted his action. He looked around, looking for the source of the heavy breath and the little grumbling of pain he heard. His eyebrows cracked almost instantly and he turned around himself, looking around. All his senses were activated at that moment – he began to walk through among the few cars there, following the sound he had heard and then, a hand hitting the air dropped debris to the side of what seemed to be a body. He approached cautiously, throwing the light from his helmet’s lantern in the direction of the sound, and to his surprise, although not perceptible, there was the only survivor of the bombing: you.
A small, female frame shrunk from a pile of debris. Your hair was covered in ashes, your face - the dirty cheeks with the blackness of the material, your arms painted in the scarlet of your blood flowing freely to the ground, glass blades attached painfully to your soft skin. There was a cut down from the top of your forehead until the beginning of your left eyebrow. The completely messy strands of your hair fell against your face, opaque, bright. The expression of fear on your eyes turned into pure terror the moment they met his own, those small cold orbs inside the mask. You instinctively tried to move away from him, push your body away from those debris, away from that huge and frightening man.
When you threw your body to the side, all you could feel was your back against the cold floor, your left leg refused to work. You felt nauseous, stupid, your head turned. Your mouth trembled in a failed attempt to say something, the silence already lasted for seconds enough for you to fear his frame standing ever so tall and quiet. “Please don’t hurt me.” You managed to say, your voice engulfed in a cry that refused to go out. It wasn’t as if it was going to work; if he was one of the terrorists who caused this incident and really wanted to hurt you, then you were at his mercy and there was little you could do about it.
Maybe, if you were in a better mental and physical condition, you’d be able to identify that the rifle in the hands of the man in front of yourself was of a military model. That all his gear pointed out that he was an operator, someone willing to help. Your mind could not process all the necessary information about him at the given moment, although.
“I will not hurt you, lass.” He explained, and for a moment you felt your chest swell in air and it was hard to contain the immense desire to cry. The heavy steps of the man were made against your small, wounded body. He lowered himself, letting the rifle rest next to him quietly. You gulped in dry, still nervous with your eyes raised to his, now a little closer to you. He wasn’t looking at you — he was looking down, seeming to assess how hurt you were. “I’ll tell you what’s happening now. Okay?” He asked, slowly and calmly, his cold eyes now facing your own, visualizing your soul behind the cover of this hurt shell of yours. You stumbled, and he continued. “I’ll take that away from you, and I need you to help me helping you. Alright? You will be well. I just need you to hold your leg and when I push it over, you roll. Understood?” The man asked, his firm and deep voice being the first source of human contact you had since the lightning caused you to wipe out unconscious hours before. You came in for confirmation.
Ghost nodded back and raised his fingers, counting to three. Contrary to what you might have imagined, he didn’t need to do much to lift the huge concrete block that blocked his left leg from moving — he even had some ease in doing so. He held the concrete above his body, his arms backed over you, he sat down. “Roll.” he commanded, and you obeyed as you could. You leaned her hands on the ground and gave a boost; one of your hands instinctively went to the wounded leg, in an attempt to warm up the pain now felt by finally having released it from the rubble. You couldn’t hold a moan of pain, but he was quickly stifled by the sound of concrete hitting the ground when Ghost let it fall back.
You mentally begged that you could endure that. Your eyes were filled with tears, and a certain despair arose through your throat, your mouth. The anguish of finally feeling the unpleasant smell of the environment, the nervousness of realizing that very possibly, few other people survived that disaster, it was overwhelming your already troubled mind.
Ghost didn’t lose a second in time; he finished positioning the rifle around his body and you felt his arms wrapping you by the waist and the folds of your knees, and he lifted it up with immense ease – it was as if you were featherweight. The gloves in his hands were rough against the sensitivity of your skin, but his touch was as cautious as possible. You could say without a doubt that this soldier of at least twice your height was doing his best not to hurt you any more than you’re already wounded.
“What is your name?” He finally asked, his rifle resting on his back, and you resting over his arms. He wasn’t looking at you – his eyes were fixed ahead, in the direction he was carrying you to, the exit. You answered, and he nodded in acknowledgement. “You can call me Ghost. I am a soldier, yes? We will take care of you.” He said in a clear tactical attempt to calm your nervousness down.
You sat down with your head. “Amelie Miller... Did you find her? My friend, she... did you find her?” You asked, your body trembled as you came to realize his eyes were now boring into yours.
He seemed to look for words that would not hurt you as much as the ones he had to say, but he for one, was not good with words or comforting.
“I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered, in a sigh. “there are no more survivors. You were the only one.”
~ x ~
Your head hurt. Everything hurt; body, arms. There was a blanket around your shoulders and a bottle of water still sealed in your hands. The look in your eyes was empty, blurred; there were a lot of people there. Many doctors, many operators - soldiers like Ghost. One of them wore a mohican, the other had thick eyebrows. The captain was talking to them in an isolated corner, the doctors were talking to each other about your condition, about what should be done from now on. There were agents from the British intelligence surrounding the site, and there were about hundreds of black bags stretched on the floor, closed. You still felt pain, although the healings now prevented blood from flowing freely through your forehead as before. The glass pieces had been removed from your arms, your face was clean now and even so, you never felt so dirty in your entire life.
Every time you dare to blink, you could swear that you would faint. Your hands were getting weaker, loosening around the bottle. The sudden sound of the bottle falling to the ground caught the attention of one of the men there – the captain. As far as you could realize, he called himself something Price.
“Miss.” He said, coming closer to you. Suddenly, there were eyes on you from every angle possible; all of the other soldiers turned to the ambulance where you were sitting now. You slowly raised your face to look back at Price, and he continued. “I’m not going to ask if it’s okay, this question is rhetorical. You need to be hydrated.” He was bowing down in front of you, taking the bottle he dropped and opening it, offering it to you. Your eyes checked at the bottle for a few seconds and your trembling hand finally grabbed it, drinking until the last drop you could - all at once. You could feel your throat burning, your skin seemed to be in living flesh. The appearance of your wounds was not as unpleasant as the feeling of having them, but you knew that all that would leave you some ugly scars.
You could not care about it now – in fact, couldn’t care about anything at all. Your mind was empty and you never felt so apathetic in such a distressful situation.
“What am I going to do now?” You asked, in a whisper, your eyes completely lost. “I—what am I going to do...?,” you repeated, and there was nothing but an absolute feeling of raw pain and loss in your voice right at that moment, for as much as you tried to hide it.
Price swelled his chest, and his lips compressed into a line. “You don’t have to worry about anything now. We’ll take care of everything,” he assured. “The government has a great defense program for disasters like this, you won’t be without a roof,” he finished, trying to calm you down. You closed your eyes and shaken your head, but you did not respond. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; what could be done besides trusting that everything would go well? Trust that they would have a plan for you, a shelter, doctors, a chance of living after you were supposed to die in such a horrific way?
You didn’t even know if you wanted all that. Didn’t even knew if you wanted to be the only survivor. Surely not: at that time, you would rather have died among the other more than a hundred people who were now in black bags scattered on the floor in front of you. You felt so much - you felt gratitude for their work, for saving you, but at the same time you couldn’t help but to feel like a fraud for surviving while other died. Others that, somewhat, deserved more than you to live. There was so much in your mind now, but little that you could really synthesize and make sense of.
You drowned your face between your hands, unable to cry, but wanting so deeply to hide from them, from those men, from doctors, from the press, from everything. Wanting to be away from everything, wanting to be dead for once.
A little further away, Ghost observed you. His broad arms crossed, his posture relentlessly perfect as always. His eyes looked at your gestures, scanned your body —all those wounds, poor girl, he thought. Although he was sure there was no more of a heart in his chest, he felt comprehensive towards your emotions. The horrors you had lived in such a short space of time, the unbearable consequences that that meant for your poor mind. The trauma. The pain.
He could not help but think that he saw a bit of himself in you. Not a bit of Ghost – a little bit of Simon. A little bit of the little Simon who felt an immeasurable strain in his chest, a void that could not be filled.
When the doctors finally helped you to get up in the ambulance and sit on one of the available chairs, your face turned over your own shoulder and you found his eyes stuck to yours. It felt intimidating in some way; perhaps the way his confidence didn’t allow him to look away while you stared at him, or something in the way he seemed capable of reading right through you like a good book of his. He was a savior to you, and somehow it still seemed his persona was conflicting with the one of a savior. He was something else, perhaps still a benefactor, but somehow, a very dangerous man.
There was not a single feeling in his eyes, quite the opposite. There was pure coldness, and yours on the other hand carried some gratitude and ingratitude at the same time. You felt grateful that he had saved you, but at the same time, felt angry at him for not having let you die. You entered the ambulance, and your eyes continued to lock a gaze against his until the moment someone closed the car door from outside.
Ghost turned his eyes at last, and saw Price approaching.
“Fuck.” The captain whispered, laying his hands on his waist, looking at all the misfortune that the incident had caused to that place. “How many bodies?” He asked, looking at Simon with the corner of his eyes.
“A hundred and two so far.” Ghost answered quietly.
“And have you found the bodies of the sons of bitches who did this?” Price said with some disgust and hatred attached to his voice. Ghost assented positively, which made Price crack the dust almost instantly into a distressed expression.
“Motherfuckers.” He grunted, turning to the rest of the team. Soap, who had been remaining in silence for thorough all the search, dared to finally speak.
“We have a lot to report, hm?” He raised his eyebrows, and received a Price assent in response.
“To the headquarters." The captain ordered, making his way to the helicopter that awaited for them, and they left.
#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley#ghost cod#ghost mw2#simon ghost riley#cod ghost
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NOWHERE ELSE !
— hobie brown x gn!reader
— angst, hurt/comfort, injury and some blood
— hobie pushed them away to keep them safe, but found he had nowhere else to go when he was down and hurt
— yes absolutely hurt/comfort coming right up! keep requests coming in wonderful people (directly reuploaded from my old acc @/hobieenthusiast)
“What?”
There was a brief silence before those words were muttered. Hobie could only stare down as you stared at him, a hurt and confused expression on your face. 5 words. That’s all it took for this reaction.
“We gotta break things off.”
“No Hobie I-” Your words fall short as you sigh shakily, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “What’s this about?”
Hobie tried to keep his normal demeanor. “Nothin’ ‘bout it. You ain’t safe with me.”
You scoff. “I’m not safe with Spider-man? Hobie, I’m practically the safest I’ll ever be!”
“No, you ain’t.” He responded sharply, finally looking up and facing you. The sight of how defeated you looked only tore him up further. “You’re a target. Canon events, villains. ��M practically destructive.”
You slowly walk up to him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. In turn he grabs that hand, relishing in how your skin feels on his own one last time.
Of course he didn’t want to do this. You were the greatest thing to ever possibly happen to him. Your ideals were something you were always fighting for, you always knew what to say to help him, and you had the biggest heart imaginable.
That’s why he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt.
“Is this.. truly what you want?”
Hobie looks into your eyes, wanting so badly to say no. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that to you.
He knew how much you worried. You worried when he came back with injuries. When he was sent on missions that lasted for days on end. These worries were always voiced, and while Hobie felt guilty, he had to keep doing it. And it wasn’t like you didn’t understand, you just had that feeling.
He wanted to put you at ease.
“We both know the answer to that, now don’t we?” He responded, taking your hand and kissing the back of it gently. “Goodbye, [Name].”
He walked away from where you stood to the front door. With a sigh he opened it, walking out without a single glance back. He knew he would have ran back if he did look at you again.
On either side of the door, both of you let out a single tear. For you, it turned into many. Hobie didn’t let his turn into anything more.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Hobie finally found an ally to stop and rest in. His breathing was heavy as he ripped his mask off his head, looking down at the damage done to his body. Blood was seeping through his side, right onto the floor.
Great. Absolutely great.
He was doing too much. Ever since the night he last saw you, he took on more than he could handle. Something to numb the buzzing of his mind.
He can’t go back to you. Not when you’ve been so safe in the last week because he wasn’t there to put you at risk.
But he was too hurt to not do anything. He wasn’t about to go to a hospital. Too many questions and he’d only be supporting big corporations stealing money.
You were always more caring than any hospital..
Hobie sits there a while, debating his options. Bleed out and suffer, or do what he swore he wouldn’t. The choice was obvious.
He missed you so much. He could never deny that. They way you were so gentle when with him. Hobie needed security in his life of reckless fight. And you were just that.
Carefully, Hobie stood, putting his mask back on before swinging from the ally, towards your apartment. His side hurt so badly, and thankfully you weren’t far from him. His mind was buzzing the entire time; happy to see you but scared for what was to come.
He made it to the fire escape, landing on your level. He stood as well as possible and knocked on your window.
You glance up from your notebook, taking off your headphones as you glance at the window. There’s only one person who would knock on your window at 11 pm.
Hobie Brown.
You stand from your bed, heading to the window. You open it up and immediately see the way blood was seeping into his clothes, staining them in the process. You face goes from shocked to saddened as you sigh.
“Oh Hobes, get in here. Sit down, please.” You say as you help him inside.
Once he’s inside he immediately pulls off his mask, taking a deep breath. He was okay now. He was going to get taken care of. Like he needed.
You quickly grabbed some towels and bandages along with your med-kit, specifically bought for him, and directed him to sit on your bed. He pulled his shirt off as he sat on one of your towels.
“This one’s bad..” You muttered as you sat across from him, taking a damp towel and wiping some blood up. “Hobes, what happened?”
He looks up, only to scoff. “What can I say. S’me villains kicked my ass. ‘s normal stuff.”
“No, this isn’t Hobie. You look like you were thrown like a rag doll.”
You pour some antiseptic on another clean towel, wiping the wound. Hobie was used to the stinging sensation by now, but this did feel like more than before.
Before long, you finish, reaching for bandages. “Is.. this because of..”
“No.” He says quickly, but then shakes his head and sighs. “Even I don’t believe myself when I say that.”
You give a sympathetic look as you wrap the bandages around his torso, making it tight but not too tight. “It’s killing you, isn’t it?” You asked quietly.
Hobie gives no answer as he watches your gentle hands work. He didn’t deserve this. He broke your heart to keep you safe and now here you were, still with him. Helping keep him alive.
“There..”
You stand back up, grabbing the supplies to put them away. Over in your closet, you grab some of the clothes of his you could never toss out, bringing them to him.
“Stay here tonight.”
“‘s not that easy.”
You shake your head. “Hobie.”
He glances up as you set the clothes down, taking his face in your hands. Your thumb swipes gently on his cheeks in a comforting motion. He missed this.. god he craved this. His eyes close as he lets out a sigh.
“I’m here to stay.” You start, sitting in front of him. “I know you never wanted to leave like that. That’s just not you. You wanted to protect me, and I appreciate you for that.” You continue, staring straight into the Spider-man’s eyes. “But I can protect myself and you. You have to trust me on that.”
Hobie sighs yet again, taking your hands in his own calloused ones. “‘s not that I don’t trust ya. I don’t trust others, the world. ‘m just tryin to keep ya safe and at ease.” He explains, his thumbs rubbing circles on your knuckles.
“Then let me stay by your side.”
There was a long while where the two of you just sat there. You were soaking in the moment. The realness of him here with you. He was making a mental choice. On what he can do to keep you safe.
Hobie shook his head, letting out his signature smile. “You’re a stubborn one, ya know t’at?”
You laugh and smile softly. “What can I say? I know what I want.”
He leans forward, gently capturing your lips in his own. He missed this. Hobie Brown missed everything about you, his love. Sure what he did was stupid, but you could never blame him for wanting what’s best for you.
“I love you, ya know that?” He whispers against your lips, hands never releasing yours.
You smile, pecking his once more. “Of course I do. I love you more, Spider-punk.”
“Hey, aye.” He speaks with a small chuckle. “I hate that name, ya know. ‘obie is perfectly fine.”
“I have to keep my teasing material. That name is never leaving my vocabulary.” You respond, standing and throwing another towel to him. “Now go change. I’m tired.”
Hobie chuckled and stood, bowing mockingly. “Of course, your highness.”
As Hobie left to the bathroom to change, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief. He’s happy, truly. He has a safe place to turn to whenever he needs. He has someone he does his duties for, to protect the world and brighten it up. You’re all the motivation he ever needs. Of course he has the desire to completely antagonize fascists, but you were more worth it.
And as he settled in that night with you beside him, his worries could melt away. He had you again. And this time, he swore not to go anywhere to himself.
#NEW ARTICLE || OUT NOW !!#hobie brown x reader#hobie brown#atsv x reader#atsv#atsv hobie#hobie brown x you#across the spiderverse#spider man: across the spider verse#hobie x reader
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Unless I missed something, it seems you don't have anything about Rita Skeeter in your HP masterposts (other than "what if JKR was Rita").
I'm wondering what you think of her? I feel like I barely even remember her in canon, but fanfic uses her for everything under the sun.
You know, I think you're right anon.
Generally, she's unscrupulous as hell and will do nearly anything to chase down a story regardless of the devastation it may cause an individual (see her roasting a 14-year-old girl in a national paper to people who otherwise would never have heard of Hermione Granger but then only knew her as WHORE, including Mrs. Weasley who for a year thought Hermione was a gold digger), incredibly hard working and ambitious, very thorough with her sources, and has an unfortunate tendency to be... not wrong a lot of the time.
Say what?
Yes, I know, I know, she uses the quotes quill which is clearly intended to exaggerate a person's reactions to whatever she's saying (and infuriate them so they'll say more things to her face while they're flustered) but the woman is meticulous with her sources.
The Dumbledore book was extensively researched, with letter evidence, interviews with everyone Dumbledore had pretty much ever known in his life, and it turns out it's... pretty much... entirely... correct...
We learn that the reason Rita knows all this information she shouldn't is that she's been wiretapping (well, being a bug in a room). And that's the thing, she doesn't make things up, she does put them in the worst/most scandalous way possible (e.g. misconstruing Hermione and Harry's friendship into being romantic and theorizing what Hermione gets out of this relationship) but it's not wholesale made up.
So, I actually like Rita as a character. The woman will ruin you for a story, and is absolutely vicious and manipulative as hell, but she's just so interesting.
(And JKR clearly despises her, to a hilarious degree, Rita represents all of JKR's hatred of the British tabloids in one human form that she calls ugly.)
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