「3」 ━ the past beats inside me like a second heart.
》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x afab!reader
》 NOTES: no use of y/n, no mention of name, weight, hair style, or skin colour
》 WARNINGS: disgustingly sappy | cunnilingus | p-in-v smut | use of the nicknames "love" and "dove"
》 CHAPTER: 4.8k | 3/3 [masterlist] | title is this quote | posted on AO3
Damp gravel creaks under your heels as you slide out of the black Mercedes and squint against the glare of the setting evening sun. Subdued tones of dusk paint the sky; the kind that come after a storm, look like bruised skin and tidepools of purples and reds.
The grounds of Shepherd's property are scattered with puddles of water—the last remnants of a recent summer downpour over Washington, DC. It's the Fourth of July, and the General invited his closest friends and business partners to celebrate on his waterfront estate. A gesture of social politics and fundraising, no question, but it's been a rough past few months, and you welcome a distraction from the bruised heart hidden beneath your ribs.
Your date thanks the driver with a subtle nod, cracking his neck as he walks around the car. He looks good in his rough-around-the-edges sort of way; fiddling with the buttons of his dress shirt, muscles coiling in movement. His half-lidded eyes are fixed on you, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes, and you think: maybe, years ago, I could have loved you instead of him.
"You clean up nice," James comments as he steps next to you.
It's a halfhearted compliment that secretly makes you doubt your wardrobe choice. Black on black, elegant but not prudish. You didn't have to ask your best friend twice to let you into their closet, but their eyes had followed you into the elevator, conveying the same question they had already asked twice: are you sure you want to go out with this muppet-ass ambassador?
Jame is brash and cheeky in a way men from the Pacific Northwest often are. You'd stumbled across each other a few times in the last year, but it wasn't until your latest job that you'd exchanged first words. Neither of you have anything in common beyond a cutthroat career and a guarded heart—there's no love lost between you. No genuine care.
"You nervous?" he asks, his voice just a shade too gentle.
"Why should I be?" you return dryly, eyes fixed ahead.
Should an innocent soul on the guestlist not be aware of how lucrative the business of a private merc company could be, one look at the property spoke for itself.
Shepherd's residence is a medley of imposing columns, white-washed brick, and wide, black-framed windows. Hanging lanterns cast a pleasant glow on the exterior, dunking fine-cut grass and shaped bushes into a soft, mellow light. The view is one out of an architectural digest column, and you wonder how many other people in this line of work hide behind desks and live well beyond their needs.
James mixes in easily with the crowd, shakes hands and pats shoulders. Appetizers are tried, and pleasantries exchanged. Wine glasses picked up and put down again.
When the burning sun touches the horizon—slipping below the water to bleed across the lake's surface—the fading light brings dancing and conversations and you try to be alive the way you used to be alive. It's easy, existing at James' side. You smile and laugh at all the right moments, only speak when you have something to say.
When your phone vibrates in the middle of a conversation between James and an old acquaintance of his, you think it might be an text from your supervisor. You lean away from the group—swipe the screen up, punch in your password.
The screen flashed and you hit the latest text message.
You read the text one, two, three times, and the realization that it can only be him hits you like a tidal wave in the ebb and flow of your own misery.
Your breath quickens as you look up; almost expecting him to be standing near, to have his dark eyes fixed on you in close proximity, but the weight of his heavy gaze is nothing but a phantom pain—the memory of something long lost.
When you let your eyes wander through the crowd to find him in an ocean of faces, he's nowhere to be seen. You can't find him, but he's here, and he's been watching you.
It's been more than a year since you've last seen Simon. You used to think that the off-tone you ended things on and the miles of land and sea that have since come between the two of you would be enough for the yearning to fade into blissful nothingness—but your heart is a traitor, and the past beats inside you like a second heart.
The way you miss a ghost—the way you still love the idea of a life with him—only grows impossibly larger with absence. Despite the passing of time, despite the non-existing contact, despite the fact that Simon Riley has broken your heart more than once—the prospect of him being here stabs you with excitement.
Your heart trips all over itself; stumbling and free-falling towards a killing-floor of bad ideas. He's going to turn this encounter—this bad joke of coincidence and bad timing—into a game. You're certain of it, and, although he can try to spy on you from afar all night, you're far too impatient to give into his avoidant gambles. You're not going to let him win.
It's a longing for chaos fueled with spite. It's the what if that makes you want to take the bait, even if it's going to fucking hurt.
It's always been like this between the two of you: a constant push and pull of quick mouths and a desire to be close, close, close. Wanting to be understood, yes. To be loved, maybe. It's self-destructive, it really is, but you don't make it into this line of work without an appetite for disaster—so you leave. You excuse yourself with quick words and an apologetic smile, but James is too absorbed in a discussion on foreign policies to bat an eye at your hasty disappearance.
You walk across limestone pavers, fine-cut grass, and hardwood floors past palladian windows. Through expansive foyers covered in abstract expressionist canvases, down hallways filled with Shadow Company high-rankers, and familiar faces you've seen on the news.
The good thing about wandering around a party full of politicians, high-rollers, nepo-babies, and nouveau-riche wannabes is that if they don't know you already, you are invisible. Nobody stops you for polite conversation, and nobody questions you combing through the crowd.
You mumble excuse me and sorry, functionally invisible as you slide past other guests, declining more drinks from overly enthusiastic service personnel, combing through the first floor again, but you can't find him. Nobody has seen him, and you realize he must be avoiding you on purpose; slipping out of your reach whenever you come too close.
Anger bubbles up inside you at the thought, and you reach for your cell to confront him, just to see another message that came in 12 minutes ago.
You scoff at your phone screen. Oh, his cold, dead heart—black like tar, rotten to the core, and so, so incapable of love. Simon has always insisted on the coldness of his nature, no matter how much you've known it to be far from true.
He's the only person that ever made you feel safe. A feeling so deep and pure that you weren't sure it was possible for you to even feel at all.
Simon is the only person you have ever wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
It didn't seem important then—the idea that a man as broken and weathered as him might leave you scarred, that you might never find another love like this. You had no reason to believe it would go this far—that he'd steal your heart like this. The idea of a long happy life, of getting to spend it with someone at your side, was the kind of fantasy that never solidified for you before you fell in love with a ghost.
Since your last encounter, you carried your anger for him with you. As the weeks turned into months and the heat of the last summer days cooled into a long, dark winter—you hated him. You woke, and you hated Simon, and you did your job, and you hated Simon, and when the thoughts that hid in the rafters of your heart crawled out at night, you hated Simon a little more.
In the mornings, you'd wake up with words on your tongue—ones you wanted to share with him. You've lost trust in beginnings and endings like this; aching for something unreachable, or just the idea of a quiet, predictable life with him.
Peace and stability. Security and certainty.
Everything Simon is not.
You could have been happy together. You could have been happy together but he ruined it.
Simon Riley always ruins everything.
Later—much later—when the sun already disappeared behind the lake, you find yourself at a round table in the garden. You're grateful for the alcohol-fueled discussion of the latest prix in MotoGP between the three men surrounding you, leaving you space to sulk in your own thoughts.
You are only drawn from your thoughts by the buzz of your phone. You had placed it face down next to your glass, now only lifting it up to see a new message from Simon.
You feel oddly unbalanced, like you're caught between the pages of a past version of yourself and your current self; older and wearier, but still nursing a weather-beaten, traitor of a heart. Some wounds, you've learnt over the years, never truly heal, and Simon knows all too well how to rub salt into yours.
It's infuriating how well he knows you. There's this undeniable part within you that will always care for him. A part that wants him safe and sound. A part that wants to be close to him, always.
Your eyes lock on your phone again as the screen lights up with another incoming message.
It's almost midnight when you climb up the stairs to the second floor.
A motion sensor awakens the overhead light with a humming noise, and you look down the hallway and back down the stairs, but nobody is here. It's quiet; the background of chatter, laughter, and music nothing more than a distant soundscape. You've run off to meet a man who's no longer yours, while everyone else gathers at the waterfront for the fireworks.
"Simon?" You ask in a hush that matches the quiet all around you, but there is no answer. No movement, no sign of life; just the hollow sound of your footsteps on the hardwood floor and a growing heaviness pounding in your chest.
You try the handles of three doors, but they're all locked, so you take a deep breath instead. It's quiet up here—too quiet, and fear starts to trickle down your spine as your sixth sense for danger kicks in. It spreads like ice through your veins, making you slowly back off to the staircase for a way out, for a way to escape.
You move one foot over the other, precise and purposeful, drawing shallows breaths. For a moment, the world is utterly still—then a hand clamps against your mouth, and drags you back against a warm, broad chest.
The scream that climbs out of your lungs dies, unaired, against rough skin, and the world explodes into motion. You bite down on the bare palm covering your mouth, elbows digging into the body that traps you in place. Feet shuffle, and before you can even get your bearings enough to tap into your training to fight back, you're dragged into the closest room.
The door is pulled shut behind you, latching with a quiet little click, and you're spun around to face your opponent—back slamming against the slab of wood blocking your freedom. It takes you more seconds of struggling to recognise that the hand over your mouth is accompanied by familiar tattoos and that the man in front of you is, indeed, Simon.
"Don't scream," he says, all casual and loose.
His lips quirk with an utterly devilish smirk once he lets go of you, and your clenched fists crash down onto his chest immediately; trying to push him away, to make it hurt. You shove at him, aim for his face, but he doesn't yield—just grabs your wrists mid air like it's nothing.
"You fuck—fucking psychopath!" you spit, pulling and puffing in his tight grip, but he doesn't let go.
"Hey, hey—" Simon begins instead, voice growing softer, but he's laughing, and the sound of it is laced with a gravity that draws an ache into the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
"Let go of me!"
He slightly tilts his head as he stares down on you, gaze raking over your face as if he is searching for something—how serious you are, maybe. An indicator of how upset you are, perhaps. His eyes linger on the slight frown curving the corners of your lips and the anger in your eyes. You stare back fiercely, heart caught in your throat.
"Sorry," he says, the shadow of a grin ghosting over his lips as he finally lets go of you.
"I'm going to kill you," you snarl back, palming your wrist.
"Y'wouldn't be the first to try, dove."
He says it in that same monotone manner he always does, and you heave a deep sigh, tipping your head back against the door for an agonizing beat—as though you're horribly exhausted by this little game of his.
Yet, he seems unmoved, his eyes unreadable. You've gritted your teeth for years at his silence, just to now drag it on out of spite.
You let your eyes roam through the dark room you've been dragged into. Ceiling-high bookshelves, expensive leather chairs, and a solid wood desk fill the room. There's no question that this must be the Shepherd's office, and you swallow the question of how Simon managed to get in here. When you shake your head at him in silence disapproval instead, he blinks back at you unmoved.
It's the first time you get a good look at him since you left him in Brixton. He's in a plain, dark blue uniform, a row of medals clinging to the left side of his left chest. It's been a while since you've seen him in formal attire, and your eyes linger a little bit too long on his broad frame before they move up and take in his scarred face. The jaw you know, the crooked nose, the dark eyes that often carry a brutal, pale expression—now looking down on you soft and open.
"No mask, huh?" You hate how the words come out low and peeved, an exhale that flutters like a leaf carried adrift by strong winds.
"They said it'd be unbecoming to the other guests."
You laugh, just a breath, and your face crumples into a hundred shades of grief with it. The way his voice folds gently around your name immediately makes everything much worse.
"Look, y'told me not to contact you, and I didn't, alright, but we're both here and—shite, I dunno. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe—"
"How much have you been drinking?"
"Lost count. It's Johnny's fault, really—you look stunning, have I told you yet?"
"You did." — "Good."
You freeze as he steps closer, but you don't pull away. Simon lets his touch linger, slowly skimming his fingertips over your jaw. He catches the way your breath quickens, and how your gaze flickers to his lips. You swallow hard, trying to breathe past the sudden thundering of your heart against your ribs. The flare of heat that sears through your veins is a warning, and the familiar longing cleaving you in two is just as sharp and unforgiving. You make an annoyed face at him for it, wanting to claw at his face and rip his clothes off at the same time.
"Let me kiss you," he murmurs, touching you like it's a question.
Your heart is in the back of your throat. Although you try to swallow it, your voice comes out as little more than a whisper. "Simon, I—"
He moves anyway, bridges the gap between you, and your hands move to his chest. Your breath catches and tangles up in your ribs, like it's the first time you've ever been here, the first time he's looking with this intensity that's palpable, that's tangible and real.
Your hands on his chest curl into fists. "C'mon, don't do this, we talked about—"
He doesn't let you finish, kissing the words right out of your mouth.
Simon pours all his feelings—every drop of love he holds for you in his heart, every last fraying thread of longing, everything—into the kiss. You tremble under the warmth of his lips, cursing yourself for giving in, for meeting him here alone. You're not a good person—you are a terrible person, and you're not going to stop, because now Simon is sucking in your bottom lip, and inching his hands up your thighs, up over your hips, palming your ass, and it feels good and it is terrible and he wants you just like this, and you—
Simon picks you up by the thighs, and there's no room in your head to protest; you wrap your arms and legs around him instead, deepening the kiss like you're starved for it. He crosses the room effortlessly, kicking a chair out of the way with his foot with a screech, before setting you down on the cool surface of Shepherd's desk.
The sun has disappeared completely beneath the horizon, but there's just enough light for you to make out Simons' silhouette. In the purplish hue of twilight, a sudden noise breaks the silence of the night; fireworks pop and light the sky as you part breathlessly, foreheads pressed together.
Your fingers brush through his hair, slide down his neck. Thumb over a fresh scar on his cheek. There are no words exchanged, not a single breath wasted on the thoughts that weigh down the back of your tongue. Just another deep, rumbly sound escaping his throat that makes your cunt go needy and wet, and your heart gallop inside of you.
"Why do you do this to me?" you ask, voice not more than a whisper.
"It's not over for me," he gives back easily, hands softly caressing your sides, your hips, your thighs. "Never has been. Still love you. 'M sorry."
Your heart goes tight at his words because yes, yes, yes, you miss him, too. Simon gives you a firm squeeze, and then, before you can see it coming, he sinks down onto his knees before you; looks up at you with dark fathomless eyes full of hunger, and something else you can't quite place.
"Simon—" You start in protest, but he already pulls your legs apart; exposing your covered cunt to the cool air of Shepherd's office.
Shuddering breaths escape your mouth as he kisses your knee, pushing your clothes out of the way, dragging his mouth all the way up your thigh, before giving you a long lick over the bridge of your underwear. He kisses you through the fabric with the fullness of his mouth, pressing his nose into you until you impatiently squirm under his touch, fingers scratching over his head, tangled in the roots of his hair.
"Gonna take my time with you," he mutters, low and gravelly, like his attention is split between you and a faraway thought. "Show you I mean it—been too bloody long since I tasted your cunt."
What comes out of your throat in response is high and needy; a sound that vibrates deep in the back of your throat. It grows into a long winded sigh and gives Simon the consent he needs to pull your panties to the side; to latch his mouth on to your throbbing clit.
He sucks, then gives you one long, mind-melting lick. You can feel the slickness he spreads with his tongue, the way your cunt moves against the rough texture of his taste buds. He groans, coarse and hungry; starts with gentle laps, soft kisses, but eventually graduates to sharp sucks and harsh nips. Eats you messy and loud. Your muscles tremor as he flicks his tongue over your clit—over and over and over again. It's too much too quickly, and your thighs move to clamp around his head in response, but Simon doesn't let you deny him; he pushes your thighs apart firmly, looking up at you with dark, half-lidded eyes.
"Imagine comin' home to this on a bad day," he says, mischief dancing in his eyes. He aligns his fingers with your throbbing cunt clenching around nothing—wanting to be filled. "Would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"Imagine ever being ho-home," you moan, voice cracking over the syllables. "Longest we ever got to spend together was, what, five weeks? Six?"
Simon keeps his eyes on your face as he slowly slides a finger inside of you. He's almost careful at first—then curls his fingers, brushes the right spot inside of you, and your body jerks up with a desperate whine escaping your mouth. He's fucked you enough to know what it means: Yes, right there. More. More of that, he knows without you having to say a word. More.
"Could take some time off," he offers before lowering his mouth to your clit again, giving it a long, obscenely loud suck. "Eat you out everyday."
"You would leave eventually," you tell him breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut. "You always do."
His finger keeps moving inside of you, and when he adds another digit, you move back onto your elbows, head arching back towards the desk.
"We could make the best of it," he offers.
"We would fight." — "We would make up."
"I gave you enough chances," you spit out, words rolling off your tongue like their poison.
"Yet you keep coming back for more."
"Fuck—!" You try, but he pumps his fingers inside you harder, giving your clit three firm pats that make your nipples go hot and tight and your cunt clench around him. You feel as though you're falling through the very center of the galaxy as he keeps rubbing, stroking your insides with his fingers, pushing you closer, closer, closer to the end.
Your orgasm slams into you like a rough wave, tearing something sob-like out of your mouth, lighting your whole body up and throbbing turbulent between your legs.
He loves to make you come like this; fingers pumping into you relentlessly, all his attention on your clit. Your hips rock frantically and desperate against him, pulsing and seeking more friction. He loves it, and you've lost your mind somewhere along the way, so you let him have it.
He rides it out with you, thrusting his fingers softly to the constant rolling of your hips, whispering, "Look at you—so pretty and desperate," as your moans slowly turn from breathless gasps into exhausted huffs.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he rises to his feet, saying: "Turn around, 'm not done with you."
You listen to the clink and shuffle of his belt as he pulls himself out of his dress slacks, and then he's shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the desk. Your ass perks up, grinding back into his erection. The hot, blunt tip of his cock skims against the round swell of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is rubbing against the slick mouth of you.
"Simon," you say, "Simon, c'mon." There's a plea in your voice, so obvious that it flushes down your chest and up to the tips of your ears.
"Say please."
You inhale through your teeth, not knowing why these two words shake the very core of you—just knowing that, somehow, they do. You turn your head to look at him, chin resting on your shoulder as you give him an impatient, antagonizing stare. He glares right back out of the dark, blown pupils looking down at you with a certain hunger; a certain power.
"You know what I want," he tells you with little ceremony. "You want it too."
"I'm not going to beg," you sneer, eyes like daggers.
"You say that like you don't like this" — "I say that like I shouldn't!"
You can hear his teeth clicking together behind you, jaw clenched tight in exasperation. Twin strangled groans of surprise and relief rip from your throat as he thrusts into you hard and deep—until there's no air left between you. He pulls his hips back quickly, just to press himself back in, in, in.
"Harder," you moan, because of course you want more. You're desperate and greedy, and so hopelessly in love it hurts. Exhaling roughly, you use the palms of your hands against the edge of the desk for leverage to grind yourself back onto him.
Simon follows your command, fucks into you sharply for what feels like forever, and you melt under the desperation, the anger, the hostile affection of I'll prove you wrong. He screws his eyes shut tight, jaw clenched at how fucking good you feel. You shift your body up to lift your knee on the desk, back arching into him, letting him pound you deeper.
"Bloody fuckin'ell," he mutters into the crook of your neck through teeth set gritting-tight. "I fucking love this, I fucking love you, you—" thrust— "feel—" thrust— "so—" thrust— "good—"
His arms snap around you, hands squeezing your tits, dragging your back against his chest as he breaks. Simon gasps for breath as his shoulders cave in and his hips slow, pressing and grinding. You feel the heavy jerk of his cock inside of you, the way he fills you up.
He presses his face into the damp crook of your shoulder, mumbling blissful nonsense and apologies all at once. The world around you goes still; it's only you and him.
He lets go of you shortly after, giving you space to turn around slowly; a stream of cum dripping down your legs before he can clean it up. The following kiss is familiar in a gentle way; practiced and intimate. Your skin runs hot as Simon's hands lazily cups your cheeks, and all the words that collected on the back of your tongue finally give, breaking to spill out in a jumble, hastily, like the orgasm he just pulled from you had brought you some sort of clarity.
"You know I love—"
"I know," he interrupts softly, just for you. Just so you don't have to say it out loud.
"But you don't make me happy, Simon."
A slow exhale escapes him, words tangled up on his tongue because there are too many things to say, too many reasons he needs to beg for forgiveness. There aren't words big enough for what he needs to tell you, what he needs you to know—so he stays quiet, like he always does.
You don't say anything else, you don't need to. Simon eyes rake over you slowly, and then he pulls you close; wraps his arm around you because he fears, he knows, it will be the last time. Your body melts flush against his, your head tucking beneath his chin, and all you can think of is: I love you, I love you. I still do.
It's the most painful thing in the world. The most cruel feeling you've ever felt in your entire life, and you want to kick and scream and cry, but for the last time you let him hold you instead.
Tumblr should be forced to give the exact reason their prudish trad-wife inspired corny ass moderation software decides your post is sexual because now I'm curious. atp im more baffled than annoyed. TUMBLR TELL ME PLEASEEEE WHAT HAS UPSET YOUR DELICATE CHRISTIAN SENSIBILITIES
I'm taking bets it was the phrase "swallowed him whole" you dirty bastards. I mean. If you get off on grief swallowing you whole I suppose I can see the problem (the post in question)
Synopsis: You've been saved. Kinda.
Wordcount: 6.3 k
Things to note: canon typical violence, dubcon-ish situations, copious amounts of manhandling, toxic relationship, chem abuse (is that a thing? just in case)
a/n: hey everyone i'm back at this fic after more than a year and a half of nothing oops. had months of back pain and then the second i was feeling better fallout grabbed me by the neck and threw me, nay smote me, into fallout hell, i'm even replaying the games. i'd ask for help, but you probably wouldn't be able to drag me out
Synopsis: “Don’t you get it? You were always just entertainment for me.” Prompt from this list here.
Wordcount: 2.6 k
Things to note: canon typical violence, chems (drug use), alcohol, p-in-v smut, dubcon, intoxication, toxic relationship, ghoul fucking, manhandling, rough sex, threats of violence, biting, basically my attempt at two lonely nasty-hearted people doin it.
a/n: hey i wrote this awhile ago and then i didn't know how i felt about it so i sat on it and edited it a little each week. i fear i just don't got the bones for writing toxic endings I WANT THEM TO FALL IN LOVE OK. IM A ROMANTIC.
Fallout Masterlist | AO3 | Next
It starts as a curiosity.
It was during furlough from the mines that you took up space down at Pickle Pete’s. Itching to spend your extra caps on alcohol, a decent-cooked meal, and a shit ton of chems. Maybe spend some to get a decent fuck, if you had no luck at the bar. Just about anything you might want, or need is available for trade at Pete’s.
Turns out luck was on your side that miserable night.
An outlaw type saunters in after sunset. Walking in like he has the biggest dick in the room. Pete seems to know him. Hmm. Seems to fear him, more like. Gets a drink ready before the man even sits. The stranger settles in, pushing his wide-brimmed hat higher up on his forehead and tugging a faded wine-red bandana down off his face.
A ghoul.
For a second, your stomach twinges at the reddish orange, rubbed-raw looking skin. It clings to this skull, thin and pocked in places, elsewhere thick and corded like overfolded scar tissue. A frightening visage to be sure, what with the sunken and gaunt cheeks and eyes. A hollow divot where a nose should be. Despite this, you decide him handsome. Couldn’t quite tell yet if it was a drunken decision or not. Maybe just a horny one.
And those eyes. Dammit, he's got pretty eyes. From his cursory sweep of the ramshackle bar you’d say warm brown. As the weak neon light from behind the bar glitters across them, you think there might be a hint of hazel. Nothing like the dull black sclera or milky cataracts you often see with his kind.
He nurses the amber liquid Pete poured for him and stares straight ahead, seemingly not interested in the half dozen stares aimed at his person. Well, not interested in any except one.
“Darlin’, I ain’t free entertainment. You keep that up, you best find a way to pay.”
He doesn't turn, doesn't even glance your way.
You take this as invitation and move to his side, trying to control the wobble that comes from an alcohol/chem buzz. “Only wonderin’ if you’d like to share a drink.” You slap enough caps on the countertop for another round. “And ‘bout how pretty those eyes are.”
He turns to look at you proper, eyes dragging over every stain and rip and scar and curve of you. Pulls a crumpled cigarette pack from the inside of his duster. “You a whore?” He asks, lighting the smoke before shoving the pack back into his pocket.
Less of an accusation, more of blunt inquiry. Fair question, you suppose. Still, you huff. “Does it matter?”
Takes a beat, then smirks, kicking out the stool next to him.
You join him and listen to his brutish gossip, it's carefully shared to not reveal anything important. Nothing too personal. Jawing to fill the silence, to keep you around. To keep your caps around.
The two of you stumble out of the bar, late night or early morning, too drunk and stoned to make it further than the back of the building.
You're sprawled out over a rusted out hood of a long destroyed car, too wasted to do anything but let him rut into you. The zipper of his pants and the sharp corners of his belt buckle dig into the soft flesh of your ass. It's a lazy fuck, both of you too tired and inebriated to do anything special.
He folds over you, hot breath rolling over your back, and bites into the flesh of your shoulder blade. Fuck knows what nerve the bite hit, but it sent a signal straight to your cunt. Tightened so hard you almost pushed the fucker out. Only bites harder and holds you to him as he finishes, thrusting his irradiated cum deeper into you.
Lays over you for a minute, licking the marks he left. Finally pulls out and has the good graces to pull the waist of your pants back over your ass before leaving.
Wasn’t the last time you crossed paths.
The Ghoul moseys back into town on the eve of a once-in-a-life-time type radstorm. He caught you snooping around the back market and followed you home. Bored and curious, you can’t be bothered to tell him to fuck off. Lying if you said you didn't care for the attention. Hard to say how he’d take a no, and you’re too lazy to find out. Old apartments piled up over market square, nothing fancy, but graciously private. He’s sitting at your chipped hard plastic kitchen table, his duster off and slung over the back of the chair. Was odd seeing him out of it, like he shed a layer of skin in the removal.
Figuring out what chems to take and what he needs for the future. Tells you he's taking your stash. You shrug. The boss keeps those coming in a steady supply and you don't use enough for it to be a problem.
“Might be stuck with me for a few days.” Said over your shoulder as ugly green clouds grow heavier by the second. You pull the metal shutters down over your singular, small window.
The lamp on the table casts him in an eerie light. Eerier.
“Don't worry darling, I'll go easy on ya.”
He doesn't. Not at first.
Although, the second night the storm calms. Mind you, not enough for him to leave, but he’s down-right serene in his repose. Untroubled and unbothered. He holds you loosely against his leathery, too-warm body, and you watch as he pops another vial of chems into his inhaler. In this moment you dare to wonder if he could ever be more than whatever this was. For him, something to fuck. For you, a questionable little trick to fill the neverending well of tedium.
He groans after the second inhale and your cunt pulses like the sad, predictable thing it is.
“This here’s the good fucking shit. Fuckin pristine.” He exhales slow and seems to melt into the mattress. “Where’d your boss get his hands on this?”
You shrug. You stopped being curious ages ago.
“Useless.” He mutters.
You dig your elbow into his side. “Why do you care? As long as they keep handing it out.”
“Hmmm.”
Those hands of his move from idle groping to something more intentional. Licks a strip of sweat from chest to neck while pushing fingers into your soft heat. His mouth moves across skin aflame, and you shudder under the pressure of his rough, cracked lips. The storm rages outside, fills the apartment with a dull-green glow, shakes the walls as he fucks you slow on his fingers.
The rest of his stay was more of the same. Sex, chems, pure indulgence. Intoxicated by each other's presence.
His head is nestled against your bare stomach, and you gently massage his shoulders as you drift. He's mumbling incoherently, but you pick up a few words.
“Right here, right now? Makes me feel like a man again.” He murmurs into your skin. “No monster, just a man.” He sighs. Such an earnest statement from a man so deeply cooked in his own bitterness and anger, it freezes you…. You don't notice your face is damp with tears until his snores pick up again.
In the morning you can't bring yourself to ask, and he doesn't bring it up. You don't think he remembers.
When it comes time to leave, he pays you for the chems and goes on his merry way.
Future visits don't vary much; a marathon of exhausting debauchery. And although things are kept carefully casual, side effects still weasel their way in. Local ingrates and wasteabouts stopped with their unwanted flirting, fantastic, except so did everyone else. No one wanted to try their hand at the girl The Ghoul was fucking. Didn't strike you as the type to care one way or another, but no one wanted to test that theory out.
Or perhaps it was by design, for the time he finally rolls into town you were ready to fuck anything that moves.
The last time he fucks you, well. The last time you fuck him before it all goes to shit. He seems withdrawn. Mellow. You confuse it with kindness.
He's sitting at a campfire out on the edge of town, and you stop to join him. Quietly snacking on whatever was on your person, studying the man as he studies the road heading out to the mine. Hasn't even jeered at you for frying up strips of cram, when you could save time by eating it straight from the can.
His preoccupation lulls you into a state of vulnerability.
“Why do you keep coming back to me?” You regret the question the moment it leaves your lips, but it finally shakes him from his preoccupation.
He smiles, unkindly. “A hole’s a hole, darlin.”
You curl your lip at his crass assessment and reach over to steal his flask, the one you knew had alcohol.
“I know your proclivities intimately; don't you play a prude.”
“Question still stands. If a hole's a hole, why not pick anyone else in town?” You push through, trying to ignore your embarrassment.
He grabs your retreating hand, squeezing so tight you drop his flask.
“Calm down, forget I asked.” You twist out from his grip. Thing is, you like it when he gets a little mean. Just don't know how to ask him to keep at it without him going too far. “Gotta head back soon.”
He doesn't seem to catch your meaning. “We can fuck, or you can continue being an ass.” You clarify.
His jaw works like he's chewing cud, contemplating the offer over his burgeoning anger. What's that line about hate and desire both being passions? It doesn't take long for his hand to slide down to his belt buckle. He pulls at it while keeping a steady eye on you.
“Get on the damn ground.”
You slide off the low outcropping, now hidden from view of the road.
“On your belly, sweetheart.”
You shimmy your way out of your pants, but he's impatient, and flips you over himself. Doesn't give you a chance to undress before yanking them down. Hardly further than the curve of your ass before shoving two fingers into your exposed cunt.
“Always so wet for me.” He rasps.
“Fuck. Fuck…” The words catch in a sob. Damn fool can't even give you a name to cry out, you sure as hell weren't moaning The Ghoul.
He's impatient, pumping into you clumsily, angling your ass up as much as it’ll go, confined as it is by your barely removed pants. The waistline slides halfway to your knees. Still not enough give to move. Effectively pinned, and the restriction has you whining and panting like a virginal bitch. He removes his fingers, and there’s no time to complain before his cockhead presses clumsily up against your folds. Both of you reek of desperation, except where this makes you whiny, it makes him mad. Rips your pants as he wrenches them down, spreading your legs a little further before pushing in with a shaky groan. The slow glide is the last bit of tenderness you get.
Fucks you into the ground like he means to bury you. Curses and grunts like a man possessed, and if it weren’t for the chems you saw him take with your own eyes, you might fear he’s turning feral. Desperate to feel good, you push back into him, grinding your teeth as his zipper and belt buckle dig into your tender flesh. The position squeezes him tight and he grinds deeper on each stroke. Fills you. Splits you open. The sting of it hurts and soothes.
At this rate, neither of you are gonna last long.
A slight shift and his length hits something inside that has you seeing stars. Nonsensical cussing devolves into sharp keening, and you’re clenching around him, choking him out.
“Quiet down.” He grunts, shifting his weight to shove two fingers into your mouth. “Lest you want every feral and rad scorpion on their way over.”
A delicious aching pressure is building in your lower gut, it crawls up your spine and turns your limbs to jelly. Both of you are too fucking tired and horny to figure out a more comfortable position, perfectly fine with brute forcing your bodies towards a climax. Drool leaks out around his fingers and you suck on them, running your tongue across the ridges, those arthritic knuckles, and good fucking grief, if that wasn’t the thing to send him over. His hips stutter and he rides out his orgasm on violent, uneven thrusts.
Removes his fingers from your mouth and brings the spit slick hand to your nape, pushing your hair to the side. In angry repetition of your first time, he bites down, teeth breaking skin, this time sinking deep enough to draw blood. You shudder and pull away as waves of pleasure roll through you, but he holds you down. Only when you stop moving does he lick the trickling blood back into the wound he’s left.
He comes around to your apartment the next day. Not even fully day yet, the sun has only just poked up over the horizon. You’re filthy, sore, and exhausted, and he pushes in before you can form a sentence to turn him away.
“Stay away from the mine today.” No preamble, no lead up. Just the warning. You sputter as your mind races, trying to work out the odd request.
“Wh-what are you…what’s happening at the mine?” You finally stammer out.
“You’re gonna stay away, that’s all you need to know.”
Fear hammers away in your chest. “I can’t. Please, I can’t - if I don’t show up, they’ll give my spot to someone else - I need-” Your voice rises in panic, and he clamps a hand over your mouth.
“You’re gonna do as I say and not argue.” One hand is gripping your hair, the other clamped like a vice across your face. What if this was the only reason he paid you any mind in the first place? Some long con to get intel on the mine? It was a stupid thought, he could get that by chatting with any of the workers during happy hour. The thought still haunts you.
“And what if I report this to my boss?” You mumble behind his hand.
“Now normally I’d just kill a person for a threat like that,” he pushes you to the ground, yanking your hands behind you. The coarse burn of his lasso rope winds around each wrist. “But you’ve garnered considerable goodwill.”
Panic builds as he tugs your limbs tighter. This was not the kind of pain you wanted. “Fuck you.” You spit. So angry your voice warbles. “This some fucked up way to say you care?”
He snorts.
“Don’t you get it?” His focus is on your legs now. Son of a bitch is actually hogtying you. “You were always just entertainment for me.” When he’s done, he slaps your ass. “And good entertainment is hard to find, sweet thing.”
You’re choking mad, full with the sort of fury that strangles the voice from your throat. He’s at the door before you’re able to string words together.
“I know it’s more than that. FUCKER.” You seethe. Oh, you need to sink your teeth in and wound him back. “Monster. I hope I’m there to see you put down.”
He pauses, his hand hovering over the latch. Head angling towards you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and brace for retaliation.
The door slams shut, and you listen as the jangle of his spurs grows faint. “I hate you.” You whisper. “You better fucking die.”
Tears stream down your face, and the taste of the lie is rotten on your tongue.
I was obsessed with frogs and toads as a kid, and then when I was looking for a pfp for this blog I found an old Victorian illustration of a toad in a fancy dress, hence the name, a little posh toad.
2. My “I’ll always order this food.”
If the restaurant has broth with dumplings, I;m gonna get it. Any soups tbh. Also, aloo gobi, butter chicken. Kimchi-jjigae.
3. Overused emoji:
I have a few 🩷😌😔😭🙏
4. Current comfort show, movie, & book:
Show: Currently any 90s scifi, the genre is sustaining me as I stress out. Specifically, X-Files and Babylon 5.
Movie: Because of the season, I have to say the Muppets Christmas Carol. Usually, it's the LOTR trilogy.
Book: Mary Russell series by Laurie R King
5. Song on repeat this week:
Pursuit of Happiness by Kid Cudi and MGMT
6. My last hyperfixation:
Papercraft!!!!! I'm making mini versions of furniture and home accessories and having fun making dioramas lmao
7. An oddly specific thing that brings me joy:
My sister making the cats of the family christmas collars to varying cat enthusiasm. They're very cute and silly and I love them.
8. What smell instantly makes me happy:
Fresh bread. Fresh cut grass! Clothes right of the clothes line.
9. Something I loved as a kid but secretly love now:
It's not necessarily a secret, I just don't go out of my way to talk about it, but its connected with my papercraft answer I suppose. When I was a kid, I would cut models out of magazines and draw clothes for them. basically a poor-mans paper doll. I've ordered some fancy paperdoll books recently, just for the nostalgia lol.
10. Phone wallpaper rn:
11. Are you a morning person, night, or something else?
Night babyyyy. An early night is going to bed at midnight.
12. If you work, what is your profession and do you like it?
Librarian! I work at a university library and despite the various stresses involved with working in academia and being in the business of information literacy these days, I absolutely love it.
I can't believe I'm actually getting this out on a wednesday.
Tagged by the ever wonderful @snail-eggs I'm still chewing on your snippet, and following in your footsteps(and because of the trailer), here's a bit from part three of my ghoul x reader fic
There’s a tug at the rope, but it’s just a tease, done without true conviction. More a way to get your attention. It goes slack as The Ghoul steps up behind you.
“Rest’s over.” He nearly garbles the words, speaking as he is around whatever godawful thing he’s chewing on.
“No it ain’t.”
He bristles at that. You tug at the rope yourself and give him a well-deserved side eye.
“Not in a position to bargain-”
“I’ve got a theory.” You both interrupt and ignore him.
He smirks, and there’s a brightness in his eyes that could be good, could be bad. Man did like to play with his food. “And what’s that darlin’?”
“That you’re so used to being a rotten sonuvabitch, didn’t even occur to you to ask me if I’d like to tag along."
tagged by @fawnpalmer. that Zevran snippet has me in shambles, i love your brain. and tagging, as always, @and-its-with-one-l-bitch, @alittleposhtoad, @brilliantblasphemer and everyone else i'm too shy to tag (basically, if you see this, pls pls pls go for it. i wanna see what ur up to)
working on some fallout stuff, namely pre-canon for my courier to get back in the habit of writing in this setting again. i'm gearing up for a really heavy chapter of circles. this might become its own thing though, who knows.
I inched close to him. Watched his ears twitch and his tongue roll out of his mouth as he began to pant. “Oh, Judge. You’ve done it this time. You have really done it.” I whispered, kneeling before him against my better judgement. His snout was covered in blood, I tried wiping it with the bottom of my nightgown but it was no use. It had set in, red and ugly on his graying snout. Jane kept trying to talk, or breathe. I’m not really sure but I didn’t pay her any mind. I should have.
Instead, I took Judge by the collar and led him to the stream. Dipped his paws in the water and ran my hands over them. Held them tight with every pass, tainting the stream—my stream—with murder. Someone would have heard Jane scream, would see Judge. Really, I was only buying time with him. As I scratched behind his ears, it almost seemed like it set into him what he had done. He looked behind my shoulder, then at me and whimpered, tail between his legs like he was expecting Daddy to come by with a switch and get him right across his back. But I wouldn’t hit him for this—there wasn’t any use, he didn’t have long anyway. I think we both knew.
I grabbed him and kissed him right between the eyes. Set my lips on his fur and held them there. I’d have stayed like that for hours in his warmth. Voices sounded out from behind me. When I pulled away, I tasted Jane Dolvin’s blood.
RULES: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.
Thank you to @avgdestitute for the tag!
My last "sentence" written looks like several because I wrote some incomplete sentences. For fun, I included the last full sentence, then the staccato fragments that came after.
------
From my WIP chapter 09 of Red Right Hand (f!demon!Reader x Simon Riley):
Humans have no infrared perception, and most bands of radiation are invisible to their soft, vulnerable eyes. Limited. Weak. All but completely blind.
------
23 words, 23 no-pressure tags, in no particular order:
tagged by the wonderful and ever talented @dotcie and @fawnpalmer. love you both so much!! tagging my beloveds @masschase, @alittleposhtoadilposhtoad, @and-its-with-one-l-bitch (especially you shan. i wanna see those chapter 4 snips so bad)
finally got started working on my saints row fic/rewrite the other day. missed my insane xixi very much, i'm really excited to be writing her again
He’s watching her through the side mirror as she walks up. They lock eyes in the reflection and she wonders if he can tell just how off her ass she is. She has a suspicion that he chooses not to. Wouldn’t blame him if that’s what it was.
Xixi peeks in as he lowers the window, gives her best shot at a sober smile.
“Early start?”
She shrugs, “Might as well be.”
“What’d you take, Xixi?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You know, you can go if this is what we’re gonna do all day.”
Charlie sighs, a little defeated. Turns away and unlocks the car. “Just get in.”
“Love you.”
“Xixi”
“I love you.” It takes the place of an apology in her mouth. She’s never been able to say sorry—to say it and really mean it—now is no exception.
Charlie glances back but doesn’t meet her eyes, “Yeah, love you too. Get in, you need to sleep. You look like shit.”
“How sweet.” She rolls her eyes, pushes up off the car.
A fast driver is something that Charlie is not—that she so desperately in this moment wishes he was. Xixi sniffs, feels a warm trickle start and leans her head back against the headrest. Hopes this bleed is better than the last.
She’s not sure what time it is anymore, even with the sun beaming down into her eyes, time is all a haze, a concept more than a fact. Her bangs tickle her lashes. She’ll have to trim them soon, she thinks. Charlie slows down at a yellow light even though he had more than enough time to speed past. Xixi sighs, pinches her nose as the trickle begins to descend. “Slower than my fuckin’ grandma.”
“At least I have a license.”
“Careful.”
He glares at her, forthright. Contempt under all that love. It makes her sick, or maybe it’s the booze. “You go away for another year, I’m not—I won’t sit here and wait for you.”
Xixi laughs, all wrong and nasally from the grip of her fingers on her nostrils, bites back “Yeah you will.” So quickly and with such certainty that it shocks her surely as much as it shocks him. “My bad.” The light turns green, Charlie stays unmoving, his hand on the wheel not so much as twitching.
My goal this year of finishing past wips that I've previously posted is going terribly sldkfj, but i recently opened up my horror/fantasy series I started last whumptober, and have been writing a bit here and there.
Strange Hungers | price x f!reader
They deposit you and John Price in one of the upper rooms of the old Victorian-style house. When you're ready, we'll explain it all, they quietly reassure.
They back out of the room, never meeting your eyes, never staring directly at you. They haven't tied you up this time around, but you hear the distinct slide of a deadbolt across a metal plate. Neither of you had slept in the last twenty-four hours, and before that, the little sleep managed was by no means restful. In the middle of the room is a mattress with nothing but a threadbare quilt stretched over it. You don't consult him, he doesn't consult you, neither of you even look at the other before collapsing onto the lumpy bedding.
Sleep is swift to claim you both.
~
You wake in the spartan room, next to your erstwhile captor. He sits on the edge of the mattress, keeping both the room's single window and door in view. Not wishing to speak quite yet, you roll to your side, taking stock of your surroundings.
The misty light of early dawn paints everything in shades of grey. An old wooden wardrobe dominates the room, looming from its spot in the corner. A paint-chipped radiator sits under the window, its pipes not connected to anything. Strips of lath peek through crumbling plaster; the only new things are wooden shutters latched across the inside of the window.
"I believe they've locked us in here."
The captain nods. "And nailed the window shut."
"To keep those… things out?" Or are we prisoners, you wonder, idly scratching at your wrapped arm. However foolish, stories of zombies and other supernatural phenomena fill your head. "Could we be infected—might we—" turn.You hesitate, your resolute skepticism rejecting what you've seen with your own eyes.
He sneers as if her suggestion is ridiculous. As if they both did not watch things step out of the forest, to see their faces split open into inhuman, screeching maws. To see them become riddled with bullets and continue to walk onwards. "Doubt they'd have taken us out of the cells."
This would be fully edited already if Coral Island didn’t exist.
Simon Riley kisses like a desperate man. Lips warm, dry and smooth. Tongue slick and demanding. Her hands are all over the chaos pattern of scars that litter the soft skin of his belly, his biceps, the cradle of his jaw. His stubble scrapes her lips as she mouths his pulse point—working her fingers under the wrinkled edge where his mask rides up.
“Take it off,” she taunts him, tugging at the collar, trying to provoke.
It makes his jaw clench, his pulse quicken, and his dick hard.
Jane’s fingers slide higher, tracing the clipped edge of his hair where the heat gathers at the base of his skull. The skin there is damp and flushed, the muscles in his neck pulled tight. Whatever there is between them, he’s held it for too long, and it shows in the smallest betrayals: the shallow rise of his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw, the way his breath stutters when her fingers graze the raw, angry scrape just below his ear.
“You,” Jane says, and the thought is a sweet one, but he doesn’t want to hear it, wants to shove the words back down her throat instead. He’s not real, not whole. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled up inside of him.
Time to get back in the saddle, folks! It’s time for Yeehawgust year 7 and there are starry skies ahead.
Yeehawgust features daily art prompts as well as alternative weekly prompts, for those of us who are a bit slower on the draw. Don’t draw at all? No problem! Submit any art at all, be it illustration, comics, writing, fanfiction, photography, embroidery, sculpture, music, or whatever other creative endeavors you might enjoy. What matters is that you made it with your own hands, and all skill levels are welcome!
Maybe you love media like Red Dead Redemption and Fallout: New Vegas, or you’re a fan of the western genre. Perhaps you want to see your blorbos in boots and spurs, or put your OCs in a Stetson. Heck, you could just like drawing horses. Whatever the reason, you’re welcome to join in, pardner!
Add #Yeehawgust to your work and follow along here on the Yeehawgust blog. If your post isn’t showing up on the blog or in the tag, just give a holler.
Check out the “Reblogging Policy and Q&A” linked on the blog for more info about Yeehawgust. The event is also YeehawgustPrompts over on Instagram, yeehawgust.bsky.social over on Bluesky, and @Yeehawgust on Twitter... but Tumblr is where we hang our hat at the end of the day. And remember, y’all: be rootin’, tootin’, shootin’, and most importantly, be kind.
If you’d appreciate a text-based version of the prompt list for any reason at all, or if you’d like a prompt list in an Instagram-friendly aspect ratio, check below the cut!
Week 1: Desert Nights
1. Stars of the Midnight Range
2. Running with the Wolves
Week 2: Honky-Tonk Fever
3. Horsin’ Around
4. Longhorn
5. Boot Scootin' Boogie
6. All Hat, No Cattle
7. Blue Moon
8. 8 Seconds in the Saddle
9. The Shifting, Whispering Sands
Week 3: Riding Free
10. Tumblin' Tumbleweeds
11. The Gambler
12. Sidewinder
13. Joshua Tree
14. Riders in the Sky
15. Mule Train
16. Where the Deer and the Antelope Play
Week 4: Golden Nugget
17. In the Valley
18. Horse to Water
19. Banjo Pickin' Man
20. The Big Rock Candy Mountain
21. Outlaw State of Mind
22. Legends Never Die
23. Headin' Down the Wrong Highway
Week 5: Desert Blooms
24. Gila Monster
25. Cattledog
26. Settin' the Woods on Fire
27. Wagon Wheel
28. Heat Haze
29. Pesky Varmints
30. Treasure of the Sierra Madre
Tagged by the mega-talented @snail-eggs literally go read everything they've ever read, you won't regret it.
np tag @kastlequill or whoever would like to share their work!!
Ok I'm working on a few things, but I think I've shared all the main stuff. BUT I have been picking away at an original scifi story. I'm just writing it for fun, don't think I'll ever post it. I don't even have much of a story yet, all i iknow is that i want to write something with a cyborg and an android. ANyways, I'm still trying to nail down the style or how I want to write it, but here's an excerpt of my first attempt.
The Rho-7 library and archives are both an anomaly and a marvel.
The marvel; deep below the station's main atrium, lay levels devoted to the storage of knowledge and artifacts forbidden by countless system governments. Rumours run rampant. The codex of a species who vanished long before humanity arrived in this sector. The original manifesto of the first and only space-faring, warrior pope. A bestiary for every planet within five light years, translated into every known language.
It's innocuous entrance is easily missed, the unannounced few who find their way to the main doors often do so accidentally. This suited the caretaker and regulars just fine; left to mind the collection and perform their research without pesky interruptions, or the concerns of those beyond this station's jurisdiction.
The anomaly is this; within the context of the vastness of space, overcrowding is a meaningless notion. But even if it were a concern, Rho-7 would be the furthest from it. And here was the heart of the mystery. Why did this quiet, out of the way station boast such a robust athenaeum? Interested parties (of which exceedingly few followed through in asking) are given a polite and timely boiler plate reply. Thank you for your interest. The Library and Archive is administered with respect to the wishes of its Patron. Best regards, The Librarian.
It was a month into her temporary stay when Jo finds herself outside the institution's humble doors. She had come by them on purpose, although not by choice. The Maven expressed their deep displeasure over what she called 'a lack of initiative', and her auntie layered on the guilt real thick — don't you squander this opportunity girl, and on and on she blathered.
Tagged by the amazing @fawnpalmer, tysm for always keeping me in mind and tagging me!!
I'm tagging my beloveds @dotcie, @alittleposhtoad, @masschase, no pressure of course.
Still working on Doctor Who fic in 2025, unfortunately so here's a snip of my fic "Y Tu Doctor Tambien"
The ceiling fan’s rickety above her head—hell, the whole room is rickety but it’s part of the charm in a way. Soraya’s feet dangle off one of the beds as she watches the fan go, shaking as it spins. The shower is going just a few feet away. They’d played rock, paper, scissors, she and Rose, to see who would go first. Rose won and now Soraya lays sticky with sweat on rough sheets. She squirms, lifts her shirt up then pulls it back down. The Doctor’s in a corner, shedding all the layers of clothes he’s had on in this impossible heat and Soraya is burning up just looking at him.
“It’s getting quite hot, isn’t it?”
“You just noticed?”
He laughs to himself but Soraya doesn’t get what’s so funny, she only stares him down.Watches as the Doctor crosses the room in only a few steps. He knocks his knee with hers, wordlessly asking her to move over and she does. There’s a roiling in her gut as he lays beside her—so close, he might as well be on top of her. A mix of nerves but tinged with something else, something much more physical. A chill runs through her, deeper than the skin, it chills her blood, her bones. Her throat constricts and, for a moment, Soraya feels like she’s forgotten how to breathe. The Doctor sits up at her sudden tensing, reaches for her as she hurls herself off the bed.
"Touch me, and you're dead." + "Sometimes, I wonder if you're in love with me."
RAGSSSS MY BELOVED @vide0-nasties thankyou for the prompt. I'm slightly obsessed with Commander Shepard and Balak at the moment. Two war criminals who were both involved in asteroid related, colony ending shenanigans, also this Shep is not quite a renegade, but they are a (well meaning) asshole.
cw for alcohol, blackout drunk conditions
Muck and grit crunch underneath Shepard's wellworn Alliance issued boots. Bottle caps, crumpled packages, the occasional seed husk and shell litters the scuffed metal floor. And as she steps down into the narrow space, she's met with a pervasive mustiness that the air filters can't seem to clear. Poorly hidden signage indicates this was once maintenance storage for the lower Zakera ward. A slapdash constructed counter now fills one corner and the relatively clean scavenged tables and chairs, suggest some thought went into converting the area into a pub. Boxes of stolen liquor, the intended recipients clear on their shipping labels, are stacked against the closest wall.
The atmosphere is as miserable as the hunched-over, sauced out patrons.
The only one to pay her any mind was a drell behind the counter. Her translucent inner eyelids blink left to right in quick succession.
"Oh." She eyes her N7 patch, then looks beyond, as if waiting for more to arrive. "Shepard, I'm guessing?"
"Yeah. Where is he?"
She sags with relief. "Out back. This way."
Out back was a narrow corridor leading further into the guts of the station. Specifically, through a hatch with a flickering holo-sign for dangerous chemicals.
"Not that it matters," Shepard's rests a hand on the holster of her Carnifex, "but I'm surprised you reported it?" Or maybe C-Sec was getting a little more lax with business violations; there was a war going on, after all. They come to a stop at a small compartment off the main corridor.
"That's a mind boggler, ain't it?" The drell adjusts her curiously laden utility belt. "Muttering about how he should've killed you. Spooked one of the patrons enough, they called C-Sec."Jittery bastard, she mutters. "Didn't think they'd get the woman herself to take care of it though. Well. He's just in there. I'll leave you to it. Dump him in the vats out back if you're going to, y'know—" She mimes firing a gun.
"Hm."
Shepard waits for the barkeep to retreat before stepping inside. At first, all she sees is a pile of clothes, and then the smell hits her. Vomit. Cheap beer. Sour sweat. The pile coalesces into a familiar looking batarian, one hand gripping a bottle, the rest of him slouched against a grated wall, doing his very best to look like a corpse.
Shepard crouches next to him and reaches for his pulse.
"Touch me, and you're dead." The gravelly voice slurs.
She snorts. "What makes you think you'll succeed this time?"
"Leave." He croaks.
"Don't see anyone else lining up to help, Mr. Highest Ranking Officer in the Hegemony."
He tries to stand and collapses with a pathetic keen. "C'mon, up you get." She grabs his arm and pulls, immediately accosted with a wave of putrid breath. He wavers and has no choice but to slump against her.
Shepard curses the decision to show up out of armour, could do with her helmet's filtration system right now. She juggles Balak's weight to free her arm, and pings nearby public bathhouses, closest one is down a few levels, at the entrance to this sector's factory district. Didn't take long to find, and the few occupying it cleared out soon after she barged in.
Doesn't warn him before dumping him into the coldest bath, boots and all.
"Sorry, but he needs to be—" the attendant's mouth snaps shut the second Shepard turns to them.
"How much will this cost?"
"Uh, well." Their eyes flicker rapidly between her and Balak. "I, um. I can draw up a bill. Add some extra fees."
"Good. And bring some aspirin. And a coffee. In fact, just charge me for the whole pot." She sighs. "Oh, and something full of electrolytes for my friend."
Balak scrambles at the edge of the water. "'Mm gonna kill you. Friend," he sneers. "Never. You disgust me."
She grips his collar and holds him under water. "Disgust you?" Please. "You're obsessed. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if you're in love with me."
He wretches, and she shoves him under the surface again. "Balak, you threatened to kill me, either follow through or settle down." Two of his four eyes droop and he goes slack against the edge. She let him go and stands back. "Sober up, then we'll talk."
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