I meant to post these earlier but whatever.... Unfortunately they're not Logans (don't worry I still have the need/attempt to draw him everyday) but two of Hugh's other characters that I love‼️‼️ Drover was me practicing painting and Vincent was expression practice
A/N : im so mad theres 0 vincent fics i know hes chopped but theres so much potential you gotta trust me
WC : 2.4k
TAGS : vincent moore x m!reader, co-workers, reader is pretty much just deon, can you even call this an x reader if nothing romantic happens, violence, they beat each other up and vince is really into it, rivals to rivals they still hate each other, cocky reader??maybe
WARNINGS : lots of description of blood and injury idk how well written it is though
Vincent would like to think he didn't hate easily. Hate is a big word, loathing is a nasty feeling. Love thy neighbor, and all that.
But you? He fucking hated you.
You made him grit his teeth, made him want to put a hole in his monitor, made his hand twitch and reach for his gun. God, he wanted you dead, if it was the last fuckin’ thing he did before he himself died.
The tech savvy youngster, new to Tetravaal. You showed up right as Vincent started working on MOOSE, and you stole all the attention off of his project with your AI mess. It was a stupid idea, and he'd heard you agree that it was stupid. Nothing pissed him off more than an idiot who knew he was one, and continued to fuck around none the less. You and Vincent both knew that making an AI capable of handling weapons would only result in a “Terminator”-esque ending for the world, but you didn't give a damn. It made you a pretty penny, that's all that matters.
Not that Vincent cared for how the world ended up. He just wanted MOOSE to get the same attention your Scouts did. But what did the police department have to say about it? Right…bulky, ugly, and unnecessary.
You rubbed it in his face, too. Like you liked seeing him mad. Like you knew that you were all he ever thought about, like you knew that you kept him up at night. He'd punched holes in walls over you. And when he saw you look over your shoulder and shoot him a smug little grin while you made your newest improvement to the Scouts, that stupid smirk that said “Oh, you're gonna hate this”, he prayed to God to give him the strength not to punch a hole through you, too.
“Moore! Talking to ya, pal.”
“Can't ya tell when a man's ignorin’ ya?” He grunted in response, eyes fixed on his screen.
Vincent had been genuinely lost in a fantasy featuring you and the blessed opportunity to genuinely decapitate you, but he wouldn't admit to that, not quite yet.
“Right, well, ignore me all you like, but Michelle wants you to move MOOSE out of the way. Taking up more space than it needs to be, and we're lookin’ at 100 new Scouts that need building so…we'll need the room.” You prattled on, hand resting on the back of his chair. “You could uh, move that heap over to the junkyard, eh? It'll blend right in.”
You patted him on the shoulder as you said that, gripping tightly and shaking him playfully.
“Real funny.” He breathed out through gritted teeth, grip tightening on his mouse. “You can be a right, proper cunt sometimes, can't ya?”
“Oh, believe me, I try to be. Always good to see you smile, Moore.” You hummed, before slipping away, hands in your pockets.
The moment you were out of earshot, he slammed his fist onto his desk, making a few colleagues look over their shoulders at him.
“Sorry.” Vincent grunted, gesturing vaguely at his desk. “Spider.”
That evening, Vincent went down to where MOOSE was stored. Chewing on his cheek, unhappy, as he moved the large machine out of the middle of the room, to the corner near his computer. He was always the last engineer here, slaving away on a machine no one gave a damn about, because you'd always be there at every turn to outshine him. Right as he began to boil over with anger just thinking of you, the large front doors opened. MOOSE turned to acknowledge the movement, and Vincent ground his teeth together when he saw you through the machine's cameras. He could kill you with this damn thing he was puppeting, right here, right now. But that wouldn't be satisfying.
“Evenin’, Vince.” You called out to him, as he removed the helmet from his head.
He grunted in response.
“Hey, thanks for moving MOOSE- walking into this place ‘ll be easier on the eyes, now that it isn't the first thing I have to see.”
Vincent didn't answer that one, busying himself with putting away the controls for MOOSE. He blocked out your monologuing with a prayer for patience, but he knew he wouldn't last long before he started beating the shit out of you. It was the perfect time, the perfect place…
“I'm surprised Michelle still lets you work here, mind. I mean, how did you even get the job? Didn't know they taught you how to be engineers in the army…Maybe you don't even know what you're doing.”
If there was one thing Vincent hated more than you, it was being underestimated, or talked down to. So when you were the one that did either or…
You knew you were fucked when you heard his footsteps closing the distance behind you, and you just stared ahead, accepting your fate. He grabbed you by the back of your shirt and yanked you back, arm closing around your throat. He had you gripped in a chokehold, and his gun was already out, jammed against your temple.
“One more word.” Vincent snarled, tightening his grip. “One more GODDAMN WORD and I'll blow your head off!”
He knew he was crushing your airway, of course he did- and he relished in the wheezing sound you made as you struggled for a breath.
“That's right…That's right.” He marched you forwards, pinning you against your desk. Slightly, he loosened his hold. This'd be no fun if you were out cold. “You know, I could've flattened you the second you walked in.” He whispered against your head, moving the gun to jam it under your chin. “You could be a splatter of blood and guts and gore on this concrete floor right now if I wanted you to be.”
He jabbed your adams apple with the gun, making you yak slightly.
“But killin’ you with MOOSE wouldn't be right. I want your blood on my hands, not smeared on my machine's plate.” He suddenly moved his arm away, and grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back. “You're a few roo's loose in the top paddock, aren't ya? A right fuckin’ galah- I've wanted to kill you a million times and I've let you know, but you just keep pokin’ and pokin’ and pokin’ and POKIN’!”
He slammed your head down on the desk with that last one, pain shooting through your skull as your brow split and began to bleed all over your papers. Your hand gripped the edge of the desk, awkwardly fumbling to hold on as he yanked you back up. He threw you into your chair, gun aimed square between your eyes. You'd heard him pull the trigger once while showing it to a colleague- it clicked, empty. But you had a feeling it wasn't empty this time.
“I've never met a man that gets me more cross.” He hissed, pressing the gun to your skin. “And I wish I could just kill ya now…”
He pulled the gun back, just to bring it back down, whipping it across your face. It collided with your nose as it passed, and blood immediately started pouring over your lips.
“Vincent!” You gasped out, coughing as you inhaled some blood. But he wasn't listening.
He dragged you up by the shirt, throwing his gun aside in favor of his fist, which he rammed into your face. Again, again, again. Once, you managed to catch his wrist and hit him back.
“Oh, that tickled, mate!” He barked out, the words laced with almost maniacal laughter before he punched you square in your already broken nose.
You traded blows- Vincent landing more than you did, but you still managed to bust his lip. By the time he'd practically embedded you into the ground with the force he was hitting you with, he decided to stop, pulling back, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild as he stared down at your bleeding face. You were gasping for air too, sputtering and choking on the blood that kept dripping down your throat. You were bleeding from everywhere you could possibly bleed from- your nose, your brow, your lips. There was blood in your eyes, in your mouth- trickling into your ears, streaming down your chin.
Vincent reached up, thumbing the blood away from his own lip. He didn't say a single word, just admiring his art. Admiring the blood on his hands, seeping into your ripped shirt. Oh, he'd wanted to do that for so long.
“Like a bag full of smashed rats.” He whispered, still out of breath, smearing your blood down your cheek with the tips of his fingers. “That's what you look like…”
“Lucky me.” You wheezed out. “I've always wanted to look like you.”
His fist slammed down on your face one last time, this blow finally being the one that knocked you out. He crawled off you, wiping his hands off on his pants as he stared down at you. His hand went to his belt, shifting the front his shorts around slightly as he went to grab his gun from where it'd slid across the floor. He tucked it back into its holster before returning to you and hauling you up and over his shoulder. He'd drag you face down like an animal if he could- God, he wishes he could. But the trail of blood it'd leave behind would seep into the concrete and be impossible to clean out. Instead, he settled for carrying you like trash, carelessly dumping you amongst the spare Scout parts that were set to be scrapped in the morning.
As for him, he'd be going home…and having perhaps the best sleep of his life, knowing he'd given you the beating you deserved.
The next day, Vincent smiled to himself as he passed your empty desk. Probably ashamed of how you'd been beaten black n’ blue, you were. Rightfully so. He himself had been asked a few times what happened to his lip- God, they'd think you'd been hit by a car. He took a bit of pride in that.
“Hey, Moore, you don't know why our resident genius isn't here today, do you?” Someone asked him as he sat down.
Vincent gave a tight lipped smile as the nickname- he hoped he'd beat some of the smarts out of ya, so people could stop calling you that. “Not a bloody clue.”
He'd thought he'd feel much better after beating you half to death, that he could finally stop thinking about you- but now, he couldn't get your blood soaked face out of his head. He'd take it…a win was a win. At least he didn't have that shit-eating grin in mind anymore.
Vincent spent the whole day replaying every second of that beating in his head, wishing he could've seen your bruised and battered face the day after so he could've given you shit for it. But alas, you didn't turn up for two whole weeks, only calling in once to ask for a couple of sick days. He enjoyed his peace, loved passing your empty desk and loved seeing how Tetravaal could carry on without you just fine. It was like Christmas had come early, for him.
However, he didn't like how stubbornly you stuck to his mind. Didn't like the high he got off of thinking of the blood glistening on your teeth and dripping down your lips. He squeezed the cross dangling ‘round his neck between his thumb and his index, pausing to wonder, for the first time, if something was wrong with him. But no, that wasn't possible- you were the problem here, and he knew that. If you were taken out of the equation, then nothing was wrong anymore. He wouldn't sit here and blame himself- you were the stain in his life that was causing all his problems.
When you came back to work, the look he had in his eyes was damn near predatory. He stared at you hard, wanting to catch every little remaining detail. How the splits in your lip and brow were still healing, how he could tell the black eyes you'd gotten from the broken nose hadn't quite faded away all the way yet. He knew you could feel him watching you like a hawk, even as you were surrounded by coworkers fawning over you and asking what happened. When they all dispersed, he decided it was his turn, too.
“Ahhh, look at all these clucky bastards, eh?” He sighed, as he walked up to you, propping his hip against your desk. “All so worried about ya.”
“Good to hear you were too, Vincent.”
“Sure was. Let me see that…”
He reached out, harshly grabbing your chin and turning your head here and there, keen on checking out the remainders of his handiwork. He ignored the way you winced at how tightly he squeezed your jaw.
“Ouf, got you good, huh?” He continued to mock, pointing vaguely at your split brow. “Wow…how many people did this to ya, mate? 2? 3? Must've given ‘em a good fight.”
You just gave him a forced, sour smile, wrenching your head away from his hand. He loved pissin' you off the way you did to him, loved knowing that he did this to you, and none of the people here had a clue.
“Ahh, she'll be right.” Vincent hummed, crossing his arms, but never tearing his gaze away from your face. “So long as you don't get beat again, it should all heal up a treat.”
“Well, here's hoping.” You said, almost bitterly, as you looked at your computer again. “Might be more of a challenge for others than it is for me.”
Vincent's hand landed on your shoulder, and he leaned down, lips almost to your ear. “You just keep watchin’ your mouth, eh? Don't give me a reason to rip yer tongue out.”
With that, he gave you one last pat on the back, before going back to his own desk with a slight pep in his step. It was a small victory for him- might get you to cut down on the attitude you gave him. Sure, your Scouts were still an issue, Michelle had slashed his funding again and there was no way he'd be getting MOOSE out on the streets any time soon…But he'd beaten the shit out of you. That was a win.
thank u for reading likes comments and reblogs very appreciated....go watch chappie ok....trust me....
