#HE'S A SWIZZLE STICK | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

geeky-politics-46 · 2 years

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Hey! As much as I love dom!Stephen, I was wondering if we could switch things up and if you could write a smut where reader switches their roles one day bc she sees someone flirt with him and gets jealous and he sees she has a possessive side too and then she marks him up to show others he is taken? Thanks !!!

Not Very Good At Subtle

Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!

Pairing: Doctor Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: When another woman flirts with Stephen you give him a reason to remember exactly who he's going home with & you don't care who overhears it.

Warnings: Smut (NSFW) - 18+ ONLY - Dom/sub dynamics, jealousy, dirty talk, pet names, oral sex (m receiving), little bit if rough play, semi-public sex, language, it's just pure filth

I may have been imagining this ever since we started seeing pics of him in that suit. I have zero shame. Written so reader can be either a regular person or sorcerer/Avenger.

Nat could tell by the way you jabbed the swizzle stick at the ice in your drink that you were ticked off. She followed your glare and saw the source of your displeasure. A female reporter in a cocktail about one size too small who was trying to cozy up to a certain sorcerer. It didn't help that he looked absolutely fucking delicious in that suit.

You were far less than entertained at the over the top way she had taken to showing her interest in Doctor Stephen Strange. He was an incredibly charming man who had the handsome good looks of a classic movie star. It was just the icing on the cake that he was a genius as well as an MD. He also loved to show off. Literally turning water into wine as one of his favorite party tricks. All those features easily attracted many lovely women or men whenever he wanted, and sometimes when he didn't.

All things that had attracted you to him. Which is exactly why you were perturbed. She was flirting with your man, and while he wasn't necessarily reciprocating it he wasn't dismissing her either. He was making sure to split his attention between the other two or three people in the cluster around him. Occasionally awkwardly acknowledging her when she would place a hand on his upper arm or toss her hair with a phoney laugh before trying to shove her cleavage toward him.

You had arrived together but quickly found different places to stand. Everyone knew you were friends but you didn't want to be seen as "his date". You were both trying to keep your relationship quiet for the time being.

Hell the only reason Nat knew why you were so mad was because she had found a little love note he had left for you one day when she was rooting through your purse for a pen. Before she could call you on it loud enough the whole city would know you managed to wrangle her into a room and tell her everything.

That yes, you and Stephen were seeing each other. That you were a couple. You just weren't ready to be out in the open yet. So other than her, and you suspicioned Wanda, Wong was the only other one who knew for sure. They both had been sworn to secrecy.

Once you had arrived at the event you quickly found the girls and made a beeline for them. Wanda tried to split her time with Vision. Nat and Maria both liked to hang together and people watch. Stephen was more or less forced to mill around, schmoozing with all of the bigwigs. Trying to keep the Avengers in good social standing meant playing dancing monkey.

"You grip that glass any tighter and you're gonna break it."

Nat couldn't help but tease you a little. She thought it was adorable the way you and Strange would both dance around each other whenever you were in the same room. You were both terrible at trying to be secretive. How everyone didn't already know about you two was beyond her.

"You know if you want to get his attention you could just go get Bucky or Thor to dance with you."

A faux innocent grin played on Wanda's face. Trying to goad you into confessing. Or at the very least creating an interesting show for everyone else to watch.

It was now Maria's turn to poke at you. "I think it's more she just wants him away from her."

"Oh my god does everyone know?"

They all chuckled and looked at you. Shooting you a look that said just how bad your poker face had really been. Wanda was the one who decided to answer.

"No. Clearly she doesn't. I think most of the guys are still oblivious to. Other than Vis."

You heard the reporter's laugh again and slammed your glass down on the bartop, inadvertently garnering more attention toward yourself.

"Okay that's it", you said pointedly just as she took another step to try and press herself closer to Stephen. You launched yourself in their direction and walked briskly toward the small group. Slowing as you approached to look more inconspicuous. Once you were behind Stephen you reached around to touch the arm closest to the reporter and wedged your body between them.

"Excuse me, Dr. Strange, we seem to have a little matter that could use your attention in the other room. If I could borrow you for just a moment."

You could see the panic behind his eyes. You called him "Dr. Strange". You never did that. He could also see the reporter staring daggers at you and already trying to reach around you to grab onto his arm to get him to stay.

He fumbled out a hurried "of course", and started following you toward the single bathroom just off the main room. Just barely avoiding the grasp of the now offended other woman.

You both tried to keep a casual pace, but took large steps to get to the door as quickly as possible. You had no backup plan if someone else beat you to the currently unoccupied private space. Maybe there was a closet nearby, but you didn't have the patience left to look for it.

You pushed him into the bathroom ahead of you and swiftly moved to lock the door behind you. He was already starting to try to calm you down before he even turned to face you. He was very aware why you were upset and wanted to assuage any worry you had. He was crazy about you.

You clapped your hand over his mouth to shush him and pushed him back to the wall with the other. His eyes showed his shock. He was used to being the dominant one and your show of predation caught him completely off guard.

"Shut up Stephen. I'm going to talk, and you are going to answer when told. Do you understand me?"

A playful glint in your eye told him he should only be a little afraid. You were still in earshot of everyone else surely you wouldn't do anything too crazy. He nodded his head.

"Good boy"

You pulled your hand away and kissed him hard. Letting your hands ruffle his hair and your body press firmly to his. When you felt his hands grab your ass you reached back and swatted them away signalling you could touch him, but not vice versa. You let the kiss slow before breaking away.

Smiling at the flush now on Stephen's cheeks and your lipstick now smeared on his mouth. You let your hands slide down his collar to play with the knot in his tie. Letting him catch his breath before you continued on with your game.

Once you could tell his vision was focused and he was paying attention once again you loosened his tie and undid his top button as you let your words fall slow and sultry. Heavy with the possibility of consequence for his action. You were a lioness who had cornered your unsuspecting prey. This was a side of you Stephen had never seen before. Though thrown off balance still, your prey was all too willing to let you devour him.

"Did you think I would really stand by and watch her throw herself at you Stephen? Did you think I didn't notice whenever she would run her hand up your arm? Wanting you to touch her. You wouldn't though, would you baby? There's only one woman you want to touch, isn't there?"

He dropped his head back against the wall and your lips found his throat as you reached down to grab his crotch in one hand. Sucking and biting little marks against the sensitive spots on his neck in between your words. You were marking your territory.

You knew the answer to your question, and he knew that you knew the answer.

You could feel his heart starting to race as you let your hand start to stroke and massage his cock. Feeling him grow and harden, hot and heavy under your touch.

"There's only one woman you want to touch you isn't there Stephen? You like it when I touch you don't you baby? Like when I stroke your cock just like this."

Stephen moaned and started to grind his hips against your hand. His hands gripped at your hips hesitantly but he didn't try to pull you closer. He didn't know what your endgame was and he didn't want to do anything to accidentally make you stop.

'You like when I suck your cock too, don't you?"

At that he whimpered a little. He was already putty in your hands and the thought of your mouth on his cock only melted him more. His eyes were squeezed shut and he nodded frantically as he tried to stay quiet.

The hand that was still resting on his chest quickly moved up and pulled his hair hard in your fist making him look you in the eyes. A firm look now on your face.

"Answer me Stephen."

"Fuck yes sweetheart. Love when you suck my cock. Your mouth feels so good baby. Best I've ever felt. Always want you to suck my cock."

You hiked up the bottom of your dress and knelt down in front of him. Your eyes never left his and the Cheshire cat grin never left your face. Even if you were the one in the physically submissive position you were still very much the one in charge.

"Well, if you want it Stephen, let me hear you beg for it."

You dropped your head forward placing a long lascivious lick over the bulge in his expensive suit pants. Teasing him through the fabric. Knowing he would be able to feel the warmth of your tongue just enough to drive him crazy.

Stephen was clearly torn between desperately wanting you to continue and being very aware that everyone in the other room probably saw you disappear in there together. You had already been in there for a decent amount of time. People would get suspicious soon. Plus he knew he wouldn't be able to be quiet if you started sucking him off.

You started to place kisses over his now painfully hard cock. Gazing up at him like you were the one pleading to get him in your mouth. Seeing you look so wanton but so in control was what broke him.

"Fuck it, fuck it if they hear. Want you to suck my cock so bad sweetheart. Need to feel your warm wet mouth, and god the things you do with that tongue. Please suck my cock baby. Please. Need my cock in your mouth."

You licked your lips in anticipation as you undid his dress pants pushing them down to his knees. Taking a moment to admire the tent in his briefs where his cock strained under the fabric. You also couldn't help but take a little lick of the damp spot that had now formed where the head of his cock had already started leaking. Humming in delight at the hint of the taste of him, and making him give out a needy little moan.

You cocked your head up at him with a cheeky smirk as you grabbed the waistband of his underwear and started to pull them down.

"Don't worry Doctor. You know I can make you feel so good."

You made sure to position yourself so that when his long cock sprung free from its constraints it came very close to smacking you in the face.

Smiling as you gripped his base and kissed his swollen tip before starting to place little kitten licks over it. You stuck out your tongue and made a big show of licking up and down his shaft. Your other hand slid up to start playing with his balls. He was starting to throb in your hands.

High pitched whimpers and groans coming from the powerful man above you. Little pleas of "please y/n, please." Urging you to suck him in.

"Since you beg so nicely baby."

You still started slow. Sucking in just his head but moaning as you did. Making a very shallow bobbing motion you slowly started taking him in deeper. Each time you came up you made sure to pull off with a little bit of a pop. You wanted this to be nice and sloppy. A blowjob Stephen would never forget.

You slid him down your throat inch by inch, holding him there once you hit the base of his cock and swallowed around him the best you could. Using one arm you tried to hold his hips mostly still, looking up at him as the corners of your eyes started to water. Your mascara and eyeliner starting to smudge and run under your eyes.

You let him try to rut against the back of your throat for a moment until you ran out of air. Gasping as you pulled all the way off of him. A string of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock before dripping down your chin when you lowered back and started bobbing on his entire length.

He clawed at the wall. Desperately trying to keep from grabbing at your hair. He was going to be good and follow your rules because fuck he needed to cum so bad. Between his moans and the cursing mixed with begging, interlaced with the erotic sound of you slurping at his cock there was no way someone couldn't hear exactly what was going on in that bathroom. Stephen was so far gone he couldn't care less.

He practically sobbed when you pulled your mouth away from his throbbing cock. Spitting on it before you started stroking him in your hand. You ducked down to lick and kiss his balls, you could feel them starting to tighten to his body as you worked on him. He was close.

"I love sucking your cock Stephen, tastes so fucking good. You've got no idea how wet you've got me."

You moaned as you stroked him and made a show of grinding your hips against nothing. Stopping when you took his head in your mouth and swirled your tongue around the ridge. Licking up all the pre-cum he was dribbling as he teetered on the edge of orgasm. You licked and kissed every inch of his manhood until you were ready to finish him.

"I know you're ready to cum Stephen. You want to cum in my mouth baby? Beg to cum down my throat. Then we can go home and I'm gonna ride your face. Does that sound good, baby? Tell me what you want."

Without waiting for him to answer you started bobbing up and down faster, using your mouth and your hands in sync on him. One hand stroking his base when your mouth pulled up to his head, your other hand tugged gently at his balls like you were milking them. Making sure to give him as much stimulation as you possibly could. Honestly, you were a little surprised when he managed semi-coherent full sentences.

"God - FUCK! - yes baby, please let me… please make me cum in your mouth. Uhhh! Need to… need to. Need you, need your pussy. Fuck fuck fuck!"

He came with a loud groan and practically doubled over your body as you swallowed everything he gave you. Smiling to yourself as you let him slide from your mouth. Being sure to lick him clean as he came down from his high.

You gingerly and carefully pulled up his underwear and pants, tucking him back in before fastening them. His eyes were closed and his mouth was hanging open as he rested against the wall. His normally perfect hair sticking every which way and a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You redid his shirt button and straightened his tie, making the handy work you had done on his neck was still somewhat visible. You stepped over to the sink to wet a hand towel before moving back to him. Brushing his hair back into place before using the wet cool cloth to mop his brow.

His eyes were now open and he smiled as he looked down at you as you cared for him. He knew he had hit the jackpot with you. He tilted your chin up with one hand to gently kiss your lips before taking the hand towel and using it to wipe the smeared makeup from under your eyes.

He pulled you against him and nuzzled into your hair. Humming in contentment and rocking you side to side gently. Stopping and pressing multiple kisses to your forehead.

"You know you had absolutely no reason to worry right? As far as I'm concerned you were the only woman in that room tonight and any other night. I do think our little secret might be out though. We weren't exactly quiet."

You giggled at his last statement.

"Well you weren't quiet."

You could practically hear him roll his eyes at your retort.

"Either way though, I don't care. Take me home Stephen. I just want to be with you. You go out first and get my coat. I'll meet you at the door."

He swallowed and started walking toward the door, readying himself for the most public walk of shame of his life. You watched him through the mirror as you fixed your hair.

He barely cracked the door and tried to slip out unnoticed despite the fact that your amorous activities still clearly showed on his skin and in his demeanor. You smiled at yourself in the mirror as you washed your hands and waited an appropriate amount of time to exit.

Where Stephen tried to fly under the radar you made no attempt to hide. Walking straight through the center of the room with your head raised high. You felt untouchable. As you walked the crowd parted for you like the Red Sea. An aura of sex now surrounding you.

Deciding to make a little detour you set your handbag on the bar next to the reporter who now stood in stunned silence. You grabbed the martini in front of her and downed the last sip before picking up the napkin underneath it and dabbed at the corners of your mouth. You placed both back down in front of her as You pulled a compact and lipstick bullet from your bag. Making a show of reapplying your lipstick.

You popped both back in your bag and turned to leave. Making sure to look her dead in the eye with a cocky smirk on your face as you turned. The sway in your hips now even greater as you walked through the crowd toward the door where Stephen was already waiting with your coat.

The clumps of Avengers you passed all displayed different reactions. Tony and Clint grinning from ear to ear, with Pepper and Rhodey trying to hide grins. Steve and Bruce blushing, unable to make eye contact with you. Thor, Sam, & Bucky tipped their glasses and acknowledged you with a "ma'am" or a wink. Wanda giggling next to a quizzical faced Vision.

Nat turned to nudge your shoulder as you went to walk past her and wiggled her eyebrows.

"Subtle", she said in a hushed tone. Though it caused Maria to snort loudly next to her.

You grinned back at her without hesitation, eyes never leaving you disheveled & now marked up Doctor.

"Guess I'm not very good at subtle."

A devilish grin appeared on her face before she winked at you.

"That's my girl."

Let me know if you want to be tagged in stories for everything or for a specific charector. It's currently a lot of Strange & Bucky ❤

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Stephen Strange Taglist: @starkiller-queen @glitterylokislut @verycollectivecreator @chatampr @maskmare931 @lovecleastrange @wheredafandomat @mkixx @evelynrosestuff @katefullerrr @littlepinknightmare @foofarny @stygianoir @moonroyalt @saturnsbabe69 @blaxdet @blackrose-92 @ironstrange1991 @rindulacre @nancy-thompsons @wolfatheartandsoul @dangerouslittlefairy @n0obmaster-69 @oliveoilthoughts @onebatch--twobatch @yourmajesty13 @blondekel77 @lil-sweater-slut @gwephen @taramaria @sinceimetyou @possessedjoker @coeurgrenaty @cc13723things @just--a-magpie @supervengerslock @strangelockd @ghost-lantern @thefalconandthewinterwidowshield @itssmaugtheterrible @katherinemaximoff @veryfancydoilies @cute-angi @mochacake2016 @prix19 @alexfanficnook @anotheroddfish @mando-is-the-way @xourownsidee @baes-x @dreamingsmile @imaginesfreetotake @ppatricia34me @rougepetale @svs-something @dont-feel-so-good-peter @kingsmanperfecthartwin

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ml-nolan · 7 months

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Aaaaaayyyyyy....remember how I said I was working on a serial? Well, here's a teaser from chapter one of...

Someone to Build Me Up

an M/M, medium heat contemporary romance featuring fake dating, strength gyms, and Shakespeare (trust me, it makes sense).

Get the full first chapter, and get updates on when, where, and how you can get the rest, by signing up here.

And here's a little excerpt!

----

"I'm Zack Carter. I'm here for Marcus?" I give him the grin that usually gets me forgiven for being a total doofus.

Instead of saying, "That's me," like I expect him to, the coach points over my shoulder. "I'm Dylan. You can check in with Swizzle Stick over there."

I turn around and spot a desk in the corner, where a figure with a black mop of hair hunches over a sketch pad. When he lifts his head, my eyes widen before I can control myself. It's the man from the coffee shop. He must be the receptionist here. I tamp down a little on the visible shock in my face before sauntering over.

His eyes flick from my head down to my feet and back again, and I automatically pull my shoulders back and suck in my gut. He grabs a clipboard and holds it out to me with long porcelain fingers. He's still dressed in his NIN shirt, but he's taken his rings off and stashed them somewhere. My eyes drift down to the snake bite piercings under his perfectly plush lips, as naturally pink as if he'd applied lip gloss this morning. I know he sees me look, and I feel heat in my ears.

Filling out the forms is a quick process, and then I hand them back to him.

"So, is Marcus here, or…?" I look around at the big, mostly empty room. Maybe he's in the bathroom, or tucked into one of the corners I can't see from the desk here.

"I am Marcus," he says. Then he stands up, and I notice his ripped jeans are replaced by black joggers and Reeboks. His voice is low as bedrock, dark as his eyebrows, hacked through by the graphite in his gaze. It throws a rock into the pit of my stomach.

"You are?"

Until this moment, his expression had been neutral, but now it hardens to granite. "The last time I checked my ID, yes. Marcus Berens."

"It's just you don't look…"

Sometimes I just really can't stop running my mouth. I wonder if they make pills for that now. Here I am, just digging this hole deeper and deeper. Right now, he gives me a blank look, making no gesture to smooth anything over at all. Normally, I'd be able to pick up the slack there, but I can't seem to do anything but stare at him.

And now I notice the way he fills out that shirt. How the sleeves are tight as sausage casing around his arms, how it's stretched taut across his pecs. He might look thin at first glance, but the muscles are there. Oh, are they ever there.

He doesn't pick up my trailed-off sentence, instead leading me closer toward the center of the room, several feet away from Dylan and Bea. It's only when he turns and levels a withering look at me do I realize I'm supposed to be following him.

"I'll show you the facility first," he says.

"This is all stuff I've seen before. Did water polo in high school," I say. Then I realize how inane that sounds. Nobody in my phase of life should be using high school as a touch point for anything. The judgment in his face reflects that exact thought.

"You'll find that your body responds differently to training than it did when you were when you were a teenager," he says, coolly.

"Well, you'd know. You're what, 22?"

"28." His jaw tightens. Clearly he's not the type who is flattered when someone thinks he looks younger than he is.

"Ah, my apologies. I didn't mean to impugn your abilities." I offer a watered down smile, then realize maybe I might seem like I'm trying to flex my vocabulary at him. "I mean, I don't want you to think that I'm—"

"I know what impugn means," he says sharply.

I bite my lip, and catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Dylan is doing a terrible job of looking like he's not eavesdropping. In fact, he might not even be trying to pretend.

"Since you seem to already understand how all this works," he says, weight shifting to one side as he lifts the clipboard and pen. "Tell me what you wish to achieve during our sessions."

Obviously I can't tell him I want to get hot for the dating apps, not even with subtle hints. So, I waffle. "Ah, you know, I'm just getting older and want to start taking better care of myself."

Not looking back up at me, Marcus sighs and clicks his pen. "Could you be less specific?"

"Dude." I can't tell if Dylan's tone is warning or pleading.

Marcus bites his lip, then looks up at me defiantly, flipping his black hair out of his face. The fact that he's about an inch shorter than me means he tips his chin up toward me like he's purposely angling for a fight. This bitchy attitude shouldn't be hot, but I'm weak for a guy or girl who can read the hell out of me.

"How about…I want to get in better shape for my sister's wedding," I say, totally pulling something out of my ass. I can convince myself it's true. It'll accomplish the same thing, right?

His lip curls, only slightly, as if he can smell how full of shit I am. "That'll have to do. Let's test your mobility first," he says.

He sinks to his knees in front of me, setting his clipboard on the ground. He gives me that heavy, judgmental look again before beckoning me to the ground with him.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought it would be.

One more time—here's where you can download chapter 1.

#M.L. Nolan #MM romance #serialized romance #queer romance #gay romance #romcom #contemporary romance #yes #this is dreamling coded #full disclosure #if you like plz rb #ilysm

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kawaii-sugarii · 11 months

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Sugar Rush - Next Gen

Incoming: my Next Gen kiddos!

Note: This is going to be a long one, because there's a total of 9 kids to talk about, and only now I'm developing their personalities.

Anyway, I hope that it's all worth it, so...

Here we go!

↓

Starting off with the trio of Von Schweetz kids. Vanellope and Gloyd's chaos loving children.

• Gabrielle Von Schweetz is the eldest daughter of the Von Schweetz family. She's cheeky and mischiuevous, though at the same time sweet and caring towards her friends, especially her siblings, and quite a capable leader. Always up for tricks and pranks, her preference being to do this with style. She's also very sassy, and likes to say snarky comments on occasions.

• Ven Orangeboar Von Schweetz is the middle child, and only son of the Von Schweetz family. A cunning yet laid-back boy who absolutely can't say "no" to an offer of pulling a prank. He inherits his mother's glitch, which helps him anytime he's up for mishief, since as some say, his glitch gives him a speed boost and jump boost. He also has a habit of sticking his tongue out a lot.

• Valerie Von Schweetz is the youngest daughter of the Von Schweetz family. She's in a way the opposite of her siblings, being more quiet and reserved, often seen fidgeting with her long ponytail, but she does sometimes join in on her siblings' chaos. She also inherits her mother's glitch, but unlike Ven, hers is weaker, and only occurs when she expresses extreme emotions.

Next comes a duet of Malarkey kids. Children of the sporty duet, Minty and Swizzle.

• Kentroy Malarkey is the eldest son of the Malarkey family. He's a smart and stubborn kid, and at the same time cool-headed and daring. He likes performing acrobatics and reading a good book, and also enjoys sarcastic humor. He usually knows how to keep a cool head, but there are times when he can get a bit hot-headed. Interestingly, he was the result of unplanned pregnancy, though was fortunately loved from when he was born.

• Zinnia Malarkey is the youngest daughter of the Malarkey family. Often referred to as "Zinn", she's as energetic and bubbly as a little girl can get, in addition to being a sporty daredevil with a lot of adrenaline. Always upbeat and bouncy, she strikes to bring out the good in everyone, even if some of the people she meets are the worst of the worst. She's more trusting than her brother, which makes her rather naive despite her intelligence.

Now for the girl with a 'tude, making it clear that she's Taffyta and Rancis' child.

• Abby Fluggerbutter is the only daughter of the Fluggerbutter family. She's quite a friendly and tomboyish girl, and although she's trying to be different from her parents and doesn't want to become like them, she still retains their loud and cocky attitude. She likes to style her hair and try on new accessories, but in terms of outfits, no matter what the others tell her, she'll always pick comfy hoodies, especially if they're oversized.

Up next, the ever mysterious girl, as well as Adorabeezle's ever mysterious child.

• Eclaire Winterpop is, as far as people know, the only daughter of the Winterpop family. She's a quiet girl, much like her mother, but unlike her, she's less athletic and more lady-like, enoying spending a quiet time with nature, and sometimes play with animals, too. She is shrouded in mysteries, some of which she's aware of. She sometimes wonders about who her father is, though her mother doesn't talk much about him.

Almost there! Now comes the demi-boy, and Sticky and Nougetsia's adopted child.

• Alucard Fruitpunch is the only son of the Wipplesnit family. He's bubbly and relaxed, and incredibly easy-going. He's also an air-head with a creative and imaginative mind, liking to come up with new ideas whenever they can and want. Despite their easy-going nature, Alucard can get nervous rather easily, bumbling over his own words whenever he feels uneasy.

And last but not least, the first OC x Canon kid revealed. Torvald and Cinnaren's tomboy child.

• Toffifee Batterbutter is the only daughter of the Batterbutter family. On one hand, she's a sweet and energetic girl with a smile bright as the sun. On the other hand, she's a brash and boisterous girl with a voice loud as a hawk. She's rather impulsie, and is quick to take action in any situation, sometimes answering with her fists. Very adventurous and playful, always aims for the top, and more often than not refuses to quit.

Aaaaand that's all of them!

(Phew, that took a while.)

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malevolent-muse · 28 days

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Unconventional - Chicago PD Fan Fiction

Nichole is a high-end prostitute who enjoys her job. Hank Voight is a tough old-school police sergeant who typically is very restrained... but not this time. {Based off of 5x11 "Confidential" where Voight meets with a madame and she asks him how he is liking Nichole.}

“May I have the definition?” the small figure on the stage asked.

To which the judge replied, “The fear or superstition of the number 666.”

Taking a deep breath, the little girl lackadaisically stated, “Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, H-E-X-A-K-O—“

Looking away from the television behind the bar, Nichole stirred the swizzle-stick around in her drink before picking it up and taking a sip. It was surprising how well these kids could spell words she didn’t even understand. She’d heard the word for fear of the number 13, triskaidekaphobia, but never the one the girl was spelling.

Adjusting her position and glancing over at the clock, she sighed. She’d been waiting for over a half an hour now for her date to arrive but she’d yet to see the boat of a vehicle he drove pull up in front of the establishment.

“Can I get you another drink?” the bartender asked. His nose was so big, that it could only be described as a schnozzle. The black and white tag on his chest read, “Ragnar,” which was clearly an assumed name. Maybe he fancied himself to be some modern-day Viking or was just trying to be funny, either way, Nichole found it to be irksome.

“No,” she replied, as ran her finger along the moist surface of the glass, “I’m good. Thank you.”

“Very well,” the man responded, “let me know if there is anything else I can get for you.” Ragnar then headed to the other end of the counter and began to wipe it down with a rag and a bottle of disinfectant.

Glancing back up at the television, only to see that the next young contestant spelling the word, “Platyhelminthes,” Nichole shook her head in wonderment, both at the children’s abilities but also the esoteric nature of the competition. ESPN3 was not a channel she would typically choose to watch but it was better than making small talk with the other patrons, many of whom were placing bets on the outcome.

There was a small kerfuffle at the entrance of the bar as a man entered but then stepped back out as to allow two other customers to leave. Of course, he held the door open for them on their way out.

Finally entering the bar, Hank Voight looked over the crowd until he met Nichole’s gazed and made his way over to her.

The sergeant of the Chicago Police Department’s Intelligence Unit was not her usual client. Most of her clients were men with wives or men with more unconventional tastes (including one that was so entrenched in Tolkien mythology that he would speak to her in Elvish and pretend they were in Lothórien together).

Voight, however, did not fall into either of these categories. Granted, he’d been married, but he was a widower now. As for his tastes, well, the two of them had never actually made it to the bedroom. Instead, the sergeant just wanted to talk. Their ‘dates’ ended up being like therapy sessions more than anything else. She could tell he was the type of man who craved the comforts of a relationship but had been burned too many times. He preferred to keep a professional distance.

“Nichole,” he greeted her warmly, his voice gravely as ever, “sorry I’m late. I got held up at work.”

“I can imagine,” she replied with a smirk. It felt almost clandestine, having a cop for a client. But it gave her a nervous thrill that she couldn’t explain. There was something different about the sergeant this evening, somehow the look it his eyes was different, almost hungry.

Hank held out his hand to her and said, “Shall we get going?” His timing was serendipitous as it was just before Ragnar was able to come over and ask Voight if he wanted something to drink.

“Oh?” Nichole questioned. “Are we going somewhere?”

“I thought maybe we’d switch it up,” Hank said nonchalantly. “That is if you don’t have any objections?”

“No,” she replied as she took his hand and got up from the stool she’d been sitting on, “I’ve no objections. Though I hope you don’t intend on keeping me out in this weather long.” The tight red dress she was wearing wasn’t much, if any, protection from the cold Chicago winter weather.

“My car is just outside,” Hank replied as helped her on with her coat, careful to not trap her dark tight curls beneath the collar of the garment.

The two of them stepped out into the cold night, the dark cerulean sky clear against the glowing yellow orbs of the street lights. The short stone obelisks divided the sidewalk from the road and she stepped around them to reach Hank as he held open the passenger door of his black Cadillac Escalade.

“Brrr,” she said once he had joined her in the vehicle, “it’s so cold. What I wouldn’t give to be on a beach in the Caribbean somewhere.”

“You and me both,” the sergeant responded as he pulled out from behind the Toyota parked in front of them.

It wasn’t long until Voight pulled up in front of a very expensive looking hotel, which surprised Nichole. She was accustomed to men flashing their superfluous wealth in front of her, but Hank had never been one of those men. It was unexpected but she saw nothing pernicious in his behavior so she merely smiled agreeably as the bellhop helped her from the car and Voight gave his keys to the rotund valet.

Entering the building quickly to escape the cold, Hank left her side momentary to go and check in at the front desk. Nichole slowly wandered around the lobby admiring the furnishings, glancing at the artwork, listening to the light piano music that was piped through the speakers, and running her fingers along the leaves of the decorative trees.

Turning her head, she noticed the sergeant seemed to have gotten himself in a bit of a confrontation with the man behind the desk, who was quietly fulminating about something or another, his face as red as a terracotta flowerpot. It was disconcerting that within minutes of walking into the building, that it looked like they were already being asked to leave. But luckily Hank handled the situation before returning to her having obtained the key card from the supercilious and constipated looking concierge.

“Was there a problem?” Nichole asked.

“No,” Hank replied shaking his head, “some people just enjoy being disagreeable.”

“Well, we won’t let that spoil our night, shall we?”

The sergeant didn’t respond but a quick smile fluttered across his lips as he ushered her to the elevator.

The muzak of the elevator mixed harshly with the music of the lobby, and Nichole was glad as the doors slid shut against the cacophony of sound.

“You are full of surprises tonight,” she stated as they rode upward to their room.

“Am I?” Hank replied, being cheeky.

“I’m accustomed to you just wanting to talk but getting a hotel room has other implications.”

“And do you find those implications, not to your liking?”

Nichole actually laughed, “Hank, if I didn’t like doing what you are implying, then I wouldn’t be in this line of work, now would I?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Though I must say,” she commented, “there are less expensive places you could’ve taken me. There really is no need to try and impress me.”

“It’s less about the cost and more about the cleanliness,” Hank stated straightforwardly. “I’m not particularly fond of rolling around in sheets that have been tainted by other people’s sweat, sebum, semen, or other bodily fluids.”

“Rolling around? My, what type of shenanigans do you have in store for me Hank?”

The man practically blushed as he looked down at his feet but was saved from responding by the doors opening up on their floor.

“1307,” he said quietly, “down the hall and to the left.”

Teasingly, she pulled the keycard from his hand and walked to the door of the room, purposefully swaying her hips sensuously. Truth be told, she loved her job and, though Voight paid the same rate for her time as any other client, her sessions with him had always left her unsatisfied. She wanted him and the thought of him wanting her as well had her excited.

Sliding the key into the card reader, Nichole entered the room quickly as she shed her coat and hung it up on a nearby chair. Voight was right behind her and she felt his hand lightly touch her waist. Turning toward’s him, she moved in close.

He wasn’t an overly tall man but even with the heels she was wearing, she was still shorter than him. Voight moved in to kiss her but stopped just short.

“Can I?” he asked unsurely. “Is this alright?”

“When you’re paying,” she said softly, “you don’t have to ask.”

“That’s not the sort of man I am.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Nichole stated as she drew his face towards her and locked her lips with his.

The stubble around his mouth was ever so slightly abrasive against her lips as she moved her tongue against his.

*RING*

Sounds of a cell phone interrupted their little make-out session and Voight stepped back as he fished around in his pocket for the device.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“It’s up to you Hank. The time is yours to use as you’d like.”

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said as he stepped into the restroom to take the call in private.

With a sigh, Nichole waited for Hank to return. Glancing around at the room and the ubiquitous furnishing one finds in all hotel rooms: a bed, nightstand (complete with a Gideon’s Bible, an overstuffed chair, small refrigerator, a desk, lamps, and hotel pamphlet with various information like parking, wifi, and room service). Flipping through the booklet, she looked over the menu selection, a whole smorgasbord, which ranged from tacos, waffles, and harvester oatmeal cookies. Unlike the options from the kitchen, the selection in the mini-bar was limited, besides the small bottles of vodka and whiskey, there were chocolate bars and raisin trail-mix.

The noise of the bathroom door opening announced the return of the sergeant.

“Everything okay,” she asked as she smiled at him seductively.

“Fine,” he said.

“Then let’s get down to business,” Nichole said as she grasped the open edges of his open leather jacket and pulled him with her as she sat down on the end of the bed. Trailing her hands down the zippered edges, she let go of him and brought her hands down to support her weight as she leaned back, staring up at the man standing in front of her.

“Nichole,” he said warily, “maybe it might be better if we just talked.”

“You didn’t bring me here to talk.”

“But—“

“Whatever is holding you back,” she said persuasively, “don’t let it. We’ve talked enough. Time for action.”

“I want to be sure that I’m not… I don’t know how to say it exactly but this situation could be construed as nefarious in nature. I know it’s illegal but…”

“Oh,” Nichole exclaimed, “will you stop filibustering already? The illegal part just makes it more tantalizing. Besides, I want this. And I think you do too.”

In fact, she knew he wanted it. The bulge in his trouser was evident of the fact. Lifting her hands from the bed, she undid his belt with practiced efficiency. The other fastening of his pants were undone with equal proficiency and placing her fingers through the fold in the fabric at the front of his boxers, Nichole gripped his engorged member.

“Wait,” Voight said suddenly, reaching down and grabbing her hand, “we shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a cop.”

“Fine,” she said, “don’t pay me. Just give me that cock.” And with that final statement, she had his penis out of his pants and in her mouth.

The sergeant moaned but she hadn’t even gotten started yet. Taking the length of him in her mouth, she licked up and down the shaft. Then, taking a hold of him, pushed her head down so that the tip of his dick hit the back of her throat. She repeated this action multiple times as he ran his fingers through the locks of her hair.

Since he seemed to be enjoying himself, Nichole pulled out one of her favorite tricks as she curved her tongue so that the tip tickled the underside of the head of his organ. He gasped and shivered all at once.

Pulling away and leaning back, the whore looked up at the cop and asked, “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” Voight stammered.

“Then come and get it,” Nichole said as she backed up further on the bed and pulled down the top of her dress so that her left shoulder was bare.

Hank may have been in his fifties, but besides the salt and pepper hair, the stout man’s body didn’t show the signs of age or neglect as he stripped off his clothing except for his white undershirt and patterned boxers.

Joining her on the bed, Voight reached over and traced his fingers down the bronzed skin of her arm. Nichole locked eyes with him for just a second before rolling over and pulling her hair from behind her neck to over her shoulder, revealing the top of the zipper of her dress.

Holding the zipper between his fingers, Hank gently lowered the thin piece of metal. The back of the dress opened, Nichole easily slipped out of the garment and turned to the man behind her and took his face in her hands. She pressed her lips against his, as Voight lowered his hands to her breasts.

His hands were tender at first but quickly that progressed to him sliding his hands beneath the fabric of her bra and firmly massaging the supple mounds and tugging at her dark nipples. Unclasping the back of the lace strap, Hank lowered his head as the fabric fell away and covered the areas with his face as he licked and sucked on each bud in turn.

The whore’s panties were the next thing to go as he pulled them down almost reverently.

“What’s this,” he asked, noticing the small figure tattooed on her hip.

“Oh,” replied Nichole, “that’s Calliope, the muse of poetry.”

“Poetry, huh? What kind of poetry?”

“All sorts of poetry, limericks, sonnets,” she said with a wink. “Or, you know, the type of poetry two people make in bed.”

“That’s my favorite kind,” he responded as he cupped her plump ass in his hands. Then bringing her closer to him in a bear hug, he flopped down on the bed with her onto of him.

“Hank,” Nichole giggled as she pulled off his shirt and underpants, “these need to come off if we are to continue.”

Retrieving a condom from one of the discarded articles of clothing strewn about, she unwrapped it and rolled it down the length of his cock. Nichole was a professional after all, she wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks.

The sergeant reached out and grabbed her hips and assisted to position her so that she was straddling him. Their eyes met?

“Are you ready?” Hank asked huskily.

“Are you?” she replied with a smirk and lowered herself down onto his waiting and eager member. The head of his penis breached her outer lips and spread her cunt open as she impaled herself on him. Flexing her pelvic muscles, she was rewarded with the sight of him gasping as he involuntary threw his head back in pleasure.

“Mmmm,” she hummed as she ground down, “that feels just right.”

His fleshy cock within her felt perfectly snug, the more than adequate length and thick girth filling her in an ever so satisfying manner as if his his dick were a sword in its sheath.

Adjusting her position, Nichole began to move in a serpentine fashion as she oscillated her hips back and forth, raising and lowering herself to her knees.

“Fuck,” Hank gasped as she reached out one hand and put it on her breasts, the other hand on her clit, gently tapping the bundle of nerves.

Unused to her clients engaging in this sort of altruistic behavior, she reveled in the sensations he stirred within her.

“Mmmm,” he growled. “You must like that.”

“Yes,” she said breathily.

“You like my hard cock in your juicy cunt?”

“Yes.”

“You like fucking in a way that makes your legs weak?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I love seeing you like this. Naked and greedy for dick. The way your pussy is wrapped around me is a fucking dream. You’re going to milk my cock for every ounce of cum you can get. I’m going to drain my balls in your cunt like the nasty fucking whore you are.”

It was flabbergasting, who knew that the cool and collected cop had such a dirty mouth? It sent shivers of pleasure up and down her spine. She was losing her concentration and was taken by surprised when he grabbed her and flipped her onto her back and got on top of her, pushing her legs back.

Reaching down she grabbed his cock and repositioned it at her entrance.

“You are such a slut,” he growled. “You want this, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes! Fuck me!”

He was more than happy to comply and he slid his dick back inside of her.

“FUCK!” Nichole screamed. The man’s cock inside of her was stretching her in the most delightful ways as he rammed into her repeatedly.

She knew he wasn’t going to last much longer as he lowered her legs and positioned himself his arms on either side of her. The position they were in was putting her into sensory overload as his lower abdomen rubbed against her clit. Fuck.She wasn’t going to last much longer either.

It was like a spell that was about to be cast, practically witchcraft. The anticipation had her on edge and she defenestrated every care she had as her climax was imminent.

With one last thrust, she could feel Hank’s cock throb within her as he shot his load. And the thought of all that cum was what sent her over the edge as her peripheral vision blurred. Closing her eyes, the darkness was starrified by blips of light.

Settling on the mattress next to her, Hank breathed heavily as he came back down from his high as they both descended into pure serenity.

A few moments past before Nichole rolled off of the bed and headed over to the restroom.

“Where are you going?” Voight asked.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’ll be right back. Besides, I think you might be in the mood for a second round.

“You must be clairvoyant,” replied Hank with a slight smile.

A/N: For @cindydoll2 Like this work? Join the Tag List

#chicago pd #hank voight #smut #fan fiction #fanfic #18+ content

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builder051 · 4 months

Text

Happy Christmas (war is over)

Chasing Ghosts

————————

WARNINGS: firstly, this is one of those stories that has practically no action, but there’s a ton of content in somebody’s head. It also has pretty much every trigger in the book, but 99% of them are tiny mentions. Actual tws for talk of graphic violence (war setting), mental health talk inc depression and short mention of eating disorders. Also emeto. Dirty jokes. Basically you know what comes with the territory.

—————————-

Steve’s done it again. He’s gone and made Christmas eve a merry affair. He can pretend it’s for all of their benefit, but the indulgence is purely his own.

Tasha’s in as decent a mood as she can, nursing only one cracked toenail from her final Nutcracker fill-in.

James, who never understood the pre-holiday excitement, now uses his political science textbook as a lap table. A childhood without Santa and a career granting as little leave as possible left him at an impasse. Floating around and forgetting the day of the week would cause him more stress than relaxation, so an intersession class it was. It felt like an unacknowledged compromise. His body would be home for break, but there’d be a plausible reason hime to hole up and keep his head down.

The speakers on the television emit a jumbled mix of Mannheim Steamroller and Irving Berlin. James has his aids turned low, but he’s still grateful Mariah Carey been excised from the playlist.

“That’s not a real Christmas song,” Steve had explained when he quickly thumbs-downed her song on the playlist. There had been a warm kind of silent agreement after that.

Wham!’s “Last Christmas” brought up more of a debate. “It’s, like, canon?” Steve had offered timidly.

“Only because it was written before you were born,” Tasha said with a laugh. She could’ve mentioned that none of them had come into the world yet by 1983, but with her choice phrasing, the statement seemed simultaneously very wise and very naive.

“It’s about sex,” James had added irritably, as if it was a fact he was reading aloud from his book. He wanted to open it up again. He’d stopped in the middle of a chapter, much to his disgruntlement.

“Everything’s about sex…” Tasha had sighed. “I mean. The Nutcracker’s a fucking pedophile…”

“We are not having a discussion about dirty fairy tales,” James stated with finality.

It took a moment for everyone to breathe, then the tension began to melt again, perhaps with help from the dancing flame atop Steve’s balsam scented candle.

Once it’s clear they all had both motivation and ability to keep peace, Steve goes into the kitchen to warm eggnog and pour out caramel popcorn. As he distributes the goodies back in the living room, he shoots James a look. “It’s, like, I added the rum to the whole thing…”

James hates it when Tasha takes her drinks and drugs home with her. He has a cold, uncharitable thought stashed at the back of his mind; if Tash dropped dead somewhere, anywhere, so long as it was out of the house, he wouldn’t be liable. Within the confines of the, apartment though… “Eh,” James shrugs. “Spirit of the season,” he grumbles. Then, to Tasha, “No crushed up pills or shit overnight, you hear?”

“Sure…” Tasha un-crams herself from the corner of the sofa and limps back toward the kitchen.

“I can get—“ Steve calls, half-rising from his seat.

“I got it…” Tasha digs in the fridge for a moment, then returns gripping a bag of unwashed celery stalks.

“Hey,” James starts to admonish.

“You said no dirty fairy tales, no sex songs, and no snorting Xanax.” Tasha holds the celery as if it were a club she’d use to hit him. “You haven’t outlawed anything else.” She wads her body cross legged against the arm of the sofa, pulls a stalk of celery from the bag, then uses it as an unnecessary swizzle stick for her eggnog.

James rolls his eyes. His desire to express irritation wraps around and consumes what could’ve been silence for Steve’s sake. L He can’t help himself, though. “Shit, Tasha. Why? Just, fucking why?”

Tasha looks down at the thick miniature tree garnishing her beverage. She holds it between finger and thumb, then moves her tongue seductively through the divet where the most eggnog and cinnamon have gathered. She points the dripping celery stalk at James. “You ever been sucked that good?”

“My god.” James shakes his head, which he hadn’t realized was throbbing. The movement set it off, maybe. Or his growing fury. “Sorry about her, Steve. If you don’t want to watch, we can just go to bed.”

“Oh,” Steve hesitates. “It’s ok.”

“See?” Tasha looks smugly at James. “I’m just offsetting calories,” she says, as if her intention wasn’t already clear.

“And I assume you’re just out of innuendos, too?” James means it to be a warning. He’s had a few sips of his own eggnog, though, and he hopes his vocal cords haven’t relaxed enough to edge his authoritative aggression down to something more like childish bickering.

“Never.” Tasha dips her celery again, licks off the eggnog, then holds it to her lip like a cigar.

“That’s… great.” James stands and starts chugging the rest of his eggnog. He raises his book and points it in the direction of the bedroom down the hall. He’ll be reading in bed if needs him.

“Sure, yeah.” Steve nods to James, still playing it cool. His desire not to take sides is beginning to freeze him, though. The robotic head tilt. The canned laughter.

James has his last gulp of eggnog in his mouth, and he’s trying to decide whether to put his mug in the sink or whether to take it with him to make the flight to the bedroom quicker. It ends up not mattering, though. Steve says something, and James’s mug cracks in two as it hits the floor.

“Maybe I should’ve made you a bloody mary.”

It’s a joke. It’s nothing to do with James. It’s about the stupid celery sticks. It’s one of Steve’s weaker attempts to clear the air.

James slaps his hand over his mouth to keep more than just eggnog from spilling back up. His vision goes shiny around the edges. He can’t see a thing…

James barely makes out olive green fatigues. The pixilated beige that actually served as camouflage was perpetually in the laundry. Off time was marked with untucked white t shirts and dark trousers with the cuffs rolled up and waistbands rolled down.

James he hears the laughter. Smells the booze. Tastes the extra sugar and food dye that taint what would’ve been perfectly good sugar cookies. The falseness of the holiday spirit mingles with the flavor of grocery-store frosting and sets an ache in his teeth.

“Hey, you shot me!”

James jumped and whipped his head around. Active shooter? Immediate evacuation?

It was a kid, completely plastered and stumbling. He was probably early in his tour and still unfamiliar with the hazy line between gallows humor and the taboo. James should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. Should have swallowed his anger and ruined only his own holiday.

The spitball soaked in lake red #40 had stuck in the center of the kid’s chest, sending brightly colored dribbles all down his front. The expansion of the stain was far too pale and pinkish to mistake for actual blood, but the kid played it like a fool.

“Oh you fucker! I’m dying! You killed me!”

James, khaki-clad and with seven minutes remaining on his shift, grabbed the kid by the shoulders of his shirt and pinned him against a tent pole.

James doesn’t remember his exact words. They were probably along the lines of “you ever taken a real bullet before?” Then he’d wielded a fist and clocked him in the throat.

The kid fell to the side, gasping, but James’s grip held him upright. Somebody came up from behind and tried yanking James off the kid, but he backhanded whoever it was without turning his head.

“Friendly fire! It was just a stupid—Just a—“

The voice came out slurred and muffled. The back of James’s hand was sticky with blood and stinging around the knuckles. He’d definitely caught teeth.

Then the kid laughed. He peeked over James’s shoulder and offered his attacker-cum-defender a peace pact and a couple more Budweiser. “Beer’s all I got, but with your lip all fucked up, call it a bloody mary—“

James could’ve murdered them both. Really, truly killed them. His weapon was holstered on his hip. His right hand was already heading that direction. He didn’t need to hear this shit. These dumbasses didn’t need to be among the ranks of America’s finest, not with these stupid, drunken jokes. A bloody lip was nothing. Nothing to watching a fellow soldier explode and suddenly having a face full of lacerated brain matter. James had learned hard and early that alcohol is less a mask and more a mirror.

A buddy from James’s platoon mistook the assault as 2 on 1 with James as the target. A rough reminder to punch his timecard before he punched another soldier broke James’s bubble of violent thought. He wiped his bloody hand across the spitball stain on the kid’s chest, then walked away to do his proper duty.

No one reported him, it being Christmas eve and all. Assault, fighting, taking action in rage, cheating the Army out of seven minutes’ good labor… James could be reprimanded for any and all of them. Probably should be. Residual anger bubbled in James’s gut, creating an excess of bile seeping up from the back of his tongue.

He can’t remember how much time had passed, but eventually James heard someone shuffling around outside his tent. Then there was retching.

James’s mouth filled with saliva. He couldn’t swallow. He could barely move. Using every reserve of energy he had, James grasped the tent’s entrance flap and vomited heavily into the sand. He barely caught a breath before retching violently again.

Multiple minutes passed before James could get a grip on himself. He wanted to cry; he was glad to be expelling something other than tears.

Eventually the other unfortunate soul trudged around the corner and headed to the next bunkhouse over from Jame’s. It was the stupid kid, still wearing the shirt soiled with koolaid and blood and now sick. James swept tent’s the canvas cover back over himself. He wouldn’t be able to stand eye contact. One or the other would be eating a bullet this time. Only this time, James’s weapon was stored securely beside his cot.

James is largely unaware of Steve easing him onto his knees. He catches a glimpse of Tasha’s feet, then her hands as she pulls shards of china from the carpet.

“It’s ok,” Steve’s voice intones. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

“I’m fine,” James splutters. It’s an automatic response; both Steve and Tasha know to take no stock in it. James breathes in the balsam scented air. He separates the tastes of cream and bile and rum. He shakily wipes at his nose and mouth. James’s hand comes away sticky and red-streaked. It’s nothing major; a scrape or pressure sore releasing more bodily fluid to add to the mess. He swallows experimentally, and harsh, stinging reflux makes him gag all over again.

“Alright.” Steve pats James’s shoulder. “Want to try the bathroom?”

James presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He shakes his head, but the meaning of the question hasn’t yet penetrated. He has half a mind to stick his fingers down his throat. James squints into the mess of sick he’s made on the living room floor, and there, plainly, is the thin bloody rivulet that’s departed his body.

His spirit must be dead. Or maybe his body. James has to have passed into some dimensional void where injury starts to mean nothing. Flashes of hopelessness displace James’s blurry vision again. Playing fast and loose with his benzos fresh out of the VA. Tasha missing her graduation party to receive CPR whilst en route to get her stomach pumped. Headphones blaring death metal into his ears as he passed the car in the driveway, then stood gaping as the foster dad jumped out of the driver’s side and zipping his pants while a girl from his school tore in the other direction, her skirt tucked into her underwear.

It’s too much. It’s going to crush him. James can’t feel his body. He can’t feel his face. He wonders if he’s been dosed with Haldol. Is his brain going to shut off too? Should it? Would that give him blessed relief at last?

It’s only when Steve shifts James’s head more securely onto his shoulder that he realizes tears are pouring from his eyes. He never does this. It’s just making more mess.

“It’s probably a migraine,” Tasha supplies. There’s a shrug written in her tone.

“James?” Steve probes. “How are you feeling?”

Worse than dead doesn’t seem like an appropriate response. James settles with, “I don’t know.”

It’s true enough. James’s life has been wrought with obstacles, with pain, with too much knowledge, too much experience, too much feeling. He’s fucked. Completely. He was battle worn before he’d left for his first deployment.

And now he’s left with, what exactly? An overly doting boyfriend. An obnoxious little sister. A candle that has no right to smell so good. Kate Smith’s voice warbling about silver bells. The fuck do bells have to do with Christmas, anyway?

Nothing. They have no more importance than political science, demented ballets, or songs about sex.

As James lets Steve help him to his feet, he tries to let go. The more sick, the more tears, the better. James sniffles, and something hot and metallic flows from his sinus cavity down his throat. He coughs, and his tight muscles relax by half a degree.

A migraine. A nosebleed. A flashback. The cause is no longer important. It’s how he’s going to go on afterward.

#sickfic #marvel #mcu #fanfic #emeto #captain america #fanfiction #chasing ghosts #steve rogers #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #christmas #flashback #headache #violence #operation iraqi freedom #alcohol #ed tw

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sometimesanalice · 1 year

Note

🍾

Mary! 🤍

Chocolate cake and champagne! What a great combo!

Here's a little something from "To Build A Home"

He’s breaking up with me.

It was at that crushing realization that the waitress returned with your drink orders. The bright orange concoction was topped with a lovely purple orchid and glittery swizzle stick. A happy looking cocktail for the girl who thought she was going to have another great date with the guy who was saved in her phone as “Golden Boy”.

Send me some champagne (🍾) and I’ll share something from one of my WIPs

#wip game #answers from alexa #champagne popping woo girl #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw #to build a home tgm

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purkinje-effect · 6 months

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 96: Lucky You

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 27. Go to previous. Go to next. CWs: fictional pharmacology, misgendering and social dysphoria, continued radiation sickness sequelae, minor hygiene and sanitary squick, awkward gender navigation, underweight mention, minor self-injury mention, drug use.

“Funny, how it’s easier to see / the forest for the trees / when winter steals the leaves.” -- Shayfer James, “Godspeed”

'Choly stirred the glass mug with a swizzle stick. His lips pursed ever so slightly as he lifted the stick in intervals, only to continue stirring. He took a moment to readjust the sash of his robe. Left undisturbed, a visible separation had formed in the liquid. Atop a translucent substance floated a dark thin oil, bitingly coppery and leathery. At the bottom settled pale solids and a wad of delicate cotton scraps. Only once he decanted the inch of solution into a shot glass could he even faintly smell the ammonia which had produced this result.

Into a second shot glass, he poured the separated fluid over a coffee filter loaded with a mound of crushed coffee grounds and loose cigarette tobacco. The back of a spoon liberated lingering fluid from the filter's contents. He gathered the filter's edges with one hand, and carefully replaced it on the first shot glass. Then, he poured the increasingly fluorescent milky fluid over the filter for a second pass, and macerated the ashen grounds with the spoon to squeeze out every last drop. The pulpiness and coloration gave the impression he'd idly destroyed a highlighter.

"I know you've only just gotten situated, Mister Carey," Angel said.

He jerked in place and shoved the spoon through the filter, but managed to pull it away without spilling the solids into his concoction.

"Sorry, Sir," it continued. "Erm, hopefully you can find a stopping point? I just heard the plumbers. The initial system flush is complete. They should reopen the baths very soon."

"Bless you and your wonderful timing." Animate and wild-eyed, he repeatedly steadied himself to divide the substance into metered twin-barrel hypodermic doses. As he worked, he told the robot, "A few more minutes and I'm done. Words do not describe how badly I want to head over there."

"I've gathered your sundries, for when you're ready! We should hurry if we can. The lines will likely form quickly."

He tapped his nose and adjusted his glasses with that finger.

"I'll be quick. Quick and precise."

He brushed his fingertips across the five injectables, then reached for paper and pen for a note. The things I requested were for a batch of Daddy-O. I noticed you still store Med-X like we did downstairs. I stored these with them. Halfway through, he became more conscious and deliberate with his penmanship. I would prefer if you didn't sample them. Consider them intermediary for my whipping up what you really asked me for. He folded the note and stood to go stash the syringes in a Slocum's Joe tin with other injectable chems.

It's only fitting, he told himself smirking, to store something crafted with coffee in a coffee tin. He returned the MKX inside Angel. He found Bledsoe front-end with a patient, and waved to get his attention. The medic glanced up at him, and both he and the patient went quiet.

"Not to interrupt." He slipped the note onto Bledsoe's clipboard. "It's nothing urgent. Just thought you'd like proof I'm on task. Stepping out now."

"Music to my ears," Bledsoe told the patient with a chuckle.

On his way out the front door, Angel joined him toting a bulky, haphazard satchel it had fastened around and atop itself. It took all his composure to suppress the skip in his step, lest he dislocate or pull something between there and baths. He and Angel both struggled with the stairs, but the Mister Handy still spotted his descent to the lower level as best it could, since it could still walk itself down in whichever direction required with no loss of vision.

A cane would make this so much easier. Of course, regaining his orthotics would improve his mobility even more than a cane. …Any cane. Even a simple one.

They entered Anchor’s lobby and followed the halls back to the inn’s baths. Just as they were trying to identify those on the repair team, a lightly armored See’s guard arrived. She slouched at them.

“How come you’re already ready to go?” The young woman crossed her arms. “Hall ain’t said a word about reopening the showers.”

“Ha, yes.” A terse, toothless smile pricked at his cheeks, and he adjusted his Fashionable Glasses. She didn’t need to know he’d been sitting around the GCC all morning in his robe in anticipation of this very moment, or that Angel had been acting the part of a police scanner for developments. “I do look dressed like I’m expecting spa treatment, don’t I. Don’t think too much of it, officer. I’ve only needed to bathe going on four months now. I’m sure you understand how anxious I am to make use of the amenities once they’re repaired. You, ah. You’re here. That means something, then, doesn’t it?”

The See’s smacked her gum and cocked her jaw.

“Yeah. I was sent down here to check with the plumbers, if you gotta know.” She craned her head around the corner of the women’s side. “Hey, you interested in letting this old lady and her robot try ‘er out? You gotcha first willing test subjects.”

Various answers replied, some which seemed to know his individual by mere mention of a robotic companion. He stiffened, and pressed his palm against the cool curve of Angel’s chassis. His nerves doubled down into a full plaster smile. Something in his shoulder popped. He smiled harder. The See’s leaned against the doorway and grinned back at him.

“They’re sayin’ you can’t give that pile of scrap metal a bath, too.”

“Oh, Sir, I didn't intend to accompany you into the baths regardless. If that's all right.” It hemmed and fussed over the pack it had bundled, and produced towels and some toiletries for him. “Sir, it's exactly as I planned! I have your dirty laundry ready, Sir, and I'm most eager to head downstairs. I’ll keep my sensors attuned for you, Sir. I’ll come flying the moment you need me!”

She smacked her gum some more and wagged her thumb overhead at both doors.

“Pick a door, Methuselah.”

Angel's sensors flicked between the guard and its owner a few times. He twitched a pitiful, appreciative smile at him.

“Good luck, my friend.”

“Enjoy, Mister Carey!”

Angel pivoted and scampered off.

“Yes,” the guard murmured. “Enjoy, Mister Carey.”

“I promise not to use all the hot water,” he muttered offhand in passing. He continued muttering under his breath as he rushed through the other doorway and picked the closest stall to the door. Drawing the curtain, he exhaled hard as he identified the pungent cutting stink of fresh bleach, but he smiled to himself in gratitude that it didn't seem like it masked whether any sourness or rot lingered. Methuselah… If only she knew-- No, inconsequential. Just let it go and relax.

He disrobed and turned on the water. Without his sunglasses to dampen the chroma, he kept his eyes shut as much as possible. The showerhead burbled for a few seconds before the hiss of its spray steadied. Angel had brought him some things from the GCC’s stockroom, and he knew he’d have to reimburse Bledsoe for them. The moment the water showed signs of warming, he stepped in and let it stream over him. After a while, he adjusted the temperature, erring on the side of slightly too warm. He poured out some Sheldon shampoo[96-1] from the trial size bottle and massaged his scalp into a gentle lather. His eyes shut, and his mind melted into soft focus.

Leave it to Sheldon not to petrify or go rancid with age. I wonder if it's shortcut for anything…

‘Choly knew his work order hadn't called for Daddy-O specifically, and he certainly hadn't expected to start with it of all things, but hell if he wouldn't need it. He’d meant every word of his note. He wished he could have started with simple, straightforward products. Med-X, Mentats, Stimpaks… Yes, that did put a time constraint on it, didn’t it? Sticks would insist that they replenish the Melancholia before they headed out. Realistically, they couldn’t reestablish the Blood Drive before they left, but ideally, they could do so once they returned. They both would rest easier if they could secure more donors than Sticks in the future.

He rinsed his hair. Shampooing a second time, he really put his fingernails into it.

A suggestion twinged in the back of his mind: Why not ask the Clark sisters if they can help source blood?

He flinched as his nails grazed too roughly. Soap stung his scalp and the corners of his squinted eyes.

Once he’d rinsed his hair, and then rinsed his eyes, he unwrapped the bar of soap and grabbed for his washcloth. As he worked at scrubbing himself down, he slowed down a bit, and took especial care with his left arm. He bent down and forward out of the water, to peer at the drain, and hemmed at the visible mess of hair in the floor.

My age is catching up to me. RadAway can only undo so much. His mouth skewed as he continued to slowly rub at his chest. Definitely not the worst thing this tile sees today.

Even if they couldn't convince Bledsoe to let him borrow his phlebotomy equipment, they could still carry on like they had at Lockreed for one more batch if they absolutely had to. Not that Sticks would be thrilled, mind you, but at least Sticks had amassed all the other necessary ingredients.

Am I being selfish, for asking to come along? I'm not really contributing anything to the entourage. I'd just be another mouth to feed, and another head to keep track of. Angel won't allow us to get separated, but even if I would consider it, the only souls at the Lane that I would entrust with Angel's well-being will all be crammed into a royal blue Chryslus Coupe. I should stay behind and help the nursing staff watch the GCC in Bledsoe's absence, shouldn't I? I could even get a head start on those chems.

But no, he reminded himself that Sticks, charismatic as ever, had convinced him he had a lot in common with Bledsoe: his breaks are always more of a shuffling of projects, never fully setting everything down. Even if 'Choly didn't help with the caravan directly, he and Bledsoe both needed to get out of the house and decompress. This would be a vacation for 'Choly, too.

Still, he couldn't shake worrying for Angel's safety. The Fog would be thinner, with less risk of weather complications, but pockets of weak magnetic fields floated all throughout the Hinter. He could only hope that, in a worst case scenario, Haidinger might grant him some degree of extended access to the robotics workstation.

He jerked the dial to cold to jolt distressing thoughts. Breathing heavy, he eventually eased the water back up to lukewarm.

"Buddy!" A man rapped on the stall wall. "You drowning in there or what?"

His larynx snagged.

"Yesyes, I'm quite all right." He cleared his throat when his voice broke. "I'll be right out."

Dejected, he eyed the bottle of conditioner on the stepstool.

Next time. Tomorrow even, perhaps.

He let the water run over his scalp for another minute before relenting for the day. He steadied himself on the wall of the stall while he toweled his hair. He patted himself dry, then wrapped up in the towel and tied the thin cotton robe over that. Slipping his glasses back on, he emerged with his toiletries and shuffled over to squeeze in at the nearest available sink.

The baths had filled up more quickly than he'd expected. Or maybe, he had taken that much longer than he thought. Probably both.

He rationed out the barest smidge of toothpaste onto a handcrafted toothbrush with a reed handle, wet it, and, as he brushed, tried to reassure himself that it had to be brand new.

That batch of Daddy-O, though. He still couldn't believe his Luck, that he could yield any new skills or comprehension from a single sitting with the MKEXCEED Papers, let alone produce an elusive and highly desirable prewar chem on the first try. He hoped the efficacy of the drug could be trusted, but it would do in a pinch.

Skimming the Merrick had gotten him nowhere brainstorming what might interest Bledsoe. Just about anything remotely interesting hit the roadblock of scarcity. Patent precursors only presented half the trouble, at that: so many more constituents would either have long since deteriorated if he could even get his hands on them, or synthesizing them would require sophisticated equipment on par with that of a facility like the Deenwood Compound. A pharmacopeia like the Merrick could provide only so much chemistry data, especially one published at a time when the country hadn't yet suffered from rationing or shortages. The reference text catalogued straightforward monographs using industry-accessible prewar chemical compounds, and nothing more.

The MKX, on the other hand, chronicled history and development for hundreds of compounds, dozens of on- and off-label applications, postwar-inclusive contraindications, and where applicable, means of manufacture. Many chems' entries cross-referenced other sections of the text, as the volume of continuous feed paper had been organized into units based on the chems' properties. It comprised thirteen sections over ten units; while seven of the biggest units referred to the traits of SPECIAL, the largest was of course reserved for the eponymous X family.

I wonder how much I contributed to the selection on cyclomorphine. Following the logic that the chemists that contributed to this text would have excelled in their given specialty, what quality did Deenwood believe I excelled at engineering? Making everyone around me hurt as much as possible?

He still couldn't shake the tactile sensation of trying to skim a fifteen-hundred page text that had been printed double-sided on continuous feed paper and snapped into a binder without perforating the pages. He'd done his best not to waste time right then peeling the feed margin off every single fore-edge… but he'd certainly gotten distracted aweing over the seemingly impossible collation magic of such a mammoth print job.

He expectorated and sighed, continuing to brush. He noted a bit of blood in the sink basin, but RadAway recovery aside, he expected as much after not having had a toothbrush for months.

He rinsed his brush, then his mouth. He gargled, and didn't even notice himself swallow instead of spitting it out. He pocketed his glasses and splashed his face again, then dried off with the edge of the towel at his hip. He glanced up to find anyone who'd noticed his presence was doing everything they could to ignore him. They all faced away from him, even where the bath, showers, and urinals seemed more difficult to use. He still decided to use the facilities before he left.

Thank God they've been keeping up on the toilet paper.

When he reemerged, there were no free sinks. He slouched, but the grievance of his back and shoulder corrected his posture before he could even make his way out the door. Handwashing just wasn't worth everyone else's discomfort causing him discomfort. He promised himself he'd at least wash them before he ate anything.

The See's guard managed a hefty line by the time he squeezed by her. He shook his head to himself in chagrined recognition. Even while relaxing with overdue basic care, he had found himself retracing the day up to that point without even noticing. He forbid himself to resume the thought.

He returned to his room and untied the robe to free the towel. Then, he sat on the end of the bed and towel dried at his hair. A lyrical murmur followed while he trimmed his nails: the pair of clippers Angel had found were a miracle compared to having used the Komàr to peel back the overgrowth for months. As was typical of his winter, the officer's gloves may have steadied his hand, but they had done nothing to prevent his fingertips from looking like he'd been peeling potatoes drunk with a paring knife.

Angel is as resourceful and observant as any of them, even when it isn't operating at its best.

His throat snagged again.

"Don't worry, my friend. We'll get you well."

Soon after, impatient rapping sounded against the door. He shut his robe, towel draped around his neck, and eased open the door. Fresnel stood before him in a mesh blouse and lace skirt, her white embroidered stole doubled around her neck as a cowl. She eyed him, gripping one of Angel's tendrils in one fist and a pair of walnut-sized armillaria in the other.

"What is the meaning of this," she blurted out. "Why are you two separated!"

"Thank you for escorting Angel, but everything is just fine. You knew right where I was, didn't you?"

"Of course, Sir! I hate to have upset the Hierosacristan, but at least I have your laundry mostly finished! There are a few more effects that haven't yet dried. It's not long now." When Fresnel relinquished it, Angel rushed into the room to begin unpacking its satchel on the bed. "I'm always so pleased how effective the Lane's laundry methods are. They've truly innovated in many ways to compensate for their lack of technology!"

"The trouble is you didn't know where it was," Fresnel growled, through a smile. She stepped in and shut the door, then leaned against it with her arms crossed. "You know what a risk that was, to let that Core out of your sight."

He bristled, but did his best to disregard her acuity, instead scrutinizing Angel's fresh laundry with a beaming grin.

"Even if someone were to figure out that Angel has the Core, it has a hidden compartment. And even if you knew how to get inside Angel, you wouldn't find where that is."

"Is that a challenge?"

He cleared his throat.

"Not as such. I take it you came looking for me because Haidinger is ready for us finally."

"I did."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm dressed. Not making that mistake twice in a week. I don't mind you staying in the room, but I need a few minutes."

"I can wait in the upper level lobby. Don't worry about getting presentable. Be comfortable. We have much to take care of."

"I, yes."

He fumbled an exact response, and she let herself out of the room. The moment the door clicked shut, Angel swept in to commence assisting its owner.

"Do forgive me, Sir. It was my idea that we divide and conquer. I didn't think there might be any cause for alarm."

He slipped on the Vault Suit for simplicity. He couldn't pinpoint why the garment felt off. It wasn't too stiff, and had not shrunken. He dismissed the discomfort: I just got too used to how it felt wearing it four months straight. It probably feels wrong because it's clean now.

"No apologies. I wouldn't have anything clean to wear without your efforts. Nothing happened. Nothing was likely to happen."

Angel handed him one piece of Surgical Leather at a time. The laundry methods the Mister Handy had applied had slipped the fan lacing's preset tension, so they had to work together to readjust the fit both for sizing and stability. He noticed that the straps were mostly tightened one or more notches past how he had initially worn the orthotics, but he did not mention it.

"Funny," Angel eventually commented. "Funny how implausible some things seem to be."

He sat up from brushing out his hair, cataracted eyes wide.

"Angel, what are you talking about."

"I'm sure it's nothing. You know me. I worry about simply everything."

"Please tell me. You can talk to me."

"The Hierosacristan does know how to open my compartment. I can't tell you whether she knows about whatever secret compartment you mentioned--and I imagine that's due to some kind of purposeful programming blind spot--but there's no question that you should probably discount my storage as inscrutable security, especially since I seem to have misplaced my attachments."

His officer's gloves and the dampness of his hair facilitated him pinning up his streaked locks. He managed a loose french twist with only four bobby pins. As he returned his sunglasses to his face, Angel presented him his Pip-Boy. He latched it back on, and held the power button so it could resync with his biometrics. He smiled at his robot.

"You haven't misplaced them. This place disarms its patrons. Even you." He let go of his knees and pushed off to stand. He took the lead on their way out, and patted its chassis. "And I'm not concerned. If she wanted to take something out of you, you would have noticed her removing it from you."

"Like you said, I'm sure it's nothing."

"It's nothing. I would like another Mentat before we head out, please."

"Sorry to hear your headache is still holding fast." It gave him the tin, and he handed it back after shaking one from it. "At least there is medication that eases them."

"It's more that I anticipate other headaches," he admitted, as he chewed the tablet. "Hopefully Fresnel and Haidinger will be in good spirits."

"We'll have a grand day of it, Sir. No worries!"

He gave it a small smile.

"We'll do our best, anyway."

They rejoined Fresnel in the lobby, where she then escorted them to an employees restricted hallway. Haidinger awaited them there.

“There you are.” He gave them a sour look with outstretched palms. “I have two ground rules. First, the Core.”

“Right, yes.”

‘Choly turned to open up Angel. He stopped mid-action, however. Fresnel opened her side-bag and produced the STAR Core herself. She handed it over to him with somewhat indifferent deference. His gaze shifted to meet Angel’s, and he pressed his lips together.

“And the other?” Fresnel asked, of equal impatience.

Haidinger did not answer her until he’d stored the Core away safely in his own bag.

“It’s eleven now. You must be done before three.”

“Four hours?” ‘Choly blurted out. “Just a scan might--"

“--be plenty,” Fresnel said. She quirked her lips at him. “Come along. We’ll see how much we can accomplish today.”

Haidinger turned away from them and removed one glove. He pressed his hand against a region of the wall, seemingly to feel for a certain panel. Eventually, a section of the wall inset a few inches, becoming a pocket door which rolled inside the wall. He looked over his shoulder to them as he put his glove back on.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you both.”

“Are you not coming with us?” ‘Choly asked.

“I have other matters to attend to. I cannot be absent for hours without someone questioning my whereabouts.”

He nodded vaguely, and turned to follow the Hierosacristan before the door could shut on them.

“He won’t admit it,” she told them with lyric, “but the main reason is, he thinks it’s likely to be boring.”

The narrow corridor quickly took a corner turn. After that point, fluorescent lights illuminated their way. The two squinted. Fresnel tucked her armillaria into her belt. Once ‘Choly’s eyes adjusted, he took in the dense, exposed wiring, conduits, and pipes of the utility corridor’s walls and ceiling. They eventually reached a dim room where a mainframe computer lined the walls.

‘Choly’s jaw dropped as he took it all in. Large-scale computers weren’t all too uncommon, but this one seemed so out of place, all things considered, for it to be so large. He hadn’t expected the maintenance area to share a space with the mainframe, and he certainly hadn’t expected more of the mainframe than a terminal computer.

“Can you see to work?” Fresnel asked him.

He stood before a pair of secondary terminals, pressing the back of his hand against the underside of his nose at the smell of metallic dust.

“Hm? It’s too dark to work by the light, and I don’t think it’s dark enough to work by armillary.”

“Give me a moment.” She vanished down a second corridor.

“I suppose I could get in position, Sir.” Angel walked itself up onto the platform of the robotics workbench, located in the corner directly beside the two terminals. “Oh, it’s going to be just wonderful to get a once-over from you. I dearly appreciate the attention.”

“Of course. You know I’d do just about anything for you.” It’s my fault you’re all banged up in the first place.

The fluorescent hum intensified, and the brightness of the space followed suit soon after. He took a seat and leaned over the arms of the workbench to plug Angel in. Then, he sat back and turned to the terminal and plugged his Pip-Boy keyprong into it.

“See you in a few hours, Angel.”

“Just a quick nap, ha-ha!”

Once the Mister Handy had powered down, he got to work. He started with preliminary diagnostic scans. Tethered to his place, he scanned the space for any tools he would need to fix Angel’s thruster. He quickly got lost in the size of the mainframe. He shook his head of it, and stood to lean over to open Angel’s compartment. He pushed his effects aside to reach the false bottom compartment. His heart stuttered with his hands on the lid. He gently pulled out the officer’s coat, just enough to unfold one end. His eyes widened to feel something stiff in the fabric: not a decoy object, but a STAR Core. He tucked it back inside, and sat back down with an even greater unease.

He told Angel, “I should have brought something to read."

A few minutes later, Fresnel walked back through with a clipboard, engrossed in the walls. ‘Choly presumed she was holding another conversation with the architecture, and left her to her work at first.

“Hierosacristan,” he hesitated. She stopped pacing about. “Would it be all right if we talked?”

“Did you have something in mind?”

“I don’t want to distract you from your studies. If it’s not a good time--"

“--I can make time.” She finished her train of thought and invited discussion with an attentive glance tossed his way. She turned a fresh page and continued. “This sounds important.”

“We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk in private just yet.” His ears rang, to have stumbled into the timing of it. He thought again to how his shower went that morning. “You disclosed something quite personal about yourself before I left Ant Lane in October. I don’t think that anyone would know that about you, without you telling them. I-- I don’t feel convincing. How do you manage it?”

She stopped sketching long enough to process the nature of the conversation he endeavored to have.

“Nonsense,” she snipped, not irate but rather dismissive. “Even if that were true, what does it matter? You know what you are. Atom knows what you are. You sound like you yourself think your identity is some kind of pretense. Some kind of act.”

“Still,” he insisted. “You’re very convincing. I’ve had trouble believing that you’re anything like me. I’m not asking you to prove anything, though, I swear. I do believe you. I suppose… I’m envious that, if you’ve got to be transsexual, your genetics are still extremely in your favor. Forget I said anything. You probably never have to deal with people questioning or misunderstanding you like that. And you probably never deal with feeling gross for how you are.”

For some time, she resumed intently annotating on her clipboard. He sat on his hands to keep from fidgeting with his finger joints. She eventually let out a long rough exhale.

“Why would you think I never struggle with either of those things? Anyone can have those feelings and experiences on occasion, no matter how they are.”

“Well, how do you deal with it, then?”

“I’ve embraced the things that I like best about myself. I’m not around other people long enough for it to really matter whether they understand who I am. It’s gotten easier in the time since I’ve become a hierosacristan. Most Atomites recognize my features and my armor, and know who I am by my status. Still, for how honored I am to be able to wear my travel gear, there are times I like to wear something less high-profile. I needn't wear my devotion to have it. And I needn't wear specific things to justify that I'm a woman.”

“Well said.” He got a bit distant inside himself, folding his hands in his lap with a faint smile. “People like us aren’t anything new, you know. There were a few medical procedures available before the war for things of that nature, but they were costly and not well refined. I’d be surprised if any of that science has developed further since that time. I fear I missed out.”

“This is all because you don’t think it’s possible I’ve pursued medical treatments?” She flustered, and had to sit on the side of a mainframe section. “I’ve had some access to what’s called an Auto-Doc--but it’s dangerous to reach, and I’ve only gone to it three times in my life.”

He picked up his jaw to stare with indignity.

“Bullshit. Auto-Docs couldn’t do that.” When she shrank back at the accusation, he dialed himself back to mere disbelief. “Something that could cure me of my me, I’d risk my life for it! It’s not somewhere only Daughters can go, is it? Or at least, only Atomites?”

“--It is. That’s right.” She stared off at the polished concrete a moment.

She had a reason for guarding a straight answer, one ‘Choly couldn’t guess. He'd become an Atomite in a heartbeat if it meant being able to access such a treatment, but she hadn't meant it. When she found him eyeing her expectantly, trying to parse what she could be avoiding saying, she smiled and patted the clipboard in her lap.

“I’m woman enough to be a Daughter,” she told herself, her enthusiasm swelling gradually as she spoke. “I’m not the only Daughter like myself, either. The Gift seems somewhat genetic, and associated more often with this type of body. Oh, do tell me whether you too can hear the Granite!”

“What, I, no. No, I can’t.” He hemmed. “I’m sure that’s something only women can do.”

Her enthusiasm faded in an instant, and she froze in place. She abruptly stood and excused herself to continue studying in the corridor.

“Thank you for turning the light back on,” he called off after her.

She eventually replied, “De rien.”

Before ‘Choly could get tangled up in the taste of both feet in his mouth, the robotics workbench clicked and hummed. Its arms engaged and lowered. He checked the scan progress on the terminal. Primary data sector integrity looked to have recovered to 96%, but memory integrity still sat at 84%. Several main systems had gone offline due to hardware malfunctions, not programming. He drummed his fingers on the short desktop in thought. He input the commands for the hydraulic arms to cradle Angel’s chassis and lift it up.

“I guess my first order of business is mechanical maintenance after all.” He unplugged his keyprong from the terminal, and stood to collect tools. As he knelt down and got to dismantling the thruster collar with a ratchet wrench, he chuckled to himself. “Ahh, if only it were as easy for a human to swap out body parts as it is to service components on a robot. Everyone would benefit from that, I think.”

Fresnel came back through lost in thought, very clearly listening with her full faculties. Where she’d been distraught in October, now she seemed awed and fascinated. He glanced up at her from where he’d sat down in the floor of the circular workbench, cleaning out all the mud and debris from Angel’s pilot light well and exhaust ports.

“Did you ask if I can hear it because you hear it, Fresnel? What’s it telling you?”

“That’s between me and the Granite,” she uttered aside, as though answering him threatened to interrupt the conversation she held with the building.

“Okay, I can’t leave it alone.” He threw his hands in his lap. “You gave the Sacristan a STAR Core. Where did it come from?”

She smiled at him, though her gaze seemed a mile behind him.

“I couldn't risk the chance you'd show up empty-handed. He told me you mentioned the existence of more. I’ve had people scouting for beached crates, and paying them extra if the crates are retrieved unopened. I have not told him that I’ve done this, or that non-Children are working on retrieving them. I got lucky this morning. My scavvers found a crate. I decided I’d give him one of mine, so that we could keep yours.” She began her return to Earth. “We have to find them first, so that no one else can bring attention to them.”

“You found one of our crate--" He clammed up, recognizing that she not only possessed their car now, but their bargaining chips as well. With a sorry tone, he asked her, “...How is your assessment going? I take it you found the breaker back there.”

“The generator is undamaged. Its model takes fusion cores. Several need replacement, but I only brought one with me.”

“It takes… seven, wasn’t it? I certainly thought it was odd the blueprints didn’t call for a full reactor, for how much power it must take for the mall to operate off-grid. But, I’m no engineer. Maybe it makes more sense to you.”

“How did you know that without seeing the interface?”

“I’ve read the AEGIS manual.”

“And you have this… manual with you? Where? It wasn’t in your robot.”

“So you did go in its compartment. I will admit, I thought you took the STAR Core from it when you gave the other one to the Sacristan. But no, I don’t think the manual survived the flooding. We were packing everything up when-- Well, when we got washed away.”

“We will endeavor even harder to reclaim the crates, then. You ask if it makes more sense to me, yes. The generator only uses three at a time, and alternates the load to recharge the rest.”

“You said you only brought one. Are you able to get more?”

“I’m not worried. They’re easy enough to find.”

She restlessly reviewed all the notes she’d taken so far. He got everything cleaned out of Angel that he could, replaced its thruster collar, and eased himself up to sit in the office chair.

“Sorry if I overstepped before. It’s no excuse, but I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to someone else about gender issues before.”

“Oh, no, no.” She shook her head with a taut, pursed grimace, and flipped back to the first page to set it all flat. “It’s not that. If half the FC’s have been dead, that means that, all this time, the Lane’s shields have been at half power, and that the building will function even better once I can replace the generator’s dead FCs. But… that’s only if we can get the building repaired in full. It has me still thinking about the Mayor’s announcement earlier today.”

His head picked up, and he shifted from apology to attention.

“I must have missed that while I was in the shower.”

“The Hall must approve all future alterations to the building. Knott said that the plumbing was the last vital asset required to sustain interior living conditions, and that everything else is ‘purely cosmetic.’ I have not yet spoken with the Sacristan how we should proceed, or whether to proceed. I wished to study this space before I talked to him.”

“I understand why I can't, but why can’t you both just… tell Knott about the AEGIS?”

“The fewer non-Atomites know about the workings of this building, the better. I do agree with Haidinger on this much. It matters not, from whose mouth it comes.”

Hydraulic components in the Robotics Workbench clicked as Angel powered back on. It attempted to reignite its pilot, only to clink back down on the lift. 'Choly and Fresnel both turned to it, at the ready to assist as needed. It tried again. Just as 'Choly stood to approach, his heart stuttered. A third series of clicks and hisses yielded a successful thruster flame. He eased back into the chair with relief, and clipped his Pip-Boy keyprong into the terminal to load the results of his tinkering.

"General Atomics International Mister Handy, 2066 model, nickname 'Angel.' Custom order serialization 33013021102113. Good afternoon, Sir."

"Welcome back. I did better repairing your data than I thought. Your hydraulics could use some additional calibration, but you're afloat. I hate to say it, but I can't clean out your condensators today. We're on a strict time table."

"I appreciate any attention my systems can get, especially when you're able to lend your own. I will say, however…" It set itself back onto the workbench and extinguished its flame. "My current fuel tank is almost exhausted. I should preserve what I have until it's absolutely necessary."

"Good thinking, Angel," he praised with hollow reflex, not looking up from the Pip-Boy screen. "We'll locate a refill and top you off next time. Hopefully this will tide you over until later this week."

"I'm confident in your repairs, Mister Carey--and confident that I can better look after you now."

"We have a lot more work to do," he reminded it. He placed a weak hand on it, and gave it just as weak a smile. "I know I have my diagnostics software to help guide us to what needs repairs and tuning, but don't hesitate to compile a list of anything you'd like us to work on for you as well, my friend. You deserve to have the body and programming that you want to have. The best I can give you."

"I'm General Atomics' finest. I would be hard pressed to believe another in my line was constructed and maintained as well as I."

A hesitant "I'll do my best" was the only objection to form.

He glanced over to see Fresnel still stood by, observing him work. She cleared her throat.

"I study all manner of nuclear technologies from before the Great Division, including robots like your Angel." A vague smile warmed in her cheeks. "It's… nice, to see someone regard equipment with the same tenderness as a loved one. I don't often encounter others with any familiarity with nuclear devices, especially not in the Hinter."

"Because of the Fog. Right."

"Technology is human in origin. If it cannot withstand Atom's breath, then its inversion reminds it what it is, sinks it back to nuclear fuel." She sighed, but her smile remained. "This building is… a rarity. I'm having trouble believing I'm standing in a mainframe room well within the range of the Fog, and the computer still works. Angel seems just as special, somehow."

"You… agree, then, that the AEGIS must be repaired?"

She stared at him with resolve.

"Of course. The only way I would ever approve of the Granite bellowing itself apart is if it could… become manifest."

‘Choly scrunched his nose a bit, to stifle a chuckle.

“But we saw it. We all saw it. Some of us remember it. You remember, don’t you? I got the impression you’re one of the few who didn’t forget that day.”

Fresnel’s shoulders sank in resignation. Her eyes shut as her head tilted side to side.

“Another topic he and I disagree on. I held onto my memory, yes. As a Daughter, I cannot disclose what I saw. Anything intended to be known to anyone else, they will recall on their own in time.”

He bristled. I’m going to regret promising Haidinger a copy of my transcript, aren’t I?

“You do understand,” she pressed, “that we cannot tell Mayor Knott about this… AEGIS, as you called it. Her dominion is the people, not the building in which they live, no matter how much she and her kin believe otherwise. It is for Atom’s Children only, to be intimate with this place.”

“You’re not going to try to kill me, too, are you? Fuck-Me-in-the-Mouth, I’m not going to tell, all right…” He huffed and initiated the hydraulics to lower Angel and disengage. “What even is it about this place you’re all excited over. I understand the Granite is special to your lot, but that’s just the Granite.”

Angel crawled out of the robotics workbench, but kept quiet.

“The structure is one of the only examples of architecture that didn’t only use Granite, but was designed for the Granite. We know it is special, but we do not yet know how exactly those before the Great Division could have known this much about how a nuclear Nor’easter would summon sacred borealis.”

Every attempt to ply her for explanations set him back three steps. He pinched at his eye sockets behind his sunglasses.

“Then he hasn’t shared with you what he knows about the architect or caretaker?”

“I know that he knows more than he tells me. Still, something bothers me.”

His head perked, and he leveled his gaze as he turned to her.

“What is it? Everything we discuss back here, stays between us.”

She hesitated to extrapolate for some time. The words fell out with an uncertain tremor.

“There’s… simply too much copper here. I’ve never… seen so much copper. It concerns me… It has to be why he refuses to permit anyone back here. He knows it would do more than concern many Atomites.”

“The copper is why Lockreed deemed it too costly to manufacture other AEGIS structures. There are other sites that use STAR Cores, but as far as I’ve read in Lockreed documents, this is the only AEGIS structure they made. Copper was the first precious metal affected by war rationing. Steel, aluminum, and tin came next.”

Her hesitance melted into a resigned grief. A sad sliver of a smile stitched across her eyes.

“He allowed me back here because he knows I won’t tell anyone, either. And that I would ensure you understand just how crucial it is that you also tell no one.”

He shook his head, too. He didn’t quite follow, but he knew not to question that she’d confided in him something of extreme delicateness.

“I doubt there’s anyone else here with the engineering experience to understand what copper’s even for. I don’t even really grasp most of what I read in the manual.”

Her smile broadened, and the glint in her eye returned.

“I will manage without the manual. For now, I have plenty of information to study. Are you at a stopping point? We should get back to the Concourse soon.”

He mirrored her smile, and unplugged his Pip-Boy so he could stand. He consciously postured his back, and started toward the corridor.

“I think we’ll manage until we’re allowed another visit to the work station, yes. Fresnel?”

“I’m coming.”

“I just wanted to thank you. I know you don’t think I understand, and I probably don’t. But… thank you. For talking with me, and trying to make me understand. I would understand if you had no patience for me.”

“And I needn’t remind that patience is a virtue,” Angel said. “You’re quite virtuous, I would say.”

She chuckled.

“Then you grasp just how much patience is required to contend with your owner?”

“Yes, well. I’m sure you’d be a bit opaque and difficult, too, if you were cryogenically frozen for two centuries, and woke up to the current state of things.”

“You know I was difficult before all that.” Awkward exasperation cracked his voice.

“You’re… prewar?” They stopped when ‘Choly could no longer hear her steps reverberate. “By Atom, it all makes sense.”

“What, exactly, makes sense?”

“Your demeanor matches many Undying I have met. I thought all this time it’s because they transfix you so, and that you emulated them in your speech.”

“I’m sure you don’t know how much I take that as flattery.”

“I don’t compare many to the Undying.” She flashed him a broad smile.

She tossed a fusion cell from one of her pockets onto the floor and cracked it against the polished concrete under her heel. Then, she picked it up and traced along the panels and conduits on the wall until she found the sweet spot. Her fingers tensed to squeeze the battery casing ever so slightly. The mechanisms in the panel disengaged, and the pocket door slid toward them a few inches before it would permit them to exit.

“Why would a shopping mall have doors that unlock when exposed to radiation?” Angel mumbled. “It always strikes me so singularly.”

Fresnel clenched the broken battery in her fist, savoring the success, and took the lead on their way cutting back through Anchor Inn.

“Something fried the circuitry on several hydraulic doors in the Lane,” she explained without her stride skipping a beat. “The only way for them to complete their connection is to expose them to a small burst of concentrated gamma radiation. To use a prewar term… it takes hotwiring.”

“And here I thought the Sacristan’s secret interrogation room was sealed with occult magic,” ‘Choly joked.

“I suppose he might object to repairing everything in the Lane.”

‘Choly sniffed, and scrunched his nose to push up his sunglasses.

“Only the most important parts.”

“Only the most important parts,” Angel and Fresnel echoed in near-unison.

“When do you suppose he’ll let us in there again? I’d like to use the workbench one more time before we leave.”

“Even if it isn’t tomorrow, there is only so much he can do if Atom wishes to whisper open the door for us.”

“I know I don’t need to say it, but be careful.” His breath stuttered a bit. “The last thing anyone in this place needs is to get on Haidinger’s bad side.”

“You needn’t get on mine, either, Monsieur Melancholy.” She turned to face him, gave him a short jerking bow and a sneer, and clicked her heels. “You might find there are more painful things than being branded by Atom’s Light. But I like you. And I like helping you.”

“Well. You do know what you’re doing. I didn’t say it to give you the impression I distrusted you.”

“I get the feeling we trust each other more than either of us thinks. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.” Angel gave a royal wave, though she didn’t see it. “Did that go well? I can’t tell if that went well.”

‘Choly continued on to the GCC. He appreciated that the relocation meant he could avoid stairs.

“I’d like it if you kept my prewar status between us in the future, if you could.”

“You disclose it for shock value all the time, Sir. I figured it was fair game. Did I upset you?”

“No, no. And I don’t think she took it the wrong way. I just have a feeling there are some who will.”

“...Like Mister Jared.”

“Yes, like Mister Jared.”

“M-- Melancholy!” Bledsoe spotted them from his desk in the back corner, and scrambled to rush over to them. He quietened his tone, and shielded onward glances with one hand to the side of his face. “Melancholy, you’ve got to help me.”

“Did something happen while I was out?”

“I took a dose of that Daddy-O you left for me. Now, two of my patients won’t speak to me.” Anxious and gnashing apart the filter of his cigarette, he snatched ‘Choly by both wrists. “You’ve got to fix this. Make me some DayTripper. I’m begging you.”

“Unhand him, Mister Bledsoe.”

‘Choly squirmed. Static prickled in his ears.

“I. I can’t.”

“You have to! This is your fault.” Bledsoe dragged him further into the Clinic, and he could hardly keep up with his gait.

“What! How is it my fault! Have you never taken that stuff before?” ‘Choly remembered to keep his voice down. The moment they were in the back end, Bledsoe turned him loose. ‘Choly shut the door once Angel had joined them. “Have you never taken that stuff before? Why would you take it when you had social obligations!”

“Don’t lecture me, you prick. Not when I think I’ve fucked up this bad. I don’t need this from you on top of getting heat from my patients.” He lit up a fresh cigarette, and began to pace the narrow hall while he finished off the previous one to discard it. “Just tell me what you need in order to make it. I won’t let Sticks be in charge of the price tag, but I’ll let you.”

“I mean to say I literally can’t make DayTripper.”

Liam erupted with a scoff, and vanished into the dining room.

“Yet you can magically make one of the rarest prewar chems out of, let me get this straight--a typewriter ribbon, cigarettes, and coffee.” He heard the snap of a pull tab can. “What, do you need seven rare colors of sewing thread, the piss of an extinct animal, and a photograph of your mother?”

“Low humor, to jeer about one’s mother,” Angel muttered.

Despite how small he felt to be on the receiving end, ‘Choly still stood as straight and firm as he could in the doorway.

“A degree in Quantum Chemistry. I don’t have one.”

“--A what. You made that up just now.”

“I wish I had. It’s too bad I haven’t got any MREs left.”

Bledsoe massaged his nose bridge with his smoking hand, and gesticulated with his Vim.

“I haven’t heard of any Emery chem. Talk some sense, man. Just fix this. You’re some kind of a walking chem encyclopedia. I’ll take any chem you think would help.”

‘Choly squinted through Bledsoe’s meltdown. Eventually, a sliver of a smirk quirked one corner of his mouth before vanishing altogether. He took a seat at the laminated table, and motioned for Bledsoe to join him. Bledsoe preferred to remain standing, so he could pace.

“Now, you meant it when you promised you’d handle ingredient procurement for me.”

“Whatever you need, Sticks and I can probably scrape together just about anything.”

‘Choly folded his hands on the tabletop.

“You’ll let me borrow your phlebotomy equipment. Before we leave.”

“Done. I can already feel you bleeding me dry.”

“And does the area grow Tarberry?”

“Is that all?”

‘Choly gestured for Bledsoe to hand him the Steno and pen from the counter where he’d been working that morning, and he got to writing with a playful murmur.

“Oh, this grocery list comes second nature. Mind you, I told you where the Daddy-O was, but I did not tell you to use any of it. If you can get me the brand name, I might be persuaded to share.”

“You’re supposed to be making me chems!”

“The Mentats and Melancholia are medically necessary. What I make with this list will be… occupationally necessary.”

“Occupationally--"

“--I relied on several chems for my tenure in the US Army. Either you will help me function at the capacity you’re demanding of me, or you and Sticks will have nothing of interest to show for it. You and I, we’re intelligent men. But, we’re no quantum chemists.”

‘Choly met gazes with him. Bledsoe soured first, and took another drink of his Vim.

“What I’m hearing is you promised me you could do something, when you can’t. Can you do this or not? And how the hell did you make the Daddy-O, if it’s so wicked beyond you?”

‘Choly marinated on a way to explain his morning succinctly, relishing the ability to bend the medic’s arm a bit. He drummed at the table a bit in thought.

When he had browsed the MKEXCEED Papers for ideas, he had started with an arbitrary flip to Unit VII: Luck-Adjacent Chems. Only DayTripper had come to mind at the time, as far as chems he knew and that he might find in this unit. Drugstores commonly displayed the chem for sale alongside No-Gesta, with the tandem slogan ‘Get Lucky, with None of the Headache.’[96-2] Its entry in the MKX only listed the standard synthesis via precursor, and synthesis via a shorthand formula.

Now, the MKX seemed to posit two avenues to increase postwar accessibility to the chemistry for its encyclopedic pharmacology. Since Deenwood had allegedly compiled and revised this data for nearly two centuries, they had hit similar obstructions in their studies as he had with the Merrick Pharmacopeia. The primary proposed method substituted the scarce compounds. Through reverse analysis, the authors had deduced everyday sources for otherwise inaccessible compounds. He had not yet determined the means to decipher the instructions provided in the other method.

If it weren’t some manner of pharmacological shorthand, it had to be a cipher. It more resembled the unruly marriage of advanced mathematics and sentence diagrams than it did any chemistry he knew, and it nearly read as alchemical. Why did the formula lines curl and intersect in places? He regretted never learning calculus, but also supposed it wouldn’t have helped him with this regardless.

Still, it had given him such a headache just trying to scan it for any command of methodology that he’d justified taking Mentats that morning. The lights hadn’t been bothering him with the sunglasses, but these formulas? He dreaded what it would take to inevitably cook up √X-Cell for Sticks when the need arose.

But here, Bledsoe’s predicament provided him the perfect opportunity to study quantum chemistry and understand what it stood to represent. Just having access to the MKX method of shortcut constituents like he’d pulled with the Daddy-O had been huge, sure, but Sticks wasn’t the only one of them compelled to procure these bizarre recently declassified substances. He and Sticks had a deal, and he intended to make good on it to the best of his abilities… and hell, if it wouldn’t provide him a satisfyingly maddening challenge to boot.

“My laundry list there is no substitute for any PhD, but using the chems it'll craft for study is the next closest thing.” He smiled a little too wide. “You’ll find I’m capable of anything, given the right chem.”

Bledsoe draped himself down on the table, eyes desperate with interest.

“And me? Chopped liver?”

“You're asking if you could make a chemist out of you? We'll see. I have the feeling we both stand to learn a great deal from one another. Don't worry. You'll come back from our vacation in fantastic shape.”

"When we get back?" Any begging that lingered in Bledsoe's voice deflated. "We don't leave for days… Ohh, I can't wait to leave!"

"Maybe next time, you'll listen to me when I say look, don't touch."

Go to Next »»»

_______________________________

[96-1] Sheldon shampoo. Analogous to Breck shampoo, one of the oldest commercial shampoo products. Originally formulated in Springfield, Massachusetts. It saw its height of popularity between the 30s and 60s. Models called the Breck Girls posed for the brand's iconic ads, known for their soft, stylized portraitures. Their first artist was C.G. Sheldon.

[96-2] No-Gesta and DayTripper. Referencing this Walden Drugs of Concord pic I did back in 2020.

#fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout #fallout fanfic #sole survivor #the anatomy of melancholy #let's have fun in new hampshire #melancholy #angel #fresnel #hierosacristan fresnel #haidinger #sacristan haidinger #glowing ghoul #children of atom #liam bledsoe

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