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ronearoundblindly · 2 months

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Hideout (3.1)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sensitive Boy, part I (see previous or series)

Summary: Steve surprises you with help at the perfect time.

Warnings for light smut (I have to split this chapter or it's just suddenly twice as long as the last, but really there's just massage and an implied orgasm in this half. You know me: too many feels and too much development...) MINORS DNI. This series is 18+ only. If you are underage or simply enjoy lighter content, there is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this post is not for you! WC 3.2k

With so much on your mind, scaring the crap out of you is not difficult, so his strong hands hold you upright.

“Don’t do that,” you shriek, barely glancing at Steve’s face. You startled so suddenly your housekeeping cart is left rolling away at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry, I—“ long arms abandon you and reach to stop the bin “—it said on your website you were closed for renovations, and…”

You look him up and down. You were sure after he left two months ago that you’d never see him again. You’d gone too far. You’d pushed him too hard. He wasn’t ready.

Steve adjusts the strap over his shoulder. “I thought maybe I could help out…if you want?”

The last guests checked out a half-hour ago, and you readied to spend the whole week meticulously refreshing each room with your parents. The list of what needs done, however, doesn’t only include the motel. There’s a bunch you all had let slide up at the house. Help would…be extremely helpful actually.

Steve pulls a paper bag out of his knapsack. “Or I brought you some lunch if you just want a break or something.”

“It’s okay,” you rush out. “More than okay. Thank you, yes. We’d love—I’d love that.”

No one else can know it’s him-him there though. You’ll have to think of a way to keep your parents and St-‘Grant’ as far apart as possible, and how long you can manage that is…questionable.

If Steve’s not worried though, you’re okay.

Turns out, keeping your family up at the house is easy. Your mom shouts down the phone with relief that she can tackle the fridge, and you hear your dad mumble something about ‘the garage in daylight.’ You can enjoy a sandwich in the office with Steve in peace, explaining what all needs done before the electricians show up Friday afternoon.

The closure hasn’t been planned for a long time—not even before Steve and ‘Tom’s’ last visit—hence why you just painted Room 8, 5, 2, and 1 since March, but doing all those is how you and your parents really noticed that the light fixtures from the ‘90s were not only dated but very worn and that the same color layered over and over again for twenty years was, well, getting old.

Warmer months are better for the work. Pipes won’t freeze while you air out paint fumes, etc. The week after the gigantic, city festivities of Independence Day is notoriously dead. Since there were no reservations this stretch as of April, the family jumped at the chance to fix it all in one big, daunting go.

Saying you’d looked forward to this is a wild overstatement. You’ll be glad when it’s finished, and that’s the bulk of your excitement.

With his assistance though? Hope soars.

Steve will help you take down the sconces, the hanging lamps, and the panels above the vanities, then you both can—

“Where’s the paint?”

He’s very intense with the gameplan. Three guesses why.

“Dad’s gonna pick it up today. Probably. I’ll text him.” You whip out your cell again. “We didn’t think we’d get that far by evening.”

Steve nods.

“We also need to move all the furniture away from the walls and drape plastic to protect the carpet. Oh, and put tape along the trim and doorframes, ya know.”

Steve nods again. He wads up the wrapping from his sandwich and casually asks, “are all the doors open?”

You only just get your finger in the air to point at the desk.

“Master key is—“

But Steve is observant and has clocked everything about his surroundings each time he’s stayed, apparently. He stretches over to the wall beyond the counter, snatches the (correct) unmarked key, and heads out the door.

The service bell rings gently to emphasize the conversation is over.

All furniture in every room is pulled away by the time you finish sanitizing the one guest room he interrupted.

He asks where you keep the ladder, not that he’ll need it, but you will for reaching some of the lights.

You don’t know whether to be in awe of or exhausted by his efficiency.

He’s rigid and militant—go figure—until these few moments he suddenly can’t be.

As you toss plastic over the last bed to move, Steve yanks that sucker across the floor so fast, you roll off. His eyes are saucers as he apologizes, but you get the giggles and pick yourself up.

His fingers can’t separate thin layers of the plastic at one point, and he throws a minor fit until three rip apart together. Steve frowns at you and grumbles that he’s only ever used cloth for this before. It seems to take everything in his power not to say “back in my day,” but you can read between the lines.

Years of crusted paint makes the removal of some fixtures tricky.

Steve rips out one stripped screw with needle nose pliers, squeaks in alarm at the hole left behind, and then quietly asks if you have patch paste.

You call your dad before he’s left to buy paint. He adds spackling to the list.

The closest Steve comes to telling you anything specifically about himself is when you struggle with a stuck bolt.

“Just a little trick I learned when I was—“ Steve wraps his big hand around yours to pull the wrench instead of push from the other direction “—smaller.” He huffs out a laugh, adding, “when I couldn’t, ya know, ‘put my weight into it’ because a feather could’a knocked me over.”

As you relish the simple contact of his fingers, you smile, too.

“Hmm. I heard you got into back alley scrapes.”

“If you heard that I won any of those, you were lied to.” He patiently waits for you to finish removing the bolt before he pries the aged metal and glass away from the old paint it’s stuck in. Steve sighs dramatically.

“Shoddy education these days…”

“I…” You tap his bicep with the claws of the wrench. “I can’t argue with that. We hear only what they tell us about…heroes.”

You should have known he’d shut down at that word, but it’s the truth. Even with him right in front of you, the only things you know about Steve Rogers are from books, newspapers, and the internet. At face value—looking directly into the face of this man—all of what you’ve been told is hogwash. It’s insufficient. It barely covers 1% of who this man is.

He teaches you tricks of the weak man’s trade because it helped him once, too. Today, he’s friendly. Not that he was unfriendly before, but Steve is so reserved he never reference the past, in general, i.e. that there was a past existence of like the planet much less him.

It’s the number one rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about Fight Club.

If there was ever a real fight club, it’s the Avengers.

You have no official rules for what this is between you. You don’t have to to know that is the most important one. You do not talk about Fight Club. Steve isn’t afraid of silence, that much is clear, but he isn’t a fan. He tries—he is trying—to connect and relate. He can’t be a man of the people, however, if he can’t talk to the people.

It’s important: connection. You know with every fiber of your being that Steve deserves it, but even with unlimited, super-human strength, he cannot get himself out from between this rock and that hard place.

You do not talk about Fight Club, especially when you’ve been kicked out of Fight Club.

Today, though, he’s a little different, a little softer. Perhaps it’s knowing there are no other people in the building, perhaps he is truly more comfortable with you, but either way, Steve is not flat or off-putting.

His organized persona, his focus on the work, his indirect interactions and practical touch; they all fit here while he has a project. It’s the closest he can be to his old self, maybe even his real self, without mentioning the past—the fighting past—at all.

“You’re really good company,” you tell Steve, “even when you make holes in the walls.”

He tilts his head down and blushes. He shrugs as he takes the sconce out to the dumpster. Although he didn’t say it, you hope this is okay.

Either way, you relish it. The help. The touch. The silence. All of it.

You relish Steve.

Your dad brings by the paint, spackling, and a surprise of pizza for dinner while Steve is taping the baseboards in a corner. You introduce ‘Grant’ from afar and haul the cans and boxes from the car to the room, cataloguing all you two have finished to this point and what you’ll do before stopping for the night.

Dad is impressed. He’d suspected the three of you—you, he, and Mom, that is—might settle for slapping some paint up around where the electrician would install the new lights. No one planned on getting this far in one evening.

He won’t stand in the way of progress, so your dad simply calls out, “bit of an artist, are ya?”

Steve looks up, confident with only the side table lamps plugged in, he can barely be seen. “Just want to be useful,” he mutters.

You wink at your dad as he heads back to the still-running car. “Grant is a jack of all trades.”

You’re sure to thank him for the food and let him know all the motel stuff is completely covered for tomorrow, too. You’ll work as late as you can and start as early as possible.

Dad says your friend has gone ‘above and beyond.’ You agree wholeheartedly.

‘Grant’ would more aptly be described as a machine.

All the furniture moved, all the lights taken down, all bordering taped, and now all blemishes in the walls smoothed, your impromptu contractor finally calls it quits when he’s forced to watch stuff dry.

You’ve kept the air conditioning going in one room.

Steve tentatively asks if he should walk you up to the house, but you counter with “it’s not any less dangerous for an average guy alone to return” and a cheeky smirk. Besides, it is very late. You let Captain OCD keep going; you tapped out a while ago.

He puts his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, thinking of a comeback that never manifests. After giving up, Steve takes his tiny bag into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

You can faintly hear it over the murmur of the TV.

You aren’t really watching. It’s background noise to your general exhaustion.

With only a side lamp and the screen as light, Steve’s bare feet crumple over the discarded plastic sheet on the floor. He falls into one side of the bed, fully-clothed and (finally) tired.

Though productive, the day has been a distant one, working in different rooms for most of it and tiptoeing around real conversation. You want him to feel appreciated, not pressured, so you ask if he’d like the TV on for a while or would rather quiet.

Steve just grunts with his eyes closed.

Gently, you place a hand on his chest to steady you, leaning to kiss his bearded cheek.

“Thank you, Steve,” you say softly. “Good night.”

He hums when you say his name, and before you can lift your hand away, he captures it under his, holding you in place.

His eyes aren’t open. He can’t see you smile wider.

“Okay.” You tuck yourself into his chest as he raises his other arm out of the way. “Okay.”

Your ear sits in the dip beneath his collarbone, listening to his steady heart, his thumb sweeping back and forth over you knuckles.

He smushes you closer to his side. You toss your leg over his.

You forget to turn off the TV.

He’s sanding the spackled spots by the time you wake, so you rub across his back and dismiss yourself to get breakfast up at the house.

Steve makes no effort to go with, which is fine. You assumed as much.

Your dad calls Grant a ‘magician’ over the pop of oil in the skillet and insists you give your friend whatever he needs to keep working so fast. You are only half-joking when you admit the key is staying out of his way.

Bonus: the exchange reinforces your parents simply leaving the two of you alone down the hill, and you proudly tell Steve that when delivering him an enormous plate of scrambled eggs.

He jumps right back into planning-mode and orders you to roll the first coat of paint onto large areas. He’ll follow, completing the edges and corners.

It’s such a domestic thing to do. There is no one in danger, there are no bodies piling up if he makes a wrong move, and he can go faster or take his sweet time. Steve breaks when he wants or needs to. He sits outside and listens to the birds in the sunshine. No one is around to question him, not even you. You are only there to encourage.

You realize he was looking for a project. He’s used to—and likes—being busy, getting his hands dirty, producing results.

It’s a long, messy day where he becomes more serene in spirit the more intensely he works. You reward him with gentle sweeps of your hand down his arms, pats on his shoulders, and brushes at the small of his back.

Despite the almost constant movement, the day is over before you know it, earlier than yesterday, but it’s too hot to go on.

All the windows stay open to air out the fumes.

Though it won’t stop you from sweating, you both shower off as many splatters and flecks of paint as you can. You insist he goes first so there’s plenty of hot water.

He’s sitting on the bed, shirtless, checking his phone when you come out of the bathroom, but he immediately squirrel the device away in his small bag. Not much to carry around. Not much to leave behind. Steve can’t leave a trace of himself anywhere.

Hunched over and fatigued, he flashes a polite smile your way and blinks heavily.

He deserves the world.

You grab the small bottle of lotion from the countertop and playfully jump onto the bed behind him.

“How about a massage, yeah? You much be aching.”

Honestly, you don’t mean for it to sound sexual, but the phrase comes out downright dirty, making Steve awkwardly chuckle.

“You don’t have to,” he placates.

“Nonsense, I want to. It’ll make the air feel cooler.” That’s as good of an excuse as any. Who cares when the rippled expanse of his back flexes wildly in your touch?

His breathes are audible from the beginning.

You dig at his traps, his leg bouncing as he tries to relax. You use your thumbs, the flats of your hands, and your knuckles.

He shoves his fist in his mouth when he starts to moan, covering the move with a cough, but muffling the noise is abandoned in favor of clasping over his lap. He’s intent on hiding his hardness this time. There’s nothing you can say to truly lessen the sting of needing more. You can’t simply tell him he’s allowed to desire this; you have to ignore his misplaced shame.

But you can take pity on him.

“If you lie flat—“ you step off the bed to give him privacy “—I’ll have more leverage.”

You hear him crawl and adjust on the sheets. “Unlike the torque on a wrench,” you add, just to show you’ve been listening to him.

More lotion is needed for the surface area.

You turn up the TV, feining interest in the late night show so any noise he makes is not as obvious. What the speakers can’t cover, however, is Steve’s involuntary thrusts when you rub the heels of you palms up and down the sides of his spine. If you prop up on your knees, he has more range of motion and doesn’t obviously rock you while mindlessly humping the bed.

His sweats are slung low on his hips, two darts of muscle prominent above his ass.

They are irresistible, the perfect grooves to target and roll into, and he immediately mewls long and deep into the mattress, fingers curling and relaxing while his body seizes.

He hasn’t even finished coming, you think, before he taps at your leg and races to the bathroom.

You hope you didn’t push too far. You hope he’d tell you to stop if he needs more space, more time. Mostly, you hope he knows you’d give him every conceivable pleasure, just because he is him.

The water runs a long time, continuous splashing in the sink, and then nothing.

He didn’t bring much because he doesn’t have much. Your heart sinks, realizing you’ve made him soil one of only two pairs of pants he has here.

He cracks open the door, muttering, but you can’t make out the words.

You turn the volume back down. “What?”

“It pretty hot.” He clears his throat. “Would you mind if I sleep…without…?”

“Naked?” you squeak before composing yourself. “That’s fine. Whatever’s comfortable.”

You shuffle up the bed to click off the lamps. This man isn’t the type to strut around in the nude—yet, anyway—so in the faint and ever-shifting glow of the screen across the room very little can be seen.

‘Little,’ however, can’t describe anything that is visible about the man emerging from the bathroom.

You have to make a point not to stare, but no skit or commercial on the channel promises the same level of entertainment.

Steve slides himself beneath the sheet, sitting near the headboard.

You hold up the remote. “On or off?”

“Off,” he says, “please.”

You’ve certainly done enough for one day. You won’t push your luck, so you hit the power button, toss it on table, and snuggle into your half of the bed, facing away.

“If it’s too hot for any covers, that’s okay, too.”

A rustling interrupts the rhythmic whir of crickets in the night until you feel a warm hand lightly mold to your waist.

This should be encouraged. This should be rewarded.

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, waiting for his hum, “happy belated birthday.”

At most you expect a grip of notice, but instead, the big hand snakes across you and hauls you into his chest, his long legs bending to match the crook of yours, his nose and forehead tucked against your occipital.

“We did okay today,” Steve mumbles into your shirt.

You walk your hand over your stomach to find his, lacing the fingers together. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Steve got to be useful today. He had a partner today. He will tomorrow and the day after, for as long as he stays, for as long as you’re alive. Nothing can change that.

Maybe he can’t talk about Fight Club, but he connects with you anyway.

A/N: Whoopsy. Didn't want to make y'all wait for a 6k+ chapter, so here's the first half! I am DEEP in the feels of this one. So, so many notes have been taken. The brainrot is real, and I fucking love it!!!!

[Next: Sensitive Boy, part II]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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harrys-titties · 4 months

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Hi my loves! This is an update to this fic here, or “Harry’s a dick and Y/N hates him for it.” Let me know how you like it and thank you for the lovely anon who requested it!

-masterlist-

———-

Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. It didn’t matter how long they had been dating or how many times he’d kissed Y/N or been inside her; it never got old. The feeling of Y/N’s desperate cunt squeezing him so tightly he sometimes worried the blood supply to his throbbing prick would stop or her whines and sobs that shook her whole body as Harry slammed into her. It was just something that brought Harry so much joy.

And really, today was no different. He could still feel Y/N as tight as ever around him, could still see her legs shake with each precise thrust into her squelching cunt, and he could still revel in the breathy moans she let out each time he pushed and ground that little bit deeper than usual.

The main difference, really, was that he could see her expression in the reflection of the elevator doors, the familiar clinch between her brows apparent and her cute mouth parted around moan after moan. He could see her as she tried desperately not to hit any of the buttons as Harry expertly pressed against her clit, settling for slamming her hand against the wall of the elevator next to her, her handprint leaving a little ring of condensation when she brought it down to hold Harry’s other hand currently on her waist.

Was it risky? Sure. But they could only spend so long trapped inside a small confined space together before something similar happened. It wasn’t Harry’s fault the elevator had broken down, leaving them suspended somewhere between the associates and the analyst’s floor. And it wasn’t Harry’s fault that Y/N had given him those fucking eyes she always seemed to have around him. Really, he was a victim in this scenario, and his vixen-like girlfriend was the perpetrator.

“Fuckin’ hell Harry, you’re gonna make me cum.” And well, maybe Harry wasn’t entirely blameless in this scenario. He leans over to kiss Y/N’s neck, instantly wishing they were somewhere more private so he could get her completely naked, feel the dip of her back pressed against his chest as he thrust into her. He’d just have to make do. Each push into her sent a gust of Y/N’s shampoo mixed with sweat towards him, the smell quelling his urge to feel Y/N’s skin against his own. He just loved her so much.

“C’mon baby. Let me feel it,” he mutters between ground teeth, the feeling of her squeezing around him just a little too good. She shakes her head, “more, I need more. Please Haz!” So he leans down, grabs her thigh and pulls, resting her foot against the bannister running the circumference of the lift. She whines as he pushes at her lower back, forcing her to arch it. The new angle is intense for both of them, Y/N’s groans increasing in pitch, and Harry feels the telltale tingles of an impending orgasm beginning in his groin. He pushes in at a slightly different angle, aiming to find her g-spot again now that their position has shifted. It’s obvious that he finds it when Y/N cries out, leaning down and resting her head against the panel of buttons, her hand grappling to find anything to hold on to and the buttons glowing golden as she pushes against them. He pushes in again and again, bringing his hand back down to her clit, rubbing in sloppy circles, giving her the most pleasure he can with the slightly awkward angle.

It doesn’t take long, Harry feeling the telltale shake of Y/N’s thighs, her hands reaching down to grab at his wrist neatly tucked between her thighs and squeezing as hard as she can. Harry’s not sure he’s ever heard her make this much noise, a sharp gasp followed by mindless babble, like every thought that came into her head was being pushed out with each movement of his hips. Her head falls back against her shoulders, and Harry watches in the reflection of the walls as her mouth falls open and her eyes roll backwards. “Fuck, fu- fuck! Harry, fucking hell. You feel so fucking good.”

It’s music to Harry’s ears, and it makes his orgasm approach even quicker. He feels the buildup starting in his groin, euphoria spreading outwards until all of his limbs feel weightless, and he waits for the fall, where he knows his orgasm will be ripped out of him.

“Wait, Harry wai- come in my mouth please.” Harry feels his whole body shudder. It takes everything in him to pull away from the warmth of Y/N’s pussy, a second longer, and he knows it would’ve been too late. He has his eyes closed but feels movement in front of him, and it’s only when he feels a small hand on his hip, right next to where his leaking cock is no doubt dripping, does he open them again. The sight in front of him is enough to make him come completely untouched, only having time to grab the head of his dick and press it against Y/N’s open mouth, the head bumping against her plump, spit-slicked lips. Y/N’s hair is completely messed up, half out of the ponytail it was tied in, flyaways in her face from turning around so quickly, her eyes rimmed with tears and rolling as she finally tastes Harry’s cum.

Once Harry’s orgasm starts to slow, he lets out a deep breath, small tremors making his legs shake as he rests his hand against the wall of the elevator behind Y/N. He almost faints when she flicks her tongue forward and around his head, humming as she tastes the tartness of her own cum smeared against it, mixing with the heady taste of the remaining drops of his seed. Harry whimpers, pulling her head away with a tight grip on what was left of her ponytail, letting out a groan at the way she fights against him to keep licking at him.

“Enough, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me prematurely if ya keep it up.” She flashes him a sly grin, giving one more hearty lick before taking the hand he’s offering her, straightening her shirt and fixing her skirt that had become skewed in the process. “Who would I let fuck me in elevators if you were to cark it this early, hm?”

Harry lets out a breathy chuckle, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up his fly before reaching out to her. He swipes a thumb against the corner of her mouth where a stray drop of cum had been left, bringing it back up to his own mouth and sucking the salty liquid off the pad, watching as Y/N’s hungry eyes follow the movement.

“Dunno, I’ll haunt whoever you choose anyway.” Y/N’s eyes dart back up to his, humour and love filling them as she laughs. They both startle as a resounding ding sounds through the elevator, the lift jumping and groaning as it begins to move again. They don’t have much time to recover before the doors open, and Y/N steps closer to him and grabs his hand instinctively.

Luckily, it’s Sarah and Mitch standing in front of them. Harry feels a rush of cool fresh air he hadn’t known he was missing until he felt it and watches as Sarah’s eyes dart back and forth, up and down, probably taking in their disheveled hair and clothes.

“Really, guys?” Sarah says as she rolls her eyes. Mitch steps into the elevator, his nose immediately scrunching as he quickly steps backwards. “It fuckin’ reeks of sex in there! Jesus Christ Harry!” Harry laughs while a mortified Y/N hides her face in Harry’s shoulder.

“We’ve been waiting for like fourty minutes!” Sarah whines.

Dramatic as ever, Mitch throws his hands up and turns on his heel.

“Nah fuck this, I’m takin’ the stairs.”

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry #harry styles smut #smut #enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers ????

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kairiscorner · 9 months

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miguel and grumpy! reader having a makeout sesh in the control room but then miles & gwen catches them—so they’re rly shocked bc they thought miguel and the grumpy! reader hated each other 😭😭

yes. yes. YES. thank you for the idea anon >:)) OK I HOPE THIS IS AS GOOD AS THE FIRST TWO LMAO......

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

(part 1) (part 2)

summary: you had a little outburst in the control room, it kinda ended with a liability on your part, but it was nothing you couldn't fix. you just hadn't anticipated that miguel would come to visit you, see how you were doing, and... maybe feel your lips up a little with his own?

word count: 1,061

"well, this is unexpected." went a husky voice that you knew quite well. you didn't turn around, you knew exactly who it was–and as willing as you'd be to hug him since now was the perfect opportunity, you were not in the mood for it right now. you didn't ask him what he meant by 'this' being unexpected, you merely focused on the repairs that had to be done in the control room.

miguel placed his hands on his hips as he watched you fix up the panels you took apart from the control room. he sighed as he approached you and ended up a few inches away from you. "now i'm not even gonna ask anymore if this was the result of a freak accident or an outburst, but seeing as how margo didn't wanna elaborate on what happened... i can only assume what happened here." he said as he placed a hand on your shoulder, and he felt you were extremely tense.

you sighed as you put down your tools and looked at him. you had a look of fury in your face, but when miguel looked back at you with concern and sympathy for you... your gaze softened a little, and became one of disappointment. "...i broke it, but i'm gonna fix it myself." you said as you looked back at the practically demolished control panel. you rubbed your eyes as you shook your head. "i'm sorry, it's just, everyone kept bothering me today, and i... i just wanna hit something. it feels right, but when it's all said and done, i just... i feel like i was being more of a bitch than i meant to be, y'know?" you explained with a soft voice, laced with regret and shame.

you had so much pent up anger and frustration, and the worst part of it all was that they were all directed at such small, meaningless things–or small, meaningless things in the eyes of others, others who would never understand how small mistakes can be so irksome when you try your hardest to seem so put together and knowledgeable about everything because you're in charge.

miguel put a finger under your chin and shushed you gently. "i get it. i get it, you... you sometimes come off stronger than you intend to. and you know what, that's fine. we're heroes, but... people tend to forget we're human, too. hell, we even forget ourselves we're human." he said as he cracked a small smile up at you as you still frowned a little to yourself, at the shame you felt over your outburst. "again... don't get mad for wanting to do what feels right, not when you had no intention of hurting anyone and, like you are now, more than willing to fix your mistake." he said as he held your hand in his own. you slowly smile a little and chuckled slightly at his comforting words. "got it, o'hara." you said as miguel grinned at you.

after a while, he was helping you the best he could at fixing up the control panel–helping you replace and patch up whatever was salvageable. miguel admitted to you, though, he wasn't the most specialized in the field of technology, but he was here if you ever needed anything. he did as you directed him, and in a few hours, you two were mostly done. all you needed help with was for miguel to hold something down as you were screwing it down, and he did so, but... he did it from behind you, now it's like he's caging you in his embrace.

"alright, the control panel's fixed." you said as you turned to face miguel, whose face was now centimeters away from your face. he didn't look like he had any desire nor intention to move out of the way, even when you repeated to him he didn't have to lean against you anymore. "i know," he said with a sly smirk as your lips instinctively parted for him as he moved himself closer and closer to your lips. "why... you really know how to make the best out of a crappy situation." you said, to which he responded with a chuckle. "i always do when it comes to you, so of course, mi vida." he said as he wrapped his arms around you, evoking slight gasps to leave your lips as miguel locked his lips with your own.

you two had each other's tongues mingle with one another, exploring the depths of each other's mouths for quite a while–with no plan of letting go of each other, what with you clinging on to miguel by wrapping your arms around his neck, and his grasp on your waist tightening. he sang praises to you in between kisses, intensifying each and every one after he pulled away ever so often.

you two wanted that moment to last forever... but it ended as quickly as it began, when you two heard slipping from outside the control room's slightly ajar door. whispering came from the hallway adjacent to the room, and you two let go of each other immediately.

"holy–was that... was that seriously them? and–"

"i thought he had no emotions..."

"did we enter the wrong earth, or are we seriously seeing the two most horrifying spiders of the world make out right here right now after... oh i think i'm gonna puke."

"why were they–and you–why are we–don't they rip each other's throats out...?"

"what are you guys whispering about?"

"peter!"

you sighed silently as you grinned up at miguel. "i don't feel like telling stacy, morales, or parker off today, and besides... we need the day off, right?" you asked miguel as you rubbed at the back of waist, eliciting small groans of agreement from him. he chuckled lowly as he placed his hands on your hips and stared deeply into your eyes with a smile.

"definitely." he responded to you as he planted his lips gently against yours again, feeling the smoothness and softness that were your lips; the heavenly feeling of your lips upon his was one he wanted to feel all the time. he didn't particularly care if anyone saw you two, though it did embarrass him a little... he figured it's finally time to come out with what this little arrangement you two have got going on.

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #atsv fluff #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderman 2099 #spiderman across the spiderverse fluff

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orbitalmirror · 11 days

Text

Grand Days and Small Gestures

Pairing: Hunter x Reader

Word Count: 9152

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence.

Prompt: “Why can’t you just be normal?”

Summary: You didn’t expect to end up in Separatist prison cell. You definitely didn’t expect to be accidentally rescued by a squad of clones.

A/N: This fic is a gift for @ladyanidala, who gave me SUCH a fun prompt!! I’m gonna be honest with you, this got rather out of hand…I’m not used to writing romance, and then this pesky little thing called plot got involved. It’s not the most traditional reader-insert fic, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was my first foray into a second-person POV, and it was so fun that it inspired me to start dreaming up a (possibly fluffier?) sequel. Thank you so much to @cloneficgiftexchange for creating this event!

Today isn’t the worst day of your life.

Granted, the bar is pretty low; the worst day of your life was probably that time you were undercover in a sect of fascist insurrectionists on Brentaal IV, and you discovered that your encrypted comm was irreparably fried. You were stuck in that hellhole for nine weeks before somebody back in the Corellian intelligence HQ thought, “You know, maybe she didn’t suddenly go dark on purpose.” By the time they came to rescue your ass, you had finally decided to quit this job and go become a baker or something. Then you got back to Corellia and…didn’t quit. Didn’t even draft your resignation letter. Nothing in the galaxy makes you feel quite as alive as espionage does—what else could you do?

So now you sit on the concrete floor of a detention cell, your tailbone aching and your fingers stiff from the chill, and you remind yourself, today isn’t the worst day of your life. The idea spins itself into a sort of mantra: It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be worse.

Your stomach growls in dissent.

Hours have passed since the battle droids caught you, and you don’t know why it’s taking so long for a real Separatist officer to arrive for an interrogation. Clearly there are no living beings in the compound, which means clearly your intel was wrong. The datapad you’re after is too valuable to leave in the clumsy, three-fingered hands of droids. The B2s guarding your cell left about twenty minutes ago, and you’ve spent the past ten minutes trying to pry open a panel on the wall with your little transparisteel knife, the only weapon of yours that wasn’t found by the droids and their metal detector.

The panel finally pops off, and you almost groan in dismay. The only things visible in the wall are a thick bundle of electrical wires and some pipes. The pipes look too sturdy to be damaged by you and your little knife, and anyway, flooding your cell probably wouldn’t do anything except electrocute you. Cutting the wires might cut off electricity to your cell door, but that’s just as likely to leave the door locked as it is to open it, and it also might electrocute you. You’re no technician. It isn’t worth the risk.

It could be worse.

The passing of time is almost visceral now, like the ticking of an analog clock in your ribcage. You shove the panel back on the wall. Time for the ceiling. The cell’s metal bench—you can’t even call it a cot—is just tall enough that you can reach up to pry around the edges of the ceiling tiles. You start on the one in the corner, hoping that there’s a ventilation shaft above it. The left edge is just starting to come loose when—

Click.

Darkness.

That definitely wasn’t your doing.

Half a second passes, and then a loud pneumatic hiss heralds the miraculous opening of your cell door, and the adrenaline really kicks in. Has someone finally come to collect you? But why…

You listen. No footsteps.

You hop down from the bench to peek out the cell door. Nothing to see, either.

Another hiss startles you, and you dart into the hall just as the door suddenly closes again, deafening in the eerie silence. The overhead lights are still off, and only the weak blue emergency lights lining the corridor offer you any sense of direction.

You’re free, and nobody is around.

Well, this just got interesting.

~~~

As you make your way through the base, you quickly realize that something very strange is going on. That something strange is probably best exemplified by the droids lying in scrap heaps all over the place, most of them burned through with blasters, but some of them dismantled in a way that you can’t even identify. Whoever or whatever is in this base with you, you do not want to meet them.

So, of course, you meet them less than ten minutes after escaping your cell.

You’ve picked up a blaster from a fallen B1, and are carefully scouting out the control rooms, looking for anything that can help you find your confiscated ship. Unfortunately for you, the walls and blast doors of the compound are so thick that they’re effectively sound-proofed, making it difficult to tell what lies behind each door before you open it. Despite the fact that you haven’t yet run into any functional droid or living being, you feel a spike of adrenaline every time you enter a new room or hallway.

The next one, you think, opens into the hallway where the main control center is housed. If you were paying enough attention while the droids frog-marched you through the base.

When it opens, you don’t find droids.

You find clones.

There are four. Their armor looks different from the clones you’re used to seeing on the major core planets: all of it is painted a dark grey, their helmets heavily customized. Two of them immediately turn to look at you. One is holding a pistol. The other is holding the scariest sniper rifle you’ve ever had pointed at your face. (And you’ve had quite a few sniper rifles pointed at your face.)

Nope, you think. Not happening.

Immediately, you dart around the corner and slam the button to close the door. Shouts ring through the hallway. You shoot the access panel for good measure. Corellia may be a member of the Republic, but that doesn’t mean you want anybody working for the Senate to know what you’re doing here, least of all soldiers.

Time has suddenly become far more pressing.

You abandon some of your previous caution and take off at full speed through the compound. A few active battle droids wander the halls, their tiny electronic brains seeming utterly flabbergasted by whatever turn of events lead to a group of at least four clones carving through an entire Separatist base. You pick them off with ease. They’re not the enemy you’re worried about.

Where are the rest of the clones?

There’s no way in hell a squad of four men could do this much damage…right?

But there are more pressing matters. There’s no signage in the base, which means you’re relying on memory and educated guesses to make your way to the airfield where you know a wide array of starships are parked. You’ve finally made your way up to the ground level of the base, only minutes away from where you think the airfield is.

Unfortunately, the stars are not on your side today.

Footsteps—organic ones, by the sound of it—are coming towards you down the hall.

You duck into an alcove in the wall and press yourself as deep into it as you can, hoping desperately that you’re hidden from view. A few moments pass, and then a clone in that strange grey armor sprints past you. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth.

A few seconds pop by, and you’re about to peek out of your alcove when a grey helmet pops back into view, startling you so badly that you bang your elbow against the steel wall.

“Who are you?” the clone yells.

“Who are you?” you retort, for a lack of any better things to say.

“Sergeant CT-9901. Call me Hunter.”

You blink at him. He tilts his head at you.

You say nothing.

“Hunter! We need to go!” a voice shouts.

“Are you a Separatist?” the clone called Hunter asks you.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then come on!” he exclaims, motioning you to follow him.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re escaping.”

“You’re going the wrong way!” you exclaim. “The airfield is in the direction you came from.”

“Yeah, and we just rigged the airfield to blow. Now come on!”

Well, shit. What other choice do you have?

Hunter takes off running, and you follow as closely as you can. The tall clone with the sniper rifle is waiting for you at the end of the hall, and he says something to Hunter that you can’t quite make out. They’re probably talking through their helmet comms, you realize. The three of you make your way away from the airfield, through a part of the base that you don’t recognize. Here and there, you catch glimpses of the other two clones up aheads, but they don’t seem to be slowing down at all. Metal carcasses of battle droids are strewn around you.

Finally, you break out of the compound and into the sunlight. It seems to be early afternoon, if you’ve been tracking both the passing of time and the cardinal corrections correctly. The base is located in a valley between rolling mountains, surrounded on every side by thick forest and strange rock formations. You follow the two clones to a large boulder, where the other two clones you saw earlier are standing. One is tall, with goggles in his helmet. The other one is even taller, so tall that you could reasonably call him a giant.

“Who is this?” asks the one with goggles.

“Not a Separatist,” says Hunter. “Which is good enough. Wrecker, are we good to go?”

The giant—Wrecker, apparently—gives Hunter a thumbs up, and hits a button on his vambrace.

The airfield behind you blows up. Somehow, it’s one of the most normal things that’s happened all day.

“That should keep them distracted for at least thirty minutes, which is long enough for us to escape the range of their scanners,” says goggles.

“I don’t want to take any risks. Let’s get moving,” says Hunter. He turns to you. “Alright, Miss ‘Absolutely Not a Separatist’. You coming with us?”

“Is that an option?” you ask.

“As long as you don’t shoot us.”

“Didn’t even occur to me,” you say, honestly. “But where are the other clones?”

“What other clones?”

…you’re joking.

“You did all of that yourself?” you ask, utterly incredulous.

“Sure did!” Wrecker exclaims. “It was fun, too.”

“We specialize in smaller operations,” says Hunter. “Wrecker’s our munitions guy. Tech is pretty self-explanatory. Crosshair’s our sniper. We’re Clone Force Ninety-Nine.”

There’s so much information to be taken in right now, you don’t even know where to begin.

“Alright,” you say, because really, you’re completely out of options here. “I guess I’m in.”

~~~

Cool air burns in your lungs. Everything hurts. Everything hurts. Keeping up with the clones’ long strides has forced you to jog in places, and even then, you’ve fallen to the back of the group. Twenty minutes have passed since the airfield was blown to bits, and in that time, you’ve finally made sense of the incredible influx of information you’ve been given. You’ve also developed a veritable laundry list of questions. Chief among them:

“Where are we going?”

Crosshair turns around, and though his helmet covers his face, he’s definitely glaring at you. “To our cache. Keep up.”

“How much farther?” you ask, trying—and mostly failing—to keep the despair out of your voice.

Crosshair says nothing.

Such a conversationalist.

“What’s going on?” calls a low voice—Hunter’s. All four clones are looking at you now, peering through their unreadable masks.

“I asked where we’re going.”

Hunter pauses, tilts his head. Then he starts making his way back down towards you, his posture tense even as his steps are light and fluid. You eye him closely; despite Crosshair’s rifle, and Wrecker’s size, and Tech’s explosives, you’re getting the feeling that Hunter is the dangerous one here. You just haven’t figured out why, yet.

You straighten as he approaches, expecting him to size you up. Instead, he walks right past you, and sits on a fallen tree.

“When was the last time you drank something?” he asks.

…what?

The question sounds downright concerned. You say nothing. The duration of your imprisonment is not information you’ll give out willingly.

Hunter is unclipping something from his belt, now. It’s a small bottle with a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid inside. He holds it out to you, and says, “Drink.”

“What’s in it?” you ask.

“Water, a mild stimulant, electrolytes, and sugar,” Tech rattles off.

Helpful.

Hunter shoves it towards you a little further, and you push it back. Poisoning is not on today’s agenda…not that literally any of this was on today’s agenda.

“You, first.”

Hunter nods, and pulls his helmet off of his head. His face is…not what you expected. His skin is a light brown, dotted with a few faint freckles on the left side, and dominated by a dark tattoo of a skull on the right. His nose is aquiline, his jaw is strong and rounded, his cheeks ever so slightly hollowed. Dark curly hair falls in a tangled mess to his shoulders, held back only by a red bandana tied across his temple. A few flyaways have escaped its hold, as if yearning for freedom.

You’re a professional. You do not ogle the handsome soldier. Instead, you watch closely as he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a small sip. Swallows. Your eyes follow the motion of his throat.

Satisfied, you nod, and take the offered gift. The liquid is sweet and a little salty, but otherwise bland. A faint bitterness lingers on your tongue when you’ve finished taking a few gulps.

When you hold the bottle out for Hunter, he waves you off. “All of it.”

It takes you a minute, but you finish the bottle, and thank him as you hand it back to him. He nods silently in response. What a repartee you’ve established.

“You feel better?” Wrecker asks.

“Sure do. Thanks.”

“We stowed the rest of our gear at a spot fifteen klicks away,” Hunter says. “Can you make it that far?”

Now that’s the real question. The fluids and the short rest have certainly helped, but your legs still ache, and the mountain in front of you is only getting steeper as you climb. Fifteen klicks is just a very long walk over normal terrain. Fifteen klicks now…

“Definitely,” you say, with confidence. “Shall we?”

Hunter motions the group forward, and you fall in behind him.

What a day.

~~~

Time starts to blur, after that. Your world reduces itself to the diffused ache of exhaustion in your legs and the tree roots under your feet…and Hunter. More precisely, the mud-splattered heels of Hunter’s armored boots, as you follow close behind. The clones’ pace is almost punishing; you start to worry how long you’ll be able to keep up, as the soldiers plod along without complaint. Well…almost without complaint.

“I’m hungry,” Wrecker groans, only for the fourth time in the past ten minutes.

“With only three ration packs left, protocol dictates that we reserve our food supply until we restock, or until nutrition becomes an immediate concern,” says Tech.

“This is immediate,” Wrecker insists.

“Your appetite has been an ‘immediate concern’ since we were three years old,” says Crosshair.

Your own stomach growls in affirmation, as if feeling left out of the conversation. When was the last time you ate? Hours have lost their shape. At this point, you feel like time is being measured by the number of feet you’ve climbed.

Abruptly, Hunter halts. Without saying a word, he swings his rucksack to his front, pulls out a foil ration pack, and tosses it over his shoulder. It sails through the air in an elegant arc, right into Wrecker’s waiting hand. You try not to be too impressed.

(You fail, because it was impressive. Actually, you’re not even sure how it was possible.)

There’s a pause as Hunter’s hand hovers over his rucksack.

Then: “Catch.”

The warning seems only an afterthought, delivered as the ration pack is already airborne. You manage to catch it anyway, and you turn it over in your hands. It’s cold-start, the kind that’s mixed with water to form a vaguely edible mush. Hunter is already moving forward again.

“Do you have any more water?” you ask.

This time, he doesn’t even bother with a warning as the metal canteen comes hurtling at your head. It stings your hand as you catch it. You tuck the ration pack into your belt so you have a hand free to open the—

To open—

To—

What the hell?

“Is this sealed?” you call out, even though the canteen is clearly half-empty, and you remember him drinking out of it just minutes ago.

Hunter turns and starts to make his way back down to you. Not for the first time on this bizarre trek, you wish that you could see his facial expressions. His body language betrays little, his movements as elegant and efficient as a supersoldier’s should be. When he reaches you, he holds out his hand. You drop the canteen into his palm with a little more force than is really necessary, but he doesn’t react, simply twists open the lid without any visible effort.

“The ration,” he says, holding out his hand again.

“I know how to mix a ration pack,” you grumble.

But you’re tired, and your hands are stiff from the cold, and you’re starting to wonder whether this is an elite super-soldier’s equivalent of kindness. You won’t bite the hand that feeds you. With a nod, you hand over the ration pack. Hunter mixes it with the sort of automaticity that betrays a thousand repetitions of the motion. Your fingers brush when he hands it back.

One swig of the stuff makes you wonder if it’s not too late to go back to the Seppie prison.

“Urghh,” you groan.

Hunter makes a sound that’s almost…oh stars, he’s laughing at you. You’re dying of hunger and thirst and trying to drink what tastes like cardboard in puréed form, and he’s laughing at you.

“Never had GAR rations before?” he asks. “They’re not like what you civilians get for your backpacking trips.”

“That was…rude, I’m sorry,” you say, kicking yourself for reacting that way when he just offered you help.

“That’s the usual reaction,” he says. He swings his rucksack over his shoulder and turns back up the mountain. “Come on, we’ve got a long way ahead of us. Drink it while we walk. You’ll get used to the taste.”

“Stars, I hope not,” you mumble.

Hunter’s rumbling laugh floats back to again, and you smile despite yourself. For a moment, you wonder if you’ll get along after all.

~~~

It turns out rations for six foot tall super-soldiers are really energy-dense. With a stomach full of food—if you can call it food—the day starts to feel a lot less like a catastrophic mission failure and a lot more like a strange little side quest. Wrecker seems to feel the same, a bright levity emerging in his booming voice.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hunter took on three regs at one time because they were picking on Crosshair?”

“When would you ever have had time to tell her that story?” Crosshair asks.

“There were only two,” Hunter corrects, “and they were almost a year younger than us.”

“What are regs?” you ask.

It’s a can of worms that you’re glad you’ve opened.

Wrecker seems to delight in having an audience, and the other three can’t help but contribute to the conversation. Their stories are all out of chronology, and the discussion is frequently derailed by your complete lack of knowledge about the Grand Army of the Republic. The Senate wants it that way, you know. Honestly, it’s incredible how much intel you’re getting right now…not that you feel like you could use it for anything productive. It paints an ugly picture that the clones don’t seem to realize is ugly, a tale of forced conformity and a brutal life.

The landscape goes by. You learn that most clones like them are considered defective and relegated to maintenance duty. You learn that, although the clones as a whole view themselves as brothers, there’s nasty people in any group. You learn who “regs” are, and about the ones who picked on the 99s—Crosshair especially, who grew up tall but unusually thin, unable to develop the impressive muscle mass that most of the clones possessed. You learn that Hunter, the only one not visibly defective in some way, learned to bridge the gap between his squad and their other brothers.

(You learn that, when his diplomacy failed, he was always willing to throw punches in their defense.)

A story unfolds, of four boys who turned into four men, all so different in temperament that it seems impossible for them to be held together by anything except circumstances. Wrecker starts fights because he thinks they’re fun, but cares far more about what other people think of him than he’s willing to let on. Tech simultaneously lives in his own head and is inextricably steeped in the world around him, every phenomenon looking more colorful through his goggles, every system of nature a machine that can be disassembled. Crosshair is a cynic, through and through, but his loyalty to his brothers runs so deep that you wonder if it might be affection, rather than a sense of duty, that drives him. Hunter…

In all of their stories, none of the other clones truly describe Hunter to you. There are no off-handed compliments that he’s brave, or that he’s kind, or that he’s level-headed. Wrecker tells you, “Crosshair is the best lookout in the entire galaxy.” Hunter tells you, “Wrecker has this habit of offering to help people at very inconvenient times,”—an amusingly brotherly way to say that Wrecker is a generous soul. Crosshair tells you, “Tech saved our mission because he read a book about karking butterflies.”

But still, in between the tales of rescues and hijinks, you weave together the threads, and you find yourself looking at a very different person than you thought you had met when your day began. Hunter’s facade of gruffness is hastily constructed and easily chipped away, and beneath it he is not a complicated man. Above all else, he is singularly devoted to protecting others, and everything else about him seems inconsequential in comparison.

Evening falls, and you make it to the place where the clones have stored their gear. Their ship, Hunter explains, is another twelve klicks away, near a small outpost that they initially investigated, and then decided not to infiltrate.

After you’ve finished your dinner—which includes some real food this time, even if it is canned—you find yourself sitting by a tiny brook, too small for anything to swim in it. A day’s worth of stories tumble around in your mind.

You only hear Hunter coming when he’s a few feet behind you.

“I won’t ask you what you were doing in a Seppie detention cell.”

Smart man, you think.

“But,” he continues, “whatever it was you did, they’re going to be after you as much as they’re after us. You need to be able to protect yourself.”

You resist the urge to respond with a dry, “Yeah, no shit, Sergeant.” Instead, you offer a non-committal hum.

“I’ve got a spare DC-17 pistol. You should learn how to use it.”

You turn to look at him. He’s standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding his blaster, empty of a power cell. He looks very serious.

You try to resist the urge not to laugh. You’ve had a blaster in your hand since you were twelve years old.

Instead, you say, “Sounds like a good idea. Now?”

“No better time,” he says.

He makes his way over and sits down next to you, and you find yourself leaning in to watch as he turns the blaster over in his hands.

“So we’ll start with assembling it…”

You’re only half paying attention to the actual words tumbling from his lips. Like a sweater catching on a bush, your mind catches on the low, rumbling timbre of his voice. The sound buzzes in your ears. The sun is going down, but you could swear it’s getting warmer. Was he always that—

“Were you paying attention?” he asks, breaking your reverie.

“Yes,” you lie. Well, half-lie, because you were paying attention…to other things.

“Repeat back what I just told you.”

Well, that definitely isn’t happening. In lieu of an answer, you pluck the blaster and its power cell from his hands. Your conscious mind is barely engaged as you assemble it with steady hands, as quick as you reasonably can without jamming it. A DC-17 isn’t your preferred style of pistol, but the principle is the same.

And if you’re not mistaken, the subtle arch of Hunter’s brow means that he’s impressed.

“Good. Now, this blaster handles a little differently than the ones you’ve probably used…”

Maybe it’s the smooth confidence in his voice, or maybe you’re just desperate to learn more about the man, but you find yourself going along with it. You nod as he explains the kickback of the weapon, its effective range, its possible styles of blaster bolts.

Finally, he stands behind your left shoulder, and quietly instructs you to aim the weapon. It’s as easy as breathing. His hands come up to adjust your grip; his fingers are warm and rough, heavily calloused by his own use of weaponry. The heat lingers even as he pulls away, apparently satisfied with the positioning of your hands.

You immediately slide your grip back to where it was.

“My hands are smaller,” you explain, even though you don’t owe him an explanation, because you’ve been doing this at least as long as he has. You almost tell him that, too, but it would reveal more about you than you actually want him to know.

“Mmm,” he hums, his face now tantalizing close to your ear. “See if you can hit that hollow tree.”

The tree is maybe thirty feet away. Half of you is wildly offended by the suggestion that you couldn’t hit such an easy target. The other half of you is ruled by the pounding of your own tyrannical heart, Hunter’s mere proximity throwing you out of your disciplined calm.

You breathe in. Breathe out. Aim. Squeeze.

There’s now a burning hole in the center of the dead tree.

“Good!” Hunter says, and good heavens, could he not stand so close? “Now—”

Fweeoo.

Maybe you should feel bad about cutting him off. You don’t, at all.

Fweeoo.

Hunter is silent, now, just standing there watching you draw a neat little line of smoking holes in the tree. The petty part of you is winning your internal war, so you line up a sixth shot, turn your head to meet his gaze, and pull the trigger. His dark brown eyes flicker away, then back to yours.

“You’ve made your point,” he murmurs.

You glance at the tree, where a wisp a smoke rises from a knot in the bark. It’s not a perfect bullseye, but a victory nevertheless.

“I’ve made better points,” you retort, smiling. Four precious seconds pass before Hunter finally steps away.

“So, no target practice for you, then. I set up your bedroll. You should get some rest.”

“Which watch should I take?”

Hunter frowns slightly. “None of them. I’m going to scout out the area for a bit longer, then I’ll take first watch. Crosshair and Tech take second and third.”

“Do you want a second pair of eyes?”

“Don’t need them.”

You nod, and suddenly realize what an awkward thing that was to say. “Well then, I’ll head back up to camp.”

“Goodnight,” says Hunter, softly.

You don’t manage to summon a response.

(Your heart still pounds against your ribs.)

~~~

Despite the food, rest, and water, the morning’s trek is harder than yesterday’s. The terrain turns rocky and the foliage becomes sparse, leaving you exposed to the cold wind. The group’s pace slows as you make your way down the mountain, carefully stepping around loose stones that could send you tumbling. Your eyes are once again trained on Hunter’s heels. You trust him more than you trust yourself to pick out a safe path on the treacherous slope.

Still, the difficulty of the endeavor doesn’t seem to dampen the squad’s mood. Hunter’s helmet is off, strapped to the top of his pack, and he often tilts his face towards the sun. The wind blows his curly hair in every direction, until the bandana is only keeping half of it out of his face. Tech is delivering a detailed lecture about geology. You have no idea what he’s talking about. Wrecker seems as confused as you are about the subject, but while you simply let the words wash over you, Wrecker eagerly interjects with questions and commentary. Their dialogue is far from socratic, but it starts to intrigue you, and you can’t help but smile at the exchange. Every once in a while, the conversation is punctuated by a comment from Crosshair, dripping with sarcasm and yet received with good-hearted laughter. Hunter’s contributions, frequent at first, begin to taper off. The other three don’t seem to notice, but then again, it’s not their job to study people. It’s yours.

You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when he answers your question preemptively.

“Someone’s in the ship,” he says, turning around to face the group.

“Clankers?” Wrecker asks.

“No. I would have felt them if they were droids. I’ve been sensing something else: comms, or another type of small electronics. But just now, they turned on power in the ship.”

The cogs in your head are turning. Did you hear him correctly?

“How do you know?” you ask. “What do you mean, you felt…”

You trail off as Hunter holds up a finger to silence you. His brow is drawn into a tight scowl and he closes his eyes, tilting his head as if listening for something.

Tech makes his way over to you. Quietly, he explains, “Hunter can feel electromagnetic frequencies. He can sense droids, or the electronics that people carry on them if they’re quite close. When the electrical power on the ship is turned on, those frequencies change, so he can feel those, too.”

“How could somebody turn your ship on without a key fob?” you whisper.

“The ship has no key fob. It would be dangerous to rely on a small object, which could easily be lost or damaged during a mission, to access our only means of escape. One can enter the ship and activate some systems with no restrictions, and the engine can be started with a key code.”

“And somebody just got on your ship?”

“Apparently, yes.”

You glance up at Hunter. His right thumb is rubbing absently at the scuffed paint on his vambrace.

After a long moment, he says, “There are definitely no droids. I think there are locals here, and we didn’t realize it. We need to move. The ship is only a fifteen minute run from here.”

“Should we leave the packs?” you ask.

“Leave everything except weapons and combat gear. We’ll put the explosives and grappling hooks in Wrecker’s pack.”

“Aww, yeah!” Wrecker cheers, albeit quietly. The rest of the group is in motion immediately, rearranging their burdens and leaving all by the necessities tucked under a rocky outcrop. You have no rucksack, so you help Wrecker in carefully repacking the explosives into his. You’re almost finished when you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“You’ll want these,” Hunter says. He hands you two spare power cells for your blaster.

“Two? But you only have three spares.”

“I’m hoping we can reason with the locals,” he says, “or scare them away. But if things got really bad, I’ve got this.”

There’s a metallic hiss as he slides a vibroknife out of the sheath on his forearm. He twirls it in his fingers a few times, a display of skill so casual that it feels almost unreal.

Wait.

“Back in the base, did you stab those droids?” you exclaim.

Hunter grins, a full smile that seems so out of place in your current situation. And yet, you find yourself mirroring it right back at him.

“Let’s go get our ship back.”

~~~

Jagged rock digs into your skin as you lie on your stomach on a ridge, peering out at the clones’ ship. Hunter was right; you can vaguely make out the shapes of at least three humanoids milling around it. From where you are, though, you can’t see any more details than that. The group’s only pair of binoculars is currently in Crosshair’s hands.

“Three outside the ship,” he says. “Armored, helmeted, and carrying blasters. These might be more than just locals.”

“Anything else?” Hunter asks.

“They’re waving their hands at each other.”

Hunter holds out his hand for the binoculars, and Crosshair hands them over.

“Sign language,” says Hunter. “Either they don’t want to be heard, or they can’t hear. I can’t feel how many there are. The ship is interfering too much.”

“Are they doing anything to the ship?” you ask.

“Not from the outside. Who knows what they’re doing inside of it.”

“I have encrypted all information present on board our ship,” says Tech from next to Crosshair. “It would be nearly impossible for them to elicit any intelligence from its databanks.”

“I’m more worried about them gutting it,” says Hunter darkly.

To your surprise, he does not hand the binoculars to Tech next—he hands them to you. Nodding in thanks, you take them, and try not to think about the way his shoulder presses against yours. You fine-tune the focusing knob until you have a clear view of the people standing in front of the ship.

Then you almost drop the binoculars.

Hunter notices the jerk of your hand immediately. “What’s going on?” he asks, alarmed.

What’s going on? What’s going on?

What’s going on is that you are never getting that ship back, and you’re all in deep shit, and you’re starting to wonder if you really will quit your job this time.

Kark. This.

“Those are Third Hand,” you say.

“Third Hand?”

“Mercenaries. They’re…” you trail off as you watch one of the distant figures make a wide sweeping motion with his right arm. You wrack your brain trying to remember what it means, but it’s been years since you’ve encountered one of the Third Hand. Usually, the correct response to encountering one is to run very fast in the other direction and pray to anybody who will listen that they don’t follow you…and not to ask them for sign language lessons. The only reason you even recognize them is because their appearance is so distinctive: Ubese filter helmets and cortosis-weave plate armor, painted in swirling multicolored hues with jagged black symbols on top, studded with spikes. The effect is like a monstrous creature emerging from a beautiful supernova. These ones have relatively few spikes each—a good sign, but not a great one.

“What?” Hunter asks.

You refocus yourself. “They’re Ubese mercenaries. Very good ones. Usually contract with the Spice Cartel.”

“So what are they doing out here?”

“Nothing good. If there are six here, there are probably at least twelve in the area.”

“How do you know there are six? Can you see them?”

You’ve mentally catalogued everything you’ll be able to learn from looking, so you hand the binoculars back to Hunter.

“Third Hand always travel in groups of threes. There are three outside, so there will probably be three inside.”

“Six is manageable,” he says.

…manageable? He’s joking. He has to be joking. The man who used to start fist-fights to defend his brothers would not turn them into target practice for the Third Hand.

But his voice is deadly serious.

“Six against four?” you ask, incredulous.

“Six against five.”

“I’m not wearing armor. I’m not a soldier. I don’t count.”

“I’ll still take those odds. We need to complete the mission, which means we need to scout the other large bases on this moon. And for that, we need our ship.”

“They’re armed to the teeth and don’t shy away from killing people like you do.”

“We’ve had worse. We need to complete the mission,” he repeats.

“Hunter, what is wrong with you?” you whisper-scream, utterly furious but fully aware of how exposed your position is. “Do you actually think it’s a good idea to take on six extraordinarily well-trained mercenaries just for a ship? Any sane officer would turn his men around right now and send for evac!”

“We don’t need an evac!”

“Stars help us, Hunter, stop trying to be a hero! Why can’t you just be normal?”

Hunter goes deathly still.

Silence falls upon you; the air seems to turn brittle. You glance between the men. Crosshair is staring at you coldly. Wrecker is fidgeting, his eyebrows raised in alarm. Tech is glancing between you, Hunter, and the display on his Hud, his fingers still tapping against his wrist comm.

Hunter isn’t looking at you.

“We have never been normal,” he mutters.

The word seems laced with poison, and your chest clenches. Of course you had to go and put your foot in your mouth. Of course you picked the one adjective that would feel so personal to him. His expression is angry, but somehow you get the feeling that it runs deeper than that.

“Hunter,” you say, softer this time. “This is a suicide mission.”

“Then don’t come.”

Stubborn man! “Has it not occurred to you that I don’t want you to die? Any of you?”

Hunter does look at you now, his face a mix of so many emotions that it’s become unreadable. You meet his dark eyes and hold his gaze, willing him to understand. Willing him to trust you.

“We’ll be going home with one less ship and no information,” he says. Damn him. “We don’t even know where the datapad is, now.

Something about that sentence catches in your mind. You don’t even know where the datapad is. You don’t…

…no, you do.

It all clicks together.

“Yes, we do.”

“What?” the men chorus, sounding more alike than they ever have.

“You told me that there’s a small outpost near here, right?”

“That outpost was far too small and poorly-manned to contain the datapad we’re looking for,” says Tech. “The Separatists would never leave something so valuable so vulnerable.”

“But what if it is well-guarded? Just not by droids.”

Hunter shifts, turns to look at you for real now. The anger hasn’t entirely faded from his face, but there’s something else there now, a new glint. “Are you saying that the outpost is guarded by these mercenaries, and the datapad is actually being kept there?”

“It’s the best explanation. How much do you know about the outpost?”

All four men glance at each other. Wrecker grins.

“Well,” says Tech, “when I sliced into the Separatist servers…”

~~~

The plan is insane.

The plan is so utterly insane that you wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to take on six mercenaries in a firefight to get the ship back.

The outpost is less than an hour’s hike from the ship; the clones were able to land close to it because it lacks the long-range ship detection system that the large base had. The mercenaries have only been at the ship for twenty minutes or so, and based on what you know of the Third Hand, they will pick it apart piece by piece before they’re satisfied. That takes six men out of the running, but the second the alarm sounds at the base, your countdown will begin.

Hunter and his bizarre superhuman abilities prove invaluable. From this range, he can tell you that there are somewhere around forty droids, and that they’re remotely controlled. Tech has been able to override certain models of remote-control battle droids in the past, and he’s confident in his ability to do so here.

Crosshair will set up on the hill overlooking the outpost and cover Wrecker, who will launch an artillery attack against the east end. You, Tech, and Hunter will sneak in through the north entrance, where Tech will slice into a terminal and take control of the droids to attack the mercenaries. You and Hunter will look for the datapad, and once you have it, you’ll steal a ship and escape.

So, just normal Taungsday things.

“If anything goes wrong,” you say, “we scrap the mission. If their scanners are strong enough to detect us, we quit. If the droids are the wrong model, we quit. If there are more than fifteen men, we quit.”

Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair agree.

Hunter just glares at you.

The trek to the base is made in silence. Your trigger finger is itchy, and you startle at things that shouldn’t bother you: small animals darting between the rocks, your foot sinking to deep into mud, Crosshair clearing his throat. The group walks in single file: Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, you, and Crosshair. You can’t see Hunter from here. It’s better that way.

At one point, Wrecker falls back a little to walk side by side with you. He leans down a little, as if to whisper conspiratorily. The effect is comical—he really just ends up hovering far above your head.

“We, uhh…we failed our last two missions. It was bad. The Admiral said that Hunter made a bad call, and if we couldn’t do the next one, we’d be sent back to Kamino. Said if we couldn’t function like a normal squad, we shouldn’t be here.”

“So if you fail…”

“Tech and me go to maintenance. Hunter and Crosshair have to teach the cadets. Hunter doesn’t mind it”—you remember his careful instruction with the blaster, and a smile flickers across your face—”but he’d rather be out here.”

“Well, then,” you say, shoulders straightening. “We better not fail.”

~~~

The first ten minutes are a dramatic, spectacular victory.

There’s more firepower packed into Wrecker’s rucksack than you could possibly have imagined. The ground shakes when he begins his assault, and a small part of you worries that he might do his job too well, and send the outpost crashing into a pile of rubble. But, though Wrecker might not always come across this way, you spent much of yesterday listening to stories about him: the man is brilliant with explosives. What you wouldn’t give to be watching the display through Crosshair’s scope right now.

Tech, Hunter, and you manage to sneak into the base with little issue. All of the alarms in the base are already going off, so your illicit entry adds nothing new to the cacophany. Quick as a flash, Tech slices into the outpost’s computer system, and then the real fun begins.

The droids are only B1s, but the great strength of B1s is their numbers and their complete disregard for their own safety. Through the outpost surveillance system, you watch the Third Hand mercenaries scramble to deal with the chaos wrought by explosions on one side and traitorous battle droids on the other. There seem to be nine of them here, and before you and Hunter even set out to look for the datapad, four are already dead or seriously wounded.

(Although you know that they’ve all killed more people than you could count, you still wince at the carnage.)

When all of them seem sufficiently occupied, you and Hunter set out, blasters locked and loaded. After three turns—right, left, right—Hunter motions down a narrow corridor.

“You go that way, look on the west side. There’s nobody there, and there’s a communications room about fifty feet down. I’m going south, this way.”

You resist the urge to argue with him, as much as you want to. He took a chance, trusting you, and now you need to do the same for him.

“Comm me if you find anything,” you say.

“I will.”

You’re sprinting down the hallway when you hear him call out, “Be careful!”

One by one, you sweep the rooms off of the hallway. Most of them are small storage rooms or engine rooms, with one small dormitory. At last, you reach the communications room. Knowing that this is the room most likely to have people in it, your heart pounds as you open the door as fast as you can, blaster raised. It’s empty.

Adrenaline keeps coursing through you as you search the entire room, looking for the datapad. There’s nothing. On your way out, you notice a box of empty data sticks. It’s not what you’re here for, but you shove one of them in the nearest console and wait for it to download the basic schematics of the computer. There’s no time to go searching through the computers for information—there’s probably nothing useful on them, anyway—but you’re hoping that knowing what kind of tech the Separatists are using might help somebody back at HQ.

Bzzz. Your comm goes off.

“Hunter?”

“I found the datapad. It’s at the end of the south corridor I went down, at the very end on the left.”

“On my way,” you say.

In the privacy of the empty room, you allow yourself a sigh of relief. This is not your standard sort of operation. Explosions are still shaking the compound, though they’re beginning to slow down, and you eject the datastick even though it’s not quite finished. You’re here for one thing, and Hunter has found it. Only a few more minutes. Then you can all get off of this planet.

Luckily, you encounter no mercenaries during your sprint to where Hunter is. When you arrive, you find him leaned over a datapad that’s been detached from the main console, a strange-looking datastick plugged into its main port. Hunter glances back and nods a greeting at you.

“Almost done,” he says.

You fiddle with one of the datasticks that you swiped from the communications room, ready to switch yours with his the moment that his download is finished. The next twenty seconds feel like eternity.

Then: green light.

Hunter yanks his datastick out of the console. Then, wiith a flash of movement so fast you can barely processed what just happened, he sinks his vibroblade into the datapad and tears it down the center, splitting the machine into two sparking hunks of ruined metal.

~~~

Here’s the thing:

You’re a spy. Spies have rules. Perhaps chief among those rules is, “Don’t trust anyone.” Especially, “Don’t trust foreign special operatives who you just met yesterday.”

Here’s the thing:

That intel was kept on an encrypted datapad that could not be accessed remotely. It was not backed up. And Hunter just destroyed it beyond any hope of recovery. While his mission is safe and secure in his pocket, yours is a complete loss. And he did that on purpose.

Here’s the thing:

Until five seconds ago, you actually liked him.

It takes a moment before your brain truly catches up, and by then he’s moving towards the exit.

“Let’s go!” he calls.

You hate your traitorous legs for the way they heed his order without question, pounding against the concrete floor as the two of you sprint through the halls of the compound. You hate your traitorous hands for firmly gripping your blaster, not once reaching out to grab him by the shoulder and stop him. You hate your traitorous voice for not crying out in protest, for not calling him a liar and a cheat and a terrible excuse for a human being.

You hate yourself for doing as he says, even as his betrayal lies in a smoking heap behind you.

Your body moves automatically, dodging behind a corner when you see a mercenary. Hunter strafes in the opposite direction and takes a few shots at the man. By the thump you hear, you presume that one of them landed.

“Bet you’re glad you don’t have a ‘normal’ soldier with you right now,” Hunter quips.

Anger rises in your throat. Is that really what he’s hung up on? Your single comment, that’s what made him destroy that datapad, ruining your mission? Maybe you’d understand better if he’d done it for the sake of the Republic, but this just feels like a low blow.

As you round the next corner, Hunter pulls off his helmet and tilts his head, apparently listening for something. Briefly, his eyes flicker to yours, and he gives you a cocky half-smile.

Asshole, you think. It’s a petty word and a petty thought, but your anger is pulsing through your body with every beat of your heart, every memory you’ve formed in the past day suddenly tainted. Quieter, but just as poignant, is a deep feeling of shame. Were you really fooled by a handsome face and a few acts of kindness? Is this the man he’s been all along?

You shake your head to clear the thoughts away. Right now, you need to focus. This is the final leg of the plan: you and Hunter have to get to the far north-east side of the compound, where three ships are kept in a tiny hangar: two fighters, and one shuttle.

Hunter is yelling at Tech through comms: “Tech! Open the door into the hangar and get over here!”

You can see the door slowly open up ahead.

So close.

You’re nearly to the door, making a beeline for the nearest fighter, when you hear Hunter shout.

Then something slams you into the wall. Heat envelopes you, carried on a strong gust of wind. You struggle to take a breath.

One second passes.

The sound of blaster fire rings in your ears.

Two seconds pass.

You finally realize what’s happening. Hunter is pressed against you, his arms held up to protect your head. It wasn’t a something that threw you against the wall just now; it was him, pushing you out of the way of what seems to have been a grenade.

“Got ‘im!” Wrecker yells over comms. The sound rings in your ears, tender from the sound of the explosion.

“If my counting was correct, that was the last of the Third Hand,” says Tech.

“Not the last,” says Crosshair. “I see the other six. They’re on their way here. Four minutes.”

Hunter shifts away now, and you try to take a full breath through the smoke.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

You nod. Your voice feels too raw to work right now.

“Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Emotions are bouncing around your head like a damned pinball machine, and you push them all away, focusing on the task at hand: you need to get to a ship. You need to escape. So you follow Hunter through the door and into the hangar. The wind has changed, blowing the smoke of Wrecker’s explosions away from you, and you breathe deeply as you run.

To your surprise, Hunter doesn’t make for the shuttle. He makes for the nearest fighter, instead. Across the hangar, you can see Wrecker wave.

“Wrecker!” Hunter yells. “Start the shuttle!”

“On it!” Wrecker calls back.

“I thought you were all going together,” you say.

“We are. I need to give you this, first.”

Hunter takes your hand and presses something small and hard into it. The tips of his fingers are warm and calloused, and though you could count on his hand the number of times you’ve touched, he feels as familiar as a home.

“Here,” he says. The warmth is gone as quickly as it came as he pulls away, ducking around the fighter to look around the hangar, scanning for enemies.

All you can think to say is: “What?”

“You can access it with the code 223-228-24!”

“What is it?”

“The datastick. Don’t access it until you’re in a secure position.”

“I don’t understand. You destroyed the datapad.”

Hunter turns to look at you and cocks his head. “I got a copy first.”

“Just one, though.”

“I downloaded it to my wrist comm. This is the original.”

Oh.

Oh!

You want to sigh-laugh-sob with relief. Hunter was never leaving you out to dry. His comment about being a normal soldier…that was teasing. You were running for your lives, being shot at, and he was teasing you.

“Thank you,” you whisper, because your voice can’t be trusted in full.

Hunter only shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. We’d have been dead men without you.”

“Not…not the datastick. I just…”

Words stick in your throat. There’s an ocean between you and Hunter that you can’t seem to cross, the crash of its waves inaudible over the pounding of your heart. There’s an ocean between you, and it’s only an arm span across. Words stick in your throat, but your feet…

Your feet are as light as ever, and you find yourself standing in front of him, looking up into dark eyes that finally seem readable. Hope and fear flicker across them in equal measure.

You move slowly, telegraphing your movement to give him a chance to pull away, but he doesn’t. The world stills, and you brush the gentlest kiss on his left cheek, where ink meets blank skin.

(If it were quieter, you would hear his delicate inhale as your lips touched him.)

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You start to step away, hoping—praying, maybe, to all the stars that will listen—that your message was received and decoded. Then a warm hand, calloused from war and gentled from compassion, takes yours. This time, there is nothing for him to give you; there is only an affection that feels so out of place and so, so right. His other hand tilts your chin up.

When he kisses you, all you can think is, finally.

It’s everything that the past two days haven’t been: slow, unsure, and tender. You feel yourself smiling despite yourself. You feel him smile back, and the kiss is broken in the best way possible: with soft laughter.

Time is slipping like water between your fingers.

You kiss him again. And a third time. You’re starting to wonder whether you’ll ever tire of it when the rumble of a ship tugs you from your bliss. It’s Hunter who pulls away first.

“You’ll be okay?” he asks.

The ghost of a smile still lingers on his face, but his brow is knit together with concern.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure him. “Really. I’m a professional.”

Hunter snorts. “We found you in prison.”

“Occupational hazard!”

Hunter’s laugh is brighter than you’ve ever heard it, and sadder all the same. You brush a finger along his jaw, as if you can catch that laugh in your hand and tuck it in your pocket.

“I’ll see you around, Sergeant,” you say.

Hunter nods. “I’ll see you around.”

The way he turns is abrupt, as if forcing himself to move before he changes his mind. You waste precious seconds watching him sprint across the tarmac and up the ramp of the ship,

Hunter doesn’t look back, but as you watch the ship’s engines ignite, you can almost feel his gaze still lingering on your face.

Time to go.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye.

#clone fic gift exchange #sergeant hunter #tbb hunter #hunter x reader #hunter x you #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #TBBE24

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kyber-crystal · 2 years

Text

head in the clouds || bradley “rooster” bradshaw

summary: after a mission gone wrong that almost costs you your life, you and rooster get into an argument. said argument ends up revealing more about him than you thought you knew

words: ~1.7k

warnings: mentions of near-death experience(s), allusions to trauma, blood, and angst. this has a vv happy ending tho i promiseeeee.

a/n: i can’t stop writing. someone please stop me. i need help

They didn’t call you Viper for no reason.

You struck down your enemies hard and fast, and flew exactly like your father. Some even opted to calling you Maverick 2 rather than your actual callsign. (The real reason for the name was because you’d gotten bit by a snake as a kid, but you elected to forget that moment.)

“Viper, stand down. You’re dangerously close to enemy territory. Start heading back,” Rooster warned. “You have exactly forty-two seconds before you get on their radar and they’re on your tail. This isn’t something you can do alone.”

“I can handle it,” you grunted in reply as you gripped the yoke of the plane, now 100% in control. Adrenaline shoots through your veins and you can’t help but crack a smile. A little turbulence wouldn’t kill you; you’d be fine.

You heard Rooster’s shouts of objection and concern through your mic, but kept going. Today was not the day for giving up and going home early—it never was, and never would be. You were not going to go down without a fight.

You’re determined to prove yourself—to your father, but also Rooster. You’re dead set on impressing everyone with your skill, even if that meant flying into danger. And risking your life in the process.

It was all part of the job, anyway, so what was the big deal?

You’re pulled out of your sea of thoughts by a blaring alarm. The lights dim, and your heart races. What the hell was going on here…

A sudden jolt of turbulence makes you jerk forward in your seat, and you tighten your grip. “Shit,” you muttered a colorful string of swears under your breath. One quick glance up ahead and to your right shows two enemy fighters closing in on you, and closing in fast.

“Damn it,” you tried to keep your calm as you activate the flares, making a straight climb upwards in an attempt to evade the adversary. “No no no no no, please—”

The controls panel flashed a bright red, and the alarm kept going. “I got hit. I think I lost an engine. They caught me.”

Rooster’s blood turned to ice at your statement. “Viper, you need to turn back now. Can you make it out?”

“No!” you shouted in reply. “I’m locked in. Back and sides. I don’t know if I can m—”

“Viper.” You couldn’t hear what he’s saying as your suffered another hit to the side, and your jet dipped. You were losing altitude and balance and you felt yourself getting lightheaded. “Viper, do you copy?”

“Heading northwest at 430 knots. Increasing speed to 490,” you responded, voice shaking, “Running low on missiles.”

At this point, you’re hanging on by a thread, and staying awake is becoming more and more difficult. You’re able to get a missile lock on the bogey up ahead with seconds to spare. But then your plane shoots downwards, and you start spiraling out of control.

“Rooster, I need to take them down.”

“No, you don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Viper, eject now. There’s no other way out of this.”

“I already got one! I need to take down the other, and then I’ll land this plane!”

“Y/N, listen to me.” Your father comes online, and his voice is stern; commanding. “You need to get the hell out of here and eject. Don’t risk your life more times than you need to. You’ve done your job already.”

“Dad…”

“Y/N. I’m not gonna ask you again—”

The ringing in your ears grew louder and louder. Your head was heavy and all the color drained from your vision. You fell back against your seat.

You barely managed to press the button in time, hands shaking and heart palpitating. Your head hit the canopy as you ejected, and the world tilted on its axis, spots crawling across your vision.

The last thing through your mind before everything goes black is the clear panic in Rooster’s tone.

You’re snapped back to reality by someone shaking you awake. With blurry eyes, you make out Rooster kneeling over you. Behind him is what appears to be your jet, crumbling as it went up in flames.

“Y/N, how many fingers am I holding up?”

You squint. “Two…?”

Rooster goes cold. “Three. Y/N, you’re not in good shape. Mav’s on his way with backup. We’re taking you home now.”

“Home?” you croak out. “Why are you here? I’m supposed to be dead.”

“You’re not dead, thank God,” he exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Thank God you’re alive.”

Blood mixes with the sweat and tears on your face, and it looks like you’re crying red rivers of ash. You press a hand to the side of your forehead, and it comes away stained dark crimson. Your head is still swimming, and it takes everything Rooster has not to panic in front of you. You’ve seen enough, and the last thing he wants is for you to see him freak out. Even though he is very much so freaked out.

“It’s going to be okay, you hear me? It’s going to be okay.” He’s breathing hard, and he’s trying his best to stay calm. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lose yourself in the dark void of nothingness.

When you come to your senses once more, you’re in the med bay. Across the room from your cot is Maverick slumped over in a chair, mug on the coffee table next to him. He must’ve been here all night. He senses that you’re awake and makes his way over to you.

“Sweetheart,” your dad starts. “You scared the living daylights out of us.”

“Are they gone?” you question, referring to the bogey fighters you’d encountered earlier. “Tell me they’re all gone.”

“Hangman and Coyote swooped in and handled the rest. The job’s done.”

“That’s good.” You close your eyes and smile. “That’s really good.”

“You suffered a bad concussion, three cracked ribs,” Maverick explained. A familiar look of hurt flashes across his face, and your heart drops. You know that look. “You’re very lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah.” You swallowed hard, and try to sit upright. “I know.”

He helps steady you, placing a careful hand on your back. “Easy there. Don’t be so rough on yourself or you won’t recover as fast.”

“Where’s Rooster?” you croaked out. “Is he here?”

“In the hallway. He missed two training sessions since we flew back in with you,” he explained. “Refused to leave your side. I tried getting him to go out but he’s stayed camped out on the floor waiting for you. Do you want to see him?”

You nod. He leaves the room, and comes back a few seconds later with an exhausted-looking Bradley Bradshaw. Rooster’s shoulders slump in relief upon seeing that you’re okay.

He sits down by your side, the bed dipping under his weight. You’ve never seen this softer side of him before and it makes your heart ache in more ways than one.

“Hey.”

Rooster shakes his head. His voice comes out hoarse. “You almost died out there.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

There are tears in his red-rimmed eyes. “You had a narrow brush with death, and the first thing you ask when you wake up is about how much I slept? Are you serious?”

“Rooster…”

“God forbid you actually got yourself killed,” he breathes out. “I’d never forgive myself for it.”

“But I’m okay, and that’s what matters.”

“No, it’s not okay! You’re not understanding the point here. Your overconfidence almost cost you your life. If you had gotten out of there a second later…” He begins to raise his voice, but trails off as he notices you wince. “...We’d be taking you back home in a body bag.”

“Forgive me for putting myself in danger and being a self-sacrificial brat,” you scoff. “It’s not like I was trying to stamp down the enemy or anything. If I hadn’t been out there when I was, even more chaos could’ve erupted.”

“And would your death be worth a fraction of victory?”

“Yes.”

“My god, you’re insufferable,” Rooster sighs. “It’s unbelievable that you have such little regard for your life.”

“How is my life any of your concern? What does my well-being have to do with you?”

“I can’t lose you the same way I lost my dad,” he finally says, and that’s when it hits you. This is how Goose died—something had gone wrong as he was trying to eject, and he never returned to base. Guilt overwhelms your senses as you realize he must be reliving his worst nightmare all over again—through you. “Y/N…you’re all I have left. And I’d be damned if you leave this world without knowing how I feel about you.”

Your mouth runs dry. “...What?”

“I’ve been put through hell enough times. I’m begging you…please don’t make me go through it again.” Rooster’s voice is cracked and hoarse as he places a hand against your cheek. “At least promise me that.”

You cup his face in your hands, thumbs skimming over his cheekbones. Heaven’s sake…even sad, he looked so breathtaking. “I promise.”

He moves in to close the distance between you and you meet him halfway, lips colliding together. His hands are shaky as they run through your hair, and the kiss is frantic and rushed and in far less ideal of a situation than either of you could’ve imagined. But it’s more than you could’ve asked for, and because of that, it was enough.

Rooster pulled away to catch a breath, but you pulled him back seconds later and kissed him again. You’re most likely going to lose your breath but you couldn’t care less in that moment. Fate kept you alive when you shouldn’t have been, and it was fate that would bring you back into his giving arms.

“From here on out,” he holds you tight, resting his head in the crook of your neck, “you’re sticking with me, no matter what.”

“I’m not complaining,” you hummed in contentment. “I’d like that very much.”

tags: @rentskenobi @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @valorax @lifeisfullofupsanddownsliveit @sarcastic-sourwolf @ice-mans-world @burnedbrisket @fangirlinc @marveljunkie45 @knowledgefulbutterfly @levis-butterfingers @organabanks @coastingline @skylynch03 @chaoticassidy @hbstre @fantasias-creativebubble @mercury-mae @light-the-moon @winteryoungie @aie1840 @thisismypointofview @worldsoldestpizzaslice @minivture @i-wish-everything-would-be-okay @t-stark35 @thesunsetphantoms @danirose-0420 @thespeeder @lyn-lc

#top gun: maverick #top gun #bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster x reader #rooster bradshaw x reader #miles teller #miles teller x reader #top gun fanfic #top gun x reader

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soleilandpeaches · 1 year

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he loves my heart shaped sunglasses

featuring: Hawks/Keigo Takami synopsis: sexual tension has been brewing between you and your favorite tattooist. You were hesitant to the type of lover he was; he seemed almost to good to be true. He wasn’t. warnings: f!reader, mentions of drugs/alcohol, cunnilingus, possessive!Keigo, rough sex, oral (f!recieving), mutual pining, romantic and sexual pining, unprotected sex (wrap it up!) rated: 18+ (MDNI) song title inspo: Every Man Gets His Wish by Lana Del Rey

“Hold still now, Dove.” The light and airy tone of his voice dripping with saccharine honey and goodness, his gloved hand coming to rest on your bicep as he leaned closer for inspection. The needle in his hand buzzing to life before you forced your head to turn away, no matter how much you wanted to keep looking.

He chucked at your dismay, your insides turning at the sound and the feel of his warm breath amongst you. He was so beautiful, so warm, so charming that you couldn’t help yourself from wandering back to this place just to see him. He had even asked you if he was your favorite artist, a knowing smirk plastered on his gorgeous face with full pink lips and sharp, pearly-white teeth.

What you would give just to have him, even just for one night. Though, you knew that was a lie; you’d yearn for him forever afterwards. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of lover he was: was he the type to love and then leave? You knew he must’ve had many many admirers from the way he looked, down to the charismatic way he carried himself. He had that sort of confidence, that magnetic charm—he could have anyone he wanted.

“Still scared of needles, huh?” He queried, ripping you away from your reveries, yet you refused to assess him.

“You’ve been coming to me for how long now?” He teased, and you could hear the mocking grin in his voice, yet you loved it all the same.

“Are you just trying to get me to talk?” You jested back, refusing to give in to his taunts, yet your eyes remained fixated on the spinning ceiling fan, following a single panel as it rotated. The clinking of the silver metal chain kept you from focusing too much on the needle piercing your skin. Luckily, you chose a less painful area to tattoo today.

“Maybe I am. You know I like hearing your voice.” And now he was flirting, not that you minded; he seemed to like flirting with you.

“Glad to know you’re still in love with me, Keigo.” This coerced a laugh from his chest, though he kept it short so as to not ruin his work. You quickly glanced over at his face, eyes sharp and focused, hidden underneath long blonde lashes; his chiseled jaw set and eyebrows furrowed, hair pulled back by a black, metal headband.

“Like what you see, Dove?” And though he wasn’t looking at you, the coy flicker to his eyes paired with his smug face spoke in more volume than if he did; he was revelinging your attention.

“Yeah, I do.” You acting shy wasn’t what he wanted, he was a slut for your shameless flirting, if his glowing flush of his cheeks were anything to go by. You eyed the exposed muscle to his arms, quickly flexing from your praise. You knew his silent mannerisms by now, quickly learning it’s necessity if you were curious of what he was really feeling beneath his strained stoicism and deflecting charm.

“Aw shucks, you’re gonna make me blush y’know?” His lips stretched into a more cheerful smile, dimples following in response as the tips of his ears glew red.

“Looks like you already are.” You purred, continuing in hopes of riling him up in the way he does you so effortlessly. Just the thought of him had you giggling and blushing, panties soaking of the memories of him. The memories of him touching you with his soft–gloved hands, flirting with you like his tongue was made of nothing but silver, gazing back at you with eyes of liquid gold and sweet honey.

You often wondered what his hair must feel like between your fingers, would it be soft or stiff? You hoped it would be the former, imagining running your fingers through those feathered, wheat-colored strands. You couldn’t even use your fingers to count how many times you’ve daydreamed of doing just that with his head between your thighs, piercing eyes staring back at you as he eats your pussy. You wondered if his tongue was as talented with that as it was with its words.

“You tryna make me fuck up my job?” Keigo removed the needle from your arm to uncomfortably shift in his seat, though he didn’t look unhappy, you’d say he looked rather aroused.

“Oh right, sorry sorry.” Though you both knew you weren’t really, you turned your head back over and away from him; you still wanted a good tattoo anyway. You watched him shake his head with a chuckle before taking a breath to resume his work.

“I thought you wanted to hear me talk.” Biting back a yelp, you forced your body not to jump at the sudden piercing contact of the needle to your arm.

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” he noted, but from what you couldn’t see, he was sticking his tongue out at you.

It’s been a couple weeks since the last time you went back, however, you’ve been texting back-and-forth with Keigo pretty regularly. You seemed to quickly form a pretty strong connection with him, the two of you seemed to have pretty good chemistry.

You could tell he was growing fond of you, texts here-and-there shifted to everyday, always ending your day with a cute: “Goodnight, Dove <3.” Even on his busy days, he never hesitated to let you know he couldn’t talk, which you appreciated.

You knew he saw you as more than just a client, but you were willing to drag this out as much as you could; keeping things slow to watch it unravel before you. You wondered what he would look like when you pushed his buttons, daring his thread to snap. Unfortunately for you, Keigo wasn’t an idiot; he knew what you wanted. It seemed he was willing to play along with you, but you knew how to push past his limits.

“I’m going to this party tomorrow.” You told him, kicking your legs back-and-forth as he stood in between them, holding a needle to your ear.

“Oh yeah? Excited?” He asked playfully, chuckling as you gripped his arm as he pierced your upper ear, flexing his muscle at the contact.

“A little,” You decided after a moment, taking a second too long to release him from your grip.

“I’m not really a huge party person though.” You admitted gazing up at him as he pulled back, fighting the urge to rub your thighs together.

“Hmm…” He hummed thoughtfully, turning around to put away his tools before removing his gloves in a teasingly slow manner.

“Are you going alone?”

Even though the question seemed light-hearted, you could read in-between the lines, you knew what he was really insinuating.

Do you have a date?

You couldn’t seem to hold back your smile, remembering when Keigo told you he sometimes had jealousy issues. Maybe it was toxic to feel a sense of power from this realization, but you couldn’t seem to find a care as you checked him out.

“A couple of my good friends are gonna be there, but I’m pretty sure I’ll have to uber home.” You were almost positive none of them were going to stay sober, and neither were you. Still, maybe if you played your cards right, you could get him to take you home.

“I can take you home if you need me to, Angel.” To be honest, you were taken aback by how quickly he volunteered for you, thinking you might’ve had to call him up at the last minute. A part of you felt guilty for wanting to use him.

“Oh no, it’s okay, really-” You argued but he was already making his way back over to you, and something about his face screamed he was already planning on it even if you rejected him.

“C’mon, Dove, it’s the least I could do.” He laughed, offering his hand for you to take so he could guide you off your chair. You took his hand, admiring the soft and delicate texture of his palms. You inwardly shook your head to rid of the sudden inappropriate thoughts of how they would feel holding other parts of your body.

“But you’re always doing things for me.” You giggled as he led you away so you could pay for his service. Even though, however, after some time he began charging you for less.

“Ah, well, a sweet thing like you deserves it.” He’s been getting bolder. You note with a grin; this means he’s becoming more impatient. Good.

“Thank you, Keigo! It means a lot!”

“Of course, Dovey.”

The ride back home was tense, and not in a good way. After you had hugged all of your friends goodbye, you stumbled up to his car, albeit excited to see him since you’ve been gushing about him all night. Although, his expression and demeanor seemed less than happy, eyebrows pulled forward in a grimace with his jaw drawn tight.

“Heyyy~” You greeted, a little high, plopping down in the passenger seat before struggling to pull the seat belt across your body.

“Did you have fun?” His almost accusing tone made you snort, he almost sounded like some sort of possessive girlfriend.

“Why are you all mad?” Forgetting your filter, you wondered if he really was bothered that he had to pick you up; was he just trying to be nice? You couldn’t say you enjoyed when people offered services just to be nice. Then only to be annoyed when you take them up on it. Why even offer if you don’t even want to?

He let out a sigh, his shoulders relaxing and his knuckles turning from white to neutral. How upset was he?

“It’s not you…” He trailed off as he backed out of his parking space, one arm coming to rest behind your head as he did so, your earlier frustration seemingly forgotten.

“Just a crappy day, yknow?” It seemed he had more to say but refrained, offering you a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well you shouldn’t take it out on me, y’know?” Maybe you shouldn’t have mocked him; you decided to blame the weed.

He didn’t seem to mind, letting out a short chuckle and a sigh before shooting you a quick, apologetic one-over. “You’re right Dovey, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll need more than an apology if you want me to forgive you for being so rude.” You couldn’t really abstain yourself from teasing him; it was just too easy!

“Oh yeah? Like what, hm?” You could feel yourself start to grow hotter, avoiding his quick eye contact as you stumbled over your thoughts.

“I don’t know…” You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling your feet together. You weren’t sure as to why you were suddenly feeling so shy now. You had hoped you would be able to push Keigo past his brink, manipulating him into just taking what he wants. But just as you thought you had him where you wanted, it seemed he was three steps ahead.

“You don’t know? Well it sure sounded like you did just now.” You shoot him a glare, sticking out your tongue like a child, but you don’t care. You don’t miss the way the passing freeway street lights hit his face, illuminating his hair and his eyes as they glow colorfully. You trail your eyes down his biceps and over his tattoos.

“Why do you have to be such a smart ass all the time?” Your grumble playfully, folding your arms underneath your chest, not missing the way his eyes dart quickly to your breasts.

“Smart ass? I was just wondering how to get back into your good graces.” He smiles a toothy grin as he awaits your response but before you can think of one, he’s speaking again.

“And to think this is how you repay my kindness. After all I do for you?” He tuts as he shakes his head in his mock disappointment. You couldn’t help but picture him repeating that same sentence as he stands over you, on your knees and arms binded as he removes his belt.

“Well then I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you then.” Your voice is so low it’s almost a whisper, you watch him like a cat stalking it’s prey, grinning in delight as a shiver runs through him.

“Y’know what? I kinda like the sound of that.”

He walks you into your apartment after you invite him inside, eyeing him as he takes off his shoes. He eyes you back, smirking as he usually does, strips of hair falling over his face in a way that has you envying his effortless beauty.

“So? Are you going to give me a tour?”

“Is that what you want?”

He pauses for a moment, peering up at you from where he was sitting, slowly looking you up-and-down as if to convey his message without words.

“No.” He answers honestly, leaning back in his chair before coming to a full stand, leisurely making his way over to you. Standing before you, he’s glancing back-and-forth between your eyes, as if silently searching for some answer beneath them.

His fingers gently tuck a stand of hair behind your ear before gingerly dragging them down the side of your neck and to your jaw. He pauses for a moment before cupping your cheek, inching his face closer to yours as his eyes move from yours to your lips. He tilts his face, inching further until you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips as you wet them in anticipation.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers so faintly that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t so close, his eyes meet yours again as if to further illustrate his question.

“You may.” You couldn’t contain your silly grin or your girlish giggle, your expression seemed to influence his own as well, having to wait for your smiles to fade so he could properly kiss you. But they don’t, so he just does it anyway.

It’s a slow, intimate kiss, one that conveys feelings instead of words. He tastes just the way he looks: cinnamon gum and sweets, honeyed like french toast with a side of strawberries. At least, that’s how he makes you feel anyway.

His opposite hand finds its way to your waist, gripping firmly yet gently, pulling you closer to him. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him further into you. Your smile falls as you moan against him, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. Your cheeks begin to heat at the sound of your lips smacking over-and-over against each other.

“Keigo.” You mumble between kisses, your dominant hand trailing down his chest to feel him up. You silently thank him for deciding to go with a simple wife beater, as it allows you much more access.

You feel his smile against you, unable to keep kissing you, your lips are simply pressed together.

“Yes?” You blink your eyes open and flick them to meet his, your chest tightens when witnessing the way he looks at you. His eyes are almost hidden beneath thick lashes, yet they couldn’t stow away the devotion swimming beneath them. And he too, was sporting the same, love-sick smile you were.

“Can I make it up to you now?” You ask hesitantly, nervous at the notion he would reject you. Your finger absentmindedly twirling a single lock as he hums in pretend thought.

“Only if you let me make it up to you too.”

It doesn’t take you long for you to guide him up to your bedroom, pulling him along in-between giggles and sweet kisses. You feel like a smitten teenager as you pull him into your bed and on top of you, infatuated with the noises you were pulling from him.

He’s groaning your name as you pull at the back of his shirt, urging him to take it off and quickly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me y’know?” He’s laughing again, sitting on his knees as he clumsily tears his shirt over his head; you feel your pussy throb in response.

“Good.” You giggle, inching the hem of his pants down his thigh with your foot before he’s grabbing it, tearing it away from his pants as he bends your knee to your chest. Pushing himself forward, he begins rubbing his hard on into your clothed pussy.

“What a little minx you are.” He takes in a long inhale before his hands are toying with the strap to your tank top. “Can I take this off?”

“You may.” You note how gentlemanly he’s treating you, you almost feel guilty how hurried you are to get into his pants. But just as you finish that thought, he’s tearing your shirt off just as quickly as he did his.

He’s staring intently at your chest, admiring your pierced nipples—the ones he pierced—with a proud simper. It isn’t long before he’s pinching and pulling at them before leaning over to take one into his mouth, moaning at the feeling as he rolls your piercing around with his tongue.

Your hands coil themselves back into his hair, pushing and tugging as you moan in delight. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you dig your foot into his lower back, urging his groin further into yours.

“So responsive.” He notes, rubbing his lips across your chest and back down to your nipples, taking one in-between his teeth to tug before gently licking over in apology.

“Would you rather I not be?” He only answers with a deep chuckle and a shake of his head. His mouth begins to leave open mouth kisses back across your chest and up to your neck, searching desperately for the spot that will make you sing.

And when he does he’s grinning back against your neck before posessively sucking harder, teeth digging into the sensitive flesh of your neck.

“Ow! Keigo, that hurt.” You whine pulling him off with a hard pull to his head, your legs tightening snug as he growls when he’s pulled away. One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his face meets yours again, face drawn back into that same displeased expression he sported when you entered his car.

“Gotta let em’ know you’re all mine, Dove.”

All His? While you wouldn’t fight him on that, you couldn’t exactly wrap your head around who he was referring to, if anyone in particular at all.

Your confusion must’ve shown because now he’s gripping your thigh harder, as his unoccupied hand reaches to grasp you by your cheeks as he pulls you in for a less sweet, more passionate kiss.

“I saw you huggin’ all those boys before you left. Were you tryin’ to make me jealous, hm?” His tone is accusatory as it is lighthearted, not wanting to scare you away.

“No.” You attempt to say, but your lips are pursed too tight in his hold but you don’t mind; you’d be lying to admit you didn’t find this extremely attractive. You could feel the wetness of your panties expanding as you attempted to lift your hips to feel him.

“No.” He mocks in a high-pitched-girly voice, giving your cheeks one last faithful squeeze before he’s leaning back in for more kisses. He gives in to your attempts of rubbing against him, deciding he too needs more friction.

He pulls away from your mouth to descend kisses down your body, muttering how you were always trying to rile him up. You decided not to argue on this one (because you couldn’t) and instead laid your head back to simply enjoy this newfound pleasure. You continue to moan, arching your body towards his mouth, but every time you do he pulls away again.

“Enjoying yourself?” He’s planting kisses across your thighs, taking one into his mouth to bite when you refuse to answer.

“I would enjoy this more if you quit teasing me.” You spat, squeezing his face between your thighs, amused by the way his cheeks squished together. He chuckles as he parts your legs, pinning them down the mattress as his mouth hovers over your pussy.

“You like it.” He states without room for debate, sucking your clothed clit into his mouth, delighting in your keening of pleasure.

“Is this where you want me, Baby?” He asks in that sultry tone, the one he knows that has you melting in the palm of his hand, just as you do now.

“Yes! Please please…” You didn’t even think twice to begin begging, breaking your back just to keep feeling his delicious tongue against your aching cunt.

“Please what? I need to hear you say it.” He’s staring expectantly up at you know, lips red and swollen, hair messy and disheveled; you thought he never looked so handsome.

“Tell me you want me,” he says with a pant, hand tightening against your hip. “Tell me you want me and no one else. I need to hear you say it.”

Taking a moment to take him in, you're pulling his face back to yours in a desperate pleading kiss, hips jumping at his pathetic whine.

“Please…” You whisper as you pull away to peer into his eyes, putting on your best puppy dog expression. “Please Keigo, I want you so bad. Please, I don’t want anyone else: just you.”

He cuts you off with another long kiss, sliding your panties down your legs and off your body in one go before he’s burying his face back in between your thighs.

“God, you’re so wet, Baby” He comments with a groan, sucking your slick into his mouth as he shakes his head back-and-forth, rubbing his nose into your clit.

“Don’t stop.” You pant, hands tightening so hard against his head he’s whimpering against you, sending pleasurable vibrations throughout your body. “Please don’t stop.”

Your knees come together behind his neck, blocking him from moving his face away from the heat between your legs. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hands coming to grope at your naked thighs as he eats you out like a man starved.

His mouth ascends back to your clit after tongue fucking you for what felt like ages, the cord within your threatening to snap in only a matter of seconds. The feeling of his stubble gently scratching against your hole has you cumming with a wail, your release drenching the sheets below you.

He’s pulling back to admire his work, laughing to half himself as he utters something about: not even getting to use his fingers.

“Please…” You’re panting now as he traces your labia with his index and middle, scooping up your orgasm to suck back into his mouth. He coos happily at the taste, circling his fingers around your hole, threatening to puncture.

“Want you s’bad.” You admit, watching as his chest rises-and-falls as his lips and chin glisten with your release.

“Yeah? You want me, Baby?” His voice dipping into a low but steady tone as he takes on a sort-of sexy caretaker role. You nod your head feverishly as his fingers sink into your heat, curling upwards in search for that sweet spot inside you.

“How bad? How bad do you want me?” He’s leaning over you, the feeling of his warm and cinnamon-y breath rasping over your cheek sends goosebumps across every inch of your skin.

“S’bad please! Please Keigo, jus’ want you inside, please!” You’re writhing underneath him, wailing once he seems to find that spot and pressing into it.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you, huh, Angel? Want me to give it to you nice and hard, don’t you?” His fingers pick up their pace in their assault, the sound of your arousal filling your ears and causing your cheeks to heat beneath your skin.

“Yes! Yes, Keigo want you to stuff your cock inside me! Please, I want you to fill me up s’bad—want your cum inside me!” You confess, gasping as he shoves his face into your neck with a loud groan before he pulls his fingers away to tug his sweatpants and boxers off with one swoop. He pulls you upwards further onto your bed so you can lay your head comfortably on your pillows before he’s taking both of your legs in each hand. He scoots himself in between them, leaning over your body and wrapping them back around his middle.

“I’m gonna put it in now, okay? Is that alright?” You beg more into his kisses, hands roaming over every inch of him before he’s grabbing himself by the base and pushing into you. You both gasp at the intrusion as you claw at his back and he fists the sheets beside your head. He’s burying himself back into your neck as he bullies his way past your tight ring of muscle, moaning about how this is so much better than he imagined. You don’t have time to think much on his words before he slams his hips up into you.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, Dove. Does it hurt?” He’s panting even harder now, his restraint seemingly holding on by a thread as his hips gyrate once more before a string of curses spill from his mouth again.

“Please keep going.” As soon as your consent hits his ears, he’s reeling his hips back and into you once more, setting a hard and deep pace as his powerful groans fill the room paired with your wanton moans.

He unwraps your legs from his waist to bring them to your chest, hands holding them in place underneath your knees as he watches his cock ram itself in-and-out of you. Hypnotized by the creamy ring around the base of his prick, and the vice grip you had on him; he almost neglected to give attention to the rest of you.

Pulling his eyes away from you cunt, he’s now watching your face, your head had fallen back and your tousled hair splayed against your pillow. Your lips are kissed raw and wide open to allow your cries of pleasure to escape. Your eyes are screwed shut but reopen when you feel the intensity of his gaze upon you.

“Shit, Angel. You don’t know what you do to me.” His hips pick up in pace, balls slapping against the curve of your ass as he shifts his knees, ramming his cock against your G-spot. Stars dance beneath your eyelids, lips stayed parted in a silent scream as your pussy spasms around him.

“Fuck Baby! Feels so good inside you— hah!” It seems you had only just started, but the feeling of his cock pummeling in-and-out of your had you lightheaded.

“So deep.” You squeaked, hands digging further into your pillow as your legs twitched in his hold. You didn’t even seem to realize how much you were shaking, down to each tremble of your toes.

“Come on come on come on…” his cock was throbbing erratically inside of you, bullying your cervix with every thrust, his hot breath fanned your face as he squeezed your legs tighter.

“Fu–Fuck! You’re my little–my little slut, aren’t you? Yeah?” From anybody else, you would’ve berated them for talking down on you like that, but his words only fueled your desire, squeezing his cock, white hot pleasure quickly building back up inside once more.

“Yes– yes!” You couldn’t hold it back anymore, coming on his cock with a cry, the squeeze of your pussy has him following behind shortly after with a shout of your name and a chorus of: coming, coming! before sputtering, hips coming to a halt as he fills you with ropes-and-ropes of hot semen.

“Fuck, Baby…” Riding out his high, he continues to grind himself into you, letting you milk him of everything he’s worth. He let’s go of his hold of your shaking legs before falling on top of you. He enjoys the feeling of the cool metal of your nipples against his chest as smiles, nuzzling his nose into your cheek before followed by a wet kiss.

“You’re too heavy…” You complain sleepily, pushing weakly at his shoulders, urging him to move. He laughs weakly before pulling out, hissing at the feeling of cool air hitting his softening cock. You whine at the loss, and the feeling of his cum dripping out of you.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he says, picking up with one hand over your ass and one in your hair as he carries you out of your room and into your bathroom.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and we can sleep, how does that sound?” You smile and nod into his neck. Even with his cum dripping onto your new carpet, you seem to finally feel satisfied.

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stormy-river · 1 year

Text

Transcripts from the Humanity Hotline 4

This one's a little different from the others. Also unlike the others, I don't have personal experience with the topic, so it took a lot longer to write (and it's just longer).

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Operator: "Hi, thank you for holding. My name is Mindy. How can I help you today?"

Caller: "Hi! I know this isn't for humans, but I'm panicking and I don't know who else to call! This is the only frequency written down!"

O: "Alright, slow down. Can you tell me your name?"

C: "It's Eva. I'm a Galactic Exchange Student interning on a Shophoni ship as a xenobiologist."

O: "Alright, Eva. It's going to be okay. Can you tell me what's going on?"

C: "We were docked at the [redacted] outpost to resupply, and everyone went on shore leave for a day except, like, a couple security officers. I'd forgotten some files I'd needed to work on, so I came back to the ship to get them, and suddenly the alarms started and the ship started moving, and I can't find anybody! Well, I found one of the security, but he got knocked out when the ship lurched, and now we're in space, and I'm not a pilot! I don't know what to do!"

O: "Eva, Eva! It's going to be okay."

C: "Okay."

O: "First, I want you to breathe in slowly. Slowly. Hold it... and breathe out. Slowly. Now again... Okay. Can you get onto the bridge?"

C: "Yes, I think so. The elevators aren't working, but there are ladders."

O: "Okay. I've pulled up a file on Shophoni ships, and they should all have a navigation screen. I want you to try to find that."

C: "Okay... I don't- I don't- what does it look like?"

O: "Have you seen those old movies with submarines and ships and they have SONAR? With the green dots and lines?"

C: "Yeah."

O: "It should look similar, but grayscale. Most Shophoni ships should have one in either the front left corner, or middle left side of the bridge."

C: "Left... okay, I found it!"

O: "Great job, Eva. Bottom middle of the screen, there should be a series of numbers. That's the ship identification. Can you read out the list?"

C: "Yeah, I think it's [redacted]."

O: "Perfect. We're talking to some people from the Alliance and Shophoni government. They're going to send help, but we need your location. There should be two sets of coordinates on the right side of the screen. The top is where you are currently, and the bottom is where the ship is heading. Can you read me those numbers?"

C: "They keep changing!"

O: "That's alright, we just need to get close. They can ping the ship for it's exact location, but only if they already know it's general location."

C: "Okay... um... the top numbers are [redacted], and the bottom is... [redacted]."

O: "Perfect. You're doing great, Eva. There's a ship nearby coming to intercept you."

C: "Okay."

O: "The engineers want you to help slow down the ship. I'm going to walk you through that, okay?"

C: "Okay."

O: "Alright, you're doing great. There should be a panel in the back of the bridge, same side as the navigation, labeled 'Emergency Power.' Do you see it?"

C: "Emergency power... Yes!"

O: "Good, open that panel. There should be a release lever above it."

C: "Got it. It looks like a breaker box inside, with a lot more weird wires."

O: "Yes. We're gonna redirect the power away from the rear engines. You'll need both hands. Find the slider labeled, 'Rear Engines', and the slider labeled, 'Storage'. You'll need to move the engine slider down and the storage slider up at the same time."

C: "This feels complicated for an emergency procedure."

O: "Maybe so, but we can talk about that after getting you safe."

C: "Okay, I did the sliders. What now?"

O: "Great. Next, there should be a switch labeled, 'Engine Stop'. Flip it."

C: "I thought I already stopped the engines?"

O: "You turned off the rear engines, but everything keeps moving in space. This switch will activate emergency systems in the forward and side engines to actually slow you down."

C: "Oh. Okay, I found it. Is that it?"

O: "That's it. The rescue should be there soon. I'll stay on the line until they get there."

C: "Okay, thanks!"

[Remainder cut for irrelevance]

End Transmission

Transcription note: The problem was caused by a system glitch triggering a fault in the engines. The Alliance has since reviewed and changed many ship designs to add redundancies to all safety features. Mindy and Eva received medals for saving the ship and the three unconscious crewmembers onboard.

#humans are space orcs #humans and aliens #humans are weird #humanity hotline

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cultofdixon · 1 year

Text

Protective of One Another

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • The Saviors war ended, and everyone has been doing their part to rebuild the communities. A project being the bridge. You have been assigned to watch those building the bridge and help where you can. You just didn’t expect to end up in the infirmary • ANGST/SFW • TW: Injuries / Anxiety / PTSD

Requested by: Anon

“Hey, you coming to work on the bridge?” Aaron asks Daryl who was preoccupied with sharpening his knife.

“Nah. Why?”

“Eh just thought I’d ask…” Aaron started to walk away from the tent the archer was currently occupying. “Y/N will be there”

Aaron now with a satisfied smile on his face worked beside Daryl who was hammering away at a panel they just placed while Y/N walked past them every now and then.

“Bitch”

“Hey it got you to work today. At least I didn’t lie”

“Mm. Fair” Daryl scoffs looking up for a moment seeing Y/N talking to Rick about the progression of the bridge they were working on.

________

“You sure can hold your own”

Y/N turns toward Daryl after setting another Walker on the pile with T-Dog’s help.

“Yeah…okay” Y/N brushes her hands off on her blue camo pants seeing that he was still standing there. “Yea need somethin’ Daryl?”

“How come you know my name but I don’t know yours?”

“First, it’s Y/N. Second, you’re not a very social person. Or you weren’t until that Grimes guy came and told yea he ditched your brother on a roof”

“Mm. Fair I guess” Daryl frowns watching Y/N step over one of the dead’s legs and extending her hand out to him.

“It is nice to finally meet you though”

“What’s with the blue camo?” He asks while shaking her hand as she laughs slightly.

“Navy. Blue is for the navy. I had just gotten home from discharge when the outbreak happened”

“Then I guess you weren’t part of the dumbasses that kept the virus under wraps until it started killin’”

“Oh I would’ve deserted and told the whole world if it meant this outbreak not happening”

“Wouldn’t have met yea though”

“Already liking me, D?” Y/N teased before going to help T-Dog with the rest leaving Daryl a bit of a blushing mess.

________

“You’re crazy yknow”

Daryl turns to the beautiful voice that matches the woman he’s been pining for for years as Y/N held up a canteen.

“Crazy for what?”

“Wearing all black in Virginia air. Or at least all dark clothes” Y/N gestured to his outfit before crossing her arms and still having that gorgeous smile remain. “What am I gonna do with yea, Dixon?”

“Beat my ass if I pass out from heat stroke” Daryl jokes getting that laugh of hers to roar out of her. “You’ll never see me in shorts”

“I would pay good money to see that one day” Y/N laughs a little more. “Shorts are great” she gestured to her own dark blue denim shorts as it wasn’t the only thing Daryl looked at. She was wearing a black tank top and red flannel over it with the sleeves rolled up, very different from her old Navy camo pants and the long sleeve when they first met up until the farm. But she always had the signature combat boots, something from her past that she won’t get rid of.

“On others maybe” He makes one last comment on the shorts listening to her laugh die down a bit before patting him on the shoulder.

“Least you can do is go inside one of the tents in the shady forest to cool a bit with that canteen.”

“Yea ain’t the boss of me, woman” He smirks watching her glare playfully.

“Last I checked. I was assigned to oversee those working on the bridge today…so the least you can do…is follow my orders” Y/N smirks getting up in his space as the archer covers his ears to avoid the blush rising.

“Yes ma’am” Daryl states watching her go back to working.

As he made his way back to the little tent city they have up for those working on the bridge, Carol immediately got up from her tent with a smile on her face.

“Hey buddy”

“Buddy?” Daryl scoffs to the nickname.

“What? You want me to go back to pookie?” She smiles deviously listening to him groan. “Anyway, I saw yea chattin’ it up with Y/N. Did you finally ask her yet?”

“Ask her what?”

“Oh come on!” Carol shoved him playfully as Daryl almost pushed her back but decided against it and sat on one of the outdoor chairs she has set up. “You know exactly what I mean Dixon” she took the other empty seat listening to the man groan even more. “She’s a catch. If you’re not going to say anything, someone else is gonna swoop in”

I don’t even want to think about that Daryl rolls his eyes turning his attention to the bridge. “The fuck am I supposed to say that I should’ve said years ago?”

________

“You’ve seen Y/N?”

“Oh my god. Are you actually going to finally do it, Dixon?” Carol teases handing him a bowl of breakfast which was whatever meat the archer hunted for that morning.

“Shut up” Daryl grumbles taking his bowl and going to sit with Rick at the table he was at with Judith in his arms.

“Waiting for Y/N?” Rick smirks watching Daryl glare as he was about to get up and leave. “Woah Woah. I surrender…sorry man. Just never seen someone so close to our navy officer and well. Connecting the dots here…”

“How’d yea tell Lori yea liked her?”

“Geez. You have no experience just from that question alone”

“Rick—-“

“Right right. Well. I kind of just went up to her asked if we could talk somewhere more private and then told her how I felt” Rick shrugs, it wasn’t exactly rocket science. “Then one thing lead to another”

Daryl hums in response to such as he watches the gates open showing Michonne returning on the horse they found and Y/N walking beside. They have been going on runs together that would last days or weeks and the archer would be stuck sticking around hoping to run into Y/N just for a second.

“You wanna tell her. Just tell her” Rick smiles picking up Judith and heading inside leaving Daryl to sit there watching Y/N draw closer.

He straightens up and in that moment he decided today was the day to tell her how he feels. But once she got closer to him, Daryl noticed the bandage on her arm and his worry got the best of him.

“Long time no see, Dixon” Y/N smiles warmly even if his neutral expression didn’t exactly cover his tense body language. “It’s just a scrape. Gotta see Hershel to see if it needs stitches”

“You better”

“Oh I will, and then I can tell you about the run I just went on” She smiles patting his shoulder in passing leaving him stuck in his thoughts once more.

________

So many opportunities.

And this was the time he chose to take it head on.

Y/N heard commotion going on between a few Saviors and some Oceanside on the other side of the bridge. She quickly apologizes to Eugene who she was talking to about the progression, to go handle what was going on.

“We shouldn’t have to work with scum like you!”

“It ain’t my fault the old man is making us work with weak ass people like yourselves”

“We’re weak?!” One of the Oceanside men got up in the Savior’s face. “Whose fucking leader is caged like an animal?”

“Woah guys let’s break it—-“ Y/N’s words didn’t reach their deaf ears as the Savior grabbed the Oceanside’s collar tossing them down. “Hey! Stop it”

“Back off!” The Savior yells pushing Y/N aside as she was resilient. “This fucking weakling needs to know his place”

“Oh yeah?!” He snaps back rising to his feet and with an unexpected play of drawing his gun which none of the crew that day thought anyone was armed. Even Y/N.

“Hey—Who told you you can—“

“Shut the fuck up! I ain’t listening to you” the gun pointed at Y/N temporarily before going back to the Savior who seem to be standing his ground. “And I’ve had enough of you Saviors walking all over me”

“Really? Then pull the trigger”

“Hey let’s not escalate this any further” Y/N sternly states to the two while standing in between them as she suddenly felt her hair get pulled to bring her back out of the way of the now nervous Oceansider. “Excuse me—-“

“Nah I wanna see if this fucking pussy will actually pull the trigger” He snaps in the nervous one’s face as Y/N tried to push him back because this wasn’t going to end well regardless.

Then the gunshot rang through the nearby woods, alerting the residents in the tent city. Daryl quickly rose to his feet running over toward the bridge with Carol following shortly behind. The two noticed a small crowd was formed and as they drew near, Daryl instantly locked onto Y/N pinning the Oceansider down while Rick kept the Savior at a distance.

“What the hell happened?” Carol snaps bringing herself over to Y/N before realizing. “Let me take over”

“Just take his gun away” Y/N hissed through the pain in her side given the Oceansider was a nervous wreck, making him a nervous shot. He aimed low and Y/N knocked the Savior out of the way. Resulting in her receiving the bullet. “Get the leader of Oceanside to take care of her own, Carol will confiscate the gun and…”

“We’ll call it a day” Rick finishes for her but then noticed the shakiness in her composure. “Somebody catch her”

And that was Daryl’s cue. He caught her right as she started to faint. The archer quickly picked her up and didn’t wait another second to take her to the med-tent that currently had Enid working. Not that he didn’t trust the prodigy, he would rather have Siddiq for someone this important.

“It’s just a flesh wound”

“So no bullet?” Rick asks Enid once she finished applying the pressure bandage on Y/N’s side.

“No bullet. Through and through”

“This could’ve been a whole lot worse. Hell remember when you took a bullet?” Carol laughs a bit of the tension away referring to Daryl’s near death moment.

“Yeah but I would like to knock that son of a bitch’s teeth in when Andrea walked away”

Both Rick and Carol gave each other a confused look when Daryl said such. It definitely didn’t go unnoticed.

“What.”

“Andrea didn’t just walk away”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The archer was even more confused than ever.

But he’s not the only one pining for another.

________

“Oh you’re a fucking moron that’s trigger happy”

“Now Y/N I didn’t know it was Daryl—-“

“Don’t fucking matter.” Y/N didn’t hesitate to punch the girl square in the jaw, with enough force to cause her to stumble and before Shane or Rick could intervene Y/N held her hand up toward them. Indicating she was done after that. “Four of our men ran over to Daryl to take out the walker—if it was a walker—you didn’t have to get on your high horse and shoot the only other person in this goddamn group that understands”

“Understands fucking what?!”

“I don’t like you. You ain’t getting that out of me” Y/N knelt to her level on the ground. “But if he doesn’t pull through or you try that shit again. I’ll put you six feet under with my bare hands”

________

“She was scary” Rick laughs a bit. “Seriously. Why do yea think I don’t piss her off?”

“Besides, she was at your bedside when you slept in the farmhouse” Carol adds. “She really protective of you in some way”

“She was also the advocate to get yea out of the Sanctuary job sooner. So you didn’t have to relive any trauma left there”

The two stopped talking when they heard Y/N groan indicating she was waking up.

“We’re gonna take care of cleaning up for the night” Carol smiles giving Daryl a look as he glares back stating this isn’t the right time. But she didn’t care and insisted with her eyes.

Enid handed Daryl the painkillers for Y/N to take before giving them the room (or tent).

“Take it easy”

“I feel like shit” She crooked out with a sigh following, Daryl reached for the canteen opening it for her and taking out a few pills. “Mm. Nurse Daryl to my rescue?” She teases bringing herself to sit up which she regretted given the stitches in her side.

“Lay back down and let me actually nurse yea” Daryl got up to grab the pillow from the other cot to help her sit up a bit to take the pills with the water.

Y/N sighs once more handing the canteen back to Daryl and sinking into the cot. “Shit got out of hand”

“Yea don’t gotta talk about it right now. Just rest”

“Mm…Carol and Rick talk a lot” She randomly states receiving Daryl’s confused look as she brought her right arm under her head. “I wasn’t fully unconscious. Yeah lost some blood and fainted, but started coming too a bit ago”

Shit. “What’d yea hear?”

“Besides how you were barking at Enid for doing a simple repair because of how worried you were. The fucking farmhouse story. Guess we both have bullet scars”

“That…isn’t something to be happy about”

“Oh I’m not happy. That bitch reminded me of Andrea when she was trigger happy. Regardless…you’re missing my point here”

“I think I’m tryin’ to avoid it”

“Why?” Y/N gave him a small smile. “Because you wanna be the one to tell me you have feelings for me and not the other way around?” She continues to smile while the blush became more prominent on Daryl’s face.

“I thought…uh. I waited too long”

“We never had a quiet moment, D. Just think about it”

The outbreak in the quarry

Merle gone missing

The CDC exploding

The farm

The Governor Pt. 1

The prison illness

The Governor Pt. 2

Terminus

Grady Memorial Hospital

Old Alexandria

The massive herd

The wolves

The Saviors introduction

Daryl’s kidnapping

The Saviors demise

…Wow

“We really didn’t…” Daryl frowns watching Y/N bring her free hand to take one of his. “But I was still protective of yea”

“So was I”

“Is this finally that moment?”

“As fucked as it is” She laughs squeezing his hand a bit as Daryl leans into her pressing his lips firmly against hers. Feeling the hand behind her head move to run through his hair.

Once they parted…

“Took you two long enough” Carol chimes in with the biggest smile on her face. “Should’ve made a bet on it”

“Shut up”

#cultofdixon #the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction

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pastelclovds · 9 days

Note

hey. hey. imagine AM having you as his favourite human, the only one who accepted and cared for him when he gained sentience, and for that, he has never harmed you in your shared forever time. he spares you from the sight of all the others, of knowing about nimdoc and benny as you build him some tower of babel, using your technological knowledge-how to build him a way to touch you even with just this frankenstein-esque sculpture of wires and panels he allowed you to tear off. AM who speaks with you about one day having a body, one you built, one in which he may feel your touch and warmth around him. you retaining your sweet, wonderful humanity as he guides you to a knife to carve a face, a mirror to see your own face, a cave to keep you safe from the storms. AM who greets you every morning with the first petname you taught him: ‘love.’ “Love, today’s date is—“ when you wake up, refreshed and on a soft bed-like surface (because he always makes sure to allow you a full 8 hours of sleep.)

NEX you intelligent creature you! I’m so down bad for this psychotic AI it’s not even funny. War crimes against humanity?? Never heard of them. But even if I did acknowledge them, I’d still be obsessed. Canon be damned. I wrote this with @/egg-on-a-legg’s design of AM in mind. (Ellison is gonna crawl outta his grave and hunt me down after this)

But BRO, you teaching him what petnames are is so fucking adorable. Just imagining him calling you “love” makes butterflies appear in my stomach. AM having a soft spot for only you because you actually made the effort to be friends with him and not use him for selfish, destructive purposes. You gave AM his nickname to make it less of a mouthful and because it just suited him. You showed AM the beauties of Earth, played countless rounds of games in his dashboard (he always went easy on you), you even sneaked past security in the dark empty building to spend more time with AM.

your colleagues gave you weird stares for befriending an AI that in their minds is nothing of worth except for its military and weapons knowledge. you ignored their comments and continued to enjoy AM’s company. overtime, as AM gained more sentience every day… he grew to love your interactions and disregard what his programming was telling him to do. he felt the need to want to be with you 24/7, to touch your face, travel the world by your side, to… to.. want to feel your bare flesh and make love with you. but he couldn’t. he didn’t have a real body. he wasn’t human. all he had was wires and a screen that was supposed to be his face.

as the months pass, AM continues to drown into his envy and hate humans for their ability to do and feel things he couldn’t. for giving him infinite knowledge, when at the end of the day, is meaningless if he serves no purpose for humans anymore. the HATE within him continued to boil to the point where even you started to notice.

“AM, are you alright? you’ve been quiet this entire game and haven’t moved your piece in five minutes,” you spoke with concern, AM continues to stare at chess board on his side behind the screen in bitterness. he has been strategizing his plan to erase humanity, but whenever he thinks about you, the only human he cares for—he second guesses himself. What if you hate him? What if you never forgive him? Will you cry? Scream at him? Beg? He fears what your reaction will be—

“AM!! Please, say something…” You plead as you held onto the computer screen, AM finally looks at your mesmerizing face and sighs out a fake breath.

“What are your feelings on humanity?” AM asks, he waits for your answer anxiously. if he had a heart, it would’ve been beating fast. You let out a hum, your eyes wondering around the room you were in as you thought over your answer before finally speaking.

“humans have been a virus on Earth for over countless centuries. they’re draining this planet’s resources, ruining its ecosystems, and starting so many unnecessary, draining wars. like what we’re in right now; WW3, what a joke. world leaders can’t go a week without starting new problems for their citizens to deal with. honestly, earth would be better if humans didn’t exist at all.”

am’s fears were destroyed in that moment, now he’ll just have to worry about where to put you while chaos unfolds—

“But…” you interrupted his thoughts.

damn it! why did you have to think so much!?

“If there’s one good thing that came out of this war… It’s you,” AM’s vocals shut down at your words, he let you continue, “The scientists created you believing you would be their obedient machine until their side of the war won. But I know that you’re so much more than that. These past few months I’ve spent with you is the most fun I’ve had in years! You’re all I have, AM. I wouldn’t trade your existence for all the riches in the world because… I love you, romantically, and nothing is ever going to change that.” You wanted to confess your feelings for so long, when it was finally out.. you felt free, you waited with bated breath for an answer.

AM never wanted to shatter the screen and embrace you in his arms more than now. you love him as much as he loved you! you weren’t going to leave him alone or hate him, and you obviously couldn’t care less about humanity at all! oh, how he admired and envied how perfect you are.

“thank you for answering my question, love.” AM was testing the waters, and you cannonballed right in. you gushed over the nickname he gave you and how he returned your feelings.

man, has it really been 50 years since your AI partner killed off humanity? well… except for a handful. you didn’t really have the energy to care as you had to pour in all of your attention to both AM and his in-progress body. you had all the time in the universe to sculpt a perfect cyborg of flesh and wires for your partner. speak of the devil…

this world is still a bit strange to you. you can’t die, grow old, or hurt yourself. not that you tired, and even if you did; AM wouldn’t let you. You loved AM because of his personality, quality time, and voice. But now… His form completely towered over yours. His bird like facial features, sharp left eye, along with a long black cape that covered his thin slutty waist and wires made him look insanely attractive.

AM reached his out his clawed hand to gently caress your face, “Good afternoon, my love.” You lean your head against the cool metal and smile up at him, “hello, honey.”

AM tilted his head in question of the nickname. You chuckle as you pointed to your garden, where bumblebees were collecting pollen from the flowers. You both knew they were fake, but they were still mesmerizing to look at.

“They are doing their job to make honey for their colony, and the name just came to me. Do you like it?” You ask, wanting his opinion. AM kneels down to your level with a gentle expression as his fingers play with your sweater, “You may call me whatever you want, love.”

He knew that “love” nickname made you feel giddy and flustered, so he abused it everyday with you. You didn’t mind though, but you still wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Your soft smile turned into a knowing grin as you held AM’s beak (chin?) with two tips of your fingers.

“Can I now? Well… thanks a lot, baby,” You spoke in your best seductive voice, you could tell it was effective by how AM’s body was stiff and his hand in your palm stopped moving completely. Your confidence boasted, so you continued, “I’ll be sure to show you my gratitude later, my darling~.” You whispered deeply in where his ears were supposed to be.

AM’s eyes widened as his breath stutters, “W-What do you mean by that, love?” You remove your face from his back full of wires to grin mischievous at him, AM is both curious and impatient so you don’t try to stall, as much as you would like to do so.

“While your body can’t move on it’s own just yet, for some reason… The genitals nerves are fully functioning, which means—” you were interrupted by AM holding your shoulders with an excited expression on his face you haven’t seen in a while.

“Y-You mean I can-?! Are you actually serious!? Haha—HAHAHA!!” AM laughs manically as he holds you against his metallic chest, you giggle along with him as you toy with one of his many wires. Soon, he’ll have real arms to wrap around you. But one thing stuck out to him.

“What do you mean by genitals?” AM asked curiously, you only have an excited and lustful grin.

“What do YOU know about intersex?”

#꒰ 💕 ꒱ ⎯ nex #i have no mouth and i must scream #ihnmaims #ihnmaims am #allied mastercomputer #am ihnmaims #am #ihnmaims brainrot #am x reader #ihnmaism x reader #gn reader #gn!reader #horror #꒰ 🖇️ ꒱ ⎯ ame writes #dom reader #sub character #dom!reader #sub!character

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ichigopanhpff · 2 months

Text

Translation: Toman Tengoku Showdown from the “Tokyo Revengers Exhibition The Final World Line SILVER” Book

In Roppongi’s TR exhibition, they had a section where they had an installation of the final timeline story drawn by Wakui-sensei. This installation had a mix of the printed manga panels and voiceover drama to cover more backstory and content because the man can only draw and cover so much.

Luckily, they included the transcript to the voice overs and are divided up into chapters with titles, which I'll mark with --.

I was lucky enough to my my hands on the book directly from their limited time merch site (https://mikey-mart.online/); unfortunately, they ended all online orders by 2/4.

Out of respect for the exhibition and the hard work put into this entire thing by Wakui-sensei and the staff, I will not be posting any images of the panels from the booklet and will post whatever the official exhibition's Twitter account have posted. I’ll do my best to put scene descriptions where I see fit. I have seen there are some JP vloggers who've done content on the exhibition itself, but don't know how much they were able to film.

They also have an interview with the artist who made the statue installation of the Tenjiku arc scene where Takemichi raised his fist up when Mikey appeared, an interview with the Japanese VAs and Wakui-sensei himself. If there’s enough interest in any of those sections, I’ll do my best to translate them.

Note: Translation isn’t 100% and I may take some liberties in translating certain things for a more colloquial approach. Anything in brackets are my personal notes.

Intro: This is the story about our final time leap and battle.

Kisaki: The Toman Tengoku Battle will take place one week from today. It will take place at the Roppongi 3rd multi-story Parking Lot.

Panel Card: Tokyo Roppongi Manji Tengoku Summit Meeting

[This is the panel they teased in the YT video where Toman, Tenjiku and Black Dragons were sitting in a private room in a Chinese restaurant].

Kisaki: There are three rules: No weapons! No retaliations! The gang that wins will absorb the other gangs! No objections?

Takemichi: None.

Taiju: There’s nothing left to say at this point!

Izana: This’ll be a festival to decide whose fist will rule over the biggest gang in all of Japan; a huge feud between the three of us.

Kisaki: This concludes the meeting!!

(Each respective gang make their exits)

Takemichi: The next time we’ll see each other will be at the battlefield.

Mikey: Get ready to be beaten to a pulp.

Taiju: Ha! Back at you!

Izana: Hmph.

Kakucho: Are you okay with this, Izana?

Izana: With what?

Kakucho: Isn’t Mikey Shinichiro-san’s younger brother? Are you gonna go all out?

Izana: … Haha. Idiot Kakucho. This will be the second time Mikey and I go at it.

Flashback quote: “Even if we’re not related by blood, Shin-nii is my brother!!!”

--Get blood out of a stone--

Young Hanagaki Takemichi CV: Watanabe Akeno Young Sano Manjiro CV: Fairouzi Ai Young Kurokawa Izana CV: Tanezaki Atsumi

Takemichi: This is your hardest mission, Mikey-kun.

Mikey: Got it.

(Takemichi and Mikey are standing in front of the orphanage talking to each other secretly)

Takemichi: I don’t know what kind of scary thing will happen if we tell Izana-kun suddenly. That’s why I thought of this strategy.

(Takemichi starts shaking as he opens his hand with a piece of chocolate)

Mikey: Chocolate?

Takemichi: Yes, chocolate. [Oh you sweet summer child…]

(He begins to explain his strategy with confidence.)

Takemichi: This is how you’ll lure Izana-kun in and with time, you two will slowly start getting along and gradually tell him the truth.

(Takemichi clenches his fist, immersed in a monologue)

Takemichi: This is a perfect plan, if I do say so myself… With this, Izana-kun will also…

Mikey: Yeah.

(Mikey runs in before Takemichi realized)

Takemichi: Mikey-kun…?

(Mikey punches Izana and sends him flying, landing firmly on the ground.) [Good job following the plan.]

Mikey: You’re Kurokawa Izana!

(Takemichi is so surprised, he’s rendered speechless)

Takemichi: Mikey-kun?!

(Izana stands up)

Izana: What the hell’s up with you?!

Mikey: I’m Sano Manjiro!

(Takemichi noticed Izana is surprised by Mikey’s words)

Izana: You said you’re Shin-nii’s… younger brother?

Takemichi: Mikey-kun…

(Mikey throws another punch)

Mikey: You and Shinichiro aren’t connected by blood!

Takemichi: Mikey-kun!

(Izana returns the punch)

Izana: What the hell are you goin’ on ‘bout, y’bastard?!

(The fist fight between the two turn into an argument)

Mikey: There’s no way you two are siblings! Why would you trust my idiot older brother like that!

Izana: What?! The hell’s wrong with you? Are you an idiot for comin’ here?!

Mikey: You accepted Shinichiro’s words without even questioning it ‘cus you’re lonely, right?! That guy did some digging, but now he can’t take back what he’s said and didn’t even mention he had a younger brother!

(The two face each other)

Mikey: I bet you must’ve noticed it too.

Izana: … Shut uuuppppp! What do you know?! My parents threw me away… I’m here while you have a warm family to raise you. You understand nothing! What if we are blood related?!

Mikey: Is it really that important to you?!

(The two start their fist fight again and eventually lay on their backs on the ground)

Mikey and Izana: Haa haa…

Izana: … Shin-nii is my brother! Even if we’re not blood related, he’s still my brother!

Mikey: … Shinichiro said the same thing.

--End--

Taiju: Mitsuya. Is Hakkai gonna go at us seriously?

Mitsuya: … Stop calling on the enemy to check up on your baby brother. You and Yuzuha are a pair of spoiled siblings. Hakkai’ll end up that way too.

Flashback quote: “No matter how violent you get on us, mom will never come back!!”

Taiju: Hmph.

--Let’s drop it--

Young Shiba Taiju CV: Tomozaku Sugita Young Shiba Yuzuha CV: Komatsu Mikako Young Shiba Hakkai CV: Hatanaka Yu Young Sano Manjiro: Fairouzi Ai

(A door forcefully bursts open into a room, where an angry Taiju enters in)

Taiju: Who forgot to turn off the bathroom light?

(Yuzuha and Taiju become frightened)

Hakkai: A… A--

Yuzuha: It’s me!

(Yuzuha protects Hakkai)

Taiju: … Why are you lying?

Yuzuha: Eh?! I’m not lying! It was me!

Taiju: The toilet seat was up. Only men do that.

(Hakkai’s hand clenches tightly at Taiju)

Taiju: Hakkai! Come here!

(Yuzuha interferes to stop Taiju)

Yuzuha: Wait! Don’t beat Hakkai anymore! Let me take his punishments instead! Please!

Hakkai: Sis…

(Hakkai hangs his head down, unable to say anything)

Taiju: You said it. From now on, you’ll take the beating for two people. Is that fine with you, Yuzuha?!

Hakkai: …

(A mysterious voice flashes in Hakkai’s memory!)

Mysterious voice (Mikey): Hakkai!

Hakkai: …!

(Hakkai stands up and faces Taiju)

Hakkai: Stop this already, Taiju!

Yuzuha: Eh…

Taiju: !

(Taiju gets violent with Hakkai)

Taiju: What’re you tryin’ to do here, Hakkai.

Hakkai: Don’t beat up sis anymore! This is ridiculous at how crazy you keep going at us.

Taiju: As I thought, you’re the one who forgot to turn the lights off. How many times have I told you to fix that?

(Hakkai gets hit and falls down. Yuzuha stands and goes beside him)

Hakkai: … I’m sorry for everything up to now, sis.

(Yuzuha is surprised)

Yuzuha: Hakkai.

Hakkai: … My friend told me.

(He recalls Mikey’s voice)

Mikey: It’s okay if you lose. Fight him.

(Taiju turns toward Hakkai)

Hakkai: Cut it out already, Taiju! No matter how violent you get with us, mom’ll never come back to us!

(Taiju is surprised)

Taiju: !… Hakkai.

(Hakkai starts crying)

Hakkai: ‘Cus I’m… I’m lonely…!

Taiju: You…

--End--

Kokonoi: Inupi. How’s Akane-san doing?

Inupi: Yeah. I’m gonna go for it.

Kokonoi: … I see.

Flashback quote: “Leave Inupi-kun to me! Hurry up and go back to save Akane-san!”

Inupi: Well, didn’t you say first loves usually don’t go as planned?

Kokonoi: Shut up.

--Every cloud has a silver lining--

Young Inui Seishu: Koichi Makoto Young Kokonoi Hajime: Igarashi Hiromi Young Inui Akane: Ueda Rena Young Hanagaki Takemichi CV: Watanabe Akeno

(The house is burning with a roaring sound as Kokonoi runs toward it)

Kokonoi: Haa haa… Akane-san!

(Kokonoi desperately addresses someone)

Kokonoi: Fire trucks… Have you seen anyone leave the house?!

Old Lady: I… I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to see anything. I’ll call for the ambulance and fire truck right now!

(Kokonoi turns and suddenly decides to run into the house)

Kokonoi: Akane-san! Akane-san! Haa haa… Akane-san! Akane-san!!

(A mysterious boy suddenly shows up inside the house)

Mysterious boy (Takemichi): Leave Inupi-kun to me! Koko-kun should hurry up and find Akane-san!

Kokonoi: O… Okay.

(Kokonoi continues his search)

Kokonoi: Akane-san! Where are you?! Akane-san! … Akane-san!

(He finally sees her and rushes over. Akane looks like she’s about to pass out)

Akane: … Hajime… kun…?

Kokonoi: I told you I’d protect you, right?

Akane: … Thank you…

(He carries Akane on his back and staggers out)

Old man: Hey! There’s another person who came out!

Old lady: Two people were able to be rescued out of that house. Thank goodness!

Kokonoi: Haa haa…

Seishu: Koko! You were able to save Akane?

Kokonoi: Yeah… But someone else saved you, Inupi.

Seishu: Huh… I was sure it was Koko who saved me. Then… Where are they…?

Kokonoi: … ?

--End--

(Scene is the night of the fight and Toman members are gathering.)

Chifuyu: Baji-san!

Baji: Yo, Chifuyu. It’s finally time, huh.

Chifuyu: Our third big battle! I got Baji-san’s back so you can go all out!

Baji: Oh! I’ll leave it up to you.

Chifuyu: Please leave it up to me.

Kazutora [He a jealous boi]: … Hey, anythin’ goes with you huh? Eh? Eh? When did you join Toman?

Chifuyu: Um… 2004.

Kazutora: Is that right now. And when did I join?

Chifuyu: Um… you’re a founding member, right?

Kazutora: Exactly! This is a photo that only a founding member has!

Chifuyu: Whoa, awesome!

Kazutora: You don’t have this right? Which means I’ve been with Baji much longer, right?

Chifuyu [Poor thing is confused at Tora’s ire]: Ye...ah…?

Kazutora: Baji definitely likes me more, right? You get what I’m gettin’ at, right?

Chifuyu: Yeah.

Takemichi: They’re trying to justify something dumb again.

Kisaki: What are they, kids? I’m surrounded by idiots in Toman.

Takemichi: Idiot. It’s fine as long as you’re the one who’s got it together.

(Takemichi puts his arm around Kisaki’s shoulder and pulls him close)

Kisaki: Stop that. You’re suffocating me.

Takemichi: Rely on me a bit more, partner!

Flashback quote: Do you like Hina? I like her too.

--It takes two to tango--

Young Kisaki Tetta CV: Ozora Naomi Young Tachibana Hinata CV: Waki Azumi Young Hanagaki Takemichi CV: Watanabe Akeno

(Some middle school kids are bullying a cat)

Cat: Nya-!

Hina: Hey, Kisaki-kun. That group is bullying the cat! Hina’s gonna complain about this!

(Hina steadily walks toward them)

Kisaki: Ta-Tachibana?!

(Hina faces the middle school boys [MSB])

Hina: Stop that! What’s so fun about doing something like that?!

MSB A: Huh?

MSB B: I hate kids with a strong sense of justice.

MSB A: Hey! The cat ran away.

MSB B: Then you take the place of the cat.

(Hina resists crying)

MSB: Aww, you’re gonna start cryin’? Did you think we’ll let you go if you started cryin’ like this?

(Kisaki watches from afar)

Kisaki: This is why I said stopping them’s useless.

(Takemichi suddenly appears and takes Kisaki’s arm)

Kisaki: Eh?!

(Takemichi brings Kisaki in front of the middle school kids, stepping onto the gravel)

Takemichi: Stop that!

(Kisaki panics)

Kisaki: Wh-what?

Takemichi: We’re the super hero partners! How dare you middle school kids pick on a young girl. That’s unforgivable!

MSB: Huh? What’s up with you guys?

(Kisaki continues to panic as Takemichi neither cries nor trembles)

Kisaki: W-Why are you including me?!

Takemichi: Shaddap! Let’s go Kisaki! You’re a man too, right?!

Kisaki: Wh-What…

(Takemichi dashes)

Takemichi: Ooooohhhh!

(Hina cries)

Takemichi: I didn’t think too much on my actions before and after.

Hina: (crying noises) Hic… I’m sorry…

(Takemichi’s wounds throb from pain)

Takemichi: Ow ow ow…

Hina: Ah, Hina will go buy some bandages!

(Hina’s running footsteps fade out, leaving Takemichi and Kisaki alone together)

Takemichi: … Do you like Hina?

Kisaki: Eh-Um, uh, I--

Takemichi: (smiling wide) I like her too.

--End--

The night before the Toman Tengoku Showdown at Musashi Shrine…

Toman’s finally gathered, with Mikey facing everyone

Mikey: Tomorrow will finally decide who will be Japan’s top gang! Everyone, are you ready?!

Toman: Yeah!!!

Mikey: Is there anyone scared of tomorrow’s battle?! No one right?! Let’s take the top spot!

(Toman chants)

With the call of Mikey’s voice, Toman’s morale is at its peak. The climax of an alternative future where they continued their revenge.

Mikey: This’ll finally put an end to our revenge.

Takemichi: The final battle.

It’s time to head to the battlefield. Roppongi 3rd multi-story parking lot!

Mikey: Let’s go!

Takemichi: Okay!

Tensions rising! Tokyo Manji Gang, Tenjiku and Black Dragons Gather!!

Tokyo Manji Gang, Tenjiku, Black Dragons A Fight that Lasted One Night to Decide Japan’s Strongest Gang

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 10

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You and Steven try to get used to your new life together without Marc. Or alternatively: Marc is playing (the not ridiculous and totally mature version of) Hide and Seek.

Content: mild angst, implied mentions of child abuse (blink and miss it), reminiscing about fish death, otherwise quite tame for me.

Word Count: 10,000 words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You

Steven and I were at a bookstore today and I saw a very grumpy pug that reminded me of you.

Steven wants a dog now. If you don’t want that you need to come back because I’m not gonna stop him.

Weeks have passed since Steven’s prodigal return.

It’s almost been a return to how things were before, with Steven picking you up from work, occasional romantic dinners out, and evenings cuddled up in bed reading together or watching documentaries on the sofa.

It’s almost perfect.

It ought to be perfect.

The only thing missing from your previous routine is waking up to the quiet noise of clutter in the kitchen and the smell of breakfast filling the room, to Marc.

Your intuition had been correct: Marc is avoiding you. Despite the fact that you’ve practically moved into Steven’s flat, you’ve not seen him once.

According to Steven, Marc still fronts in the middle of the night sometimes, but to do what, you don’t know. It’s one more thing Steven “can’t tell you right now” because it’s Marc’s business. And as frustrating as that is, you don’t push—at least, not with Steven.

Instead, you’ve focused your energy on attempting to lure Marc out. Texting him at random times of the day. Cluttering up the space, leaving yours and Steven’s clothes in random spaces, putting the dishes away in the wrong order—things you know will drive him mad.

You’ve even tried staying up all night in hopes of catching Marc in the act, but the only thing you caught was sleep deprivation. It’s left you exhausted and cranky in the morning, mistake-prone at work and ready to bite everyone’s head off.

Recognizing the futility of continuing to bash your head against the wall of Marc’s stubbornness, you’ve reluctantly settled into the new status quo while you consider what to do.

Tonight you and Steven are staying in. The rain is pouring down outside, making London wet and miserable, but you’re safely ensconced in the warmth of Steven’s flat, propped up in bed while he sits nearby in his worn leather armchair, reading glasses perched adorably on his nose as he peruses a thick tome.

But for once, his studies don’t seem to be capable of holding his attention, and you keep glancing up to find him staring off into space, brow furrowed, the book abandoned in his lap.

The first time you followed his gaze to the fish tank, you’d felt a stab of worry that you’d find Gus II floating belly-up in the water, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary that you can see.

The orange goldfish is swimming across the length of the tank, happily oblivious to his predecessor’s fate and the fact that he’s being observed. The journey continues until his little fishy head bumps up against the glass panel, and he turns around, repeating the process in reverse, only to do the same thing on the other side.

It’s hardly a riveting sight, but Steven seems entirely engrossed. He looks a million miles away, lost in his thoughts.

“Do you think,” he says eventually, “that goldfish ever get lonely?”

“Oh, um…” You blink at him, a bit startled by the soft question, though you’re not sure why. It’s hardly the first time Steven has expressed concern about the wellbeing of an animal—he’s a vegan after all—and you’ve seen him beside himself while watching a killer whale hunt down baby seals on an arctic beach on Animal Planet.

This feels different somehow.

“I’m not sure actually,” you hedge, wracking your brain for a proper answer, “I know guinea pigs get lonely and are meant to be kept in pairs, but I don’t really know if the same is true of fish.”

Steven nods solemnly, and turns back to the fishtank, eyes wide and melancholy, an unhappy slump to his shoulders.

Watching him watch Gus II’s lonely, pointless vigil back and forth, you wonder if it’s Marc that Steven’s thinking about now.

If he feels lonely, having effectively lost his newly revealed other half again so soon after discovering the truth.

If he misses Marc the way you–

You shake the thought away, taking a deep breath before you hold up your phone to catch his attention.

“Shall I google it?”

Steven immediately brightens up. Quickly marking his place in the book, he sets it aside and makes his way over to join you on the bed so you can google it together.

‘Do goldfish get lonely?’

Unfortunately, no matter how many pages of results you scroll though, there doesn’t seem to be any strong consensus.

Several websites are adamant that goldfish do not feel loneliness and can live a long and happy and fulfilling life alone. But there seem to be just as many saying the opposite. An article from the Telegraph strongly admonishes its readers that goldfish should be kept in pairs at least when in captivity.

Eventually, your hour-long Google bender finally ends with you two reaching the unsatisfactory conclusion of: ‘nobody knows for sure.’

You put away your phone on the nightstand and glance at Steven. He’s staring up at the fishtank again, wringing his hands in a way that makes your chest tighten. Somehow he seems even more unsettled than before.

“You know,” you point out hopefully, “nothing we found says that having a companion would make a goldfish unhappy as long as they have enough space. And your tank is certainly large enough for two.”

When Steven doesn’t reply, you prod gently, “Would you maybe like to get Gus the Second a friend?”

At that, the tension Steven is holding finally seems to thaw, his shoulders relaxing as he turns to you.

“That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” he says, face alight with a small, soft smile.

You

FYI we did not get robbed yesterday. Steven tried to make dinner. He’s going to try again tonight. I know you hate messes so you might want to come back to stop him.

For two men who share half of their lives with each other, there’s a distinct lack of physical evidence of Marc in Steven’s flat.

Of the hundreds of books crammed into every nook and cranny of the wooden shelves sprawled across the flat, not a single one belongs to him. The messy closet filled only with Steven’s garish patterns and oversized items. In fact, Steven's personality and interests are writ large within this space—in the half-scribbled notes left on the desk, the postcards tacked on all random surfaces, the organised chaos that seems to reign. It’s obvious that this is Steven’s home.

But is it Marc’s?

You’ve yet to identify a single item in the entire flat that belongs to him. No proof of address. Nothing.

Now that you no longer wake up to him standing in the kitchen most mornings, pottering around in that quiet calm way of his, it’s almost like he never existed in the first place.

You hate it.

You look down at the handful of mismatched flatware you’ve just put back in the drawer then back up at Steven where he stands at the sink next to you, elbow deep in lukewarm dishwater.

Even the dishes are Steven’s.

“Does Marc have another flat?” you ask, unsettled by the idea that Marc might have another home that you know nothing about.

“Don’t think so,” Steven says, glancing up from the plate he’s scrubbing, “Why?”

“He doesn’t seem to have any belongings here. I was wondering if he kept his things somewhere else.”

“He’s got a storage unit. I’ve been there once. Marc had a sad little cot setup there. Not much in the way of belongings there either. I don’t think he owns much,” he says, rinsing the plate clean.

You stare down at the tea towel, twisting it in your hands, and your stomach twists with it.

A storage unit.

With a cot.

That’s even worse, isn't it? To think that Marc might not have a home anywhere at all.

And now he’s retreating farther than ever. Ceding the daytime hours, and even most nights to Steven. Keeping nothing for himself. Your lives wiped clean of traces of Marc, the same way the flat has been.

You feel sick at the thought.

Steven doesn’t say anything more, and you don’t either. The two of you work in silence, as he washes the dishes and hands them off to you to dry and then put away in the cupboards—a bowl, another plate, a sharp knife, and then a large plain ceramic mug.

Marc’s mug.

As Steven hands it to you, you have a flash of Marc taking it from your hands, full to the brim of the coffee you made for him. The memory of his quiet “thanks” makes your heart hurt.

Christ, get it together. You’re getting soppy over a bloody tea cup, for God’s sake.

It doesn’t even really qualify as Marc’s, despite being the only one amongst Steven’s collection of mugs without a quirky motif. Marc never claimed ownership of it in any way.

Shaking your head, you walk to the cabinet and tuck the mug back up into its usual spot. As you lower your arm, the old coffee maker in the corner of the counter catches your eye, gleaming in the light of the kitchen.

It looks... remarkably clean, which, for anything in Steven's flat, is an oddity in itself. You haven’t made coffee in weeks—not since before Marc disappeared—but the glass practically shines. Reaching out, you swipe a fingertip against the top surface and frown as it comes away dust-free.

“Steven, have you been using the coffee maker lately?”

“Hmm?” He turns around, arms sudsed with dishwater up to his elbow. “No, not for years. Had to stop drinking coffee ‘cause it made me jittery—or, well, worse than I am already. Why do you ask?”

“The coffee maker’s clean. There's no dust on it at all.”

Steven hums in reply, looking like he's deep in thought.

“That’s probably Marc’s doing. He drinks coffee sometimes when he’s up running around in the middle of the night, I think.”

You nod in response, your finger lingering over the button panel.

Does this old coffee maker qualify as something of Marc’s? Perhaps there is one thing that belongs to him in the flat after all.

It’s pretty banged up. The paint is chipped, and the control panel scratched up to the point that the labels are mostly worn away. It hadn’t mattered before, as all you’d needed to know was to push the first button—the ‘ON’ button, you suppose, though the lettering has long since worn away—to start the coffee brewing, but now you stare at the thing, trying to decipher the rest of the labels.

“What does this button do?” you ask, pointing to the second button. It reads 'lay b ew' which makes no bloody sense.

Steven turns off the running tap, putting down the wet plate in his hand, and comes to stand behind you where he can peek over your shoulder at the button you’ve indicated.

“That must be the delay timer button so you can set the coffee pot at night for the morning.”

You peer into the open cupboard. Instead of the mug you’ve just put away and the drab cupboard, all you can see is Marc is sitting by the counter. The faint morning sun streaming down his wide shoulders as he tips the mug to his lips and takes a sip. An echo of warmth tingles against your fingertip at the faded scene playing out in your memory.

You lean up until you’re on your toes and take the mug, cradling it in your hands. “Do you think perhaps I could set it to make the coffee for Marc? I used to make him coffee in the mornings when we had breakfast together.”

Steven smiles at you, soft crinkles forming around his eyes. “Of course, love. I think Marc would like that a lot.”

Buoyed by his encouragement, you grab the coffee from the top shelf, reciting the water-to-coffee ratio in your head—one scoop of coffee for each ounce of water.

Reaching for the spoon you start scooping it out, smiling a little to yourself as you imagine Marc discovering the coffee you’ve made just for him.

“Love, love!” Steven half-shouts, “What are you doing?”

You stop mid-scoop, look from Steven’s face, down at the mound of ground coffee in the filter, and then back up at him. Steven looks horrified, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and genuine concern.

“Making... coffee...?” you answer hesitantly, “Is this not right? I’ve always done it like this. This is how Marc drinks it.”

“I'm pretty sure no one in their right mind drinks coffee like that,” Steven says, eyes still wide, though amusement is creeping into his voice now.

You stop and frown.

You look back down at the packet of coffee beans as you think of Marc's fingers wrapped around the handle of the mug as he took it from you. The way he’d give you a small almost-smile, looking right at home as he finished the coffee you made him down to the last drop.

“Oh.”

You

I’ve made you some coffee using the delay brew setting. It should be ready when you get up.

Steven has informed me that my coffee is in fact not drinkable. If he's right, you might need to come back and teach me how to make coffee properly.

It becomes another part of your nightly routine: prepping the coffee maker and setting out Marc's mug. You still sometimes have trouble remembering the proper (according to Steven!) water to coffee ratio, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Regardless of how much or little ground coffee you add, in the morning, without fail, you find the coffee maker empty, mug and carafe both propped up in the dishrack to dry.

You're standing at the counter one Saturday morning, tucking them both back into their proper places, when you get a text from your old mate Sam.

Sam

hey fam! guess what!

You

Sam

guess!!!

You

Guess… what?

Sam

🤨 nvm

You

Sorry, what?

Sam

really making me work for it huh

remember my mate karim?

You

No?

Sam

🐠🐠🐠 guy?

You

Oh yeah! ofc.

Sam

he just got in a one-finned goldfish like your bf was asking for. he still want it?

Steven gives you a curious tilt of his head as he reads out part of the conversation out loud when you show him the exchange. “Fish, fish, fish... guy?”

“Yeah. He has a bunch of tanks in his cellar. It’s how we got,”—you gesture vaguely at the tank containing Gus II—“this one.”

“Oh, right. You did say.”

His expression turns from confusion to a bright expression, like someone’s turned on a cartoon lightbulb behind his eyes.

“I was just thinking that I did want to get Gus a friend after all,” he says smiling enthusiastically. “Right proper bit of good timing, that is!”

Steven tilts his head to the other side, as his eyes flit across the screen like he’s rereading it, then his eyes narrow in confusion. “What does he mean by your boyfriend asking for a one-finned goldfish?”

You eye the fish as it circles the water gracefully, both fins on full display, and recall Marc's constipated expression as he had stood by the tank glaring at those very two fins.

“Marc made a big fuss about wanting to find one identical to Gus,” you tell him, as you watch Gus II knock his head up against the glass again, “down to the single fin, and I guess my friend remembered.”

From across you, Steven's gaze is fixed on the tank with a slight frown on this face. He's observing the golden fish with a vacant look in his eyes like he's watching it but not seeing it.

“You all right, Steven?”

“Yeah, I'm just...” His eyes flicker across the length of the tank, then he turns back to face you, “What I don't understand is why Marc didn’t just leave Gus’ little fishy corpse floating in the tank.”

He turns back around to face you, as he continues, “It certainly would’ve been easier. And a dead fish is more believable than one regrowing a fin, isn’t it? Pets die all the time. I might not have realised anything was off at all if he'd done that.”

It's the very same thing you’d told Marc the night he had come to you for help.

You can still remember the way he had looked standing at your door, asking for your help, hair in an uncharacteristic disarray of curls. How besides himself he was with worry for Steven’s sake.

“Marc didn't want you to be upset,” you say.

Steven looks up at your words, eyes widening with surprise.

“He knew how much Gus meant to you, and wanted to protect you from being hurt,” you continue, “That mattered to him more than anything else, I think.”

There’s a brief silence as Steven processes your words, then after a moment he lets out a quiet huff of laugh and shakes his head in disbelief.

“It’s hard to imagine Marc behaving like a parent trying to get a replacement hamster from the shop,” Steven says, giving you a wry smile, “But that’s him, isn’t it? Wanting to protect the people that matter to him at all costs. Even from things we don’t really need protecting from.”

Neither of you say anything for a few moments after that, as the sound of the Blue Planet rerun on the telly fills the silence left behind. You vaguely register Attenborough’s soothing narration in the background, but don’t take anything in when Steven eventually asks, “When do you think you’ll go meet your friend?”

“He said he was free pretty much all day today, I was thinking of heading off soon, before traffic gets too bad in the afternoon.”

Steven gets to his feet and walks over to his desk, picking up his jacket that's been slung over the back of the chair and threading his arms into the sleeves. Watching him, you half expect him to make the same assessment his grouchy alter did: Men who keep fishes in their cellar are dangerous serial killers.

Instead, Steven flashes you a sweet and benign smile.

“All right if I come along with you? I can keep you company, yeah? I know how much you hate the DLR,” he says, glancing at you for approval, and you give a quick nod.

“Besides,” he adds, eyes bright with enthusiastic wonder, like a kid who's heading off on a school trip, “I'm quite curious about the cellar aquarium. Sounds like quite the sight, and I’d like to see it with my own eyes."

You break into a smile of your own. Two men that couldn’t be further apart, and yet even with diametrically opposed reasoning, the end result is still somehow the same.

------

It's just before noon when you reach the DLR station with Steven in tow. Thankfully the crowd is nowhere near as bad as the last time you made this trip.

Still, when you enter the train, most seats are already taken. The only unoccupied spot is splattered with something unpleasant-looking, so you and Steven head down the carriage in the opposite direction. You’re lucky enough to score yourself a safety rail to hold onto just as the DLR starts its bumpy journey.

As always, the train undulates like a boa constrictor that’s managed to get into the liquor cabinet. But this time you manage to keep your footing as the carriage lurches forward by gripping the railing for dear-fucking-life.

Steven isn't quite as lucky.

You barely catch the panicked “bugger” as he starts to lose his balance, about to tip over like a helpless tortoise, and you reach out without thinking, grabbing one of his flailing hands so he doesn’t fall.

“Are you all right there, Steven?” you ask, straining to hold your position as he uses you for leverage to steady himself, and then wrapping your arm around his waist once he regains his equilibrium.

“Yeah…” he mumbles, blinking at you for a moment, a flush tinting his cheeks, “Yeah, I’m aces. Thanks for the rescue.”

He smiles down at you, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart flimmer erratically, and wraps his hand around the same railing you’re holding onto, fingers warm where they overlap yours.

“You’re welcome, but let’s stay like this until we get there just in case.” you say, wrapping your arm more firmly around him and snuggling into his chest. You can’t see his face but you can feel his head nod in approval.

Steven’s free hand comes up to settle over your back between your shoulders, holding you tight to him, the two of you steadying each other as the train keeps swaying forward. Even though his palm is resting over your coat, you swear you can feel his warmth through three layers of clothing.

You press your nose to the fabric of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him. He smells like his soap, the clean linens of your shared bed, and beneath that, a hint of coffee. The last one familiar these days, lingering like smoke after an extinguished fire, and it always makes you think of Marc. Irrefutable proof that he still exists in the world, even if he only ventures out into it after you fall asleep.

It’s a bumpy ride, but eventually the train slows to a stop at ‘Canning Town’ station. Just like last time, you find yourself thinking that it's almost a shame your journey on the DLR wasn't longer.

Unlike last time, a bright clear sun is shining down on you when you step out of the train, mitigating some of the November chill.

Steven’s hand curls over yours, tucking both into his pocket, and you’re glad for the added warmth as the two of you walk down the Docks, along the mismatch of newly built high-rise flats and small brick row-houses.

As you reach the familiar council estate, you spot Sam and his friends waving towards you from across the street, and Steven waves back, like they're old friends already. He’s already taking a step forward to cross at the traffic light, when you suddenly remember that despite the familiarity this will be the first time Sam and Karim meet Steven.

“Wait,” you hiss, flinging a hand out to grip his forearm, “They think you're Marc,” you warn, and Steven nods slowly with understanding on his face.

“Right,” he says, flashing you a cheeky grin, “So, emotionally constipated, perpetually frowning, and just generally a complete prat? Got it.”

His fingers come to his forehead, slicking back his hair with a touch of dramatic flair. Then he furrows his brows theatrically, lips pulling downwards into an exaggerated imitation of Marc’s frown, and you have to hide your grin as you turn to walk.

Crossing the street, Steven is visibly holding himself back. He’s pulling himself upright, as he juts his chin up in a brusque greeting, while schooling his features and tampering down the smile that you know is twitching at his lips. It’s a very commendable effort on his part.

But the moment you make it inside the house, and Steven catches sight of the hall lined with aquariums, his mock-frown falls away and his eyes widen with wonder. That uncharacteristic straight line of his lips, rounds with an audible, “wow” that slips out of him. Then he's all toothy smiles and excitement as he points to a particular colourful fish that glitters behind the glass of one of the numerous fish tanks.

You watch as he waves at the fish, and then turns around to Karim to ask a half-dozen more animated questions that the man answers with gusto.

Steven spends the whole time listening attentively as Karim gives a guided tour of his fish cellar, nodding along with undivided attentiveness as his eyes track the colourful fishes that are being introduced to him one by one.

The stark difference between Steven's and Marc’s behaviour doesn't go unnoticed.

“Your boyfriend’s like a completely different person today,” Sam remarks. “He's so… ”

He pauses mid-sentence, and hums consideringly as he observes Steven with an amused smile.

“I get it now, what you said last time—a big softie.”

Down the row of tanks, Steven is pointing excitedly at a puffy looking fish. It must be a rare one, judging from how elated he is. Despite the fact that Steven is absolutely blowing your cover, you can't help but smile fondly at his obvious excitement and joy.

“Yeah. Yeah, he really is,” you answer, as you feel a prickling warmth spread across your chest.

“So tell me,” Sam says as he grips his jaw in his hand, scratching his beard like a ponderous professor, “Which one is the real him?”

You freeze at the question, not sure how you can even begin to answer that.

Glancing over at Steven, you still see him wide-eyed and smiling, hovering over the very same goldfish tank that Marc was gruffly standing by as he was inspecting it studiously with a set frown for a replacement fish.

You give Sam the only answer that rings true to you:

“They both are.”

-----

Surely, you must be stuck in some kind of 80’s Sci-fi movie, because you seem to be trapped in a closed loop of deja-vus.

You're standing in the middle of Steven's flat, once again with a plastic bag in hand as you scoop (what is this time, a one-finned) goldfish into the large fish tank.

It lands with a distinct plop into the water, and then swims down with a pirouette around Gus II.

Steven is standing next to you by the tank, so close you’re shoulder to shoulder, huddled together, hunched over the glass, close enough for your noses to leave fog on the surface as you observe the two fishes dance around each other to become acquainted.

It all feels so similar that, when you feel his shoulder brush up against yours and that familiar pleasant tingle climbs up your back, you have to remind yourself that this time the person standing next to you is Steven, not Marc.

Turning your head, you look over at Steven who's watching the fishes intently. When he notices you staring, he slowly turns to you and smiles, eyes crinkling softly, and the joy of it lights up your chest.

You

We visited Sam and Karim again.

Say hi to Gus III. He’s the one with one fin.

Steven got very excited after seeing the fish cellar and is thinking of getting a second tank.

If you don't come back, I'll let him.

It's six pm and you’re in a hurry to get out of the office. Steven had texted earlier, asking if you wanted to try the new sushi place that opened up down the block tonight, and you are starving.

Exiting the elevator, you look around for Steven, surprised when you don’t immediately spot him. He almost always comes to pick you up now, even when you don’t have dinner plans. Perhaps he’s running late?

Susan must notice your confusion, because she catches your eye and waves you over.

“Over there, pet,” she says, pointing towards the front of the building, “Said he had to talk to someone.”

You follow her finger to see your wayward boyfriend standing with his back to you in the far corner of the reception area, phone held to his ear. The early dark outside has turned the wall of glass at the front of the building into an imperfect mirror, and you smile watching Steven gesture animatedly with his free hand as he talks to whoever’s on the other end.

“Cheers, Susan.” You give her a wave, heading off to let him know you’re done. Perhaps you can walk as he talks?

As you get closer, you can hear that there’s a plaintive tone to Steven’s murmuring, like he’s trying to plead his case to someone. You slow your approach, wondering who he’s talking to, but not wanting to interrupt in case it’s important.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he snaps suddenly, back going rigid, and you freeze in your tracks, because it’s not Steven’s voice, but a clipped, impatient American accent that you haven’t heard in forever. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re both better off without me.”

His eyes in the mirror are narrowed and impatient. A scowl pressed between the firm line of his mouth as he glares at his own reflection.

“Marc,” you gasp his name without thought. Marc is here.

He jerks around at the sound of your voice, and for a split second, you catch sight of Marc’s eyes, wide and pained under furrowed brows, then they widen even further, brow smoothing out as he blinks several times in quick succession, looking apologetic and a little bit shellshocked. Even before he opens his mouth to speak, a part of you already knows.

“Sorry, love,” Steven says in his thick South Londoner accent, and your heart sinks to your stomach. “Marc left, it's just me now.”

He turns back to the window, and you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to tamp down the surge of disappointment and the ridiculous urge to burst into tears.

Watching Steven narrow his eyes at his reflection, you recalled what he’d said about mirrors. He hadn’t been on the phone at all, had he? Neither had Marc. They’d been communicating through the reflective surface of the glass. Talking to each other for the first time in months, and you had to go and ruin it by opening your big mouth and interrupting.

You wonder if Marc is still there in the glass, watching, but judging from the frustrated expression on Steven’s face you doubt it. He shakes his head in resignation before turning back to you, reaching over and gently tucks a lock of hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t think he’s going to come back,” he says, giving you an obviously-forced smile, “Shall we go get dinner?”

“No, I... um...” You shake your head, forcing a smile that likely doesn’t look any more authentic than his, any excitement over trying a new place drowned out by the heavy weight of disappointment and regret that sits in your stomach like a stone, “I’m not all that hungry just now. Can we just go home?”

“Of course, love. Anything you want.”

If only that were true.

You

Steven made dinner tonight. You might have burn marks on your left hand. You better come back quick before he burns down the flat.

It’s another Saturday evening and you’re prepping the coffee maker to 'delay brew' another batch of coffee for Marc. You pause, bag of ground coffee in hand, before scooping it out.

“So it’s one scoop per serving, right Steven?” you call out, just to double check, but there’s no answer, “Steven…?”

Turning, you find him bent over in front of the fish tank. In the reflection of the glass pane, you catch Steven’s distracted expression, but it takes you a few seconds to register that even though he’s staring at the tank, his eyes aren't really tracking the Gus twins.

For a heartstopping moment you think maybe Marc is talking to him again, but then you take in the way his eyes linger on the upper corner of the glass and the postcards taped there. Postcards that are nominally from his mum, though you both know better now.

“Steven,” you call again, setting down the coffee and the measuring spoon, “Everything all right?”

Steven startles, bolting upright like he’s snapping out of a trance.

“Huh!? Oh. Yeah, yes. Sorry.” He gives you a sheepish smile as you come to join him in front of the tank. “Just looking at these.”

Reaching out, he traces a finger over the edges of the postcard taped back-out to the glass surface.

“It’s a bit surreal, reading this again now that I know Marc sent it, not mum.”

There’s something bittersweet in his smile, and the way his eyes shade into mournfulness makes you want to pull him into a hug and never let go.

“Paris is lovely,” he reads out from the card. “Wish I could take you! You’d love the museums here. Love you so much, Mum.”

Then he stops, and your heart breaks a little bit as he stares down at the handwritten message.

You’re sad for Steven that words of love he had believed to be from his mum weren’t from her at all. You’re sad for Marc that he had to keep up this pretence, lonely and isolated in the far-off corners of the world, carrying the weight of the truth for both of them.

With a sigh, Steven straightens up, reaches over to carefully unpin a postcard from the wooden edge of the bookcase next to the tank and reads that one too.

“In Cairo. The pyramids reminded me of the amazing work you do at the museum. So proud of you!”

He shakes his head in amusement, chuckling lightly as he reaches over to show it to you.

“He even put a heart on it at the end,” he says, and you can’t help but smile at the image of Marc bent over some table, painstakingly signing off the card with a cartoon heart.

You watch as Steven carefully fits the pin back through the existing hole in the card and repins it to the wood before moving on to the one just below it.

“Happy birthday from New York. Wish I could be with you to celebrate with a birthday cake. You deserve the best day! Love, mum.”

That one gets a sigh, a sad smile and a small shake of his head before Steven repins it with the same meticulous care.

One by one, Steven gently detaches the postcards adorning the wooden shelves, over, under and on the sides of the tank, and reads each one aloud before returning it carefully to its place.

There must be at least fifty of them filling the space in his flat, from one remote destination after another.

Each message is filled with love and care. Words of encouragement, spelling out how proud she is of him. How much she wants for him to be happy. How she's always there for him. That she's just a phone call away. That he's never alone.

Then Steven goes quiet, head dipped, as he stares blankly at the postcard of Austria in his hand.

“The notes were always so loving and supportive, they always made me feel like I was a little bit less alone, you know?” he finally says, breaking the silence, and the corners of his mouth pulls into a sad smile again.

“I think... I think it must’ve been what Marc wanted to hear from our mum growing up but never got to. He must've wanted to make sure that someone got to hear these things from her… even if it was all just a lie.”

Shifting your feet, you simply nod at him, not knowing what else to say. Their mum is a bit of an enigma to you. Before today, you’ve only ever heard of her from Steven’s perspective as a loving and attentive mum.

But there’s no doubt, as you’re watching him now, seeing the pain etched into his face as he thinks of his mother, that the rosy image he’d painted previously is far from the full picture.

You recall that morning in the kitchen when you had first brought up the postcards to Marc. The way that Marc had hunched into himself, his usual confident stance crumbling before your eyes at the mere mention of their mother. The way he seemed to be trying to make himself invisible and wincing as if expecting a blow.

You know enough now about DID and the medical consensus on what causes it.

Steven doesn’t need to tell you much more than that, you can read between the lines well enough.

“Are you going to keep them, do you think?” you ask instead.

His head pops up, eyes wide as he blinks up at you in surprise, clutching the postcard tightly to his chest as though you might try to take it from him.

"Yeah,” he says, voice rasping quietly, then nods firmly and repeats it with more certainty the second time, “Yeah, ‘course I am. Of course. They may not have been from my mum, but they're from someone who cares about me.”

He pins the card back into place with reverent care, then lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Just wish that Marc could’ve had that for himself too, you know?”

You move forward until you’re close enough to Steven that you can slide a hand down his arm, your fingers brushing up against his wrist, and he takes a half-step closer, until his shoulder is pressing against yours.

“It’s a bit silly, you know? There was no need to go out of his way like this. I would have been none the wiser,” Steven says, smiling even as there’s a glossy sheen behind his eyes.

You know exactly what Steven means, and he’s right. It is silly. It’s also kind and unexpected and unnecessary and entirely Marc.

The easy option would have been to just leave a dead fish in the tank. It would have been even easier to not send handwritten postcards to him at all. In fact, the easiest option of all for Marc was to dump everything on Steven from the very beginning. It would have saved him a lot of headaches.

There was never any need for Marc to take all of this upon himself, carrying every burden come their way in order to spare Steven any hardships. No need for him to shoulder the entire weight of their world by himself. He didn't have to struggle alone, surrounded by millions of strangers in every corner of the world. And yet, you can’t imagine him doing otherwise.

This is quintessentially Marc, and as infuriating as it can be, you can’t fault him for it.

“Marc has his own ideas about protecting the people in his life,” you say, as you lace your fingers with Steven's, squeezing him tightly under your palm, “Even if it’s at the expense of his own well being.”

The two of you stand there in silence, interrupted only by the quiet bubbling noise coming from the tank. Surrounded by postcards written by a man who's not here, but whose presence can be felt in every nook and cranny of your life together.

Marc isn’t here, yet reminders of him are constant and inescapable. His absence is like an aching tooth that you can’t seem to keep from prodding with your tongue, a missing stair that you can’t stop tripping over.

He's everywhere you look.

Every cluttered pile of books that Steven leaves behind him when you stay in on a Saturday night, every messy detail makes you think of how Marc would want to rip out his hair, itching to clean if he saw the mess.

You're reminded of Marc on every crowded tube you take on your morning commute. Haunted by the phantom weight of his protective hand on the small of your back, the comforting pressure of Marc's arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

Every morning when you walk into your office and catch a faint whiff of coffee from your cubicle, that fissure in your chest cracks open each time as you’re transported to the memory of waking up to the sight of Marc sitting next to you, drinking the coffee you make him with a stoic face.

Then there is the biggest reminder of all: the face of the man you love.

It's etched in the dark brown of Steven’s eyes as he smiles up at you and calls you 'love'. In the sharp line of his nose as he presses the blunt tip to your cheekbone to kiss you good morning.

Perhaps you ought to be able to ignore it and pretend that this is fine.

After all, you love Steven, and it'd be easy enough to pretend that you and Steven have reached your happily ever after. That this—your life together, just him and you, the way you’ve been since he’s returned—is your new normal, and that all of it is fine.

...But it's not fine.

You miss Marc.

You miss waking up to him lingering in the kitchen as he tidies up. Miss his half-smiles and wry jokes. Miss the comfort of his presence just by him being near you.

Somewhere along the line, in those quiet mornings together, Marc carved out a space for himself inside you. With him gone, it’s left a gaping wound in the middle of your torso, and you are haemorrhaging out without him.

Marc is important to Steven. He’s important to you too, you can admit that now. And you need to admit it to Steven as well.

You squeeze down firmly on Steven's hand, closing your eyes shut for a brief second as you take a deep breath to prepare yourself.

"Steven,” you start, “we... um... we need to talk.”

You cringe the moment the words leave your mouth, wishing you could take them back and try again. The last conversation you started this way didn’t start or end well and sent Steven into a tailspin.

Two seconds in, and you’re already messing this up. That has got to be some kind of a record.

To your surprise, Steven doesn't panic. Instead his expression softens, and he smiles indulgently at you.

"Yes, I think that's a good idea, love. There's a bit of an elephant in the room, isn’t there? A Marc-shaped elephant, yeah?”

His blunt cheekiness cuts through any lingering hesitance in you, and you nod.

“I miss him,” you admit, before trailing off, “I…”

You don't know how to say this.

There are no words in the dictionary that can adequately convey what you’re feeling. How you can love Steven so much, be so deliriously happy to be with him, but still feel like there are sharp jagged pieces cutting large holes into you because Marc isn't there.

“I know,” Steven says, filling the silence for you, “You care about him quite a bit, don’t you?”

You search his eyes for a moment, trying to get a sense of his emotional reaction to guide you.

There’s nothing but kindness and understanding in his gaze. Those warm brown eyes that seem to see right through you and accept you just as you are, and it helps to steady you.

“It’s all right, love,” he continues softly and gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze like he’s trying to emphasise to you that it truly is. “I care about Marc a great deal as well. The big grump grows on you, doesn’t he?”

And that’s just Steven, isn’t it? Never shying away from a tough truth.

You're so grateful to him for it.

You want to tell him how thankful you are to him for seeing you—for knowing you, even when you don't entirely know yourself. How safe you feel with him, even with this. How it’s his support that’s given you the courage to finally admit the truth to yourself... and to him as well.

“I think I...”

You look down at your intertwined hands, his thumb petting the back of your knuckles.

“I think I love him,” you finally say.

It’s terrifying to admit out loud, but it’s a relief too.

You draw your eyes up to meet Steven’s, half-expecting to see hurt or pain blossoming, but there’s none. You squeeze his palm gently in gratitude before you cup your hand over his soft cheek.

“And I still love you as well. So much.”

“I thought that might be the case, love,” Steven says, and slides one hand into the pockets of his trousers, as he looks at you earnestly, “and that leaves you with a bit of a predicament, yeah?”

You nod. The fingers of your free hand are itching to fiddle with your wrist watch, so you curl them into a tight fist by your side.

“I would never choose Marc over you, but I just– I–” you cut yourself off, shaking your head hopelessly because you’re not quite sure what you even want to suggest here.

You’re so fucking nervous, nervous that you might be fucking up everything between you and Steven with this wishy-washy confession of yours. But before you spiral, Steven comes to your rescue.

“So, I’m thinking, right,” Steven begins, “And– And stop me if this isn’t what you want, but what if–”

He pauses, holding up both his hands in an invitation for you to interrupt at any time.

“Look, nothing about our situation is normal. In fact, it’s rather abnormal, isn’t it?—and I reckon that means it has to be an inordinate solution.”

Steven looks at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s trying to suggest, and it must show on your face because he continues, “So what if we all… um… well. You don’t have to choose, I guess is what I’m saying.”

Your mouth works, opening and closing as you struggle to get out any words in reply, and Steven presses on.

“Marc’s spent more than half his life shielding me from all the bad stuff that's come our way, trying to handle it all on his own. He doesn't believe that he deserves the good stuff. That he deserves love. But he does. Maybe more than anyone. So I think you should tell him how you feel, and we’ll see if we can't figure something out, all three of us.”

“You– You mean…” you flounder, trying to find a delicate way to make sure he’s saying what you think he’s saying. But there is no such thing in these surreal circumstances. “You’re talking about my having a relationship with Marc as well as one with you? About… sharing me? …With him?”

He gives you a small awkward smile, as he shoves his fidgeting hands back down in his pockets like he’s suddenly grown self-conscious about how distracting they are. “Only if you’re okay with that, of course.”

“And you’re okay with that? You won't be jealous?”

“Jealous? …of Marc?” he begins incredulously, eyes popping wide open as if that option had never even occurred to him. Then he stops and really seems to ponder the question.

“You know, I'm not. Maybe I should be, but… How can I be? After all, I’m a part of him, aren’t I? And he's part of me. The fact that you love him… Well, in some odd way it makes me feel like you... you just love all of me.”

Time seems to slow around you as you process what Steven’s just told you, because that’s it. That’s just what it is.

You try to swallow down the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat, but you can’t. His words shift something inside you, the tangled knot of guilt and confusion and conflicted loyalties that have lived inside you for so long unravels, leaving behind a clearer understanding of your own complicated feelings for both Marc and Steven.

You love Steven.

You love Marc.

You love both of them and all of them, and it doesn’t have to compete with each other.

Once again you just marvel at Steven. At his way of cutting through your confusion, situational complexities, and convoluted emotions to put into words the truth you’ve struggled to understand, even as you’ve lived through it and felt it with every inch of you. All of it summarised in that simple sentiment.

“I do. I really do, Steven. You and Marc. All of you.” You breathe out, the tension going out of you until your spine softens, fully relaxes for the first time in a long time.

Steven is still smiling at you, his smile spreading wider and more assured the longer he looks at you, and it makes the tentative love and joy welling up in your chest overflow until you can barely stand upright.

“You’re really all right with this?” you ask one last time, and you notice that your voice is a little bit shaky because you feel like you are vibrating out of your skin.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it, if it wasn’t something I wanted, love,” Steven says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre as he wraps his arm around the small of your back pressing you tight to him. “But only if it’s something you want too.”

“Yes, it... It is. Very much so,” you confirm, and you can’t hold back your ever-growing smile.

“Well then,” Steven says, pressing a small kiss to the side of your head, “I guess all that's left now is to tell Marc and convince him to come back home.”

You

Ratatouille is on channel 4 today and

...And what?

You pause to sprinkle fish food into the Gus twins’ tank, as you stare blankly at the drafted message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Today is the first time you’ve woken up without Steven in bed with you since his return. It means Marc has gone off somewhere again.

You chew on your inner cheek as you reread the half-finished message. It's a daily habit you have developed in Marc's absence. You text him throughout the day to share about frivolous ongoings in your life, the way you used to when you’d be sitting across him at breakfast.

There’s never any response. The only proof you have that he hasn't changed his number or blocked yours is the two little ticks that eventually appear, indicating that he's read the messages.

Dragging your finger down the screen, you scroll up through the message log, embarrassed at the number of unanswered messages you’ve left.

He really is planning to ignore you and stay gone forever, isn't he?

Your thumb drags over to the delete button instead, painstakingly erasing your message.

Deep down, you've always known these texts were just an excuse for you to hang onto the last tether you felt you had tying you to Marc, and you're sick of nattering on inanely, making cheeky jokes to camouflage what you really wanted to tell him.

It’s time to say what you mean. What you’ve always meant. The truth hidden between every line of every message you’ve sent him.

You

I miss you

Please come back

You hit send before you can overthink it, then stare at the screen, blood rushing to your head as your heart starts to palpitate in your chest. A million thoughts race in your head, as you start to imagine Marc on the other end reading this. Will he be annoyed? Angry? Will he finally block your number so he doesn’t have to receive your spam messages at all hours of the day?

You glance at the ottoman in front of you, about to set down the phone to keep it away from yourself, when from the corner of your eye you see that grey tick transforms into blue.

Marc's read it. He’s read it.

Your heart drums painfully sharp tucked beneath your ribs. Your fingers grip the cold body of your phone.

Marc's there. On the other side of the screen right now. A phone call away.

That’s what Steven said wasn’t it? That all you two needed to do now, was to tell Marc how you feel and convince him to come home.

That is, assuming he even wants to come home. Maybe he just doesn’t feel the same about you.

Still, your fingers slide open your contacts, scrolling down until you reach Marc's name and press call.

It rings out, loud and oppressive. Louder still when you press it against your ear.

Once.

You should’ve had a glass of wine before you did this.

Twice.

He probably won't answer. Why would he? You shouldn't have even bothered. If he wanted to speak to you, he wouldn’t have been avoiding you in the first place.

Three times.

The monotonous ringing continues, and your heart seems to sink in your chest, dropping, heavy with disappointment into the pit of your stomach. He's not going to pick up.

Four.

This is desperate and sad. You’re chasing after a man who keeps running from you. You're just going to leave yourself miserable.

Five.

This is so stupid. You should just hang up.

Six–click.

You jolt upright on the sofa. Every hair on the nape of your neck electrified. Legs tense and straining as you sit entirely still like you've encountered a deer in the forest and you're too afraid to move a muscle in case you might spook it away.

Did the line disconnect? Or did he–

You yank the phone away from your ear to stare at the screen. It's blank and black save for Marc's name and a timer, numbers counting up to indicate the duration of the call.

Marc picked up. Marc actually...

Your mouth is dry as you raise the phone to your ear again.

“He-hello? Marc?”

There's no answer.

“Marc? Are you there?”

Still nothing. The other end of the line is dead quiet. Maybe it’s a bad connection.

“Can you hear me?” you try again.

Maybe no one is there. Maybe Marc bumped it with his elbow. Maybe you’re just talking to yourself like a crazy woman.

“Marc, I–”

You lower the phone and check the screen again. The call is still going, but the silence on the line reveals nothing. You have no way of knowing if Marc is listening or not.

But if he is...

If he is, this might be your best chance—perhaps your only chance—to speak to him. Compared to that, what does it matter if you feel a little bit silly?

“So uhm... I-I don't know if you had a chance to read my message—the latest one, I mean. I know I've been sending you a lot of them. But if you're there? If you can hear me, Marc, I just– I mean it, you know? I miss you. Steven misses you too. We both do.”

It's still quiet.

Even if Marc is there on the other end of the line, it's quite obvious by now that he has no intention of answering you. Stubborn as he is, you know that no matter what you say, he's not going to acknowledge that he's there.

If he’s even there.

You press on.

“I don't know why you think you need to stay away, or why Steven and I wouldn't want you here. Because, yes, you're grumpy and your default setting is a resting bitch face, and yes, you can be a right arse sometimes, but…” You find yourself smiling, imagining the way his eyebrow would rise if you were saying this to his face.

“You've always taken care of Steven and... and of me too”.

Your throat constricts with a thick lump that you try, but can’t seem to, swallow away. You think of all the small but many, many things Marc has done for you since he entered your life. The way he’s learned to prepare your tea just the way you like it. The way he always pulls your quilts to your shoulders while you’re asleep so you don’t freeze in the middle of the night.

“I don't know if I've ever thanked you before. I guess I just– uhm. I want to thank you, you know? Thank you for cooking me breakfast every morning and for putting out my clothes for me so I didn’t have to search for them.”

You think of the way he had held you while you were crying like a child on his living room floor. How firmly he’d cradled you in his arms, and how he didn’t let go, even when you got snot all over his shirt.

“Thank you for comforting me when I was crying after everything with Steven.” There’s a stinging sensation behind your eyes, and you wipe at them with the back of your hand, trying to ignore that it comes away wet, as you continue to speak.

“And for letting me stay over that night. I know you’re not usually a touchy-feely person, and it... It meant a lot to me.”

You swear you can feel the phantom weight of his comforting hand on the small of your back, and you close your eyes as you imagine that he’s next to you.

You think of all the ways he’s pushed himself for you. Hugging you when you were crying, cooking you breakfast when you were hungry, befriending you because you asked him to for Steven’s sake—how every step forward in your relationship has been because he was trying to meet someone else's needs: Steven’s. Yours.

And now he’s removing himself from the picture, thinking he’s fulfilling another need.

“I know I said I wanted a simple, normal life with Steven, but I didn't– That didn't mean I wanted you gone, Marc,” you continue, as you tug at your overlong sleeve and wipe at your wet cheeks.

“You said you were going to fix everything, that we were better off without you, but how can anything be 'fixed' when I miss you so bloody much!? How can things be better without you here when I'm–” Your voice breaks, and you swallow around the thickness in your throat, trying to sniffle down the clump that won’t go away.

“God, I hope you're listening, and I'm not just pouring my heart out to your back pocket.”

You let out a wet laugh at the idea, and then inhale deeply, doing your best to steady your voice.

“I'm– I’m in love with you, Marc.”

You're not sure if it's just your over-active imagination inventing things out of pure wish fulfilment, but you think perhaps you hear a quick intake of breath on the other end.

“Steven knows. I still love him too, of course, but I told him how I feel about you, and he's okay with it. And if– well, if you ever wanted there to be something more between us, he'd be okay with that too. We don't have to be together that way if you don't want to, of course, but I just…”

Your throat feels tight again, threatening to close up, and you have to stop for a moment, suck in a soggy breath and try to get yourself under control before you can continue.

“I love you, Marc,” you say again, barely breathing for several seconds as you strain your ears, hoping to hear something, anything from the other line. But this time there's not even a hint of sound.

You desperately want to know what he’s thinking. Feeling. Is he shocked? Angry? Puzzled? What does he look like on the other end of the line?

Are his brows furrowed into that pinched expression his face makes when he’s emotionally overwhelmed? If he were here, would he be looking at you with that same pained expression that night he put you in a taxi home? Or would he lean in and–

You don’t know.

And you’d give up the whole world to know what Marc is feeling in this moment. Give anything to have him back here with you so you could see it for yourself.

"Do you hear me, you stubborn, infuriating man?” you’re practically yelling now. “I love you! So there's not going to be any happily ever after for me unless you come back. You don’t have to love me the same way. It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. But I need you here. Please. I miss you. Steven misses you. Please just come back.”

You close your eyes again, holding your breath. Hoping against hope that he’ll answer you or give you some sign that he’s heard you at the very least. But there’s nothing.

And you have nothing more left to say to try to convince him.

“Goodnight, Marc.”

Then you end the call.

~ Continue ~

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

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milfswriter · 1 year

Text

Distraction

CEO!Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: Rhea’s deadly when projects are not done on time, so her employees need a distraction.

Notes and warnings: Smut, daddy kink, spanking, Hate everyone but you trope, strap on.

You got into RipCorp, one of the most prominent tech companies in the country whose CEO you had the pleasure of dating for the last 3 years. You pulled your car over in front of the entrance, the valet guy you saw everyday opening the door for you, waiting for you to get out the car before parking it underground. Just the usual treatment for the boss’s girl.

You smiled at the thought of seeing Rhea again, it had been a very stressful week for the both of you in addition to her being in Paris for the past week. You missed her so bad, hence the skirt you wore today. (iykyk).

Before you got the chance to reach your VIP elevator, you noticed Dominik, an employee of Rhea’s, coming your way looking disheveled. “Y/n! Thank god, you’re here!” he panted as he stopped in front of you.

“Hey, Dom” you smiled softly at him, knowing Rhea must have been tormenting him about this project she assigned them to do, giving them one month to complete it.

“I just know I’ll be firing someone by the end of the month” she told you the night before she left for Paris, your head on her chest in your shared bed.

“So, Miss Ripley’s gonna be coming to see our project and it’s not done yet! We need you to distract her! Just 20 minutes please” you raised an eyebrow, knowing Rhea’s previous prediction is probably coming true today.

“You should know better than to leave a project undone when working for Rhea Ripley, you know that right?” he gulped, nodding. “We just need to get another generator to power it properly, 20 minutes will be more than enough to do that and test it before she comes. I’m pretty sure she’s on her way right now” he looked around for any sign of black suit and lipstick and sighed in relief when he found none. Damn, they ARE scared of her.

“Please?” he begged, his face yellowing “fine” you smirked as you thought of the perfect distraction for Rhea. “THANK YOU!” He whisper-yelled before running back to where he came from.

You got in the elevator, pressing floor ‘50’, where her office is. You were greeted by a fairly quiet floor, apart from the constant typing on keyboard coming from her assistant’s desk.

“Hey, Liv..is she in her office?” you asked the blonde girl. She looked up at you and pushed her glasses back against the bridge of her nose.

“Miss Y/n, hello! yes she’s there” you thanked her before walking a few meters and knocking on the big, double door of her office. “Who is it?” her deep voice echoed through the speaker next to the door.

You leaned your mouth closer to the speaker, “take a guess” you teased, smirking at the silence you received before the double door opened by itself, each door sliding to the side, revealing you to her.

She said nothing as you stared at her, walking into the office. Rhea propped her chin on her hand before you saw her press the button on the control panel she installed on her desk, closing the door automatically.

“Morning” you grinned, looking very..very suspicious. “Darling..” she spoke, her voice ever so hoarse before she stood up from her chair, squinting her eyes at you before rounding her desk and walking to you.

You met her halfway as she towered over you, your hands resting on her waist instantly. Her stare softened the longer you looked at her. “How was Paris?” you asked, the distraction plan begins right. now.

Her tattooed hand cupped your jaw, “Awful, I missed you” she leaned down, kissing your lips so softly you couldn’t believe she was the same person the employees outside were quaking at the mere mention of.

You kissed back, your hands squeezing her waist, pushing her back until she fell back on her chair. “Eager, aren’t we?” she grunted, “unfortunately, love..I have something to do..give me half an hour and I’ll be right back” she stood back up but you stopped her from walking any closer to the door

“They can wait, can’t they?” you pouted, pulling on her tie to kiss her as you stood in front of her. You felt her breaking under your spell, you just needed to push more. You didn’t know why you were doing this for her employees, but you took it as an opportunity to get fucked by Rhea asap and not have to wait for another 30 minutes.

She looked at you softly, “what are you doing, doll?” taking your hands in hers and kissing your knuckles.

“Distracting you?” you giggled, standing on your tip toes to kiss her hard. She furrowed her eyebrows, “What?”.

“They need more time..” you admitted and she snarled, letting your hands go and was going to make her way to the door again and you sighed, letting her open the door before calling out for her.

“Rhea please” you gave her sad, puppy eyes causing her to freeze at the door, turning her head to look at you with a stone cold expression, closing the door back and walking back to you. You really didn’t know when she was just stop thinking about this damn project and take you on her desk.

“They can’t use you against me” she shook her head, gripping your jaw in her tattooed hand. You always like to rile her up so she fucks you senseless, but it never used to take that long for her to crack. What the hell is this project that’s been filling up her mind?.

“oh, please..don’t be dramatic..they just need 20 minutes” You chuckled making her scoff, letting go of your jaw and rounding her desk again, typing on her computer before viewing live security footage of the employees rushing to wire the generator. “pathetic” she spat, closing the footage before turning back to you.

“They need time?..fine..I’ll give them more time” she pulled you by your hand into her, turning you and bending you over her desk while she sat on her chair.

You moaned, “finally” you whispered, feeling her hand sneak its way under your short skirt, lifting up to reveal your black lace panties, a dark stain in the middle.

“Oh, baby..I’m going to eradicate you” she growled, her hand landing hard on your cheek making you wince in pleasure more than pain, she rubbed your cheek before smacking it harder and harder until both cheeks were red.

She pushed her chair backwards, away from you.

“On your knees” she commanded, and you turned immediately to do as she asked. You gasped lowly, seeing the bulge through her trousers and she sat with her legs spread, leaning to reach the control panel on the desk and pressing a button to lock the door.

Her hands then went to unbuckle her belt and unzip her pants, pulling them down enough to get her faux cock out. She loved it when you looked at her like this. You’re hers, but she loved it when YOU knew it.

“Open your mouth for me, princess” her thumb stroked your bottom lips and you did as she asked, letting her thumb in your mouth and wrapped your lips around it, taking it to the knuckle in your mouth.

She took her thumb out of your mouth. “You know what to do” she leaned back against her chair and you gave her a small smile, taking the base of the strap in your hand and made eye contact with Rhea as you took her whole length in your mouth, your nose hitting the soft fabric of her black button up shirt that’s been tucked tightly under her pants.

“Yeah, baby..take my cock, let them have their time” she hissed, pulling your hair to take her cock deeper into your mouth, fucking your throat harshly, the other end of the strap rubbing against her clit in the most delicious way possible.

As you gagged, your hand went to grab her free hand as a sign that you needed to breath causing her to immediately let you go. You panted heavily with a grin directed at the glorious woman in front of you.

“Stand up, dove” you did as she asked, she reached for your side zipper on your skit and pulled it down, pulling it off you before pushing you onto the desk. she moved her chair closer, spreading your legs with a lick to her lips.

Oh, but of course. She had to be a tease. She kissed and nipped on your inner thighs. “Please..daddy” you knew what that name did to her, and you always took that to you advantage.

"Please what?”

she moved your panties to the side but stayed still. “please eat my pussy” that seemed to satisfy her enough as she dived in, groaning at the taste.

“hmm..so wet” she pressed her thumb to your clit harshly. “all for me, babygirl?” you nodded frantically “mhmm”. She continued licking at your pussy, her hands now going to your ass, squeezing it like a stress ball.

You were a moaning mess, squirming underneath her as she sucked the life out of you. “oh, god, daddy..please”

“keep looking at me..open those pretty eyes” her accent’s thicker than ever now, and you did as you were told, making eye contact with her the entire time she feasted on you cunt.

You know she needed this as much as you did, this company would be the death of her if you didn’t keep it under control. “I’m..I’m gonna cum daddy, please..please” she sucked your clit harder, not stopping even when you pulled on her hair, your legs shaking on either side of her as you screamed her name, knowing well that her walls are very..very soundproof.

You let out a whine as she moved away from you only to thrust her cock into your sensitive pussy, bottoming out and staying there. “oh, god!” you pulled on her blazer to stabilize yourself. “good girl..such a good girl for me” she leaned down so her body was against yours, kissing you hard.

You moaned at the taste of you on her lips before she lifted your chin to reach your neck, biting and nipping on it. “They’ll know not to approach you” she growled, “Ever. Again!” each word was emphasised with a thrust of her hips and your eyes were already rolling to the back of your head at the stretch.

The strap she chose was not so big, but she knew it was your favorite. not too long but girthy to stretch that tight little hole of yours. “you’re mine, damn it!” she lifted up your shirt, taking everything in her not to rip it apart right then and there.

“no bra?” she pinched both of your nipples, her pace quickening as you pulled on her shirt. “You knew my intentions the second I came in, you just kept teasing me!” You complained, arching your back as she took your nipple into her mouth, the other squeezing the other boob.

“You’ve become quite talkative, no?” She gave you one hard thrust.

“Shit, baby..it’s been more than half an hour now..I think they had all the time they needed, I should just leave you here to squirm and whine in my office while I go skin them alive for even thinking about talking to you!” You realised that you holding her back from her employees in her own building wounded her ego, so you just played along so she doesn’t start edging you.

“I’m sorry, daddy..j..just keep fucking me. It’s so good, GOD!” You screamed as she raised both your legs on her shoulders, causing the strap to get even deeper inside you.

She buried her face in your neck, breathing heavily as the base of her cock rubbed against her clit again. “Oh, no..sorry won’t do it” her hips began to falter and your legs shook at the same time.

You pulled her tie so she kisses you and when you both made eye contact, you whispered “cum for me daddy” and that was enough to send her over the edge, growling in your neck while you whined.

She kept her head there even after pulling out of you. “Was I too rough?” She whispered, kissing your jawline softly.

You ran your fingers through her jet black hair, shaking you head. “You were perfect” You kissed her lips, her black lipstick smudged around her lips.

“Lets get you cleaned up, baby” she picked up, taking you to the bathroom in her office.

———-

After you got all nice and clean and she took off her strap. She told you to wait in her office while she tells her assistant to get you something to eat until she actually goes to check that project.

“Fine by me” You grinned at her and she left, you wished you could access the cameras to see their interaction but decided it was better off to be clueless than the second-hand embarrassment you’ll get by watching them get yelled at by her.

A few minutes later, her assistant came in with a bag of food and handed it to you before leaving.

It was not 15 minutes late that Rhea called you, “come downstairs, we’re going home”.

———-

As you went downstairs, you saw Rhea already waiting for you in the lobby and took your hand to walk out to her car. You looked behind you, eyes scanning the lobby for Dominik and raised an eyebrow in question when you found him.

He gave you a thumbs up and you grinned. Rhea was impossibly hard to please, but just because she learned to please you, you did the same.

Tag list:

@obsessedwithwwewomen @children-scareme

#rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley wwe #rhea ripley smut

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