#the rifle and knee pads and everything | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tinycozycomfort · 9 months

Text

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

400 notes · View notes

nagito-kissmaeda · 1 year

Text

Premonitions of Love - Komaeda x Reader

ミ☆ HAPPY VALENTINES DAY Summary: You bite your lower lip, peering up at him, “I’m tired of waiting, Komaeda.” You give him a shaky little smile, “What if I don’t find anyone, what if I die in here before I get the chance.” He swallows, and you can hear that his voice is shaking when he says, “then maybe I could-” Contains: AFAB Reader, No pronouns used, Explicit Sexual Content, Ultimate Matchmaker!Reader Word Count: 3809

Read on Ao3

The tiles in the kitchen are cold, but the air is warm. It took a few weeks for you to get used to the endless summer heat of the island, but it at least made your frequent nightly trips more comfortable. Some evenings you go sit out by the ocean long after Monokuma’s nighttime announcement. On nights like tonight, you instead head to the dining hall and make yourself a drink. Your bare feet pad quietly as you cross the room and bend down to pull the teapot out from the lower cupboard, it is old, the sort that needs heating up on the stove and whistles when it’s done. Sitting in the lonely kitchen is better than stewing in your cabin anyway, so you don’t mind that it takes longer to boil the water.

The small window above the sink is half open, letting an occasional cool breeze into the kitchen. Despite everything, you really like breathing in the ocean air. It dances through the short strands of hair that you haven’t been able to pull up into a bun as you hold down the gas knob on the stove and click the igniter. The burner lights up with a satisfying whoosh, and you set the teapot down on top of it. Getting to sleep has always been hard for you, overthinking and planning often keep you up until the AM and given the stresses of your current situation, you are awake at night more than ever. There is something nice about being able to go out and not need to worry about seeing anyone, you don’t dislike any of your cohort but you are introspective and often need time to yourself. Ironic considering your talent.

The water in the teapot is only just starting to simmer, so you take some time to pull a mug and a box of tea leaves down from the cupboard. You drop one sugar cube into the mug, and then quickly add two more when you remember no one was watching. There had been a strainer in the cupboard last time you made a late-night tea, but someone has moved it. You don’t feel like filtering tea leaves through your teeth, so you kneel down to rifle through some of the lower cupboards hoping to find it.

Times like these are always when the uselessness of your talent bothers you. Sure, Souda wouldn’t have any more luck digging through a cupboard than you, but it always makes you wonder. Wouldn’t a simple talent suit you better? Something helpful but altogether inconsequential? Like a talent that helps you find lost objects or something that makes you smarter. Anything but matchmaking. Sure, back in middle school other kids would pay you to tell them which locker to leave a love letter in, or which desk to place chocolates on. You’d even managed to convince teachers to give you higher grades with your infallible romantic advice. But now? In a killing game? You are useless, worse than garbage.

You are elbow deep in one of the cupboards when you hear the sound of a foot hitting the wooden floor of the dining hall. You freeze. Not sure if the best course of action is to climb out of the window or just stay put and hope they don’t notice you. The rapid beat of your heart is making it hard to think, no one would actually kill you, right? There hasn’t been a new motive, and you are quiet, you mostly keep to yourself. Your lungs burn as you hold your breath, and your knees start to ache from the awkward crouch you are stuck in.

“Hello? Is someone in there?” you hear a voice say, and then breathe a sigh of relief when Komaeda rounds the doorframe. He is more likely to ask you to kill him than he is to try anything himself.

“Oh!” He starts, “My apologies. Have I interrupted something?”

You scramble to your feet and tug your shorts back down. They had ridden up something terrible while you were crouched on the floor. Komaeda is still standing on the other side of the room with one hand on the doorframe, he has also been trying to sleep if his messy hair and sweatpants are any indication.

“No no! I was just...uh-” you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of how revealing your pyjamas are, “-I couldn't sleep.”

“Ahh.” The tension in his shoulders melts and he takes a few steps towards you. He isn’t wearing shoes either. “I was also having trouble getting to sleep. I came by for a snack.”

You nod loosely, trying to swallow your shyness, “Do you...want a drink?” You ask, gesturing to the teapot on the stove.

Komaeda chuckles, “No, I already have what I need, thank you.” He tosses an apple up in the air and catches it, he must have grabbed it from the fruit bowl in the dining hall, “I was planning to go straight back to my cabin, but I heard sounds in here and thought someone might have been planning a murder! I was going to offer my assistance!”

“Oh uh…” you clear your throat, “sorry to disappoint.”

Admittedly, you have been working out appropriate matches for all of the classmates you are left on the island with, mostly to keep yourself busy. Komaeda is a hard one. For a while, you thought Sonia, her oblivious nature and penchant for the occult would have worked decently before you realised she was perfect for Tanaka. Nanami’s quiet disposition and the way she always put her friends first would have suited just fine. Togami’s leadership skills and desire to protect everyone would have been perfect if he was still alive. And Hinata, well. He was the one who was putting in the effort.

It is true that he wasn’t difficult to place due to a lack of options. The real reason was a lot less diplomatic, It is because you want him for yourself. You know it’s selfish, barbaric even. Yet still, you leave him alone and don’t meddle. Because part of you hopes that...well...

“Oh no! Please don't misunderstand, I am still very happy to be in the presence of an ultimate!”

You lean backwards with your elbows up on the bench, “Even one as useless as me?” You say, laughing to yourself.

Komaeda blinks at you, curious, “Why would you say something like that about yourself?” You give him a coy smile, “Why would you?” “Ah.” He chuckles behind a hand, “My luck is paltry compared to a talent like yours, that’s why.” “The usefulness of a talent is circumstantial.” You say with a shrug, “Luck is going to be far more helpful in a situation like this than matchmaking is.”

The teapot starts whistling, and you can't help but wonder if Komaeda’s luck is the cause. You are sure that he wanted out of that awkward conversation as much as you did. Stepping past him, you head over to the stove and turn off the burner, Komaeda is lingering behind you. A little too close. As you pour the tea into your cup, you can feel your hands shaking, all you can think about is him looming over you. He is a good head and a half taller than you were, all he would need to do is spin you around and he’d have you pinned right on the-

“Three sugar cubes?” He asks, and you feel yourself turning pink.

“Uh, yeah.” You say, taking the teapot over to the bin and shaking out the leftover leaves, “I like my tea sweet.”

He laughs politely, and your breath catches in your throat. He has his hip resting against the bench, a sliver of pale skin visible where his shirt is riding up. You can tell he is tired, his eyes are sleepy and half-lidded when they meet your gaze. You want to bury your hands in his hair, you grip your mug tight to stop yourself from trying.

Komaeda tilts his head to the side, “Are you okay? You’re looking at me strangely.”

“Huh!?” You squeak, “No! I wasn’t looking at you!”

“How shameful of me…” he mutters, crossing his arms and casting his eyes down to the floor, “implying that you would even look at trash like me.”

You bristle a little at that, heading over to the bench across from where he is standing. You place your tea down and hoist yourself up to sit on the bench, making yourself tall enough to meet his eyes without craning your head upwards, “You aren’t trash, Komaeda-san and I’m grateful for your company.”

It is weird being up high enough to see his face properly. His eyes are outlined with dark circles and spidery lashes brush his cheeks every time he blinks, his lips are a lot pinker than they looked from lower down. The gentle breeze in from the open window is dancing through his hair and the light of the moon makes it look almost shimmery. You take a sip of your tea to calm yourself.

“Thank you for trying to make me feel better, but it genuinely doesn't matter.” He says with a tired smile.

You swing your legs back and forth as you watch him. Komaeda smiles a lot, but it rarely reaches his eyes, a tight pull of his cheeks that is rendered entirely ungenuine with even the most minor of examinations. You want to see him smile properly, for his eyes to pinch in the corners and his nose to wrinkle. His cheeks would be pretty if they were flushed pink. You wish you could do that to him. “It matters to me.” You say, taking another sip of your tea, “I like seeing people happy.”

He smiles another fake smile, “Ah, that shouldn’t come as a surprise given your talent.” One of his hands stretches out toward you in a grasping claw until he thinks better of it, letting his hand drop back to his side, “What is matchmaking but helping others find ultimate happiness?” You scoff, “Love is hardly the ultimate happiness. Many people find that without a significant other.” you lower your mug to rest on your bare thighs, it’s warm, “My talent doesn’t guarantee a perfect relationship either, those take work, I’m only a little better than a quiz in a magazine.” Komaeda frowns then, his brow furrows and it’s incredibly cute, “I find that difficult to believe, someone as amazing as you debasing yourself in front of a pathetic worm like me…I don’t understand it.”

You give him a shaky half smile and set your tea down beside you on the bench, “You’re not pathetic, and I’m not amazing. Can’t we just be equals, for a little while?”

“Why?” He asks, and you can hear the airy breathlessness in his voice.

“I want to know you better.” You reply nervously, quickly clearing your throat and recovering with, “You know, because I can’t make matches if I don’t know people very well.” Komaeda bursts into a bought of laughter that have you taken aback. He is far less intimidating in his pyjamas, but any reminder of that deadly first trial has your hair on end.

Even if you still blush when he looks in your direction.

“You would waste your talent on someone like me?” Another one of those smiles slashes his cheeks in half, “Who would ever accept me as their partner?” You would.

“I’m just being thorough.” You reply, “There aren’t many people on the island so I need to cover all my bases.”

“By all means, then.” He says, his smile turning syrupy, “Use me however you desire” You swallow, averting your eyes and pressing your thighs together. He must know the effect he has on you. Komaeda is many things, but he surely isn't unobservant.

“What about yourself?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. You blink, “Sorry?” “Do you include yourself in the viable options?” He clarifies, “I can’t imagine you would include me but not yourself, and yet I haven’t noticed you involving yourself with the others all that much.”

“Ah.” You say, withering a little as you set your mug down on the bench next to you, “I don’t have a perfect match, or at least my talent doesn’t help me to find one.” His brow furrows, “Does that bother you?” You can feel tears beading in your eyes, but force a smile anyway, “I thought it didn’t, but it’s harder to stomach the older I get.” You shrug one shoulder, “I’ve consulted constellations, the positions of the sun and the moon. Hell, I even tried tarot at one point and nothing. No red string of fate, just loneliness for the rest of my life.”

You cast your eyes down at Komaeda’s feet, too ashamed to meet his gaze, “I know it’s stupid, that plenty of people live happy and full lives without falling in love but it just feels...it feels so cruel that I’ve been put on this planet to find love for other people but I can never find it myself.”

Komaeda scoffs aloud, and you look up at him in surprise. He’s never made such a dismissive sound around you before, “Someone as amazing as you…is going to be alone forever?” He laughs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I find that incredibly difficult to believe. With a talent as wonderful, as hopeful as yours. It’s nearly, no it is impossible to imagine that there is no potential for love in your life.” “But I-” He laughs again, louder this time, eyes growing wider, “Your talent makes others happy, everyone is happy just by being around you. The way you so perfectly knot lives together may be reserved for other people, but surely you can see that you are amazing enough not to need the help.” He makes a sound, half a sigh, half a moan, “You should have people falling at your feet.”

At some point during his tirade, he had come closer to you. He is almost standing between your open legs. Your hands are gripping the edge of the bench tight so he won’t notice the shaking.

You bite your lower lip, peering up at him, “I’m tired of waiting, Komaeda.” You give him a shaky little smile, “What if I don’t find anyone, what if I die in here before I get the chance.” He stares at you appraisingly for a moment, the moonlight catching in his hair as his pale eyes dart around your face. He wets his lips, and begins speaking in a low, serious voice, “I know that I'm just a piece of trash, not even worthy to kiss the ground you walk on. But if you want someone so desperately…” He swallows, and you can hear that his voice is shaking when he says, “then maybe I could-”

“Yes.” You breathe. Your heart is racing like it is trying to burst forth from your chest. Yes, a million times yes.

Komaeda blinks a few times, like he is stunned, “what- you...you actually?”

“Komaeda.” You lick your lips, and he definitely notices, “please”

His throat bobs as he steps towards you, nestling in between your open thighs. You can feel his breath on your face, he slowly brings up a hand to cup your cheek and you can see that he is shaking. He takes one step towards you and crashes his lips into yours. One hand gripping tightly at your waist and the other tugging at your hair. His lips are soft, and he smells like cheap camomile soap, you want more.

Komaeda grunts when you instinctively wrap one of your legs around his narrow waist, desperate to tug him ever closer. His boney fingers slide up and over the length of your ribcage, between frantic messy kisses, you can hear him whimpering and moaning against your lips. You gasp aloud when he pulls your hair tight, he laughs breathlessly and whispers, “Do you like when I do that?” close enough that his lips touch yours as he speaks.

“Y-Yes…” you reply, one of your own hands sliding up the ridges of his spine and into his hair, you grab a handful at the nap of his neck and yank, “Do you like it?” He pulls far enough away from you that you can meet his eyes, wide and desperate, darting around every inch of your face like he is trying to commit you to memory, “I like it very much.” he says lowly, and you can feel the sound of it vibrating through your chest, “But what I like is of little significance.”

He sinks down to his knees and tugs you forward by your thighs, “I want to know what you like.”

You can feel your heart racing through your whole body, heaving a shaky breath and leaning back on your elbows. Komaeda’s hands are cold when they reach up and grab the waistband of your shorts, tugging them and your panties down. Your shorts fall straight to the floor, but your panties get caught dangling around your ankle, and Komaeda seems content to leave them there.

“Relax.” He breathes, cold hands holding your legs apart as he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, “Let me worship you.”

Fuck. You couldn’t say no to that even if you wanted to.

Komaeda takes his time. You aren’t sure whether you appreciate that or just want him to get on with it. He plants small kisses the whole way up the inside of your thigh, from knee all the way to pelvis, and for one excruciating moment, you feel his breath ghost over your sex before he moves to the other leg and repeats the process.

“Damn it.” You hiss under your breath, quivering for any sort of stimulation.

Komaeda pauses his ministrations for a moment, giggling under his breath, “There’s no need to rush, we have all night.” You choke, the thought of him worshipping you all night sends a bolt of arousal down between your thighs and you hide your face with a forearm so he doesn't realise you are turning red.

He sucks a large bruise onto your inner thigh, kissing it gently to soothe the ache, and then pulling back to admire his handiwork. He moans, just from the sight of it, and immediately dives back in to do it again. You can’t help but imagine yourself lounging at the beach in a swimsuit, and somebody noticing the constellation of bruises covering your inner thighs. Knowing who it was that did it to you.

Then you yelp, snapping back to attention at the sight of Komaeda’s eyes peering up at you from between your thighs. He gives your clit another lick, and you instinctively grab his unruly hair for leverage. He smirks at you and goes back to kissing your thigh. “Komaeda please!” You cry out, unable to stop your hips bucking towards him, desperate for attention.

He leans his head against your thigh, his smile saccharine and syrupy. For someone who acts so subservient and weak, he sure is exuding confidence right now, “Hm? Did you need something?”

You bark a laugh, “Yes! Obviously!” He closes his eyes, and another moan rolls through him. When his eyes open again, they are half-lidded and nearly sinister, “Does this help?” He whispers, one of his long fingers gently running up the full length of your sex and completing one tight circle over your clit.

“God, fuck, yes! More!” You cry out, head lolling backwards.

You feel his lips press against your thigh, and Komaedas finger continues gently stroking you, just enough that you are able to feel it, but still not enough. Enough to leave you shivery and desperate for more. Every gentle touch up over your clit has your hips bucking towards him, your whole body shaking.

Your breath hitches when you feel his finger finally slip in between your folds, finally finally touching you directly.

Komaeda whimpers, “You’re so wet…”

You let out a keening moan when his digit presses against your entrance, teasing you with the addictive taste of true penetration, “P-Please…”

His finger slips inside, only to the second knuckle, but it’s enough to have your toes curling. Komaeda stares down at where his finger is now pressed inside you, blinking slowly in utter awe. Then his finger curls upward, and you howl. Both hands were now buried in his hair, hips grinding up into his hand.

“Beautiful…” he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

You barely even hear him over the sounds of your own moans when he strokes your insides again.

“I can’t believe you are letting me do this to you.” He breathes, and you can feel his warm breath against your wetness when he whispers, “How very lucky.”

Then his mouth is on you.

You lose yourself completely, in the warmth, the wetness. He’s still teasing of course, only offering tantalising little licks when you really want him to suck, but you are already so desperate, so wanton, that even the little he is willing to give you has pathetic mewls jumping out from your throat. Then you feel the stretch of a second finger entering beside the first, and he slowly begins pumping them in and out of your sex, being sure to curl them upwards with every thrust.

The tightness in your core is growing unbearable. A fluctuating, unending warmth that just feels good, but it isn't enough, it feels like it will never be enough. That Komaeda will have you drooling, grinding and whimpering over his touches until the end of time.

“P…Please…Komaeda…Please…” you stammer, barely even able to speak as the pleasure roils under your fragile skin.

He moans against you, and you can feel it vibrate up through your body.

“I want…I want to cum…please” He laughs again, breathless and completely wild, “I can do that for you.” The feeling of his lips finally wrapping around your clit has you completely lost to the earth. Glass shatters behind your eyes, your heart rebounds wildly inside your ribcage, and you moan so hard that it hurts. Your talent goes crazy, you can see the stars colliding, personality matrixes with a perfect score, birth charts, star signs and a red string tied so tightly to your finger that it cuts off circulation.

His fingers curl inside you again, and he whines and whimpers and moans as he eats you out like a man starved, your fingers bury tightly in his hair, pulling so hard that his fragile locks break off in chunks.

And it’s Komaeda. Komaeda. Komaeda. Komaeda. Somehow it has always been Komaeda.

He sucks hard, heaving a wheezing breath-

And you shatter.

#komaeda x reader #nagito x reader #komaeda nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #danganronpa x reader

224 notes · View notes

kybercrystals94 · 2 months

Text

The Fact Remains

Read here on Ao3!

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 21 | Prompt 21: Unresponsive

Rated: G | Words: 641 | Summary: After Wrecker is injured on a mission, the brothers wait for him to wake up.

“He is taking longer than expected to wake up.”

“He will. We have to be patient.”

“The medic said…”

Hunter stands up, nearly knocking the chair he’d been sitting in over backwards. “He will wake up.”

“I am not giving up on him,” Tech says, voice low. “I was simply stating his recovery rate suggests…”

“Not now, Tech,” Hunter growls. “I don’t want to hear about the numbers, or the research, or the odds. I just–”

Tech stares at him, waiting for Hunter to finish.

Hunter swallows, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” Tech traces the edges of his data pad with his fingers, nervously. “I am fearful for Wrecker as well.”

Hunter sinks back down into his seat, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees.

Tech asks, “Have you spoken to Crosshair?”

“I’ve tried,” Hunter says. “He…needs more time.”

“That is understandable. It must have been very difficult keeping Wrecker stable until proper help arrived,” Tech says. “It is hard not to imagine what one might have done more efficiently to ensure a more favorable outcome…even if one knows they did everything to the best of their resources and abilities.”

Hunter glances up, catching a pained grimace flash across his brother’s face. Tech spoke from experience, he knew. Tech was never one to pass up an opportunity to offer his aid. He might appear cold and calculated at times, but he had an empathy that often led him to life or death situations on the battlefield. He rarely spoke of the uncertainties involved, always appearing self-assured by nature. But Hunter suspected he had battled this demon more times than he’d ever admit to.

“You should talk to him,” Hunter says.

Tech meets Hunter’s eye for a moment, a flicker of confusion. “I am notoriously deficient in offering emotional support,” he says with a humorless smirk.

“Crosshair doesn’t need ‘emotional support’,” Hunter argues, “He needs to know he did it right.”

Tech frowns deeply at his datapad. “That is not something one can easily be convinced of,” he murmurs.

“Maybe,” Hunter says, “but it might give some weight to the argument in his favor.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“I thought I might find you here,” Tech says, stepping into the nearly empty firing range.

Crosshair looks up from polishing his scope. “Is Wrecker…?”

“Still unconscious, but stable,” Tech responds promptly to the unfinished question.

Crosshair scoffs, a sneer. “Then why are you here?”

“You performed your role exceptionally in stabilizing Wrecker on the field,” Tech says.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

Tech shrugs. “Hunter thought it might.”

Crosshair returns to polishing his scope. “I know I did everything right,” he growls snidely. “Doesn’t change that it didn’t work.”

“I would argue that Wrecker is still alive,” Tech says, “and therefore, it must’ve been successful.”

“You can tell Hunter your little reassurances don’t mean anything unless Wrecker makes it out of this,” Crosshair says, tossing aside the polishing rag and beginning the process of reattaching the scope to his rifle.

“I told him as much already.”

“Then why’d you come down here and waste your breath?”

Tech levels Crosshair with a hard look. “I came down here as a favor to Hunter’s wellbeing, not yours. I know that you cannot be swayed from anything you’ve already set your mind to. If you’ve decided that you did not save Wrecker’s life, then I am not here to convince you otherwise.”

Crosshair stares back, gaze cold.

“That being said,” Tech continues, his voice softening as he stands, “the fact remains that you did save our brother's life, regardless of your opinion. And for that, Hunter and I are grateful. Do with that as you will.”

Tech moves to walk away, but a hand catches his arm. “Comm when Wrecker wakes up,” Crosshair mutters.

“Of course,” Tech says, and takes his leave.

END

✨Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!✨

Taglist: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @arctrooper69 @proteatook @the-little-moment @mooncommlink @nagyanna424 @merkitty49

#febuwhump 2024 #febuwhumpday21 #prompt 21: unresponsive #star wars #the bad batch #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #injury

20 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 4 months

Text

one cup, two cup, three, and four (CWFKB23 #22)

@codywanfirstkissbingo Sleepy kiss, Modern AU, Fem Codywan

The flat is quiet when Obi-Wan manages to wrangle the door open through a mess of foliage and delicate string lights that throng their hallway. No need to worry about alarms or a security system when they had the normal mess and clutter of everyday life. She steps over Cody’s work boots, placed into the same spot every day, and loosely toes her own shoes off next to them. The sole gapes wide as she does so, revealing the softer innards of fabric straining away from rubber, and she ignores it as best as she can.

Tape is a godsend and where tape wouldn’t fix it, there is a small tube of superglue in one of the drawers she can ask Cody to try. The pads of Obi-Wan’s fingers are still discoloured from her last attempt at trying to fix a pair of her shoes so she’ll pass the problem to more capable hands. Her jacket is summarily discarded onto the back of the sofa and she lingers long enough to retrieve her lanyard and keys from the pocket, returning them to their forced exclusion into the small bowl on the counter for the next two days. The time off from work stretches luxuriously empty, free from any mandatory training or social obligations, and Obi-Wan skirts around the potential issue of their unique living arrangement as she flicks on the kettle, pulling one mug out of the cupboard, pausing and returning for another. Cody has the next couple of days off as well, a rarity with their opposite working schedules. Obi-Wan makes Cody’s cup of coffee how she likes it, strong and sweet and a splash of milk first despite Obi-Wan’s moral objections to the concept, and rifles through her small collection of tea. There is no caffeine in her immediate future if she wants to sleep for any part of the morning; another hidden delight of adulthood that’s tripped her over and bruised up her face. She chews on the tip of her tongue as she draws a bag free, dropping it into her cup and chasing it with the boiling water.

A door creaks further in the apartment and Obi-Wan rocks back onto her heels, a dozy prickle of contentment resting on the nape of her neck. Cody’s steps are steady, sleep-slow and her slippers smack against the floor as she makes her way into the sitting room. Much of her isn’t visible, a walking plaid blanket that hides her face and her curls, but the tattoo over her calf is clearly visible with one of her pyjama trouser legs drawn up over her knee while the other falls to the floor.

“Morning,” Obi-Wan says, breaking into a yawn that she doesn’t bother to hide behind her hand. Her manners are ingrained into her bones but even that runs thin and fallow after so long spent at work.

“G’morning,” Cody responds, her words muffled through fabric and sleep. Obi-Wan can picture her expression, her eyes still mostly closed and her gaze filtered through her impossibly long lashes and her grin easily worn in.

Obi-Wan follows her, both mugs in hand, and places them onto the clear spaces on their cluttered coffee table. She has options for seating, the low slouch of a battered armchair Obi-Wan carried to her student dorm, then flat, then four different flatshares before this one or the other end of the sofa that Cody has already claimed, piled high with blankets and a handful of cushions that Cody would claim as family heirlooms at the first hint of decluttering. She sits on Cody’s legs stretched out over the seat before she wriggles backwards into the hollow created. Cody grunts, shifting her legs straighter before she reaches down to tug a section of the blanket free, pulling it over Obi-Wan.

“You’re in early,” Cody mumbles. She’s partially spilled out of the blanket now wrapped around her waist. She stretches and her shirt rises with the motion, everything about her solid and real and beautiful.

Obi-Wan hums in agreement, leaning sideways against Cody who absorbs the motion with a soft sound. She wraps an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, playing with the loose edge of her sleeve. “Move your head up a bit? You’re lying right on my tit.” Obi-Wan does so, her face flushed but it’s fine. It happens. Cody continues, her voice a little more structured as she wakes, “Figured you’d like the bed to sleep after your night shift so I came out here for the morning. It’ll be nice having us both around the house, little human company to prove I’m not just another cog in the machine.”

If Cody is a cog, then she would be the best cog imaginable, something brimming with lots of interlocking teeth, a fundamental piece of the machinery. Obi-Wan tells her this because why wouldn’t she? It makes perfect sense.

Cody tips her head back as she laughs, the sound vibrating through Obi-Wan like it would rattle all the broken pieces in her chest back together. She curls closer, crossing her legs one over the other and then swapping them back, and Cody rights herself carefully, smearing the heel of her palm across her eyes. She curls her hand around Obi-Wan’s head, drawing her face upwards. The air hangs still and heavy, steam curling from their mugs nearly forgotten on the table, and Cody leans down, kissing Obi-Wan. She tastes like coffee and a stale tang of sleep and like home. Obi-Wan grins against her mouth, pressing herself closer, the mugs and sleep entirely forgotten.

#codywan #Star Wars #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #cwfkb2023 #cwfkb #cody x obi wan #my writing #fanfic

21 notes · View notes

cherievol6 · 2 years

Text

put a ring on it

HEY!!!! IM BACK!!! Not that anyone cares lmao. But I saw Harry these past two nights in my home city, and wow am I feeling empty. I miss him a lot so I decided to write a little blurb that just randomly came to me this morning. It’s short and kind of rubbish, but I was feeling the angst. Hope you enjoy and are keeping well !!!!

i’m working on a slightly longer one, hoping to get it up in the next few days!!!

harry is a bad listener and you’re not wearing your engagement ring…

word count: around 1.5k

warnings: a little tiny tiny bit of angst, some fluff, men being bad listeners, jealous harry, harry on his knees lmao

Harry wasn’t really a grumpy person. You found that nine times out of ten he was more than happy when you curled up into the space next to him and started talking his ear off about your day. He just liked to be in your presence; he was a man in love.

So it came as a surprise to you one day when he was seemingly quieter than usual, a noticeable pout on his lips as he manoeuvred around the kitchen with a kettle in hand, making you both a green tea. Now more than ever you expected him to be more than excited to see you; since you’d just gotten back from a work trip halfway up the country - but he greeted you without so much as a kiss on the cheek and retired to his office to make a phone call with Jeff.

Frowning, you move behind him as he places the kettle down and stirs the tea, arms looping around his middle. “Could I have honey, pretty please?”

He glances down at your hands for a moment. “Mhm,” He hums, “already done it.” He says, slipping out of your hold and giving you a side smile before stalking to the freezer and pulling out some food to thaw. You rack your brain as you watch his back ripple through his shirt whilst he rifles through the freezer drawers, trying to think of something you might’ve done to upset him but coming up blank.

“Everything okay, H?” Your voice is laced with suspicion. He spits out the most unconvincing ‘yep!’ you’ve ever heard, the kind of response you give when you’re not in the mood for something; or rather someone. You notice even in the way he walks as he leaves the kitchen and goes to sit on the patio that somethings wrong; a strange tenseness around his shoulders. You scrunch up your face with confusion but don’t question it, thinking he might need a bit of space before he wants to talk about it, so you stalk up to your shared bedroom and snap on your swimsuit; deciding you’ll shake off your own impending bad mood with a swim in the extortionate pool Harry insisted you had installed. It remained covered up for most of the year given England was your home, but a heatwave gave you all the encouragement you needed to strip back the cover.

Harry lies face down on one of the four sun beds beside the pool as you pad out, feet burning on the hot tiles as you dump your towel on the one farthest from him. He doesn’t flinch and remains with his head in his arms, completely unfazed by your presence even when you’re swimming up and down. It’s not until you climb out of the pool do you notice that he’s turned on his back with sunglasses on his nose, and you’re unsure from the tinted lenses if he’s watching you or sleeping.

“Like the view?” You grin, adjusting your bikini strap and ringing out your hair. His shoulders move in what you think is a laugh but his face doesn’t show much of it, and you sigh, padding over to where he’s laying and blocking the sun.

“Harry?” Your curt tone makes him move his glasses on top of his head.

“You’re getting water all over me.” He mumbles like a child, making a point of swiping the droplets off his torso and heaving a sigh.

“What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting off with me ever since I got back.” Your voice is stern but there’s a soft edge to it, an underlying concern that something serious is going on with him.

“I don’t know. How was the trip? Spend time with anyone special whilst you were traipsing around my home city?” He snaps. Your expression reads confusion as you try and understand where his anger was coming from. All you’d done was go to Manchester for a few days with your colleagues for a project you’d been working on, and now Harry was insinuating you were seeing someone you shouldn’t?

“No?”

“Not even that prat you work with? Henry is he called? Shit name.” He huffs, arms now crossed over his chest like a child. You roll your eyes.

“Believe it or not, I have male colleagues that are very much just that, male colleagues.” It’s your turn to snap this time, looking at him incredulously. Harry doesn’t say anything, shaking his head and looking out to the shrubbery that privatised his home just that little bit more.

“Fucking hell, Harry. I thought you trusted me a bit more than that, I’m supposed to be your fiancée.” You huff, feeling the hurt creep into your chest a bit at Harry thinking so lowly of you.

“That’s funny, because on all of the photos I’ve seen all over the Internet, there’s not a ring to be seen. And now every fucking news outlet is making up stupid stories that we’ve gone through some nasty breakup. So, wanna tell me where it is?” He looks almost upset now, and you finally click into place where the miscommunication has come around.

“Oh my God, H. Really?” You groan, slinking down to the sun bed opposite his and putting your head in your hands. The hands that still didn’t have your engagement ring on, but not for the reason Harry had thought. Harry looks confused and almost deflated as he takes your hands from your face and turns them over to make a point.

“Are you having second thoughts?” He says quietly, brushing his thumb over your ring finger. You swat at his hands.

“Don’t be daft. Honestly, Harry…I swear you never listen to a word I say. I told you before I was leaving that I’d taken the ring to the jeweller’s to get it adjusted. And that I’d pick it up when I got home?” You’re on your feet now, hands on hips as you tower over him. He looks confused at first but his face morphs into one of realisation and then guiltiness rapidly; you can almost see the relief seep into his body alongside it. He offers you a weak smile and you shake your head, flicking more water at him that remained on your body from the pool.

“I deserved that.” He sighs, wiping his eyes with finger, “S’pose I might not remember you saying it. When did you tell me, again?”

“The morning I left.” You deadpan. He racks his brain before shrugging.

“’Think we were a bit distracted that morning-” You give him a threatening glare to shut down the innuendo before it even begins and he snaps his mouth shut.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d do that to you, you pillock.” You’re mildly irritated now but the statement comes out as a half-laugh, partially in disbelief at his forgetfulness and apparent terrible listening skills. He rises from his seat and wipes the droplets of water trailing down your cheek from your hair.

“You’re right, I’m such an idiot. Please forgive me.” He climbs down to his knees with a cheeky look on his face, chuckling as you scoff. Although slightly irritated, it was difficult to stay angry with Harry for very long when he pulled the likes of begging out of the bag.

“Don’t try and kiss up, now. You’ve pissed me off.” You say the words through a smirk, still aware of the small flame of irritation still lingering in your body. He grins and stands up quickly, planting another kiss on your face and mumbling an apology.

“You’re still smiling though.” He muses, gripping your left hand and again feeling for the place of where the engagement ring should lie. You shake your head, gripping his hand tightly.

“Harry?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Listen to your fiancée when she speaks to you, yeah?” You say, gripping his arm even tighter and pulling him into the pool with you, a shrill ‘No!’ screeching from his lips as he falls in after you with a splash. He looks at you incredulously as you use the steps to climb from the pool, hand wrapping around your ankle before you can step out.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He laughs.

“I’m going to have a shower.” You giggle, shaking off his grip and grinning. You turn around and begin to stalk away, untying the back of your bikini strap for added effect. You think you can feel his stare on you.

“On your own?” He smirks when you look over your shoulder while holding the fabric to your chest.

“All by my self. You have a lot of making up to do.”

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry #boyfriendrry #harry styles angst #harry styles story #boyfriend!harry #harry styles husband #one direction #husbandrry #boyfriend harry

463 notes · View notes

guardian-of-fandoms · 3 months

Text

He hissed as he carefully forced himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull, biting back a swear at the sticky crimson stream trailing down his temple.

he could feel the sizable dent in his chestplate, the cracks and sparks from his boots.

he tried to lift his arm to investiage, but the weight at his side felt heavy, his despair only growing as the cybernetic sparked from the exposed wires.

"Great...."

He stared at the woods around him, closing his eyes, a soft groan escaping him.

.... A real mess he'd gotten into this time...

Bitterness seeped into him, something raw, something old.

"... You can't stop failing, can you...."

his left hand drifted to the pocket in his jacket, the bitterness now joined by a hollow pain as he felt the lump in the fabric, before his hand drifted to his head, careful to avoid the fresh gash, his fingers trailing across the old scars on either cheek.

"... Useless.... I had ONE JOB.... I sacrificed EVERYTHING to get here... And I can't even do the ONE THING I came here for...."

His head felt on the verge of imploding, the protest throughout his body seeming to grow by the minute.

His shoulders slumped, and a deep, deep sigh escaped him, his eyes burning.

only for him to boly upright, his heart pounding in his chest as he heard the crunch of twigs.

He forced himself to his knees, his teeth grinding together as he tried in desperation to avoid crying out from pain.

"SHOW YOURSELF!"

He scanned the dense trees, but as as small face popped out, the panic inside him died away, turning to a frigid numbness.

..... He knew that face.

The small boy cautiously stepped out from behind a tree, a backpack clutched in his arms.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I heard a crash, are you okay?"

He couldn't answer, his heart practically in his throat.

The boy's eyes widened as he stepped closer, noticing the blood running down the older teen's head.

"Oh... woah... Hey, i have a first aid kit, do you want some help? My older sister is an EMT, she taught me to clean cuts like that!"

He could only sigh, adjusting his position, carefully manuvering the damaged cybernetic.

"... Sure... thanks..."

The boy smiled softly, rifling through the backpack as he walked over.

"No problem! My name's Cody! Who are you?"

He tensed, his left hand returning to the pocket, unable to meet Cody's eyes.

".... Co-.... le.... Cole. My name is Cole."

Cody pulled the kit out of his bag, popping it open and rummaging through the supplies.

"It's nice to meet you, Cole! But... what happened?"

He sighed, leaning forward as cody opened up a water bottle, soaking s clean cloth.

".... I'm trying to figure that out. But... a long time ago, i made a mistake. the biggest mistake of my life. And.... i just... kept making them. All those mistakes caught up to me, and i tried so, so hard to fix them.... But i just got myself in more trouble. And now... I think it's too late to get out of it."

Cody frowned, carefully wiping away the blood.

"Woah... That sounds pretty bad..."

".... Yeah..."

"Do you have anybody that could help you?"

He reached over to fiddle with the cybernetic, his eyes darkening.

".... No... Well... I did. But.... I pushed them away. They wanted to help me.... But I was scared."

He hissed slightly as cody gently dabbed a disenfectant wipe against the wound.

"Sorry! But... I think I can kinda understand."

".... You can?"

Cody shrugged, taking out a bandage and small gauze pad.

"I mean... We're all afraid to ask for help sometimes, right?"

"... This... This is different."

"Right. Sorry, i guess I don't really know what you're going through. But... My family is really bad at asking for help."

"... Yeah?"

He had to bite back a comment, a snide remark, that empty feeling.

"Yeah. They're all emergency responders, and they take their jobs seriously. But... Maybe a little too seriously. They can be afraid to ask for help, because.... helping everyone sometimes makes it feel like... there's nobody to help you."

He couldn't help but study Cody, analyzing his face as the boy carefully pressed the bandage against his forehead.

"It ....Sounds like you've been there too."

Cody shrugged, putting the kit back together.

"Asking for helping is scary, especially when you're used to being the one asked for help. But... When they need me, I do what I can for them, and i know they'd do anything for me. It's scary, but being scared together is better than being scared alone, right?"

He sighed, avoiding the boy's eyes.

".... I've made a lot of mistakes. The few people i could count on, the only ones I could ask for help, I hurt them."

Cody wrang out the stained cloth, his voice going soft.

"It sounds like... You need to forgive yourself, for what happened to you."

Oh.... the irony....

"... That's... profound."

"I guess."

Cody suddenly met his eyes, frowning slightly.

"You know... You feel... familiar...."

"Oh.... I... do?"

Cody went to reply, but a sudden voice in the distance caught his attention.

"Cody!!! Cody, where are you?!"

Cody jolted up, smiling as he scanned the clearing.

As he turned, he didn't notice cole's eyes go wide.

"Frankie! Frankie, I'm over here!"

Frankie stumbled out into the clearing.

"There you are! Mr Schulte noticed that you wandered off, everyone thinks you got- woah, who's that?"

Cody guestured to cole, explaining,

"This is Cole, I found him here, he needed help."

Frankie studied him suspiciously.

"Something wrong?"

He tried to shake off his surpise, averting his eyes.

"Uh... No..."

He jumped as Frankie suddenly leaned in close.

"Is that working?"

"uuuuhhh...."

Frankie gently probbed his cybernetic arm, a look of fascination in her eyes.

"Incredible... where's the power source? Who built this?"

"Uh... An old friend.... And, it's powered by the bio-electricity my body naturally produces, but I can absorb small power sources. But i think it's fried right now."

Frankie gently pulled the arm up, smirking as she studied it.

"Genius.... Hold on..."

She reached into her jacket pocket, and Cody's eyes widened as she pulled out a series of tools.

"You brought all those on a feild trip?"

"Did you forget where we live?"

".... True."

Frankie started to work, and Cody suddenly remembered something.

"Hey, you never said, what happened to you? If you need us to get our teacher, we could call my family and get you help. Are you lost?"

"You could say I was lost. But... I Think I know where i'm going now."

"Are you sure? My family could help you, with whatever you're doing."

".... They've already helped me. I owe them an apology."

"Wait, what?"

"GOT IT!!"

Frankie carefully bent a metal plate back into place, smirking as a soft gold light started emitting from the seams.

"Is it working?"

e smiled, flexing the arm a couple times, feeling the energy flow through him.

"Perfectly, thank you."

"Wait."

Cody frowed, eyeing him with confusion.

"You met my family? Are they here too?"

".... No. Look, I don't really have time to explain, this is all... really complicated. But..."

"Oh, surely you can spare a minute. After all... That's all the time you have."

All three of them felt a numb chill surge through them, as cole scrambled to his feet, the three of them slowly turning around.

They knew that voice...

They'd recognize that horrible, horrible voice anywhere.

"You didn't think you could run, did you?"

Cody and Frankie watched in horror as the figure stalked up from the distance.

The slender frame, the jewled cane, they would know him anywhere.

But something was off.

The movement in his joints, the seams that split across his face, the red hue in his eyes, the gleam in his skin.

Cole stepped in front of Cody and Frankie, his eyes darkening with a deadly rage, his voice turning gruff.

"Stay behind me. And you, who said I was running?"

Doctor Morocco only chuckled darkly, a stiff, metalic echo lingering in his tone.

"Look at you. You've run from me since we first met. And now you stand, cowering behind children."

"I've been hunting you for years, spending every day since then thinking about tearing you apart. And I promise you, I won't let you take from him what you took from me."

"As though you have a choice in the matter."

"I didn't have a choice then. But I do now."

"Uh, cole? What's going on?"

Cody craned his neck, a bad, bad feeling settling in.

"That's not Doctor Morocco, is it?! He's... different."

Frankie nodded, instinctively holding out one of her tools.

"I think we need that explanation!"

Morocco almost looked amused.

"Cole? My my, how intresting.... Covering your tracks won't deny his fate."

"YOU HOLD NO POWER HERE!!!"

"And neither do you."

He glanced at Cody and Frankie, saying in a low voice,

"When i give the word, I need you two to RUN. Run as far and as fast as you can, okay?"

"But-"

"Please. Just go."

Frankie scowled, jabbing the tool at him.

"Why should we trust you? We don't even know who you are!"

"I know... Look. I'll be honest. I've done things i'm not proud of, there's mistakes i've made that i can never make up for. But I promise you, you'll understand all of this later."

"Frankie."

Cody slowly looked up at him, and nodded to Frankie.

"I trust him."

".... And I trust you."

The two nodded, just as Morocco scoffed.

"Enough talk! Let's finish what you and I started, Boy."

He only narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not the helpless kid i was nine years ago."

"Then prove it."

His thrust his arm in the air, and his wrist proceeded to rotate a complete circle, the cane twirling around as he underwent a gruesome transformation.

The seams scross his body split open, his limbs growing longer, the metal reconfiguring itself, slowly twisting into an inhuman, monsterous form.

The gem was pulled from the cane, and shoved deep into his chest, the energy spreading throughout him, and he could only chuckle darkly.

"Show to me why you were the one to live."

The gem started to glow, and Cody and Frankie were suddenly shoved to the ground.

"Cole, what are you-"

"STAY DOWN!"

He barely had time to turn before Morocco fired, and the area was bathed in a ghoulish purple light.

But as the dust settled, as the scorched ground adjusted, a golden glow held steady, and a bitter annoyance filled Morocco.

Cody and Frankie gripped each other's hands, their eyes wide as they stared at the crackling golden dome around them.

Cole's eyes were narrowed in determination, his jaw clenched tightly as he held out his cybernetic arm in the air, his eyes and arm emitting the same energy.

The dome dropped, and cole collapsed to his knees, gasping sharply.

"GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!!!"

"But-"

"NOW!!!"

Frankie gripped Cody's hand tightly, tugging him along as she started retreating.

"C'MON!!"

Cody let frankie drag him away, but he glanced behind him, his eyes lingering on the stranger.

As he forced himself back to his feet, Morocco's voice, now twinged with a metallic distortion, chuckled with a bitter annoyance.

He watched the kids dissapear back into the trees, and leaned down low, inches from his target's head.

"How ironic. You demand to face me, but demand he flee."

"This isn't.... his fight...."

The winded teen struggled to his feet, feeling his over exhertion rapidly catching up to him.

"This is between you and me... This is about payback fro what you took from me, and making sure nobody else looses what I did. I swear on my life, I REFUSE to let you take his family like you took mine."

The artificial madman only sneered.

"Even across realities, you truly remain the same, Cody Burns."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Rising to full height, Cody now stared into the vacant, dead eyes of the monster he'd sworn to destroy.

"Let's finish this."

"I gave you the chance to die with your family, those years ago.... Now, you will die alone."

Cody reached around his neck, pressing a small button on the metal collar around his neck.

His hemlet formed around his face, and he raised his arm, fresh electricity crackling around his fingertips.

"If i die, I'm taking you with me."

With that, he lunged upward, using a blast from his arm to propel him up, and the fight began.

#transformers rescue bots #cody burns #frankie greene #rescue bots au #au #Multiverse Cody AU

19 notes · View notes

mlmxreader · 1 year

Text

Versprechen Ungebrochen | Alejandro Vargas x m!reader

anonymous asked: “I promised that I would return” Alejandro. The male reader is sent on a dangerous mission and is MIA for a week. But he shows up battered at base and Alejandro finds him and they reunite and the reader says the prompt.

summary: there's a promise to keep, but in doing so, you will be risking everything to see it through.

tws: depictions of war, graphic death, swearing, gun violence, depictions of trauma caused by war, smoking

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Clinging onto what little hope was left, you and Sebastian and König couldn't deny that you were in a bitch of a situation as you looked around; from the safety of a fox hole made by mortars and grenades, you could easily see how badly the land had been scarred.

Great trenches were carved out into the bleeding fields, boots with half a leg in them balancing on charred tree branches that were just a whip of wind away from collapsing; men screamed as they searched for limbs blown off by machine gun fire, by mortars and heavy shelling, bleeding as they wandered around and searched for their missing parts.

Others collapsed, wailing and begging to be put out of their misery as they realised what had happened; you had to tear your eyes away for fear that you would weep.

Alone in a land that belonged to no one, where the war had come to a stalemate and no one dared to cross anymore, you and your friends were fucked; you wondered why you had been sent there in the first place, why you couldn't have just stayed at the base belonging to the Los Vaqueros.

"Any change?" Sebastian asked, leaning back against the scarred dirt and lighting a cigarette. He handed one to you and König as well.

You shook your head, jaw clenched as you did your best to make it seem like hope wasn't entirely gone. "Nein..."

He looked at König, then shook his head as he looked up at the dark grey skies; where planes were shot down, great balls of light flashed through thick clouds. He soon tore his gaze away. "Super."

König leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as he looked at the ground and allowed his hood to slip from his head, watching at the fabric pooled between his feet. "Will anyone come to save us?"

"Eine Rettungsaktion?" You scoffed. "Nein. Nicht für uns."

The air went stale, so cold despite the heat wafting from the battlefield; where soldiers died with their rifles and their dreams. Where men cried for their mothers and fathers, where they wept as their lungs became clogged with thick smoke that made its home in their throats, strangled them. Where dead men were left to rot without eyes and without voices.

It was pointless to try and sneak through, to find your way back to the base you had come from, you would be shot by a soldier who didn't know any better and was told to shoot anything that didn't look like himself; you would be killed if you attempted to retreat. It wasn't worth the risk, such a sacrifice would be worth nothing except to fuel propaganda.

You let your cigarette rest between your lips as you pulled out the love letter from your beloved; his handwriting was always so neat, a little smudged where the ink met his left hand, a little burnt and frayed at the edges, but you never went anywhere without it. You unfolded it, and sighed.

"Alejandro will be waiting for me," you mumbled, not quite sure if you really believed it.

"Du solltest dich schämen," Sebastian grumbled, reaching over to gently wipe your eyes with the pads of his thumbs. "Ein Mann weint nur, wenn seine Mutter stirbt."

You nodded, knowing that he was right as you swallowed thickly and bit at the inside of your lip; there was no time to weep and cry, no time to miss those who remained unscathed by the battlefield and who had not seen men fall to the ground and claw their own throats open with blunt fingernails. There was no time for such things.

"Wir sind allein," König sighed.

"Ja," Sebastian agreed quietly. "Ganz allein."

You tucked the letter back into your pocket, chewing at the inside of your lip as you moved aside and sank to the bottom of the fox hole, the squelch of mud too loud to ignore as you sighed and looked at König's hood between his ankles. The three of you were trapped.

It had been a week since you last checked in with high command, since you last spoke to Rodolfo, your beloved Alejandro's right hand man; you knew by now that they had classified you all as either missing in action, or killed in action.

Sebastian and König looked at you, and while one shrugged off his thick coat, the other pushed you down slightly so that you were more comfortable; Sebastian stayed at your side, putting König's coat under your head before he took off his own coat and gently placed it on your broken body.

"Ausruhen," Sebastian told you. "Bitte, Leutnant."

You nodded, yawning so harshly that your eyes watered; you trusted them to keep you all safe while you rested, knowing that they were your closest friends and knowing that you could count on them for anything. It was, after all, because of Sebastian that you met Alejandro, and it was because of König that you and the Colonel even started to date; you owed them a lot, you knew that.

Sebastian Krueger, König, your two best friends in the world and the only two you could bring yourself to be weak around when you were in the middle of a warzone; you didn't want to give them hope, though, even if you were certain that you could come up with a plan to get you all back home. Get your boys back to civilisation, back to society in one piece.

But while you were asleep, Sebastian took note of what was going on outside of the fox hole; between men dying of asphyxiation from thick smoke and debris that got lodged in their throats, between men getting snagged in the wire and doing their best to stop their organs spilling onto the slick and slimy mud, and between men screaming as their limbs were torn off, he could see it so clearly.

A pathway, leading North. North meant the Los Vaqueros' base, it meant home. All he would have to do was to sneak the three of you through the bushes and trees, and make a break for it as quick as you could; with such a small group of soldiers, such a small group to protect, it would have been easy if you waited for midnight.

When midnight did eventually roll around, and the battlefield fell silent, Sebastian woke you, and begged you and König to follow; it was eerie, no crickets chirped and no birds fluttered to their nests, no rats or mice scurried across the battered land. Nothing grew, nothing lived. Even the bushes and trees that you snuck through weren't alive.

There were no leaves, no thick branches that weren't either charred or hanging on by a single thread of wood, the bark running up the trunks was stripped; there were no berries or brambles on the bushes, only barren twigs left, all of them thin and black. The ground wasn't much better, either; the grass was burned and charred, all the flowers that could've grown had been set alight and stamped on by tanks. There was no life.

Nothing could grow where blood had been spilled, that much was obvious.

The journey was long, burdened by knowing that you had left so many others to die and to suffer while you made it out alive and suffering nowhere nearly as much as others; the fact that so many were dying still weighed heavily on your shoulders, and there were a few times where Sebastian and König had to grab your arms and force you to march with them. March towards life, towards the end of the road where the war no longer existed.

You finally collapsed and were left there when you had finally reached the Los Vaqueros at their base, relief and a steady anxiety taking over as you dropped to the ground and decided to stay there; Sebastian muttered to König, and the two went in different directions, leaving you on the dirt where you knew you wanted to stay. It was warm, it was quiet, yet when you closed your eyes, it was anything but.

You could still hear the crying, the wailing, the screaming; still see it when men gagged and choked on smoke, still feel the ground shake beneath you as the ground caved in and allowed itself to be scarred by shelling and mortars. You didn't want to live if it meant going through that every time you closed your eyes, you really didn't.

But then you were pulled up, and although you didn't want to, you opened your eyes.

"Mi amor," he smiled, putting his hands on your face as he gently rubbed some of the dirt and blood away. "You're alive."

You nodded. "Wish I wasn't."

"No digas eso," he begged quietly, shaking his head. "Por favor."

You shrugged, glaring at him with tears in your eyes that you could hardly keep to yourself as you swallowed thickly. "Ale... ich kann es nicht ertragen..."

"You don't have to," Alejandro murmured, pulling you as close to his body as he could, holding you as much as he could while he tried not to let you know that he was close to tears and that his hands were shaking. "You're not on your own, mi amor."

"Sagt’ ich komm zurück zu dir," you muttered, eventually finding it in yourself to hold onto him, burying your face against the side of his neck as you tried not to let the tears spill. "Didn't I?"

"You did," he agreed softly. "You did say that."

"I promised that I would return," you sniffled. "Here I am."

"C'mon," Alejandro tugged at you gently as he pulled away. "We need to get you looked at by medicos. Venir."

You followed dutifully, relief that you were finally with him again only making it harder to push back the tears, forcing yourself to clench your jaw and trap your tongue between your teeth; if you bit through the muscle, that would at least give you a good reason to cry. He made you see the medical team, begged them to tell him that everything was alright. He seemed a lot more worried than you were.

But then again, he had not seen the things you did. He didn't watch as men clawed their eyes out of their skulls as the gas flowed over the land. He did not witness the way that men wailed and cried for their mothers as their stomachs were split open by rusted barbed wire. It was easy to become apathetic towards oneself when you were painfully aware of what was going on to the South.

Eventually, Alejandro kneeled between your legs as you sat on a chair, and he pouted as he searched your eyes desperately.

"Mi corazón," he said gently. "Háblame, por favor."

You shook your head. "Ich kann nicht."

He frowned. "Qué viste?"

"Zu viel."

He nodded, leaning against your leg as he sighed. He knew he couldn't fix it, couldn't make you forget what you had been through, but he still loved you, and he was still glad that you were back; he wanted to help, except he didn't know how. He didn't have a clue what to do.

98 notes · View notes

fukurofanfics · 7 months

Text

Fukuro Part 9: An Old Friend

A/N: This is the chapter where the storyline picks up. Don’t get your hopes up, there’s no sex in this chapter, once you read it’s self-explanatory. Enjoy!

(Also, I’m writing according to what I think the characters would be like in person, not what they actually are, so they might not always be in character. Some character traits and abilities are made up by me, like Jiwon’s affinity with computers.)

-ちはる

Chapter 9: An Old Friend

“Reaper One, you have the blackout. Anything happens, you’re there in your suits, ready to take action. Reaper Two, you take to the rooftops. He tries anything, you blow this bastard’s brains out. Reaper Three, you have the ground. Clear out anyone within fifty yards of the meeting place just in case he tries anything.”

I gave these orders over the intercom while the battle-trained soldiers rushed around, getting ready. The bunker was complete chaos, and once we left it would go into total lockdown. Nothing came in or out. No radio signals, no incoming emails, texts, DMs, or any other signals except direct radio contact between me and Joonhon.

The soldiers in charge of the blackouts were my most stealthy, sneaky soldiers. What is a blackout, you might ask?

Well, the soldiers in question kill the lights wherever they are. Me and Takahashi would be meeting in a small cafe along the outskirts of Neyagawa, a small town outside of Osaka, at ten o’clock. Almost no one would be there. The blackout team would be dressed in the blackout suits (black combat boots, black cargo pants, a black shirt, black body armor, black hard-knuckled gloves, airsoft goggles with night vision, a black balaclava, and a black armored helmet) with the predetermined weapons (depending on who we’re talking about, it could range between a sniper rifle and an assault rifle for each soldier, two pistols, three grenades, and a hunting knife per person). They would kill the lights so as not to be seen and blow Takahashi’s head off if I commanded it.

Reaper Two would be taking to the rooftops, with special bullets made to kill Fukuri. I had teams on the ground to handle Takahashi if he tried anything, but the team on the roof was equipped to deal with Fukuri. Reaper Three had the ground.

I myself would be wearing bulletproof armor underneath my shirt and all over the rest of me. Bulletproof plates in my vest, elbow pads, armor for my arms, knee pads, leg armor, everything. I would have a pistol on my thigh and a pistol on my hip, with a knife strapped to my other hip and an M16 assault rifle on my back . I wasn’t taking any chances.

Unfortunately, Yiren was strongly opposed to me leaving. Despite my assurances that I would be well protected and the bunker would be on complete lockdown, she was still worried.

“But what if something does happen to you?” She questioned for the fifth time, clinging to my arm as I walked towards the elevator.

“Wang Yiren,” I said, turning around, taking her by the shoulders and looking her in the eye, “nothing will happen to me. You have my word that I’ll come back alive.”

She still didn’t look reassured.

“What if I come with you?”

I paused my walking and turned around.

“Listen, there is no way in hell I’m taking you with me. It’s way too dangerous. I’m doing this against my own better judgement to protect us. By leaving, I put only myself in danger. By not leaving, I put all of us in danger. By taking you, I risk your life as well as mine. You understand?”

She nodded tremulously and then hugged me.

“I just don’t want to lose you, Kai.”

“And you won’t.” I said, returning her embrace and sliding my hands over her back. “I’ll come back safe, don’t worry.”

She looked up at me and nodded again. I bent my head, kissed her, and then entered the elevator without another word.

And so we left. The bunker had already started locking down as we closed the door; we heard the bar inside the door automatically slide into the hole in the wall made for it, then the next bar down, and so on. Steel bars lowered themselves down from the top of the doorway and pushed into the bottom, blocking entrance for anyone and anything trying to get in. The electric fence’s powerful hum could be hear even at this distance. We were standing a hundred feet from it. Anything got within ten feet of that fence, it got fried instantly.

Then we started to hear faint sounds of helicopter blades whirring, and we knew it was time to go. The helicopter came into view, and it was Jeong-ho who landed.

“Where we headed, boss?” He asked, looking at the suits. “I don’t know if I’ll have enough room on this chopper to fit all of you.”

I nodded. “Alright, then call Haneul. She has a chopper, right?”

“Yes, she does. We can fit all the soldiers if she comes.”

He turned away, phone in hand, and less than two minutes later the chopper was already approaching.

Now, this one was different. Military grade. Camo, with guns and missiles attached. Four blades instead of two, it was built for military operations, so it was perfect. Haneul’s jaw dropped when she landed and saw the party.

“Bloody hell, boss, where are you going?” She questioned. “Looks like we’re heading out to a battlefield!”

“We may as well be,” I said, adjusting my vest. “You remember Takahashi? He’s back.”

Understanding showed in her expression.

“Oh, that makes much more sense. Come on in.”

We loaded into the helicopters and took off. As I looked back I spotted Yiren on the rooftop, waving me a silent goodbye.

I blew a playful kiss to her as we flew away, and I saw a smile form on her rapidly shrinking face. Feeling satisfied, I turned back and took a tighter grip on my M16. It was time to get into a more serious attitude.

We flew for what seemed like half an hour, but it was probably much longer than that. Taiheiyo was a while away from Neyagawa. But eventually we arrived and touched down on the roofs of a couple of buildings, unloading the passengers before the helicopters flew away.

“Alright,” I said once they were gone. “Reaper One, stay on the ground. Be ready to blackout at my signal. Reaper Two, stay on the rooftops. If anything comes near us, light it up. Reaper Three, also stay on the ground. Set up a perimeter and make sure no one comes near. If it’s a Fukuro, then run away and let Reaper Two take care of it, you’re not equipped to deal with Fukuri. Everyone move fast, stay low. Go!”

We attached our ropes to the roof and repelled down them, landing on the ground noiselessly. The teams spread out, and that was the last I saw of them. I walked into the café where I saw Takahashi, sat down, and waited for him to speak, keeping a tight hold on my pistol’s handle over the holster.

“You’re late.” He said coolly.

“Terribly sorry, Makoto,” I said in a mock polite tone. “I hope it didn’t cause too much inconvenience. Forgive my lack of manners.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Alright,” I said, “let’s cut the cordial bullshit and get down to business. What do you want and why the hell would you threaten me? Have you got no idea what I’m capable of?”

“Any idea? Do you take me for an idiot? I know you, Kaito. I know how you think. Let’s not forget how long we’ve known each other.”

“Since childhood, unfortunately.”

He laughed. “Oh, don’t pretend we weren’t good friends. Either way, I know there’s probably at least two teams of armed men outside, waiting to blow my head off if I try anything.”

“Wrong.” I corrected him, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. “It’s one team to handle you. And then one to keep the area clear. And another to handle any unfortunate Fukuro instances.”

“Those would be rather ill-fated, wouldn’t they?” He said. “But anyway, moving past the teams, moving onto what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” I cut him off before he could begin another sentence. “You called me out of my shelter to talk with the threat of sending Fukuri my way, and for what?”

He got up and started walking around.

“Now, I know we don’t see eye to eye on certain points-“

“Like the monsters you are helping destroy the world,” I interrupted him.

“Yes, like those.” He continued, taking a bite out of a donut from behind the counter. “We don’t see eye to eye about this, but I had an idea; maybe we could compromise.”

“Compromise?” I repeated in a constricted voice. “Sorry, there’ll be none of those between us. You know how this works.”

“That’s not nice, is it?” He said, looking out the window towards the end of the street, where Reaper Three had made their perimeter. “Being unwilling to negotiate.”

“I’ll say it again, you know how this works.” I said again.

“I do.” said Takahashi, still gazing at something out in the distance. “But what if I told you that I know who’s with you?”

“I’d tell you I didn’t doubt it.” I replied derisively. “You’re so much of a degenerate, lowlife shitbag, I would not be surprised.”

“What if I told you I could send a Fukuro army to your bunker right now?”

“I’d tell you you were bullshitting yourself.” I said with an entirely mirthless laugh, bullshitting myself. I knew he could, but I didn’t want to admit it.. “You have no idea how to my defenses, and you’d be an idiot to send anything even close to my bunker. I’d paint that window with your brains just as fast.”

“Would you?” His eyes flicked to mine before going back to whatever it was he was so fixated on. “Well, I do happen to know who’s in there. Now, how would I know that?”

“You wouldn’t.” I said flatly. “There’s no way you could know.”

“Unless I checked the plane records. Combed through security cam footage in the airports.”

“You sick bastard.” I said, shaking my head. “You’re spying on me just so you can try and threaten me into joining you?”

“That’s the intent.”

“Well, I can tell you right now that it’s not happening. Those sons of bitches killed my parents. They tried to kill me multiple times. They’re trying to come to Earth to kill the rest of humanity. I fucking hate them, do you really think I’d try and help them?”

“You would if you want to keep your life and the lives of your girlfriends in there. I didn’t ask them to kill your parents.”

“It was you who sent that Fukuro after me at the airport.” I said. It wasn’t a question, nor was it an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

“Yes. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m trying to stop what you’re doing. Why you’re doing what you’re doing, I’ll never understand.”

“You wouldn’t understand because you don’t understand love.” I said fiercely. “You could never understand the love I feel for them, you could never grasp the depth of it, nor even how it started.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. I also don’t understand why you won’t let events of the past go and j-“

“You expect me to ignore the fact that these fuckwads killed my family, and tried to kill me many times, and just join up with you and act like it never happened? It’s not going to happen, I’ll tell you right now!”

He let out a long, deep exhale through his nose.

“We believe in different things, Kaito. You in world peace and myself in world destruction. Humanity is doomed to collapse in on itself, to implode. It’s better that we all got it over with beforehand than let people run the Earth’s resources down to nothingness. You don’t see the same way. If you wouldn’t be so narrow-minded, you could see that I’m working for good, not necessarily against you. But since we’re clearly not going to agree…” he sighed. “I’m afraid I have to illuminate you to another unfortunate fact.”

I drew my pistol from my thigh and cocked it under the table.

“Really?” He said, not taking his eyes off of whatever he was staring at. “A gun? You really distrust me that much, to bring a gun?”

“What unfortunate fact are we referring to?” I asked warily, already knowing the answer. “Makoto, what did you do?”

He laughed. “Why are you always so cynical, Kaito? Why do you distrust me so much?”

I stood up, suddenly realizing why he had been looking out the window.

“What did you do!”

He at last turned to face me, a maniacal, insane grin spreading across his face.

“I’m sorry, Kaito. They’re coming.”

I raised the pistol and a deafening BANG rang out in the small café as Takahashi’s blood spattered the window. His body fell limp onto the ground as blood and brains flowed out of the hole in his head, his lifeless face still wearing the unhinged smile.

“Shit!” I shouted out of pure frustration, kicking his deceased head. “Reaper Two, prepare for a large Fukuro attack. Reaper One, initiate the blackout. Take out their visibility. Reaper Three, fall back, you’re not prepared for Fukuri.”

I looked out the window as I said this and saw a huge black mass moving down the nearby mountain, looking very ominous to my eyes.

Immediately, a crack of sniper fire sounded from four directions and the streetlights went dark as the bullets pounded them. I went outside and climbed back up my rope to the roof, where Reaper Two was already looking wildly around for the Fukuri.

“They’re over there!” The squad leader said loudly, directing everyone’s attention to the west, where the large black mass was moving quickly towards us.

“How many?” I asked, taking my proffered sniper from the soldier giving it to me and assembling it.

The leader squinted. “From what I can see, at least a hundred.”

I checked the mag for rounds and then put it back into the gun, extending the bipod and resting it on the edge of the building.

“Hold your fire!” I shouted, holding up my hand and looking at the approaching mob through my scope. “On my mark!”

Nearer and nearer they got. 1000 feet. 900. 800. 700. 600.

“Not yet,” I murmured, taking a tighter grip on my gun. “Not yet…now!”

A deafening blast of gunfire went off all around me, and about twenty of the approaching hoard as their heads were blown apart. The rest ran on, bursting through the flimsy fence and running down the street. I put down the sniper as they started climbing the building, instead taking the M16 from my back, which had been pre-loaded with anti-Fukuro bullets.

As the first one crested the building’s top, I blew its head off and kicked it over the edge, making some of the others fall. But the one after that came up, realized that it was looking down the barrel of my gun, reached forward, and grabbed the gun, snapping it in half like a toothpick.

‘You bastard, that was a good gun!’ I thought, but took my sword from my back and slashed it across the chest. It fell back, roaring in agony, before three more came up. The snipers behind me were doing pretty well taking them out as they came, but the one I had slashed came climbing back up, angry now. It swiped wildly at me with its claws, desperately trying to cut me, and it found its spot.

The claws ripped through my pants with a bit of a struggle due to the strong, ripstop material and started carving my thigh open. I yelled in pain and cut its arm off, groaning as I struggled to get up and chopped its head off, even as its body began to disintegrate. The other flailing fist punctured my chest and I felt three ribs break painfully before I cut the hand off, the claws still stuck in my ribcage. I grasped the hand and pulled it out, clenching my teeth and groaning, almost roaring with the pain.

“I’ve been hit!” I shouted into my radio, collapsing back from the Fukuri bearing down on me.

“We got a man down, team, man down!” The leader yelled.

I struggled back from the Fukuri, grabbing my discarded sword as I went for protection. I tried to hold it steady while applying pressure to my leg wound to stop the bleeding, fairly sure it had punctured the femoral artery. I heard another scream from behind me as they tore a man apart and realized something: they had figured out to go behind us. I communicated this to the rest of the team and they formed a ring around me, protecting me and themselves from all sides.

“You okay, boss?” The leader asked, shooting a Fukuro in the chest.

“Never better,” I grunted, dropping the sword to put more pressure on my leg. “How many left?”

“Forty, maybe?”

The continued cracks of the guns told me we were winning. We had one man dead and me heavily injured, but the Fukuris’ numbers were dropping fast. They sensed their one chance to take out me and my squad, and their bloodlust was impairing their intelligence. We were killing them in way larger number than they were killing us.

A determined Fukuro climbed back up after being shot, grabbing a man’s head and dragging him down the building with it, where at the bottom the man’s scream could be heard before a sickening crunch. I grimaced at the man’s fate and then grunted as I sat up, feeling another spurt of blood leave me. As much pressure as I was forcing on my leg, I was losing both a lot of blood and a lot of consciousness.

“I’m - fuck, I’m passing out, guys. Call - call - call Jeong-ho.”

Keeping myself conscious was becoming an increasingly difficult task, and I struggled to make out the words.

Then something struck me hard on the forehead, jerking my head back. Sounds faded from my ears, the muzzle flashes refracted in front of my eyes, and then my vision went black as I went unconscious. As my eyes closed, I thought of Yiren, her face the last image I imagined before passing out.

…

I found myself laying in a very soft bed in a white, brightly lit room. I had no idea how or why I was here, or how much time had passed. It took me a moment to remember what had happened, and then I opened my eyes again and took a better look at the room, which I now dimly recognized as my own hospital room. I mentally groaned in relief. I was alive, at the very least.

My ribs ached when I breathed, not agonizingly, and my leg felt a lot better, although I felt drained.

“Kai?”

A shaky, worried voice spoke from somewhere to my left, but when I tried to turn my head I felt a sharp pain in my neck.

“Yiren?”

A sob sounded and then a small frame flung itself onto me, impacting my chest, thankfully the opposite side from my broken ribs.

“Whoa, careful, Yiren, I’m injured.”

“I’m s-sorry,” she sobbed into my chest, while I raised my usable hand to hug her. “I was so w-worried, we thought you were - we thought y-you were d-dead…”

She barely got the words out before she broke down again, crying her heart out. I turned my eyes and in my peripheral vision I saw Jiwon sitting there as well, silent tears in her eyes and a lot of tear streaks on her cheeks.

“Jiwon.” I said, trying and failing to nod politely past my neck brace while Yiren cried. “I guess we won’t be fucking for a while.”

She smiled weakly and nodded.

When at last Yiren calmed down, she got the doctor and brought him in.

“How bad is it?” I asked once he had taken a seat.

“Three broken ribs and two more bruised, a puncture to the femoral artery and a nice big gash in your leg, a minor subdural hematoma and a small case of whiplash. Had whatever hit you in the head hit you a little harder, it would have been a broken skull, broken neck, and probably a contrecoup injury.”

I grimaced. “Not looking too good, am I?”

“With all due respect, no. We all thought you would die when Jeong-ho flew you in, you lost a whole lot of blood from the artery.”

“How long have I been unconscious?” I asked.

“Five days.”

I groaned and let my head fall back.

“Five days. Was anyone else killed?”

“Four other men from the squad were killed, five injured but alive.”

“Sweet Christ,” I said, rubbing my face with my usable hand. “When will I be out of this neck brace?”

“Whenever your whiplash heals. Probably within the next two weeks. The whiplash was not severe.”

“What about my leg?”

“We’ve had to refill your blood supply and patched up the wound. You shouldn’t lose any more blood from here but it’s best that you aren’t walking without crutches for at least a week and a half.”

“And the skull?” I asked.

“A subdural hematoma shouldn’t be that bad; as long as it didn’t damage the brain, you should be fine, we should just watch it for a few weeks to make sure it doesn’t get worse. You haven’t shown any symptoms so far, I think it’ll be fine.”

“The ribs?”

“Those will be better in a few weeks. You should wear a sling on your arm and not use the arm so as not to put strain on the ribs. The bones weren’t shattered. One fracture was compound and we had to do surgery to fix that, but the rest were simple breaks. One was comminuted and the other was a greenstick break. It shouldn’t take as long to heal.”

So this was my fate. I made a mental note never to interact with Takahashi again before remembering that I had killed him. Every time I’d met him after he turned to the dark side, tried to reason with him, get the Takahashi I had known back, something else that was bad had happened. I didn’t like how things had turned out, but like the doctor had said, it could have been a lot worse.

I let my eyes fall shut and said to the two of them,

“Unless you’re going to watch me sleep, you’d better get out of here.”

Jiwon managed a laugh. “That’s all Yiren’s been doing for five days.”

I cracked one eye open to look at Yiren, who denied nothing.

“I was.” She said. “I’ve barely eaten anything since you got back, Sihyeon unnie had to basically make me eat. I was so worried I would lose you. This is why I didn’t want you to go.”

“Well, I survived, barely. Also, that’s why I didn’t want you going. You could have died as well.”

“I guess so. I didn’t realize how bad it would be until I saw you flown in, with your leg gushing blood and your ribs bruised, one of them poking out of the skin…”

“Never, and I mean never, underestimate the Fukuri, Yiren. They’re intelligent, deadly, and they have a bias for swift, brutal action. They’d kill you and eat you the first chance they got. Lucky I happened to have a shelter out here.”

Jiwon got up and stretched. “Well, so long, Kaito. I’ll leave you to sleep.”

She walked out, and Yiren looked back at me.

“I’ll leave you to it as well. See you later.”

She bent her head, gave me a quick kiss, and then left as well, leaving me with the dull ache in my ribs and the throbbing in my head, and the feeling of her lips on mine not leaving me, a fact I was grateful for.

14 notes · View notes

trulybetty · 6 months

Text

oct' 16 x flying kites

Prompt: flying kites Pairing: maverick!frankie x gn!reader (A/N: maverick is written as female in the main one-shots, but here I left it neutral) Word Count: 808 Warnings: remember, there's no editing or being beta'd here - alludes to a panic attack & references to the events/characters of the movie, fyi: frankie isn't dad!frankie in this series Summary: thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for pushing me in the direction this one took, I appreciate you 💕 Frankie contemplates what's next for him, set after the events of Triple Frontier, may or may not be tied into Salt Water, my wip baby 💙

x. masterlist

The Oregon coast line was calm despite the winds picking up and the afternoon calling for rain. Despite the forecast ahead, Frankie had found himself sitting upon a rooted tree that must have washed up quite some time ago. The damp in the air was thick on his lungs, the spray from the ocean blew against his bare face, his patchy beard growing in from where he’d shaved it over a week ago.

The sound of the ocean was soothing as he lifted his face to the sky, without his hat to protect him, he felt the winds sting cold and sharp.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

He held onto his breath, the moment was almost too much, he shouldn’t be there. He would never have admitted it to Benny, Santiago or even Will. But there had been moments where the rain fell down on them on the cliff side of the Andes where sleep had evaded him. Those quiet moments where the only sound was the rain and the laboured breathing of Will where he doubted the odds of getting home.

Breathe out.

There was a scream from his left further down the beach that had him on edge and instinctively reach for a rifle that wasn’t there. His heart beat faster as panic and static filled his ears and a quiet part of his brain tried to remind him where he was, to feel the damp bark beneath his fingers, to listen to the ocean’s pull over the thud of his heart, for his eyes to focus on the family down the way and that he was safe.

He was safe, he was safe.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

He breathed in and out with the tides push and pull to the beach as it rolled back out to the vast ocean. What felt like hours, but was mere seconds, he forced himself to listen to that voice, to turn and look at family some ways away further down the beach.

The shriek came again, but the wires in his brain were able to associate the screams as joy, that they came from the two young kids chasing one another over the wet sand, their focus on the sky above them.

Kites.

The bright kites whipped back and forth in the wind as the children holding tightly to them ran back and forth to avoid their strings tangling.

The weather would have grounded most pilots, but Frankie wouldn't have hesitated to take off, the challenge a thrill as he navigated the currents.

He missed it.

He missed the freedom it brought, he missed the control that he had, where everything could be measured in gauges and switches. But that bullshit coke charge had seen shot to that. He'd promised on more than one occasion he was done with it. After all, it was the reason for the move from Washington DC to Tampa.

To what was supposed to be a forever home and a fresh start. Then came Santiago with the promise of a winning lottery ticket stuck to the bottom of a cowboy boot.

Before his thoughts could drift back to the events of recent weeks, he heard the sound of soft padding on the sand behind him, accompanied by a murmured comment about how the wind was beginning to pick up and that it was going to rain soon.

“Hey,” you said, your voice soft and soothing now in his presence. “What are you up to?”

Frankie shrugged, not quite ready to disturb the peace yet to have that conversation. “Just enjoying the ocean,” he replied.

You nodded and took a seat next to him on the tree trunk, your hand resting on his knee comfortingly. “It's beautiful out here,” you said after a moment.

“Hm hmm,” came his response, his eyes still fixed on the distance.

You spotted the children running away from the chasing tide as it came in, shrieking as the water nipped at their heels, their kite strings clutched tightly in little hands. You smiled softly, the unbridled joy managing to cut through the tension that still existed between the two of you.

A moment of silence passed between you.

You cleared your throat, “Do you still think about it?”

“About what?” he asked, looking at you for the first time.

You nodded towards the children, Frankie turned to look.

“Kids,” you swallowed hard, you hadn't meant to ask, it'd just rolled off your tongue without permission, “us having kids?”

He looked at you hopeful, his eyes searching your face for something as you watched the children play. He hoped you were visioning your children on that beach, that the two of you would come out of this together.

That there was some shred of hope that he hadn't finally used up all of his chances with you.

if you're interested, the song that was on repeat while listening to this...

#october x 500 #autumnal offerings #frankie x maverick #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x gn!reader #frankie morales x gn reader #frankie morales fanfiction #Spotify

18 notes · View notes

day0walkersdrafts · 6 months

Text

“Ben’s got a package.”

Xavier tosses it up onto the kitchen counter, leaning hip cocked against it and rifling mail. He does this, sort of habitually. End of the week, goes through the big stack they accumulate and plucks out credit card ads, junk mail, the works. Lark and Benny don’t mind, because they’re both awful at keeping up with the mail, but also don’t seem nearly as annoyed by the fishing attempts as Xavier. He’s diligent about it, licks a finger to flick through three peoples worth of incoming post.

Lark slides the package toward himself, sharpie in hand, cap between his teeth. He snorts and draws Xavier’s attention from the letter that’s made to look like a distant relative. Lark caps the marker.

“I was gonna cover up his name, but he beat me to it.” He pushes the little brown parcel to the other end of the counter. It has no logo on it, but that’s really of no surprise. Xavier has a feeling that Ben doesn’t always shop at the most reputable places online; and doesn’t always get shipped the most Above Board things. It could be full of spiders or Uranium. He peers at the shipping label Lark indicates with the sharpie marker.

“Wow,” he laughs, tossing the rest of the mail into it’s designated little tray (that somehow always gets things other than mail in it, despite how much he whines). “Their names do sort of go together like that, huh?”

“It’s cute,” Lark agrees.

The package is addressed to BENNY MARAN, with no return label.

—

When Maran gets into the room, he goes for the bed immediately. Throws himself back onto it, just to roll over and decide he wants to be on his knees. He does a wiggle to get himself comfortable, patting the area in front of him with buzzing excitement. He’s got freshly dyed hair, which is sometimes such an odd turn on for Benny. Something about the slight chemical smell lingering and all the cute blue stains on the pads of his fingers, because he’d gone for a bright teal color to compliment the oncoming winter months.

Benny stays leaned against his bedroom door for a moment until Maran’s cheeks go puffy from his pout. He rolls eyes up to the ceiling, claps hands together and then dramatically drops his chin.

“Please?” He draws the word out, in what could probably be an annoying voice to anyone who wasn’t Ben—madly fucking in love, Ben. To him, it’s not just cute. It tugs out a little spool of heat from his abdomen, that sweet little please. Maran bats his thick dark lashes, fingers drumming on the bed, making the heat worse. “I wanna know what it is!”

“I’m not sp-spoiling.” Benny meanders toward the bed. It truly is a wander, because he’s slow about it. Rolls himself off the door, hips first, package tucked under his arm. Maran’s eyes do that inevitable flick down and then up—like he can’t help but watch the way Benny’s body moves so gracefully. He’s not exactly agile—not like Xavier, slender and pretty. He’s not like Lark either, with an athletes apex predator movement.

But Benny has perfected that sleazy little walk that makes Maran’s eyes go glassy and fixated.

He plops the cardboard box onto the bed and then turns toward his desk.

“I’m using the knife,” he declares.

“Don’t trust me with sharp objects?”

“Mm,” Ben replies noncommittally as he locates the hunting knife on his desk that he most certainly does not use for hunting purposes. But Xavier had given it to him, almost randomly—because Xavier was the random act of affection kind of person—and he was now sort of attached to it and it’s silly wolf print handle. He flicks it open and catches the way Maran looks a it; his little hints of intrigue are everywhere sometimes, now that he’s started figuring out everything can be something to make things fun.

Of course, he’s still pouting, hands around the box like it’s already his.

Truthfully, Benny doesn’t mean to treat Maran like he’s incompetent, because he’s not.

He’d just spend the entire time watching Maran slide a knife under packing tape thinking, oh fuck he’s going to cut himself and that worry would mar the gift inside. And Benny liked finding neat little ways to keep Maran safe from even the illusion of harms way. Secretly, he lets himself admit sometimes, that he likes taking care of Maran. He likes being the one, taking care.

“What is it?”

“No spoiling, I just said.”

“Aw.”

He slides the knife along the dark brown edges of tape, grinning at Maran all the while. His pretty brown eyes follow, his excitement clear and palpable. Benny knows whats inside, because he’d been…diligently tracking it. Diligently. He’d been checking nearly every other day and reopening the link to his purchase just to stare at it. Imagine it’s uses for when it arrived. He doesn’t unfold the cardboard flaps. Instead, he closes the knife on his thigh and tosses it onto the desk.

When Maran does finally get the box open, he immediately closes it and swings his head back, eyes on the ceiling. Benny is treated to the most beautiful vision of his throat like that, and also, the dark pink spreading over his face. It clashes with the new teal of his hair in such a way that he looks like an animated character; something unreal. Benny thinks that a lot about Maran, and a lot of the time that feeling makes him tender and soft—unfortunately, it does the opposite at that exact moment.

Benny steps around the side of the bed to be closer to Maran. Along with the chemical smell of freshly dyed hair, there is lingering sugar—there is the sweet smell of the apple pie he’d ordered at the dinner they were just at. Benny wants to devour him in ways that don’t entirely feel wholesome. His fingers do a slide from the boys chest to his throat, to hold onto his jaw and slowly lower his face so they can look at each other.

“You said you liked that one,” Benny purrs out the sentence, his voice darker than he even truly means it to be. Not necessarily like he can help it, because Maran gets him there so quickly. The easy switch from date night boyfriend to—whatever he is now; domineering, aggressive, possessive. Makes that mean reflex in his hands tighten. His thumb brushes lovingly over a slightly stubbled jawline, up to touch his lower lip. Benny feels him shiver.

“Okay, right, I didn’t know it was going to—I thought we ordered that like last week?” His voice gets sweetly higher pitched at the end. Maran always sort of talks like there’s a question in his sentences; it was a cadence that usually annoyed Benny. But not with Maran. There was nothing Maran ever did that annoyed him (there was, of course, but not in that moment and he certainly didn’t think for the next hour or so he’d remember any).

“Sue me,” Benny continues in that rough tone. “I paid for exp-pe-pedited shipping.”

“It’s bigger than I thought it’d be,” Maran whispers in a breathy tone that Benny swears he could feel right against his skin. It makes something vicious inside him throb with painful desire. Maran’s brows are upturned with that edged tint of embarrassment. Not the bad kind; it’s this dark hint of humiliation that he knows Maran sort of enjoys. It’s like when he’s teased the right way, or mocked in a tone that he likes.

“Worried it wont fit?”

“Fuck you,” Maran laughs but it has a high pitched nervous energy to it. He sinks a bit on his haunches, hands moving away packing innards. The paper gets tossed to the side, lost amongst Benny’s already messy room. Maran’s olive toned hand finally dips inside and removes the toy; he isn’t embellishing. The toy lingers between a medium and a large, because Benny had filtered out the XL’s from the search. Knew Maran would have eyes too big too quick.

He’d also picked his favorite colors, this impossibly velvet dark navy and a strangely garish orange. They marbled well. Maran holds the dildo in both hands, staring with big eyes.

“Right, well. Lube?”

“We’re n-not using that tonight,” Benny sputters out a laugh, reeling back slightly. He loses a bit of that dominant composure but he likes when that happens. Sometimes, Maran pops bubbles without meaning too and it’s never in a bad way. Says or does something that makes the tension bubbling up roll over and instead of climaxing, just sort of exploding hilariously. Benny hasn’t had many partners—truthfully, it might be no partner—that can make him laugh so easily in the moment.

Maran’s back to pouting. His hand does a single tug on the toy, as if sizing it up. That quickly makes Benny’s half hard cock give a twitch, watching his hand curl around it like that.

“Why not?” And he can tell Maran is thinking that Benny is back to early months; where Maran had to struggle for more than a kiss, to get a hand down Benny’s jeans, to quicken the languid pace Benny had set. They’re past that, of course. They’re buying sex toys together. But Maran seems primed to be worried that Benny at one moment will put a flat hand on his chest and push him back on the bed and tell him slow down. Which, he wants to point out, he’d done out of…well, love.

Benny crosses to his wall. It’s plastered in movie posters and also sticky notes for his classwork. He lifts a fist and pounds twice on it.

There’s only a brief pause before he gets two in return.

“I m-might like fucking with Lark, but I like keeping y-your noises to myself.”

“I can be quiet,” Maran draws the word out, quiiiiiiiet, as he leans on the bed. He’s put aside the toy, hands outstretched. His deft fingers snag Benny’s jean pockets and tug him closer. He doesn’t resist. He lets himself be pulled closer and closer. Maran is looking up at him with such big, brown eyes that he finds it instantly hard to say no to him. He’s smiling too, his freckled face mischievous.

Benny leans down and cups Maran’s cheeks. He kisses him. Makes it a long one, deep and full of tongue. He tastes the cherry pie. He pulls away, presses their noses together.

“When you fuck yourself with that thing, even you won’t be able to be quiet, baby.”

He can almost feel the heat on his palms from Maran’s face. His breath hitches a bit, his hands moving from pockets around to cup Benny’s thighs and squeeze. He feels that arousal like a shot to the fucking head. Benny smiles, pulls Maran’s chin down, watches his tongue roll out without even needing to be told.

“I can find other ways to keep you quiet,” Benny murmurs, before putting his own tongue there. And even Maran can moan a little at that.

—

That night Benny fucks Maran’s mouth, lovingly. He goes from kneeling on the bed, to kneeling on the floor, his face held in Benny’s tattooed hands. He makes it languid and slow, instead of rough and fast, even though his hips beg to make it snappy. Make it a little mean. But sometimes the slow is so good, even he can’t deny it. Even someone who would swear, with a hand on the bible, that mean rough fast hard brutal was his favorite way to go.

That night, thinking about Maran’s mischievous face, his palms lovingly spread around the back of Benny’s thighs, he watches his cock sink in and out of his boys mouth. Plush lips getting wet, tongue out to make it messy. He watches Maran’s pretty eyes flicker open and close at random intervals. They gather tears at the edges when Benny slides as deep as he can go, cups Maran’s cheeks. He makes a gulping sound, hands holding harder.

That’s my boy, Benny says in a smug voice. Look at you—how much you love it. And Maran’s mouth too full to reply, so he only makes the softest groaning sound. It is quiet. But the quiet makes it sort of intimate, just like the slow.

Not that he keeps it pure; he does pull out in time to cum across Maran’s face. A splash of his cum on his cheek, his chin, across his lips. Maran purses them, rubs against his tip in a way that makes Benny see stars. Makes the whole fucking galaxy explode behind his eyes. His hand jerks around Maran’s throat and squeezes harshly and then he’s the one who has to struggle to be quiet. The sensation of Maran’s wet mouth, just pursed, kissing him like that, almost pulls more from him.

It continues the whole night, this quiet but intimate and also filthy vibe. He makes Maran straddle him, jerk off and cum across his stomach. He rolls them together, rubbing their hips frantically together until they’re disgusting, tacky, cumming together. Benny kisses Maran so much that his lips hurt; and Maran kisses him even more. Gets greedy with his mouth and tongue. The evolve to fingers and hands and mouths in other places—

And all in all, it’s one of the nights he stays with and remembers, because they’re fucking debauched all the time, sure. A lot of the time. But, it still somehow does not compare to the night where they’re finally alone. Truly alone.

Enough for Maran to try out the toy.

—

Benny is a bit cruel about the foreplay. He has to be; the prep is important, he argues. Maran whines, face down on the bed, hands fisted into the sheets. He’s sweet about holding in his noises, bites down on the pillow while Benny’s mouth is occupied elsewhere. He’s greedy about it, lavishes with his tongue—won’t settle until he gets one from Maran. At least with his mouth, his fingers, just one from just him and nothing else.

“Ben,” Maran manages in a pathetic whimper, face pressed to the pillow, teeth around the fabric. He pants and writhes and arches and slaps a hand against the wall. He bucks backward into fingers—one, then two and then three. He makes gasping sounds as Benny bites up his back and to his ear.

“C’mon,” Benny murmurs playfully. “You in a rush?”

“I thought,” Maran gasps, tosses his head to the side, digs into the pillow more. His hips are shivering. He’s so close it makes Benny feel kinship with sharks—he wants to tear him apart, the pleasure to rip seams.“I was going to fuck—”

The groan rips out between Benny’s teeth as he shoves his face into the crux of Maran’s shoulder and neck. His whole body shudders with the effort, his hand quickening.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he growls.

“Ah—that’s—what I’ll be doing?”

Benny’s free hand slides under Maran’s throat and jerks his head back. He’s nasty about it, watches that flicker of ‘oh that hurt in the good way hurt’ across Maran’s pleasure addled face. His glossy eyes swim and search for Benny, who leans closer so they can find each other. He feels his own oh that hurts as he watches Maran’s beautiful face open in a welcoming, loving smile. Trusting. Vulnerably excited.

“I want—”

His face gets shoved into the pillow again, Benny’s fingers losing any sense of mercy. Maran’s voice rises, though its muffled. His body twists and jerks and bucks. He thrusts for sensation against the bed, his voice becoming a little cry as he cums. Benny watches the flex of his back muscles, the beautiful arch of his spine. He wants to lick down it, he wants to pepper kisses and bruises. Instead his fingers do a soft, few thrusts to carry him all the way through and then Benny straddles Maran’s back.

He leans down, nestles his mouth close.

“You’re going to get what you want,” Benny whispers. “And I’m gonna watch.”

—

Benny liked a lot of things about opening Maran’s eyes to kink. He liked browsing that website a week or so back and watching Maran realize that things like this existed. Not that he previously had no idea what a dildo was; more than he had no idea that they could come in varieties. Shapes, colors, for more than just the college freshmen girl to explore after escaping suburbia. They existed for men, for men like Maran who wanted to know what it was like to be stretched, filled, for it to hurt in that good burning way.

He also liked showing Maran how much fun things could be if you played sex almost like a game. Not the manipulative, comphet game was tricked into playing for so long—but like setting the scene. Like this—

Maran kneels, completely nude, with his hands spread across Benny’s knees. The sneering blond sits at the edge of the bed, still mostly clothed. In jeans and combat boots and his buttoned shirt fully undone. He leans back, hands braced on his bed, smiling. He knows this all goes together; it makes Maran feel vulnerable, exposed, maybe a little humiliated—a little corrupted.

He taps fingers under Maran’s chin, makes him look up as he continues the slow rhythm he’s started. It had taken Maran more than a minute to situate. To fully lean down with weight onto the toy. He’d made a noise unlike anything he’d ever made before that would live inside Benny for days to come—months. Maybe years. He’d slipped a hand over his mouth and another down between his legs and looked at Benny with such sweet, glassy eyes that it had been hard not to tear him back up onto the bed.

“Go on.”

“Ben.”

“Good boy, Maran.”

The encouragement makes a visible shiver run through Maran, who leans forward with his hands braced around Benny’s shins. He fucks himself harder, a semi-desperate pace. He bounces, his voice getting unmistakably louder with every churn of his hips. His cock drips, mostly ignored, because Maran’s hands have a painful tight grip around Benny’s calves. Maran’s forehead touches his knee. Benny looks at the gorgeous slope of the nape of his neck, down his back.

His head snaps up when he hears the sound of Benny’s zipper. His eyes are all pupil, sweat sliding from temple to chin. His cheeks are gorgeously flushed, his freckles popping in contrast.

“Did I say stop?” Benny asks, as he pulls himself from his briefs. Hands move up his legs, start a shaky paw across his thighs. Benny’s lip curls in a rude smile and he lifts a booted foot. Plants it right to Maran’s chest and pushes him back. He gets a delicious sounding, thin moan as Maran’s weight shifts, pushes him down on the toy. His desperate breathing goes heavier and heavier as he leans back, one hand loosely wrapped around Benny’s ankle.

His pace gets even more frantic then. He bounces harder, the hand not touching Benny scrambling behind him and using the wall to keep himself upright. Benny strokes himself, lazily, watches the way Maran’s whole body moves now with fervent, unbridled desire. His boot against Maran’s sternum goes just slightly harder—and then Maran, his sweet, fucking Maran, who rarely ever lets a moan escape, who tries so hard to keep himself quiet, who bites pillows and bed sheets and even his own fucking hand—gets loud.

Maran gets loud, he gets messy with his volume. Incoherent with his words, except the desperate way he says Ben’s name. It makes Benny lose composure, makes him stand. The boot slides off Maran’s chest, nestles between his freckled, tan thighs instead. Maran’s face goes redder and the intoxication of embarrassment and pleasure makes his brown eyes roll back. Benny cups his cheek, stares down at the vision of his boyfriend riding a toy, looking up at him.

“Maran—fuck—are you—” He means to ask if he’s close (he’s not even sure why, maybe just to help him finish through it, maybe because he’s also lost it, maybe because he’s just in love and watching Maran experience something this big is making him insane), but Maran’s desperate arm wraps around Benny’s thighs, jerks their bodies close and his whole body shakes with the orgasm.

The tears slide across Maran’s cheek, that gets pressed into Benny’s hip, right against the handgun tattoo. He strokes himself to a near painful finish, his other hand doing gentle pets across Maran’s soft, fuzzy hair.

—

Benny’s also careful with this; the comedown ritual that Maran’s never had any need to experience before. An argument could be made that aftercare was special, even in the most vanilla of situations—but it wasn’t just special, but necessary. And sometimes Maran was a bit of a brat about it. Was tired or the adrenaline dump was so messy it made him shivery in a way that wasn’t always pleasant.

This is a good one. Where he’s supple and pliant and lets Benny take his time and be good to him. Barely keeps himself upright in the shower as he’s washed up, but his arms stay hooked around Ben’s shoulders, one of his hands doing a sleepy pet through pale hair. He’s grinning too, that elated, nearly drunk smile. Eyes tired, relaxed, fuzzy around the edges. Benny peppers him with kisses, with praise, with little thanks.

I liked watching. You did so good. You looked so good. Did you enjoy it? And Maran’s humming replies, his soft here and there laughs until they’re finally in the bed again.

Maran does doze off for a little and when he wakes up, seems ridiculously interested in the snacks that Benny keeps hidden underneath his bed. Rifles through the basket, half across his boyfriend, searching for those chocolates that Benny keeps buying. All the while, his pale hand makes an appreciative, soft pat to Maran’s ass as.

“Are we going to Til’s tomorrow?”

“Do you kn-know how fucking amazing you are?” Benny interrupts, tugging Maran by the face so they can look at each other. “Do you know yo-you’re the craziest, best thing that’s ever happened to me? You little shit.” The blush on Maran is a soft pink in comparison for how sweaty and flushed his cheeks had been hours before. He smiles softer, a little bashful, a shy note that makes Benny insane.

“We can go anywhere you f-fucking want.”

“I mean—” he licks a bit of chocolate off his top lip, narrowing eyes. “Always wanted to try Canada, but Matilda’s got a sick apartment.”

“Matilda’s it fucking is.”

And then he pulls Maran in to kiss him. Really kiss him. One of those kisses that isn’t going to lead to sex, isn’t filthy or intense. Just all sweet.

#benny #maran #benny x maran #uni au

4 notes · View notes

marvelous-writer · 3 years

Text

In honor of season 2 of the Mandalorian dropping today, here’s Peter wearing the Mandalorian costume Tony bought him for Halloween! (Which of course, he’ll be trick-or-treating in with Morgan.) 🎃

#the mandalorian season 2 #the mandalorian #irondad and spiderson #irondad #marvel #MCU #tony stark #iron man #peter parker #spider-man #my art #my fan art #tony went all out in getting him that costume #the rifle and knee pads and everything #Happy Halloween #fan art

124 notes · View notes

hiyesilovewandamaximoff · 2 years

Text

The Battle of Sokovia

a/n: this fic is essentially a DR shift that I had and I wanted to document it and share it. it has a bit of liberties and there will be quite a few things different due to what I’ve scripted, but I hope it finds you well! i’m putting it in the y/n perspective cuz I really don’t wanna say “i” haha, much love xoxo

pairing: aou!wanda maximoff x stark!reader

summary: the Avengers fight in the battle of Sokovia; a certain Maximoff and a specific Stark connect in the height of loss, grief, and determination.

warning: loss, grief, cursing, implied sexual innuendoes, violence, strong angst

—————————

“We’re under attack!” Pietro exclaims as he halts in his tracks, “Clear the city! Now!” He zips out and returns to the building, each person unbothered. Gunshots ring through as bullet shells collect on the ground around him. He rolls his eyes with a deep sigh. “Get off your asses!” he quotes as the rifle is tossed to a bystander as he retreats back into the crowded city.

Crimson wisps trickle through Sokovia as citizens gather their loved ones and leave their belongings, homes, and lives as they know it behind. Y/n stands next the native Sokovian clad in scarlet while her eyes twinkle.

“You and Pietro get them to safety, okay?” y/n puts her hands on Wanda’s cheeks, “breathe for me. I know it’s scary. I’m fuckin’ terrified!” y/n let’s out a nervous chuckle. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” Wanda takes a deep breath as a single tear finds its way down her cheek. y/n quickly wipes the tear as the Witch nods.

“We can do this,” she states.

“Bet your ass we can!” Pietro chimes in. “Let’s take our home back.” Wanda nods as she squeezes y/n’s hand tightly.

“Call me on the com if you need, okay? I’ll be listening.” y/n nods with an added wink. “Give ‘em hell, Maximoff.” y/n lifts off, continuing to scope out the city. Wanda watches as y/n takes off into the sky.

“You like her, yes?” Pietro asks as he shoves Wanda slightly with his shoulder.

“Quiet.” Wanda states sternly.

“I knew it! We’re talking about this later.” the older Maximoff exclaims. He sweeps Wanda off her feet as they round up crowds and crowds of Sokovian residents.

“Stark!” y/n hears over the intercom, a slight accent coming through.

“Which one?!” Tony and y/n question simultaneously.

“The young one!” the voice exclaims.

“Quite the diss, Maximoff. Take the reigns, kid.” Tony replies.

“On it! S.A.M,” y/n soars above the streets

“Yes, Ms. Stark? How can I be of assistance?” States the A.I.

“Scope out the twins.”

“Pietro Maximoff, location southwest of the town square, half a mile.”

“And the other?”

“Wanda Maximoff, location north of the Justice tower, zero point one miles.” Y/n jetliners to Wanda and lands in front of her. Y/n clicks the mask away.

“Everything good, Maximoff?” Y/n questions sending a blast through one of Ultron’s minions. Wanda runs to take shelter in a nearby building. She sits against the wall, knees to her chest as y/n follows closely behind. “Talk to me. You okay?”

“This is all our fault.” Wanda states, quickly wiping her stray tears. Y/n kneels down and cups Wanda’s face in her hands.

“Hey, look at me,” y/n tilts up the Sokovian’s chin. “It’s your fault, it’s everyone’s fault. Who cares? Are you up for this? I gotta know because the city is flying,” y/n let’s out a nervous chuckle. Wanda takes a deep breath. “Look, the city’s flying, we’re fighting an army of robots, and I have web shooters coming out of my arms.” Y/n runs her fingers through Wanda’s hair. “None of this makes any sense, but I’m going back out there because it’s what I have to do. I would stay in here with you all day if I could, please believe that, but I can’t.” Y/n rubs the pad of her thumb against Wanda’s cheek. “Doesn’t matter what you did or who you were. I’ve got you and I’m on your side. Ride or die, okay?” Y/n blasts two minions through a nearby window. “You go out there. You fight and you fight to kill. Stay in here, you’re good. I’ll send Pietro in here to come find you. Step out that door, then you’re an Avenger.” Y/n kisses the top of her head. “You’ve got this. I love you.” Y/n sends a web and flies out the window.

“All good, kid?” Tony asks over the com. “Status report.”

“As good as good can be. Location Justice Tower, quarter of a mile from the building. Get everyone onto the ships. Maximoff is in the building next to…” y/n starts, seeing the doors of the building open and rivers of crimson floating through the air annihilating any robot on site.

“Kid genius, talk to me.” Tony quips.

“You’ll see,” y/n states in adoration. Wanda stands next to y/n with a smile.

“Surprised, Stark?”

“Not a bit, Maximoff.”

“So, you love me?” She questions as she sends another beam through three minions.

“We’ll get back to that.” Y/n winks before clicking her helmet back online. “Stay close.” Y/n swings atop the buildings, eyes fixed on the brunette throughout. “S.A.M, keep track of Wanda Maximoff and update on location frequently.”

“Yes, Ms. Stark.” Responds the A.I.

“Hey, guys. Meet up point? Where’s everyone?”

“Middle of town, center, minions surrounding. Big metal thingy, can’t miss it.” Natasha informs over the com.

“Piet, grab Wanda and meet up. Are all civilians accounted for?” Questions y/n.

“Just put the last group on. Race you there.” Pietro states and silver-speeds to the twin causing y/n to roll her eyes. Meeting at the convergence point, we scope out the best course of action waiting for Cap or Tony to speak.

“What’s the plan?” Natasha questions.

“Nat, Clint, Hulk take the right quadrant. Cap and myself will take the left. Kid genius and the twins will stay here on guard.” Tony states then retracts. “Scratch that. Nat, Clint, speedy Gonzalez take the right. Big guy, myself, and Cap take left. Witchy and the Kid will be on guard. Alright, spread out.” Everyone parts to their specific quads.

“You cool with this?”

“It’s my job.” Wanda states and nods.

“Let’s kick some ass.” Y/n smiles and grabs the brunette, pulling her closer. Your eyes flutter to her lips and back up. Wanda tilts her head and leans in when an Ultronian minion grabs y/n, rolling them into a wall. Wanda’s eyes widen as she blasts it with a line of crimson.

“You alright, Stark?” she calls out worriedly.

“Never better.” Y/n chuckles nervously. “Never better.” Y/n climbs up to the top of the brick wall. “I’ll keep the lookout from here, got it?”

“Got it!”

“On your left!” Wanda blasts through the encroaching line as y/n slings a web and swings the minion in a circle creating a domino effect with all nearby.

“Everyone on the ship?” Y/n calls over the com.

“Only Barton and Maximoff are not aboard.” Cap states.

“What’s the status? Give me the reason, Cap.”

“Stray kid without his mom in the line of…” he’s cut off just as Wanda’s face drops, her eyes widening.

“Wanda?! Wanda what happened?” Y/n drops to her side. “Talk to me!” As y/n mutters the plea, Wanda emits a shrill scream as she falls to her knees uncontrollably bursting her power through all of Sokovia knocking y/n back through a multitude of brick buildings. “Barton, what happened?!” Radio silence. “Barton, dammit! Report!”

“He saved me and the kid..he shielded us from the..” Clint solemnly states.

“What do you mean, Clint?” Y/n asks.

“He’s gone.” He whispers.

“Get back to the ship and wait for my call!” Y/n commands.

“Kid, your judgement is clouded..” Cap states.

“Do what I said! Get back. I’m almost there.” Y/n shouts over the com before returning to the ship, automatically seeing Pietro’s body on the floor, Barton laying across the seats next to the older Maximoff. Y/n looks around, eyes darting through the ship. “Where’s Wanda?” No response. “Where the hell is she?!” Steve stands to my side.

“She’ll be here just give her a moment to ge..” Steve starts before the ground is taken from under us. Y/n shoots a string across, gliding through the city.

“Wanda?!” Y/n shouts. “S.A.M! Status on Maximoff!” Just as y/n asks the A.I., she spots Wanda weightless floating, an emotionless look on her face. “Engage auto flight!” Y/n floats through straight to Wanda, scooping her into her arms. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.” She wraps her arms around y/n’s shoulders, gripping on. Y/n shoots up and over to the ship, placing Wanda in her lap. Speechless, she looks up at y/n.

“He’s gone.” She mumbles in a whisper.

“I know. I’m so sorry.” Y/n kisses her forehead. Wanda with a stoic expression, relaxes her weight against y/n. Y/n kisses the top of Wanda’s head, tightening her grip.

“Don’t leave.” Wanda whispers, looking straight ahead. “Please, just don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” y/n laces her fingers with the young Witch’s that were cold to the touch.

—————————————

heyyyy, so yeah, I’ve never written a fic before. Hopefully this is alright haha it was definitely a defining point between Wanda and myself in my DR. Maybe I will write more fics (DR related or nah) later on. much love xoxo - d.s.

#mcu shifting #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff #wanda mcu #wanda x stark!reader #wandavision #wanda maximoff x reader #AOU!wanda x reader

162 notes · View notes