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sightseertrespasser · 3 months ago

Text

Odds of Survival part 9

Jazz has an itty bitty teeny weeny severe mental breakdown.

Credit once more to @keferon for starting this au.

———————————————————————

Jazz never thought he’d find himself deeply empathizing with the xenomorph from Alien, but here he was.

Doing freak shit.

A lone lifeform trapped on a spaceship with no idea how their technology works, no means of escape and no way to sustain themselves. Skittering across the ceiling and one wrong move away from murdering someone on contact.

Plus, I pop out of my mecha like an actual motherfucking chest burster. So I’m sure that’ll go over GREAT.

The parallels were compounding into existential crisis territory.

It got way too fucking close handling that checkup with the medic. Trying to keep his cool felt like he was trapped in an hours long quick time event. Every question had to be snap judged for the safest possible answer. Completely make shit up and risk getting caught in the act, don’t give away any information and they’ll know you’re hiding something.

Jazz juggled that damn Catch 22 like a professional. Thank you.

Case in point, while one of his mechas arms was still non functional, Jazz managed to maneuver his actual arm inside the cabin to grope around for some water to chug. Without disconnecting from the mecha.

That particular stunt felt like splitting his brain in half with a splintery wedge. The water was absolutely necessary, but the pressure inside his skull rang like an air horn zip-tied open.

Right now the only coherent thought he could form was the overwhelming animal desire to find a dark hidden hole and crawl up inside it. Then repeat that motion by disconnecting from his mecha, finding the most secure hiding spot inside that, and passing out for oh just a quick little 24 to 36 hours.

The pilot paused. Down the hall, mechas- giant alien robots- had noticed his disappearance. Even through the language barrier, Jazz would recognize the opening lyrics to his personal theme song anywhere: “Oh fuck where’d he go?”

Hidden behind rows of pipes, Jazz counted his inhalations until the thuds of metal feet passed him by.

Was the alien invader from The Thing scared? If it had finished building its spaceship would the Thing really have tried to take over the world? Or was it just desperate to go home?

Jazz was panting. Or maybe hyperventilating. He made a conscious effort to pull air through his grit teeth at an even flow. Even though he couldn’t actively feel his human body, the dull droning dread pressed through the disconnect to whisper “You’re running out of time.”

He didn’t know how long he had left before his stupid flesh sack would start giving out, but he needed to be somewhere safe when it happened. He’d make it. He’d make it because he had to to make it. He was the best goddamn pilot in the entire program and that was for one reason and one reason alone: Failure Was Not A Motherfucking Option.

If his options were do it the hard way or not at all, then the hard way was what the world got.

Once the guards passed, Jazz slunk along the wall, reaching upside down to fry another security pad, only for the door to open automatically.

Risking it, Jazz peaked into the room and not seeing or hearing anyone, slipped inside.

Once the door slid shut behind him, Jazz lowered himself to the ground one handed, scanning the room more thoroughly.

More screens, inactive. A chair and a couch. Miscellaneous wall kibbling, a table, cabinets. Windows.

Jazz gasped.

Glowing clouds of light, layered like sheets stretching into infinity. Star clusters like paint splatters on black velvet.

White and amber. A haze of something pink.

Unconsciously, Jazz moved towards the window, until he could lightly tap his visor against the glass. His field of view consumed by galaxies.

Back when they first launched him into space, Jazz had come to terms with the let down that all he’d get to see was a black slate and maybe a couple dots. The space station didn’t have many windows to start with, and all his space walks took place when the sun was “out”, so Jazz never really got to see as much of the Milky Way as his inner child hoped.

Now, the child was quiet. Face pressed against the glass, Jazz felt his throat closing up.

At least I got this. Even if I’ve got a half life, I got to see the stars the way they were meant to be.

He hovered. Wanting to find a song to match this moment, but couldn’t find anything more fitting than his own breathing. The rush of blood in his ears was still loud, but a white noise that could substitute for silence.

Like a marble rolling off a table, Jazz felt his stomach drop a moment before his conscious mind could follow.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

Jazz had his arm cocked back to turn the poor fuckers face into a plate but locked himself mid swing at the last second. The mech had lifted a tablet to protect himself, and the move was such a Bullied Nerd cliche it stopped Jazz cold.

Now that his heart rate was breaking highway speed limits again, the angry radio static that was his racing thoughts drowned out any coherent thoughts of what to say.

The mech peeked out from behind the tablet and wow. That’s a guy. That’s just a straight up dude. Prowl and Elita were bulky enough that Jazz could at least imagine where a pilot could sit. But this guy? He looked like the only thing he could throw out was his back. Jazz didn’t even know “elderly twink” was a look possible for a giant robot.

Mystery Codger was staring at him. Jazz still had a fist raised.

Do something say something do something say something you fucked up you fucked up either kill him or start lying just do anything brain please.

“Could you help me find my glasses?”

Jazz faltered. “Wu- What?”

The mech uncurled from his brief defensive huddle. “My glasses? Spectacles? Ah, object-sight-improve-positive?”

The pistons in his arm faintly hissed as the tension released.

Maybe-

As if this was all normal, the mech gently set the tablet on the table, before squatting and squinting at the floor.

Maybe I just have actual brain damage.

Acting on mental autopilot, Jazz took the opening to behave like a normal person. Crouching and scanning the floor for giant alien robot spectacles.

“My name is Rung by the way. I actually don’t think we’ve met previously.” Rung said that last bit with an odd inflection Jazz didn’t have the brain power to think about.

“Jazz. We definitely haven’t met.” He couldn’t quite keep the exhaustion from making that last bit come out snippy.

Rung simply hummed and continued his search. For his part, Jazz was taking the moment to center himself, preparing the best mask he could on short notice.

How long could he keep faking it? Prowl had been with him since he woke up and he didn’t show any signs of needing to sleep. They had doctors. Prowl cared enough about his “health” to take him to one. If Jazz collapsed in front of anyone, they’d drag his sorry ass back to the medbay and it’d be game over. He couldn’t just ask for a place to crash or else he ran the risk of tipping them off he wasn’t one of them if they really didn’t sleep.

A faint tapping sound made him twitch in his stupor.

“Now where could the blasted thing have gone.” Rung was sat crossed legged on the ground.

With Jazz. Who’d vaguely crumbled into a kneeling ball under a table.

Jazz stared at Rung tapping his glasses against his chin. The orange mech made eye contact, and Jazz swore to god he caught him smile.

He reached out a hand, pointing, “Found ‘em.”

The smile came to fruition. Rung aha-ed and held his glasses before himself, inspecting them fondly.

“All that trouble for such a small problem. And all I needed was to ask for help.”

Jazz let himself sag slightly against the wall. Dully thudding the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll cop that was a good trick.”

“It did pull you out of your spiral didn’t it?” Rung said sounding way too smug. He pulled a cloth out from where-ever-the-fuck and cleaned his glasses with it.

He’d been seeing these mechs pull out and disappear objects all day like a bunch of Looney Toons characters. That kind of lapse in logic didn’t bode well for Jazz’s mental condition.

He let his eyes close, rationing his remaining focus.

“How’d you know that’d work?” He mumbled.

“You seemed afraid. You stalled out when you saw I was afraid.” Rung simply stated before he then asked rhetorically, “You’re a protector aren’t you?”

Jazz made a noncommittal sound. Lying was his first impulse, but he really didn’t feel like giving this guy more material to hook him with.

The mech laughed once anyways, “You are. Unorthodox too. I can see why you have such a hold over Prowl.”

That got his attention, “I do?”

“Oh yes.” He heard Rung shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “Even if he can’t recognize the feeling anymore, I think you give him hope.”

Jazz wanted to laugh and he would if he had the energy.

Instead Jazz sighed. “I’m kinda at rock bottom right now man. And currently? Lil bit fresh outta hope myself.”

And ideas.

Jazz was of the opinion that any problem was solvable if you were willing to get crazy enough, but this was like trying to solve treading water a million miles from shore with only sharks for company. He either drown slowly or get torn apart the moment the sharks realized he was there.

“Hopeless mechs don’t stop to stare at the stars in wonder, Jazz.” When he opened his eyes, Jazz saw Rung staring him down like he was insulted. “To be hopeless is to let yourself die. Do you intend to die today?”

“No.” He challenged back, body minutely tensing.

“Are you willing to do absolutely anything to keep living?” Rung poked him in the chest.

“Yes.” He responded just as quickly, but there was a rasp to his voice. Something small and quiet. Not easily caught. Not easily killed.

“Even ask for help?” Rung quirked his head at him, shit eating grin growing by the second.

Jazz deflated, groaning loud enough for his mecha’s speakers to vibrate his bones.

“Look, I appreciate the therapy session doc, but asking for help is legitimately not an option for me right now.”

Rung leaned forward, resting his chin on a servo, “Alright then. List your current alternative options that you alone can accomplish, devoid of any assistance whatsoever.”

Jazz didn’t respond.

The silence continued to linger.

“Go on.” Rung gestured.

Cornered, Jazz could feel his horns pin back and a burning sensation in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his visor even though it didn’t actually help.

“Where’s Prowl?”

Rung chuckled, victorious. The scrawny orange mech scooted out from under the table and stood, offering a servo to Jazz to do the same.

The brief rest left Jazz jelly limbed, which was evidently bad enough to translate to a faint tremble in his mecha. Despite that, Jazz didn’t take Rungs hand because there’s no way in hell that guy could support him if he fell. Elita’s threat over harming her crew was still fresh and shiny in his mind.

“You’ll find his office down that way.” Rung pointed out the direction. “Down the hall, turn left at the first junction, pass by two more doors, turn right at that junction and then keep walking until you reach the end of the hall. His office isn’t labeled but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Rung opened the door and then took a seat in the chair next to the couch. “I’d offer to have Prowl come to meet you here, but I have another appointment coming up shortly.”

Oh uh. He actually is a therapist.

Jazz laughed humorlessly, “Why not invite them to join the party? Make it a group session.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rung fiddled with a stylus, “Ah, that would not do I’m afraid. My next patient recently figured out how to “bite” people by quickly jabbing his helm forward and I’d rather that not be your first encounter with him.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Jazz simply nodded numbly.

He paused at the doorway, running the directions through his head again, before turning back slightly. “Hey Rung? Thanks.”

“It’s Rung, and you’re… welcome?” The mech trailed off, looking at Jazz with surprise as the door slid shut behind him.

Walking away, Jazz got about thirty feet before realizing he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or else he’d start seeing double. Feeling the countdown drop into double digits, Jazz hurried along Rungs path.

And nearly crashed into another mech.

It had a head like an old school security camera, a single yellow camera lense cycling down to a pinprick at his appearance. The chassis was crazy long and pointed. Out of habit, Jazz tried mapping out what the interior would look like. The pilot seat would need to be horizontal but it was pretty doable. The limbs were definitely on the skinny side but sharp and fast looking. Bonus points for what was definitely front mounted guns.

All in all, solid design. 7/10.

“Hey.” The mech rasped.

Oh fuck right, Alien.

“Sup.” Jazz replied eloquently.

The camera lense eye loosed, upgrading to a coin sized pupil and clearly looking him over.

“Empurata?” The mech said casually pointing to his legs and visor.

“Uh, sure.” Jazz shrugged.

“Same.” Nodded camera-head.

“Cool.”

The two of them awkwardly stood in the hall. Camera-head seemed content to block traffic and Jazz was mentally banging rocks together in hopes of getting a spark of intelligent thought.

“Can I peel off your visor with a knife?”

The mech held a dagger pinched between its crab claws and Jazz had to bite his tongue not to ask why it didn’t just use those.

Instead, the brain rocks came through.

“Rung lost his glasses.” Jazz threw up a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Needs help. Now.”

Good job brain rocks.

“What? He does?” The mechs head popped up like some kind of fucked up goose, before shoving past Jazz, knocking him into the wall.

“HOLD ON DOC I’M COMING!”

The mech folded inside out into a mother fucking helicopter?! Charging down the hall in a whirlwind so strong Jazz could feel it through his mecha.

Jazz counted to five, and crawled back up into the safety of the ceiling pipes.

He blinks, and he’s staring down another hall. Left turn, two doors, right turn. . . Wait. Was that a right or left he just did? He’s upside down so everything should be reversed right?

He doesn’t remember blinking but the hall is at a different angle. New hall? Or did he just turn his head?

Jazz wants to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until everything holds still but he can’t. So he keeps moving. Keeps hiding.

And then he sees the most beautiful goddamn mech in the universe marching down the hall. Followed by half a dozen substantially less impressive mechs with guns drawn.

Stilling, Jazz remained hidden behind the pipes. Evidently alien robots had the same peripheral blindness to ceilings that human security guards did, as none of them noticed him.

Except for Prowl.

Through the gaps, Jazz watched as Prowl gave rapid fire orders to the armed soldiers behind him. Six mechs. Six guns. Three too many for Jazz to take in his current state. Prowl went silent and his wings twitched. Shivering, Jazz got the deeply uncanny sense he was being intimately observed.

The lights were ringing in a tinnitus B flat. He had the audio feed from his mecha dialed way too high but he couldn’t afford to miss any detail of what would happen next.

Whatever Prowl was said next, it must have been in his native language. Which Jazz found deeply unfair after all the work he’d put into learning Common.

The black and white mech turned to his cohort, waving them down the hall ahead of them. Prowl did not follow, wings still minutely shifting position. Once they were out of sight, Prowl turned on his heel back the way he came. Flicking a single piercing look to Jazz.

Silently. Shakily. Jazz skulked along the shadows after him.

He mental map was fucked. Every time he blinked, Jazz lost track of the most recent few seconds of his life. If Prowl wasn’t stopping every fifty feet to not-so-subtly check that Jazz was still following him, the human didn’t know where he’d end up.

Finally, Prowl reached a door at the end of a hall and entered without any delay. Jazz dropped, moving inside before the door could close again.

“Please don’t freak out.” Jazz cut him off before Prowl could set the tone of this conversation. The mech closed his mouth and after a moment’s consideration, assumed a tense but mostly neutral stance.

“I will not ‘freak out’.” Prowl looked like wanted to say more, but Jazz couldn’t afford that right now.

“Awesome! Because right now I’m freaking out and I won’t be able to keep it together if you start freaking out too.” He was pacing back and forth, not really seeing the mech beside him anymore.

“Jazz.” A servo caught his elbow, stopping him in place. “Where have you been?”

“Oh you know. Here. There. Ceiling mostly. Shockingly unrelated, but I think a talking helicopter wants to wear my face as a hat.” Jazz nodded way too enthusiastically in a manner he hoped translated into an appropriately manic “Please god help me.” grit toothed grin.

Prowl was momentarily speechless before physically shaking off the latest deluge of confusion, “That sounds like Whirl. You would not have encountered them had you stayed in the med bay like you were supposed to. Now I’m asking you again: What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

Audibly cracking, Jazz tried to answer honestly but found his voice locked up. He couldn’t, why couldn’t he..? Why was talking suddenly so fucking hard?

Meanwhile, Prowl just looked defeated. He rubbed that spot between his eyes, not yet letting him go.

“If you cannot provide a reasonable explanation for your sudden shift in behavior, I will have to assume the worst. You leave me no choice but to-“

“I’M REALLY SHORT.” Great. Fantastic. Incredible work brain. Take five.

Prowls optics flickered. Brow furrowing as he looked up at Jazz’s clearly taller mecha.

“That’s not- I mean-.” Jazz clasped his head in his hands, switching back to English. “{I- I- don’t know if this is even real.}”

Something was gripping his arms. Black and white appeared in his vision. “Jazz, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Common was easy to learn but right now it felt like Jazz was playing Scrabble with a bad hand.

“Prowl, where do you go when you- when you change-body-shape?” He had to stop to breath midway.

Please, please, please this is the last chance for anything to make sense.

But instead the mech slowly shook his head in disbelief, “Where do I..? Nowhere Jazz, it’s still me, I’m not ‘going’ anywhere. My alt form is not a different person.”

The mech gently pulled Jazz’s hands off his head from where he’d been stressing the damage from earlier. “I understand if you’ve never seen an alt mode before but your behavior, your questions, they’re not making any sense.”

Prowl stopped. Optics going wide as placed his servos on Jazz’s wrists. “Jazz are you Crashing?!”

“What? What is that what you call a mental breakdown? Cause yeah I’m having one of those.” He said a little too breathlessly.

“Sit-“ Prowl pulled him down to the floor. “Sit down. I’m calling for a medic.”

“No!” Desperately, Jazz grabbed onto Prowl who was helpless but to join him on the floor. The floodgates opened and Jazz couldn’t stop.

“No no no no, please god no. They’re gonna find out. I need to to tell you. I need to tell you myself. Just, please I’m begging you don’t do it. Give me a chance. Just give me a chance to explain, I don’t want to wake up on a table, please Prowler.”

For his part, Prowl was handling the situation as well as to be expected. He didn’t try to leave again but did get into a more comfortable kneeling position next to the panicking mecha.

“Alright. Alright, I won’t leave. Speak.”

Jazz tried tapping an alternating rhythm on the floor, giving himself literally anything else to focus on. He swallowed back bile and his thrashing fight or flight instincts.

“I’m not-“ Jazz grit his teeth. Telling the truth felt like trying to pop a dislocation back into place. Actually no. Jazz had done that before and it had felt infinitely less unnatural than what he was trying to do now.

Prowl was patient. Bless his heart, motor, whatever he’s got in there. Remaining silent beside him.

The pilot forced himself to take complete breaths, “l. Am not. The same. As you.” One, one two, one two, one two, Jazz counted in time.

“I noticed.” Prowl stated flatly, then softening his expression, “You hadn’t realized you were an alien until now, didn’t you?”

Jazz laughed a little too hysterically, “No, no I Fraggin’ did not. Please don’t freak out.”

“Jazz, you are hardly the first alien species I’ve ever encountered. At least you actually look like a person.”

The pilot got very, very quiet.

“Prowl, what do you think of organics.” Resolutely, Jazz stared down the floor panels, refusing to look anywhere else.

Momentarily, Prowl opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He shifted to kneel in front of Jazz. Sharp optics darting across his frame. Lightly, Jazz could feel him trace something along his undamaged shoulder. He shivered against his will.

“Jazz.” Prowl got down to where he had to look at him. He spoke so, so softly, “Were you created by organics?”

Well, when a mommy human and a daddy human love each other very much…

“You could say that.” Jazz rasped instead.

He hadn’t even moved, but the energy in the air just went burning cold. Prowl went from soft to deathly serious so fast Jazz visibly flinched.

“Listen to me. You do not have to go back. You do not ever have to go back. I swear on everything I stand for I will not let another one of those things anywhere near you again.” Unintentionally, Prowl was crowding into his space.

Despite himself, Jazz just kept drawing himself in smaller and smaller as Prowl closed in.

“No no no no you don’t get it, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I am!” He started quiet and steadily grew in volume.

Prowl wasn’t getting it. Instead, raising his voice to match, “No you are wrong! You have a choice now! You aren’t just your function and you aren’t just something they made to die!”

He grabbed Prowl by the shoulders, shaking him, “I DID CHOSE THIS. I KNOW I’M GONNA DIE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”

“Then what ARE you talking about?!” He shouted back.

“I’M ONE OF THEM.” His microphone peaked, and his voice broke.

The quiet hurt. Anything that wasn’t numb hurt. He gulped down air and couldn’t keep more than one eyelid up at a time.

Prowl ground his jaw tightly, practically steaming from reeling back a sense of calm by force, “You are not shorter than me. You are not thinking straight. And You. Are not. An organic.”

Jazz only semi involuntarily rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it.”

He disconnected, and everything hit at once.

Vision went and came back out of focus and way too close. His ears were ringing too badly to hear the sound of his mecha’s chest plates opening, though he knew that they were.

Every fiber of muscle in his body was torn and screaming, he’d throw up later if he had the strength. Jazz did not so much stand as he did lift off the pilot seat and then buckle forward. The hard shell of his pilot suit saved his knee from getting gouged by the corner of the platform he was slipping off of.

That’s fine. He’d land on the steps.

Except, his mecha had been leaning forward hadn’t it?

Like a rag doll, over the edge he went. A huge and blurry and black shape rushing to meet him.

———————————————————————

Is Jazz capable of telling the truth when it’s to save his life? No.

Will he do it out of spite just to prove someone wrong? Yes.

Also, secret props to @somerandomcockroach for showing how fun Rung is to write.

Bonus bit, Prowl finally let his EM field loose far enough for Jazz to notice! It was bad.

-SSTP

<- First Last ->

#tf mecha universe #writing

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rollinouttahere-writes · 3 months ago

Note

One of the mind-only fics I’ve had rolling around in my head is kinda similar to the Strays AU, but whatever, might as well.

Reader is Akainu’s kid and by some series of misadventures ends up being collected by Whitebeard. Kinda shifts between whether the Reader is a marine like their dad wants them to be, or if they ran away because they don’t like their dad. I typically imagine them as an older teenager, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

Maybe a bit much on detail, but if they ran away, Akainu reports them as missing, either because he won’t publicly admit that his child ran away, or he’s delusional and doesn’t realize how much they hate him, so marines are actively searching for them and when they show up with Whitebeard people think that the pirates kidnapped them, (which may or may not be true, not like the old man wouldn’t).

Breaking Point

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

4.6k words

Summary: An espionage mission gives you the perfect cover to get away from your Admiral father and the life he forced you into. Everything seems to be going according to plan until some pirates corner you.

Warnings: unhealthy parent-child relationship, akainu being akainu, reader being in a terrible mental state, hopelessness, suicide attempt, blood, drugging

I did tweak the prompt a little bit, so I hope you don't mind. I also hope you aren't opposed to darker themes. If it bothers you, I'll write an alternate version of the scene where the reader snaps.

Clothes? Check. First aid kit? Check. Matches and firestarter? Check. Food and water? Check. Hygiene supplies? Check. Emergency shelter? Check. Money? Check.

Looks like you’re all set. After settling your hat into your head and pulling the bill down over your eyes as you always do, you steel your resolve for what is to come.

With your backpack slung over your shoulder, you march out of the barracks so you can begin your mission. At least, that’s what everyone thinks you’re doing. You’ll let them keep believing that.

A sharp call of your name brings you to a halt, and you instinctively stand at attention. The empty halls allow for the sound of his footsteps to echo all around you. It’s debatable which is louder. The Admiral’s footsteps, or your own heartbeat.

Akainu comes to a stop in front of you, glowering down at your form. His piercing eyes scrutinize your appearance. Instead of your usual uniform, you’re in civilian clothing for the mission. Spying in a Marine’s uniform would obviously not go well.

“At ease.” You robotically relax your posture at his command. “I trust that you don’t need any further briefing on your mission?”

“No, sir.” Despite the man in front of you being your biological father, this is the only way you referred to him. Both in and out of work. “I understand the assignment in full.”

“As you should. I expect you to come back with results.”

“I will, sir.”

The Admiral stares at you a moment longer, then nods sharply, “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” With that, you take your leave, stepping down the halls of the base to leave. Just as you’re about to pass the threshold, you hear your name spoken again.

Akainu’s expression is as terse as ever as he stares a hole into you. He then sighs and turns away, “Don’t disappoint me.”

Of course those are his last words to you. Resentment twists inside you like a knife. Fuck this. You can’t wait to never have to see this bastard’s face again. You don’t respond to him, and you know that he doesn’t expect you to.

You hurry out of the base, eager to leave. The swinging doors are thrown open unceremoniously in your rush to put as much distance between you and Akainu as possible.

"Oh? Were you planning on leaving without saying bye to me? I'm hurt." Slowly drawled out words greet your ears, bringing you to a halt and making you whip around.

"Uncle!" A rare smile sneaks across your face, "I thought you were still away on a mission."

"I was. I got back a little bit ago. Just in time, too" Kizaru pushes his lanky body away from the wall he was leaning against and meanders over to you. His hand reaches out and flicks your hat off before gently rustling your hair. If anyone else did this, you would break their arm for the audacity, but you make an exception for him.

If he could indulge you by allowing you to refer to him as Uncle after what was initially just a little slip up thanks to hearing Sentomaru say it so many times, then you could tolerate the mussing of your hair. Just tolerate. You totally weren't enjoying the attention or anything like that.

"So, what is this mission of yours? I heard that you were going to be spying on Red Haired Shanks, but that can't be right."

You shake your head, "That is right. They wanted to send someone that he would be less likely to recognize if he spots."

Kizaru withdraws his hand and sighs in a drawn out fashion, "You don't sound very concerned. You do know that's an Emperor, yes?"

"I know that," you grumble and roll your eyes at his lack of faith in you. "I'm going to be careful. I promise you, he'll never even see me." If only he knew just how true that was going to be. Shanks would never see you. Nor would his crew. Or anyone in his general area, for that matter.

The Admiral stares at you, and you squirm ever so slightly under his gaze. There was no way for him to know what you were up to, but that didn't stop the irrational fear from taking root regardless.

Finally, mercifully, he breaks eye contact and looks away with another beleaguered sigh. "I hope you're right." Kizaru ducks down to pluck your fallen hat off the ground. He dusts it off and drops it onto your head. It's noticeably crooked. You figure that he did it on purpose. "Will you promise your uncle something?"

"Of course." The response is almost instinctual.

"Come back if it starts to get risky. That mission isn't worth losing your life over."

His concern for your safety creates a conflicting storm of warmth and guilt within you. Returning to the Marines was out of the question, but you obviously couldn't say as much. Instead, you do what any rational soon-to-be traitor would do under your circumstances. Lie.

"I'll leave as soon as it gets dangerous, I promise." It's a half truth. Yeah, you'll never be anywhere near Shanks, but you will be leaving danger in a sense.

"Alright." Kizaru pats your head, "Take care of yourself, (Y/N)."

"I will. Goodbye, Uncle." You turn your back to him and fix your hat. "Tell Sentomaru I said bye."

A hum of acknowledgement is all you get in response from Kizaru. There's a 50/50 chance that it'll slip his mind until much later, but what can you do? That's just how he is. You'll miss him and Sentomaru when you're gone.

But that's neither here nor there. You need to leave before Akainu notices that you're still here and lollygagging. You stride toward the docks where a privateer vessel is waiting for you. It was a small, inboard paddlewheeler with an enclosed helm that doubled as a sleeping quarters. A nice ship. Shame you’re going to have to ditch it soon.

“(Y/N)!” There was a call of your name yet again. The imposing figure of one of the men under your command is looming over your ship. He's too big to be getting on it, so he's left standing on the dock near it and tossing some boxes of provisions to someone on the boat. He turns to you with a broad smile across his scarred face. "We've got 'er ready for you!"

A wisp of a smile graces your typically stern features, “Thanks, Sven. I appreciate it.”

The person that had been in the helm squeezes out of the door and joins you two on the dock. Nesca may be on the short side for a fishman, but she's still a couple heads taller than you. The modified dorsal fin sprouting from her head that anglerfish were named after bounces and sways as she makes the jump.

She flashes you a smile filled with needle like teeth and winks, "I snuck some extra snacks in for you with the rest of that stuff."

"Nesca, they're going to notice that when they take inventory later."

"So what? What are they going to do? Fire me for making sure you don't starve while on your mission?" As expected, she was entirely unbothered by the threat of disciplinary action. She was the type to go with the flow of things regardless of where exactly that flow took her. She couldn't care less if it gets her in trouble.

Sven lets out a bellowing laugh, "Besides, we both did it, so they're going to have a hard time pinning down who did it!"

"Might not be that hard if you keep yelling it." You roll your eyes and have to make a considerable effort to suppress the smile threatening to show itself again.

"Well, whatever. Nothing that they will do will be as much of a blow to our egos as being held back from joining you on this mission." Sven crosses his muscular arms and scowls at the base in the distance, "They're letting a kid go and stake out an Emperor, but they won't let us, actual adults, tag along to make sure you have support if things get hairy. If that isn't a kick in the teeth, I don't know what is."

"Yeah," Nesca chimes in, "we've been through so much together, but now is when they separate us? Talk about ridiculous."

These two have been under your command since you became a lieutenant. For every achievement and failure you've had in your career, they've been right behind you. Of course, there have been many more people in your units over the years, but these two were among the three that had been consistent through every promotion. The third... he wasn't here anymore.

"They probably don't want to risk Red Haired Shanks becoming suspicious from seeing a trio following him around." That, and neither of these people could exactly be considered conspicuous. Sven was damn near ten feet tall, and Nesca was a fishman. They would absolutely call attention to you if you three were to go on this mission together.

Nesca was less than impressed with the explanation. "I guess that makes some sense, but I still don't get why they're okay with sending you off like some sacrificial lamb. Can your dad seriously not be bothered to give enough of a shit to at least try and pull some strings to get you backup?"

Hearing Akainu getting referred to in such a cozy term of endearment makes you want to reprimand Nesca, but you refrain. You know that she doesn't mean anything by it. Despite her concerns, Akainu's inaction has worked in your favor. Having anyone with you would have been a massive hindrance to your plan.

Another hindrance would be Akainu coming over here if he notices you're still here and not diligently heading toward your destination. You shoulder past your comrades and leap onto the boat, “I’m not a sacrifice. The rank of Commodore wasn’t handed to me, I earned it. I’ve been trained for this for as long as I can remember.”

"I know, I know." Nesca waves her hand dismissively, "We're just looking out for you. You better be careful out there."

Sven easily unties the rope anchoring your boat to the dock and tosses it to you. “Good luck, (Y/N)! I can’t wait to hear about everything when you’re back!”

"I will! You two stay out of trouble while I'm gone!" While you do hope that they'll behave for their sake, that first part was a lie. You won’t be back. Never. You’d rather die than ever set foot on a Marine base again.

—

Several weeks have passed since your departure and covert runaway. At this point, they still believe you to be on assignment, and if everything continues as planned, it should be several months before your absence becomes known. Due to the high risk nature of spying on an Emperor, there would be zero communications until you got back. Sengoku wasn’t willing to risk you being found out if the Red Haired Pirates had a black transponder snail on them. Not only would it jeopardize your safety seeing as that you were alone and didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against an Emperor’s crew, but the discovery would likely make them much harder to tail going forward since they would now know to be wary of this tactic.

Of course, you were nowhere near where that crew had been sighted lurking about. Your end goal was to get out of the Grand Line entirely and start life anew on some remote island where no one would ever think to look for you. Ideally, you would be assumed dead. Killed in action while stalking a predator you had no hopes against.

If anyone knew you were still alive and just deserted the marines… Well, you’ve seen what Akainu does to people like that, and you aren’t naive enough to think that you’ll get special treatment purely because you’re his child. If anything, that would incentivize him more to make an example out of you. To prove that he would never go easy on anyone.

All in the name of his precious Absolute Justice.

Currently, your biggest hurdle was the calm belt. Even if you hadn’t ditched- and burned- your original vessel, it would have done little to help you cross it. Sure, the absence of wind and ocean currents wouldn’t have slowed it down, but its wooden structure never would have stood a chance against the dense population of sea kings lurking in the depths of that part of the sea.

What you needed was something sturdy and fast. A high powered engine in a preferably metal boat that could take a few hits if need be. On top of that, you needed some weapons to assist you in fending off the beasts. As powerful as you were, even you could only do so much against the likes of such a creature.

Despite all of the risks, you feel relatively confident in your plan. All that you need to do is make it at least halfway through. After that, you think you’ll be able to fly the rest of the way out or at least island hop to the North Blue. Of course, you being a zoan devil fruit user came with risks, but hopefully the fear of drowning if your wings grow too tired will motivate you to persevere through exhaustion.

As long as you can pull this off, and do so without calling attention to yourself, you’ll finally have the freedom you’ve yearned after for so long. It’s so close that you can taste it.

“Commodore (Y/N)! Fancy seeing you here.”

W h a t ?

Once hot blood runs cold as ice through your veins. Who the fuck said that? You slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder to see who just recognized you. This could ruin everything. You can’t risk a sighting. You’ll have to kill whoever saw you.

“Whoa! If looks could kill, I don’t think I’d survive that one!” The man laughs and jumps down from the rooftop he’d been perched upon. Oh, fuck. That’s Fire Fist Ace. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

Another person drops down in front of you, prompting you to whip your head back around only to see Marco the Phoenix blocking the other exit to this alleyway. Oh, this couldn’t get any worse! What’s next?! Is fucking Whitebeard himself going to appear, too?!

More Whitebeard Pirates filter into the alley, but Ace and Marco appear to be the only Division Commanders here. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Marco holds up his hands in a placating manner, though it’s anything but. “Nothing much,” he steps closer, “I promise that none of us want to hurt you, but we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“And? How’s that my problem?”

“We need to pick up some medicine for our pops, but the only island that has enough of it right now has a Marine base on it. This medicine is really important, we can’t risk it getting destroyed in an attack, so that’s where you come in. In order to guarantee its safety, we’ll let them know that we have an Admiral’s kid in our custody, and that you won’t be released unless we get what we need.” Marco smirks, “Now are you going to make this easy or difficult? Because I can promise you, you’re coming with us whether you like it or not.”

No. No, no, no, no, no, no! This isn’t happening! This can’t be fucking happening! You were so close, and now everything is going to be ruined because of some fucking pirates! Your hands are shaking- no, your whole body is! Your heart is pounding, adrenaline is spiking, your nerves are on fire. No. You aren’t about to give up and let them take you and ruin your life.

“No… you can’t do this to me.” You shake your head and meet Marco’s lax eyes, “I won’t let you!”

In a split second, your arms transform into wings, and you shoot yourself up into the air. Your legs turn next, shifting into clawed talons that you use to send an attack at Fire Fist and the people clustered around him. Everyone but him dives out of the way as the strike slashes through the cobblestones and walls. Ace tanks the hit directly, but all it does is go right through the logia devil fruit user.

“Not bad, but you’re going to need to do better than that to actually hurt me!” Ace erupts into a column of flames and directs it right at you. Just what you wanted. You flap your wings hard, blasting the fire right back at him- but more importantly- the people around him. They all scream as their clothes catch to fire, making Ace immediately panic and focus on them rather than you.

Not wanting to waste a single precious second, you take off, cutting through the air with remarkable speed. That much is to be expected of someone with the Tori Tori no Mi Model: Peregrine Falcon. As one of the fastest animals on the planet, your speed was generally unmatched. Kizaru was the only person that could ever really challenge you in terms of speed. Escaping these pirates should be a breeze.

“You’re pretty good! I wouldn’t expect anything less from an Admiral’s kid!” The voice of Marco comes from above.

You look up just in time to dodge him swooping down to try and grab you. Fuck, he’s fast! It’s time to engage in some real evasive maneuvers. You rip off your backpack and chuck it at him, then shift into your full beast form.

With your body shrunk down to the size of the bird your devil fruit is modeled after, taking the backpack with you would be impossible. You’ll have to come back for it later, or maybe not at all depending on how poorly this goes.

In your true form, you’re able to take full advantage of the speed the peregrine falcon is known for. Buildings all meld into a blur as you rocket through and around them. A family shrieks as you speed through one open window and out the other, then you’re weaving through lines upon lines of laundry, and next you’re in an open market.

As quickly as you shot off, you stop and slip under a table, the cloth on it easily concealing your presence. Your heart is pounding and you’re panting hard as you wait in silence. The tablecloth doesn’t get ripped off by your pursuer or anyone else, so you’re cautiously optimistic that you succeeded in losing him. Now you just had to figure out how to get out of here without being spotted again. All of those pirates saw what you look like in all of your forms, which was going to be a major problem. The second you leave this sanctuary, you’re going to be at risk.

There isn’t a clear, easy option. You’re just going to have to take a gamble and hope that your beast form will be unassuming enough to not catch their eyes again. You peek under the tablecloth to see if any of the Whitebeard Pirates are lurking nearby. It doesn’t look like any of them are here.

Okay, here goes nothing. You fly out from your hiding spot and high into the air at what should look like a normal speed for a bird. Flying as fast as you can would just draw attention to you. So long as you look like a normal bird at a glance, you should be able to get away unnoticed.

“There you are.”

Before you can even blink, a taloned foot closes around your small form. You squawk in surprise, then immediately shift into a half-bird form to try and break Marco’s hold. Something cold snaps around your wrist, and all of your energy is sapped away in an instant, right along with your powers.

Sea stone cuffs. They came prepared. You fall through the air, but only briefly before Marco catches you. He lands hard on a rooftop, but remains upright and doesn’t drop you. He grins, but his eyes have an odd gleam to them that you don’t recognize, “You’re good. I didn’t think they still made Marines like you anymore.” Why is he complimenting you? Freak.

You start to struggle in his hold, but he’s faster than you and locks the other cuff around your free hand. Now you’re completely at their mercy. This is awful. This is a worst case scenario.

“Now then, let’s get you back to the ship.”

—

The journey from the small seaside town to the Whitebeards’ ship was lost on you. You weren’t processing any of it. As soon as reality sank in, you went completely numb. Every word said by the pirates bounced right off you.

They were going to know. You’re nowhere near where Shanks and his crew are. They’re going to know you deserted. He’s going to know you deserted. It’s over. Your life is over. These pirates signed your death certificate as soon as they locked those cuffs on you.

Distantly, you glance at your surroundings. You’re chained to a cot in what looks to be the ship’s infirmary, if all the nurses milling about are anything to go off of. Only one of your hands is cuffed, the other is free again. They aren’t concerned about a devil fruit user being dangerous while sea stone cuffs are eating away at their strength. What a disaster. Years of training, and this is how it ends. How humiliating.

And to make it worse: your hat is gone, leaving your face bare for all to see. Now that you're thinking about it, you probably lost it during the initial chase. You were so consumed with getting away that you can't even recall when exactly it was lost.

Fingers snap in front of your face, and you look up sluggishly at the person disturbing you. Twin Blade Thatch is at your bedside, looking… confused? Sad? This is another expression that you don’t recognize.

He smiles slightly, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “You okay there, kid?” When you don’t answer, he looks over his shoulder, “Did you give them something?”

“No,” the voice belongs to Marco. “They’ve been out of it since we caught them. They’re… really upset about getting captured, it seems.”

Thatch lightly claps you on the shoulder, “Don’t beat yourself up about it, kid. It’s not like you got caught by a weak crew. There are plenty of Marines well above your rank that wouldn’t have won that fight either.”

“Yeah, you actually gave us some real trouble there at the start.” Ace was in here too, apparently. “Not many people are able to use my own powers against me, that was pretty smart.”

“Before I forget to ask, do you have any allergies? I don’t want to accidentally kill you with my cooking.” Thatch stares at you expectantly, but his smile fades as you neglect to answer his question. “Is that a… no? Come on, I’m just trying to help you out here, you don’t need to be so guarded. I can even make you your favorite meal to make up for the situation we put you in.”

“It doesn’t matter…” Nothing does.

“Don’t say that. We’ve gotta feed you, kid.” That weird expression is on his face again. You wish he’d stop making it at you. “It won’t take long to get the medicine we need. You’ll be back with your old man before you know it.”

No!

“I won’t go back!” Hot tears start to drip down your face, then pour as the last thread of sanity within you snaps, “I’m not going back! You can’t make me go back to that place! To him! I won’t let you!”

Ace is standing close enough that you’re able to lunge at him and rip the dagger from his belt with your free hand. He tries to snatch it back, but your frenzied state gives you the speed you usually only have with your devil fruit’s help. You aren’t going back, you’ll make sure of it! Marco might be able to heal, but he isn’t a necromancer. Even he won’t be able to do anything about a corpse. Dying by your own hands will be better than being burnt alive by the magma Akainu will use on you.

You raise the knife high, then plunge it down at your stomach. A wide, manic grin breaks out across your face in what will be your final moments. You've taken control of your fate. You've won against Akainu. You can die happy knowing that.

Blood splatters all over your torso… but you don’t feel any pain. You blink once, then twice. Your eyes finally focus on the sight in front of you. The knife is stabbed into a hand. It then closes around the hilt and snatches the weapon from your hands. Ace lets out a string of curses as he stumbles back and rips his own dagger from his hand.

All you can do is stare at him. W… What? Why did he do that? That shouldn’t have hurt him. Why would a logia devil fruit user let himself get hurt like that?

Nurses rush toward him, but also you. All of your limbs are pinned down by them. Not that there was any need. The fight had left your body as your mind grew hazy again. You didn’t get it. You couldn’t comprehend what just happened or why.

A prick to your neck snaps you out of it. Your head was being held down, but your eyes flit to the side and see that Marco had a needle pressed into your neck and was injecting you with something. In an instant, a warmth spreads through you, and your body goes completely slack.

Marco heaves a sigh and sets the syringe aside. His hand gently strokes your hair for reasons you couldn’t understand. He speaks softly, “There we go, just calm down. You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

On the other side of the room, Nurses are fretting over Ace’s wound. One even goes so far as to scold him, “What were you thinking? You have logia powers! Why would you let yourself get hurt like this?” Even in your sluggish state, your ears perk at the interrogation. You wanted to know this, too.

Ace looked almost offended by the question. “What do you mean “why”? If I’d let that go through me, it would have gone into them instead. Better my hand, than their guts.”

His answer did nothing but spawn more questions. What did he mean by that? Why would it be better for him to get hurt than for you to die? Your life was of no real significance to him. All that you were was a bargaining chip, and you didn’t even need to be alive for that. They just had to make the Marines believe that you were.

None of this makes sense. What is wrong with these people? You’re an enemy. Your death should be celebrated, not prevented. You don’t get it, and your mind growing more and more foggy by the second isn’t helping.

Your eyes are so heavy. Sleep… Sleep sounds good. Just for a little bit. You’ll figure this out after. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.

#yandere one piece #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #akainu sakazuki #marco the phoenix x reader #marco the phoenix #akainu sakazuki x reader #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #thatch one piece #thatch x reader #x reader #reader insert #kizaru borsalino #kizaru borsalino x reader

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thesovietonion77 · 1 year ago

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SMALLL ANNOUNCEMENT THAT I'M MAKING

so first of all, i have this drawing i made a long time ago, the only one i've ever made on Clip Studio and it's rlly bad

should i remake it lol tell me if yes, i will draw Majin Sonic again

And also....

Coming soon...!

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tadc-harlequin-au · 1 year ago

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"Greetings. Please, do enjoy your read, with the official Masterpost of..."

The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin AU!

Looking for this AU's game counterpart? You can go to The Souls-like AU Masterpost for that!

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INTRO ANIMATIC:

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The long-awaited official masterpost of the Harlequin AU is now here! You'll find everything there is to know about the AU, all in here.

Please note that all of it is still a WIP! And this is NOT an RP blog! ══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

CHARACTER ROSTERS & DESC.!

Main Cast:

Supporting Cast:

"The names have the link to the full character biography attached to them. Please note that some aspects of it are still incomplete, (or may even be outdated) for story purposes."

Pomni, The Last Harlequin: |•| Caine, The Puppetmaster:

Coming soon!

Ragatha, The Artifact Collector |•| Jax, The Mischievous Trickster

Lady Gangle, The Bashful Slithery Chronicler:

Z, The No-nonsense Housesmith:

Kingr, The Helpful King:

BOSS ROSTERS, OFFICIAL STORY/LORE SNIPPETS, NON-CANON TIDBITS and FAQs BELOW THE CUT!

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BOSS ROSTERS:

The Lady of Forgotten Memories |•| The Skirmish General |•| The Last Formidable, Imposing Structure |•| The Mischievous Trickster Automaton |•| The Maddened Princess of the Theater |•| Bladed Beast of Steel and Shadows |•| The Pierrot of the Carnival Funhouse |•| The Celestial Twin Entertainers |•| Bandits of the Confectionary Highlands |•| Former Warden of the Labyrinth |•| Overlooker of the Confectionary Highlands |•| The Abstraction |•| Duchess of the Mildenhall Cliff's edge House |•| Proud Queen of the Gatherers |•| The Patriarch of Puppets |•|

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OFFICIAL STORY:

"Thrilling Order Of The Hunt" comic |•| Stalemate (fic) |•| Touch-Starved (Post-boss!Ragatha)

OFFICIAL LORE SNIPPETS:

The Charmer, The Catalyst and The Inventor |•| Memory#1 |•|

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OFFICIAL ARTWORKS:

Coming soon!

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LORE-RELATED ASKS:

You can go here for that!

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NON-CANON:

"Come Back To Me." (showtime, ao3) |•| Cade, The Miracle star (Showtime fankid) |•| Anya, The Little sensitive Poppet (Jesterdoll fankid) |•| The Lady of Forgotten Memories' defeat |•| Who Broke It (Harlequin AU edition) |•| The Hole (Harlequin AU edition) |•| "Chandelier" fanart (fanfic, suggestive ⚠️) |•| Morning routines |•| ⚠️The Puppetmaster's Trophy Harlequin (dark themes, nihilistic/no happy ending)⚠️ |•|

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FAQs!

"Now, what exactly is 'The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin' AU?"

Well I'm glad you asked! The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin, or "Harlequin AU" for short, is a grimdark sci-fantasy story about "Puppets", whom are soul-infused robots, trying to regain their lost humanity in a broken world.

It follows Pomni, a short-tempered Combat Harlequin, as she explores the city of Circuits with the aid of Caine, The Puppetmaster.

However, as the story progresses, Pomni not only realizes that there's more to the grand scheme of things as she explores more and more, she also uncovers The Puppetmaster's story, and what secrets he may be hiding.

"How do the boss fights go down in the story?"

Action-packed, fast paced, involves a lot of dying on Pomni's part.

Even though this is inspired by a Souls-like, the boss fights go down more so like a mixture between Cuphead, Shadow of the Colossus, and God of War (2018/Raganarok). Mostly God of War.

"Are there going to be canon ships in this AU?"

Yes! The AU is very Showtime (Caine x Pomni) centric, and some of the story aspects of the AU are heavily surrounded on that. There is a bit of Jesterdoll (Pomni x Ragatha) in it, too.

Aside from these canon ships, all is fair game. The Puppets don't have ages seeing as to how they are robots (and were already adults prior to their conversion), so the possibilities are endless.

"Can I make fanarts/fanfics/make original content for your AU?"

Why, of course you can! In fact, I would REALLY love to see it, as long as it complies with my personal boundaries below. So don't be afraid to tag this blog, or @iamespecter in your posts if you want me to see it!

"What are the boundaries of the AU?"

Go wild! The AU's rating is pretty mature, if it wasn't obvious already for it's grimdark genre.

However... I would like to ask that if you would like to make something dark even for my standards for this AU (i.e non-con or dark kinks), all I ask is that you don't show it to me. I personally do not like it, and do not vibe with it.

"What are your thoughts about NSFW surrounding the AU?"

Suggestive content and NSFW is allowed! I am an adult, and I personally enjoy them. (I think I'll make a blog for the more... spicy things.)

Even I make suggestive content for this AU.

HOWEVER! Please tag it properly with "cw suggestive", "tw suggestive", "tw nsft" and various other tags for people who do not wish to see them, or are minors. I can't keep track of everything try as I might, so it'll be up to you to be a decent person, which I know you will be.

"I don't like showtime, but I find your AU interesting. Will that be a problem?"

For you, it might be. The story leans heavily around Pomni and Caine's relationship as a whole, and I'm sorry. I'm just really soft about them.

"Will this be anything like the original TADC?"

Yesss...? And no...? It takes a lot of creative liberty and inspirations from various medias.

⚠️ This masterpost is still under construction! Please excuse the technical difficulties. ⚠️

In the meantime, I hope you had a fun read nonetheless! Things will get updated overtime. - Ziku/IAmESpecter

#tadc #tadc au #tadc harlequin au #harlequin au #the amazing digital circus #the marvelous mechanical harlequin au #pomni #caine #masterpost #masterlist #caine x pomni #pomni x caine #tadc showtime #showtime ship #showtime tadc #showtime shipping

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mister0ctopus · 7 months ago

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Server Room (3)

series - jeon jungkook

Pairings: IT!JK x Reader

Summary: Your new IT guy is quiet and shy. But when you accidentally caught him doing something in the server room, while moaning your name, you just had to pretend you didn’t see that, right?

Ratings: 18+ ONLY! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents

Au/Genre: Office au, Mini Series, Smut, Romance

Word Count: 3.7K

🐙 a/n: contains a flashback to jungkook's first day/week

🐙 Masterlist / AskMeeeee!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Whoever invented a five-day workweek deserves severe punishment.

You mean it.

Even though you did absolutely nothing over the weekend—just slept, rewatched Love, Death & Robots, and rotted in bed—it was perfect.

How on earth that yesterday you were just eating ice cream straight from the tub, slouching on the couch, and now you're analyzing graphs?

You shake your head, letting out a sigh as you resign yourself to the fate of selling your soul to the corporation.

You’ve been typing and clicking away all morning, your laser focus burning holes in your screen. A new project for a VIP client needs to be completed by the end of the week, and if you win them over, it could open doors to even bigger opportunities.

You pinch your temples, feeling the pressure. This is huge. This week is going to be hectic.

Hours of drafting a detailed report have left a strain in your shoulders, a reminder that you're due for a quick stretch. You straighten your back and, out of the corner of your eye, catch a familiar figure strolling past your desk at an unhurried pace, colorful tattoos standing out like quiet acts of defiance against the pristine, orderly office walls.

The faint scent of clean laundry and vanilla lingers in the air, and you close your eyes momentarily, trying to savor whatever trace of it remains.

Jungkook likes vanilla. Noted.

Your heart starts cartwheels at the sudden realization of your thoughts. As memories of last Friday flood your mind—thoughts you had tried to drown over the weekend—it hits you.

Are you... crushing on Jungkook?

You groan at the thought distracting you, though you're not complaining—you need a distraction. This project is already draining you. There's still so much to do, and you feel like you're on borrowed time. Your eyes start to water, and you seriously need a break.

Deciding to take a quick coffee break, you head to the pantry. As you wait for your coffee to brew, you notice that all the mugs are stored neatly on the top shelf of the cabinet.

Perfect. Of course, they’re all the way up there.

You try tiptoeing to reach it, but it's too far back, and your right arm starts to strain. Wouldn't it be funny if Jungkook walked in right now to help? It would perfectly complete your cliché K-drama fantasies.

You waver, giggling softly to yourself, when suddenly, you feel a warm, firm presence behind you. An inked arm reaches past yours for the same cup you've been struggling to grab.

A familiar scent envelops you, and your body jerks slightly when the back of your head brushes against his chest.

And just like that, with such ease, he offered you the mug. But neither of you moved, both still rooted in place.

You stayed like that for a good four seconds, though it felt like forever.

You glance to both sides, hesitantly searching for an exit as your heart does a herkie. Before you know it, he steps aside, allowing a large space for you to turn around and face him.

"Uh… thanks!” you say quickly, hiding your nerves behind a smile, but your ears betray you. You feel them warm up as Jungkook tucks both hands into his pockets. But before he does, you catch a glimpse of the growing bulge in his gray slacks.

Lord, grant this child of yours with mercy, strength, and grace, for the journey they face is no small feat.

Thankfully, you hear the coffee machine finish brewing, and you quickly turn to pour your coffee. Jungkook heads to the water dispenser, and the two of you move in silence.

Except it’s not quiet. It is loud.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, after a while, his voice low, but soft as he waited for the water to fill.

You turned your head toward him, stirring your coffee. “I’m good! Thank you.”

“Hmmm." He nodded. “How was your weekend?”

“It was good! Just rested and stuff. You?” You smiled, while your heart was doing somersaults.

He smiled back—that smile, the one that made his tiny dimples pop. “Yeah, good. Nothing too crazy, just… chores, stuff.” He said, his gaze shifting back and forth between you and the floor.

Cute.

As if on cue, you both started walking back to your desks. The walk was quiet, but you could feel his shoulders brush against yours every now and then. Before you could even form a whole cheerleading routine inside your heart, you reached your desk and gave him a polite nod before sitting down.

You typed bdhjhfjjketwrjnkngkngn on your computer all the while watching his back in your peripherals.

You see you phone lights up. You swipe to open your group chat.

Jimin: break? Tae: let me circle back to you Jimin: stfu Allie: lets goooo! I need to pee! You: cant! i have a deadline! 😩 Jimin: ☹️ Tae: u suck Tae: we'll get u snacks You: yaaayyyy Yoongi: Seen

Tae was true to his word. They really did bring you snacks. It made you feel better, fueling you with the energy you needed to type away like a maniac until 6 pm. It’s a little later than usual, but you hadn’t even noticed the time.

Spent and drained, you closed your laptop and gathered your things. There’s still a lot to do, but at least you managed to finish 20% of it today. That’s a good start, right?

The floor is quiet. Most people, except for a few chasing deadlines, have already gone home. You can’t wait to join them.

You make your way to the elevator, your brain starting to shut down, with your one last remaining brain cell holding it together, doing its hardest to get you home safely.

You don’t normally bring your car to work unless you’re in the mood to walk. The parking lot assigned to you is too far from the building—very inconvenient, but the spots are randomly assigned. So, you usually take a cab to be dropped off right at the entrance.

You press your manicured nails to your temples, trying to massage away the stress of the day.

When you see an empty elevator, you quickly hop in. But as the doors begin to close, a hand slips between them, halting their motion. You widen your eyes, not expecting to see Jungkook here this late.

"Sorry. Thanks!" he says, catching his breath. He obviously ran to catch this elevator—but why would he, when there are six in the building?

"Hey. It’s late,” you say, stating the obvious, trying to fill the silence in the small space. “Overtime?” After all, 45 floors could take a little while.

“You could say that,” he replies, a small smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes meet yours. You feel your skin warm up. “You? Overtime?” he asks back, turning his gaze back to the elevator buttons.

“Yeah, you could say that.” You smile as you lean against the elevator rail.

He chuckles—a low, amused sound—while absentmindedly playing with his lip ring.

You focus your gaze on the numbers ahead as they light up with each floor you pass.

On the 20th floor, a usually busy one since it’s an event space, the elevator opens to the sound of commotion. You see uniformed kitchen staff and waiters scrambling about. The elevator quickly fills with them, and others try to squeeze in, stepping out only when the elevator beeps with the overload warning.

You begin to panic.

You attempt to move to the corner, but bump into someone. Trying to adjust, you move to the other side—only to bump into Jungkook. You glance at each other, his face is unreadable, but his brows are slightly furrowed. The chatter grows louder, and you can feel the frantic energy in the air.

Your heartbeat quickens, and the voices around you fill your ears like a huge swell of waves.

No please, not here. Not now.

You close your eyes, attempting to minimize your overwhelming senses. Then, as if the universe heard your silent plea, you feel a warm, gentle hand on your back, softly patting you. You sigh in relief, as the space around you slowly seems to expand, your focus shifting entirely to the touch.

Jungkook seems to take your response as permission, his hand resting more securely now as he moves it in a steady, soothing rhythm. You focus on the gentle motion, counting down from 10 to 1, drawing in slow breaths through your nose and releasing them softly through your mouth.

When you hear the ding, you feel the nerves finally release as people begin spilling out of the enclosed space.

Jungkook’s hand lingers on your back, it stops moving, but it remains firm and comforting.

With a wave of relief and gratitude, you tug on his shirt and lean into his chest. There is a slight space between you, but your forehead rests against him, seeking refuge.

And slowly, his arms wrap around your shaky frame, and you breathe in his warmth. Then, you let out a deep sigh, releasing the tension that could’ve spiraled into something worse.

You stay like that for what feels like four seconds, but it seems to stretch into forever, before stepping off the lift.

"Are you driving?" he asked as you both walked towards the exit of the huge building.

You shake your head. "I usually take a cab instead."

“Let me drive you home," he offered softly, but his voice is firm.

You take a small step back and lift your head to him, though your hand still clings to the hem of his shirt. "No, you’ve already done so much. I don’t even know how you always manage to find me in these… situations. I’m sorry. And thank you,” you say as you pull away.

"It’s okay. I want to,” he speaks gently, his gaze shifting to your hand still holding onto his shirt.

You realize what you're doing and quickly drop your hand, letting go of his shirt, feeling embarrassed. "Sorry," is all you can whisper.

You hate feeling like a burden. You take pride in having your shit together, and the thought of others feeling sorry for you only makes it worse. Right now, you feel small and helpless. The attacks have been happening more frequently, and you can’t help but connect them to the mounting stress at work.

Jungkook sighs, looking at you while nibbling the bottom of his lip, as if he's trying to hold back the words he wants to say, but doesn't.

"YN, I don't want to overstep, and I have a feeling that you might feel like you're burdening me, but you're not. I want to help you, right now, by driving you home. Please, just… let me. It’s just driving you home. It's no big deal."

You blink.

Wow, that was the longest sentence you’ve ever heard from Jungkook. You looked at him, and you couldn’t help it. A burst of laughter escaped from you.

He looked at you with amusement, cocking his head, eyebrows furrowed. "You laughing?"

“No,” you tried to say, choking on another laugh. “It’s just… that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say to me.”

His smile turns into a grin, and you catch him biting his bottom lip, like he’s trying to suppress a bigger smile. "You’re enjoying this, huh?"

"So much," you say between bursts of laughter, your stomach starting to ache. "You should talk to me more. This is gold.”

He raises an eyebrow, a lopsided grin at his lips. “So you could laugh?”

"Well, yeah." you reply, catching your breathe.

"You can’t handle me chatty." He shakes his head, not leaving his gaze on you

"Are you kidding? You'd be cute!” you say while wiping your teary eyes.

“Cute, huh” he said, his eyes still locked on yours, nibbling the silver ring on his lip.

You tilt your head, trying to read his face. There is mischief in his eyes, yet his lips remain pressed, guarding whatever thoughts lie behind them... What is he thinking right now?

"Let's drive you home. I know you’ve been tired," he interrupts your thoughts, sensing your visible curiosity. His voice is soft, but why does it feels like there’s no room for you to argue?

You followed him to his car, parked conveniently close to the building.

It feels oddly familiar now, as if you’ve been doing this for a long time. As if you’ve sat in this car together before, and he knows the way to your house like the back of his hand. As if each turn as natural to him as breathing. The car ride is calm—the hum of the engine, the distant noise of the world outside, the soft song on the radio…

“Take my heaven 'Cause you ain't inside it If that's your delight Come ruin my vibe…”

“Here’s your desk,” Yoongi said, motioning toward the chaotic workstation. “The guy you’re replacing was a huge Marvel fan—thus, the Wanda and Black Widow posters. You can take it down unless, of course, you fuck with it.”

Jungkook leaned in, tilting his head like he was analyzing priceless art. “I mean… Black Widow does have a chokehold on me.”

Yoongi snorted. “Of course. I already toured you around, pointed out the important stuff—and oh, you still need your logins. I’ll handle that,” Yoongi said, talking more to himself, like he was ticking boxes off a mental checklist.

It was Jungkook’s first day, and the only reason he even applied was because Yoongi casually dangled the words "better pay" and "more vacation days" in front of him, making him hand in his two-week notice without a second thought. Yoongi and Jin had been friends with Jungkook’s older brother since college, so as the youngest, he’d been dragged into their chaos since he was a kid. Fishing trips, sleepovers, summer vacations...

“Oh yeah,” Yoongi added. “I also need to give you the passcode to the server room. Can’t have you locked out.”

Jungkook nodded solemnly. “Got it. Server room. Sacred ground. No funny business. Unless…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s snacks in there?”

Yoongi blinked. “Did you lie on your resume? Those are racks, not vending machines. So no, no snacks in the server room.”

“Missed opportunity,” Jungkook said, sighing. “But hey, so far, I like it here. Cool place, cool people, chill boss—wait. Do I call you boss now?”

“Try daddy and buy me lunch every day,” Yoongi replied, his signature lopsided grin making an appearance.

Jungkook dramatically furrowed his brows. “You have a daddy kink?!”

“Depends on the lunch,” Yoongi deadpanned, not even glancing up.

“Creep. I’m telling Joon.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Yoongi shrugged, picking up a ringing phone. “Your brother has a daddy kink too.”

Jungkook choked on air. “What the fuck, hyung?! I’m traumatized!”

Yoongi ignored him, calmly taking the call and nodding a few times before hanging up. He turned back to Jungkook, completely unfazed. “Now, for your first ticket— a jammed printer.”

“A printer? A jammed printer?” Jungkook groaned, swirling on the chair. “Wow. I’m really living the IT dream here.”

Yoongi stared at him for a long moment. “Was that your big ‘I can’t wait to be an asset to the company’ speech from the interview?”

Jungkook snickered, kicking his feet up on the desk. “Relax, hyung. I’m here to work hard and make you proud.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Hard? You’ve been here twenty minutes, and your biggest accomplishment is discovering the chair spins.”

“It spins really well, though,” Jungkook said, giving it another whirl.

"Printer. Fix. Now..." Yoongi muttered, still unfazed, typing away on his computer.

“Okay, time to turn it off and on,” Jungkook said, standing up with a mock sigh. “I swear, you just hired me to boss around.”

Yoongi smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned back. “Welcome to the team, kid.”

Black stiletto heels and stockings—that was the first thing Jungkook noticed when he saw you while fixing that damn printer.

The way they clung to your legs… Jesus. His thoughts immediately derailed.

You were wearing a blue-striped collared shirt, a couple of buttons undone, paired with a high-waisted black mini skirt that seemed to look better on his bed.

He just stood there, staring like an idiot, mouth agape, helpless.

You were lost in your own world, typing away on your laptop, and it was strange how captivating it was—the way your brow furrowed in concentration, how you nibbled on your lips like your thoughts were more important than anything else.

Every now and then, he caught a faint hum escaping your lips, like a quiet melody only you knew, a way to soothe yourself while the world spun around you.

The world could be burning around you—people spilling coffee, slamming their desks in frustration—but you were completely untouched, locked in your own zone. Your eyes were fixed on your laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, as if the entire universe revolved around whatever you were typing.

You looked so beautiful.

And the men? Yeah, he saw them too.

The glances they exchanged when you passed. Jungkook could spot them—those quiet, knowing looks shared between them. Their gazes lingering a little too long when you passed, the subtle shifts in their posture. Jungkook knew exactly what those looks meant.

But you were oblivious. You walked like you owned the place. Or like you had somewhere important to be.

Or maybe you knew. You just didn’t care to entertain any of them.

You carried yourself with calm confidence. The space around you was always yours, and everyone knew it. It made people hesitate to cross, like they knew better than to fuck around, because they’d already found out.

Then, in one of those hectic days, a few minutes after work, he saw you through the glass door, standing in front of the elevator. Every time it opened, you'd check inside, but never step in. Instead, you lingered there, taking your time, waiting…

But for what? Or who?

Jungkook couldn’t help but watch, curious. What was it?

Did you not want to be around anyone? Are you avoiding people?

Either way, he watched you for a solid 20 minutes, trying to figure you out.

The next day, he found himself next to you again while fixing some cables.

And there you were—black turtleneck, gray A-line skirt…black stockings and stilettos—of course.

And dark red lipstick—fuck.

God, those fingers. Those delicate, red nails gliding over the keys…

Shut up, Jungkook. You should focus on…you should focus on...

But he couldn’t focus, could he? How could he, when you were right beside him, completely lost in your own world, while he was fighting for his dear life?

Lord... just lead me to temptation, I’m halfway there anyway.

For more than a week now, you’ve been doing this to him.

Every time he closes his eyes, you’re there—on your knees, your delicate hands wrapped firmly around his cock, your lips smudged and slick as they stretch around him.

Your mascara runs in streaks down your cheeks, your eyes watering but still locked on his with that same sharp focus that drives him insane.

Or it’s his face between your legs, your wet folds clenching around his tongue, clawing for him, writhing helplessly, utterly drunk on lust. He’d give you the world and more.

Every time, the same thought crosses his mind: How do you sound when you moan?

Are you loud and unabashed, or do you bite back your cries, leaving him desperate to drag them out of you? The thought alone makes him groan like a tortured man.

Because torture—that’s it. That’s the word. That’s exactly what the past week has felt like.

Torture to contain the thirst, the hunger, the need. And every night, he finds himself completely at your mercy—with his eyes closed and fist around his cock.

That’s been his hell for over a week now.

Then, without warning, you—the object of his desire and the reason for his torment—appear right in front of him, asking for his help with those piercing eyes. He doesn’t know what to do. His brain short-circuits.

As he takes your laptop from you, his gaze briefly flickers to the poster of Black Widow on his wall, his silent, nonjudgmental protector.

Black Widow, patroness of the weak and frail, deliver me from this powerful force—for the adversary is beyond my strength to overcome.

He’s already figured out what’s wrong with your laptop, but your presence fills his senses, muddling his thoughts.

He can’t stand you watching him, observing his every move. It’s unbearable, as if you’re silently chastising him.

“I’ll try my best. You can come back later before you head home,” he tried to sound calm, keeping his back turned to you.

For the next few hours, he drowns himself in distractions—in prayers and IT tickets.

But it seems he cannot escape hell unless he seeks absolution.

Yet, there is no absolution without confession. So, he searches for a place of penance but finds only the cold, dark depths of the server room.

Amid the hum of machines and the sterile air, he calls out in a silent, desperate plea:

“Please, please, please…”

His heart slams against his chest, each beat resounding louder as your name falls from his lips, over and over. Each syllable becomes a tremor, each word a prayer offered from a soul teetering on the edge of redemption.

Sweat rolls down his forehead, falling like droplets of guilt onto his sinful fist and punishing hand.

Just as he’s on the verge of liberation, his eyes catch the sight of your black stockings clinging to your legs, stiletto heels gleaming like unholy beacons in the dim light. It’s as though you’re waiting for him to hear his confession only so he can sin again.

Like a demon lurking in the shadows, waiting to feast upon him again.

With a shaking breath and furrowed brows, he finally breaks, spilling out every ounce of the sin within him.

Yet he remains in hell.

🐙 a/n: sooo...how are we? 🫠 thank you so much for being here, i appreciate all of you 😘 please let me know whatchuthink of the story so far. i love each and every interactions with you 🥹 thanks again for reading and i love you aaaaaalllll ❤️

🐙 if you have questions or asks, let me know in the comments or send me an ask!

Taglist: @taekritimin123, @vantelover1306, @random-musingsss @likewtaf @jeonmaleficent @almatiarau, @kxthx-b, @lively-potter, @jk-190811, @ilovejungkook9999, @goldietigers294, @dreamyluna18, @va1-erie, @snow-strawberry, @lovieku, @daskewl @jksusawife @daskewl @pp0810

🐙 Let me know in the comments if you want to be added! 😘

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sam-out-of-energy · 8 months ago

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OKAY OKAY IM NO WRITER BUT

This AU has consumed me, ok ok slay

Again @keferon 's mecha pilot jazz au

I thought about prowl and jazz on earth and Prowl being captured by humans and yeah yeah okay okay SO IMAGINE

Jazz wasnt fast enough to realize what the others had done with prowl

Prowl frees himself, prowl escapes by himself because Jazz comes in just. Too. Late.

Thats what i wrote lmao-

Prowls optic flickered in a dim light. Well, the one he had left anyway. A gaping hole now where his left optic had been before, circuits and wires exposed and tangled in a human scientists pathetic attempt at gouging out Prowls eye.

TacNet had been screaming error in his audials for the past few kliks, a blur of scenarios in his processor and a whirr of his engine told him he wasnt dead. Not yet.

"-because with this technology, we will be able to not only improve our mechas, but to create our own army." A frustrating, squeaky voice came to Prowl once he regained his sense.

Technology. That was all he was to them, to Jazz. A machine.

The organic was boasting about their achievements, about how with this technology they would create the perfect self-thinking robot. Ha.

A loud crunch rang out in the hall. Then another. Prowl lifted himself to sit where he had once been pinned down by metal, now torn off and dropping to the floor with a loud clatter.

"What in the-"

The general, or any of his subordinates had barely any time to react as Prowl whipped around, slamming his arm into the scaffolding they stood upon and bringing it down in a moments notice.

"I am not-"

He tore himself out of the restraints, standing. His arm plate would shift and move to make way for a blaster. Prowl aimed it up at the suprised organics.

"-your technology."

_______

Jazz had been running around frantically. Where's prowl, where's prowl, he'd asked everyone. They'd all told him no clue.

No clue his aft! It wasn't exactly like Prowl looked alike to any of the other mechas!

Did he run away? Why would Prowl do that??

Jazz had stopped in the hangar when it happened. A loud boom echoed out in the entire base. And another, and another. The floor trembled, concrete cracked the walls above.

He saw his comrades rushing for weapons.

No, no. It was exactly what he had feared.

Jazz was too late.

He'd arrive to a mess of metal, steel bars and concrete. Injured soldiers and bodies littering the floor where he stood, at the entrance of the hall.

"Prowl! Stop!" He'd yell.

Prowl would turn, looking over his shoulder and down at Jazz.

Well, down in the literal sense too, but down in a way Jazz had never seen him look before.

His optics- optic- was glazed over with a look that frightened Jazz to his core. Parts unreadable, like Prowl always was, but his lip curled down into a frown. Betrayal. His stare screamed betrayal and...

Anger.

Fury like Jazz had never experienced before. Not from Prowl. Never from Prowl. He'd been mad at the other before, sure, but it was always more like frustration, not pure hatred.

Now, Prowl looked at him like he looked at Jazz's comrades. Full of hatred for what they'd done, for what Jazz had done.

Jazz felt his own brain slow for a few minutes, but when he came back to Prowl had gone and he and any other surviving pilots were rushing for the mechas to give chase.

______

Jazz caught up to Prowl, late behind his brothers-in-mechas, staggering. This was all so sudden, he found his connection to the mecha a struggle at best.

"Halt! Put your weapons down and surrender!"

A mecha called out. Four- maybe five of them were stood on a highway in the desert, surrounding Prowl.

He can't put it down you dunce, it's attached to his arm, Jazz found himself thinking.

He saw Prowl's heavy venting, the drip of bright pink liquid from a surgery not-well-done, coming down from the underside of his face plate where it had been torn open.

It hurt him bad. If Jazz wasn't already struggling to keep it together, seeing the other looking like this didn't help him in staying connected.

Prowl's battlemask closed over the rest of his visible face with a sshink! and clearly, he was not coming easy.

Jazz watched, all he could do, as the other mechas charged in, trading blow for blow with Prowl, trying to grab or hit what they could to restrain him or to injure him beyond battle-condition.

Prowl grabbed one mecha, throwing them over his shoulder pad before another was already at his side. He turned and shot at them with his blaster, a blast through the underside of the right chest plate.

His optic frantically searched for the next target.

TacNet was still faulty, confusing and unintelligible gibberish ran circles in his processor as he tried to focus on keeping himself from being overtaken.

Unfortunately, Prowl now had a blind spot. A mecha came and swung around his left side when he was turned, grabbing onto his wing and with a loud wrUNCH-noise bent and tore half of it almost completely off.

Jazz's gut turned. The sound of everything else faded out when he heard Prowl scream in what Jazz could only imagine was fraggin' agony, ringing in his ear long and hard.

Jazz felt frozen. He watched the other curl in on himself and the opposing mechs surround him.

But that wasnt the end. A quick, muffled out communication between the boss and the other pilots, one Jazz wasn't paying enough attention to until he saw his fellow mechas begin to tear prowl apart.

Prowl had already been forced down into supine before the others began taking and pulling. First his blaster came ripping off his arm, his armour plates cracking as pieces snapped off in mechanic hands. His screams quickly became struggling, violent and heavy croaks of pain.

Something blasted through one of the mechas.

Then another.

"Gwen! What the fuc-"

The mechas turned as Jazz charged them, swinging his fist into the underside of ones chest, tearing out wires when he pulled back, to make sure he damaged something. He swung back at the next one and fired on the third.

"Dont touch him!"

Jazz yelled to the mechas lying on the ground, before flipping around and promptly rushing to Prowls side.

Jazz bent down and looked at Prowl, calling out his name as he did.

Prowl's optic was barely lit. His face engraved by his pain, straining to keep his systems running while barely avoiding an overload on his spark.

Jazz's mecha's chest opened and he crawled out, climbing down and landing on Prowl's chest.

"Prowl, prowler"

He called, leaning down and watching the other, eyes wide in desperation.

"Prowl! Y'gotta- y'gotta open up"

He was yelling, even if he didn't realize, slamming his palm against the others chest plates.

"Please! Please, Prowler, I'm gonna get you outta here-"

He watched the others unmoving face. Prowl's optic wouldn't even glance his way.

Jazz bit his lip so hard it bled before he dug his fingers into the crevices of the others chest, starting to pull, kick and struggle to open one of the latches.

He heard Prowl's venting get more rapid when the other finally looked his way, only to grimace from the ache Jazz was causing.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Prowl! I ain't gonna leave ya-"

Jazz kept pulling, starting to dig into his pocket to see if he could use a torch and melt the locks open.

He heard a click and a fshhh as the latch he had been tugging on began to crack open.

Jazz didn't have time to thank Prowl for his co-operation, cramming his way inside the others cockpit. He heard Prowl's ventilation whirring fast and uncontrollably, noting also the spark and crackle of broken mechanisms in the cockpit.

He magnetized himself to the floor, dropping down to sit in the pilot seat, turning the controls on manually since everything else was basically fragged.

Prowl lurched up a little bit, letting out a loud yelp as he did.

"Sorry! Work with me here-"

Jazz pulled, fighting Prowl's failing systems together with him.

Prowl staggered, but slowly managed to get up on his feet, Jazz's control pushing him to move through the pain.

"I know where to go, follow me."

Jazz barely spoke out loud, focusing intensely on keeping Prowl moving so they could escape the other mechas before reinforcements would arrive.

________

Thats all teehee

#transformers #maccadam #jazzprowl #mecha pilot jazz au #soo i might like a little bit of angst #okay a lot of angst #i wrote this in my phones notepad forgive me for my mistakes lol

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dickgraysonisnothereforthis · 2 months ago

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Nobody Sees Me Like You Do (jason todd x gn!reader)

soulmate au — when your eyes meet for the first time one of you passes out. This is meant to be stupid and it delivers, right until it gets angsty, like all my jason fics do. I truly cannot give that man a break

Also—humor, angst, mutual pining

Swearing, as always

I don’t know how long this is

———

“Move to Gotham, they said,” you pant through gritted teeth, clutching the graze on your side. “Get your PhD on the cheap, they said.” An explosion reverberates above you. You duck, shuddering. “Follow your fucking dreams, they said.”

Follow your dreams, get your doctorate. Move to Gotham, it’s so inexpensive! Well you did, and you can take that right to the bank. This bank, in fact. The one getting overrun by fucking aliens.

You see an overturned desk and run for it, keeping your head low. There’s an alien here that throws barbs, one already cut through shirt and skin on your ribs. You don’t need another injury.

Something land behinds you with a thump. You scream and make to turn around, but the thing wedges something into your mouth. Holy fucking shit, is this chloroform? Are you getting abducted?

You bite at whatever’s in your mouth, punching at the thing behind you.

“Motherfu—”

A hand on your shoulder pulls you around while the thing in your mouth is ripped away.

“Jesus, relax.” The thing behind you is a man, or at least, looks to be. You aren’t taking any chances.

“Who the fuck are you?” you hiss. He’s wearing a red helmet and a suit with what looks like reinforced padding. He’s also shaking out his hand, you must have bitten it.

“I’m Red Hood.” The voice that comes out of the helmet is robotic. “I’m here to save you.”

Is he. How convenient. “Prove you’re a person,” you insist.

“What? You want proof fucking now?” He gestures to your wound. “You’re bleeding, you’ll get your proof outside.”

“No fucking way,” you snarl. “What if you’re an alien in disguise? Anything is possible, ah—fucking—pparently.”

“You are the last civilian in here. Please, just—”

“Not until you prove it,” you insist stubbornly.

“Holy fucking Christ. Okay, fine.” He takes off a glove, flexing his hand. “See?”

You eye it before shaking your head. “Not good enough. Take off the helmet.”

“Just who the fuck do you think you are?” the robotic voice snarls at you.

“I need to see a human head!”

An explosion sounds near you. Quickly, he reaches up and undoes a catch, pulling the helmet off. “See?” he says in a man’s voice. “Human head.”

You stare at him, searching, just to make sure. He’s got a sharp jaw and tanned skin, and he’s wearing a domino mask. You peer into the eye holes to find green eyes staring back at you.

Your eyes lock. Something clicks, and then the man’s eyes roll back as he passes out.

You’re dumbfounded. “What the fuck?”

Then—

“No! Not here!” you hiss desperately, shoving at his body to try and wake him up. “Nononono, you can’t do this now! This can’t happen here!” You punch him in the shoulder, but it’s no use; he’s out cold.

Another explosion sounds, and you stifle a moan, holding back tears. A 10% chance of having a soulmate, an 8% chance of finding them, and you found each other in a firefight. And he was the one to pass out.

And now you’re both going to die. This soulmate crap is some steaming bullshit.

Something whizzes over your head, and you lean down, instinctively covering the man’s body with your own. You start to hyperventilate, swallowing down a lump in your throat.

Come on, you’re in the same situation you were in a few minutes ago, you just have this new, deadweight guy to carry. Think, think. Figure this out.

Looking at the man, you realize he’s wearing an earpiece. With shaking fingers, you pull it out of his ear and hold it up to your own.

“—Hood, come in. Hood, report!”

Right, that’s who he said he was. Red Hood.

What a stupid fucking name for a soulmate to have. You’re gonna get that shit tattooed over your heart? Yeah, right.

You clear your throat. “Uh—Red Hood is, uh, unconscious,” you say carefully into the communication device.

There’s silence for a moment. “Who’s on the line?” someone growls. Holy shit, is that Batman? Damn, your soulmate is a vigilante?

Great. He’ll probably die fighting crime.

“I’m his, uh…I’m, I’m a civilian.”

“What happened?” a new voice asks. “What’s his status, is he hurt?”

“No…no, we, uh…” Christ, this is embarrassing. “We, uh, looked each other in the eye?”

Thankfully, they get it. “Oh my god. In the fucking field?” The second voice sounds darkly gleeful. “And he’s the one who knocked out?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“That shit is hilarious.”

You kind of wish this guy would shut the fuck up. “Can you, like, get me out of here?”

“Coming to you now.” Thank god.

But before he can get there, some purple, alien thing lands in front of you. You let out a scream as an arm-like appendage shoots out from his body, grabs your soulmate by the neck, and starts to drag him away.

Acting on instinct, you grab the red helmet laying on the floor beside you and whip it against the alien with a crack. It makes a hissing noise, but fortunately, lets go of the man. Unfortunately, it sends the arm soaring toward you.

You wind up the helmet again, but suddenly electricity crackles through the alien, and it drops. Well, more accurately, it explodes, flinging purple shit all over you. You blink goo out of your eyes.

Standing behind the pulpy remains, miraculously clean, is another man in a suit and a mask. He jabs a finger at his chest. “I’m Nightwing. I take it you’re the captive locked in the tower? And this,” he nudges Red Hood with his boot. “Is your new knight in shining armor?”

You stare at him. “Can we…go?”

Nightwing grimaces. “Yeah, sorry. Here—” he hoists your soulmate up into a fireman’s carry. “Follow me. Stay close.”

You nod, scrambling to your feet. Nightwing leads you carefully through the pandemonium at the bank, stopping you short and changing routes as, you assume, Batman takes out more of the aliens. You’re practically glued to Nightwing’s back, which means you’re actually pressed against your soulmates chest as Nightwing carries him. You study him; hanging upside down he almost looks like a wet cat.

You shake your head. This is fucking insane.

Finally, you make it outside. As soon as Nightwing gives you the all clear you collapse onto the steps outside the bank, putting your head between your knees. You had just wanted to make a deposit at your stupid fucking bank that didn’t have online services. Getting caught up in an alien attack and finding your soulmate was officially too much for a Wednesday morning. You have class later, for fuck’s sake.

There’s a slight shuffle, and you look to see Nightwing has stretched out on the steps beside you. You hope he stays quiet. You really don’t want to talk right now.

Of course he doesn’t. “So. New soulmate, huh?” he gives you a grin. “Pretty exciting.”

You grunt. It’s another thing you have to fucking figure out.

Nightwing frowns. “Not excited? You got a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

You give him a side eye. “No,” you admit.

That seems to satisfy him. “Well, great. Then you and Red Hood over here can work it out.” He pats the man—your soulmate’s head. You look to see Nightwing has laid Red Hood out on the steps upside down, with his head next to Nightwing’s thigh and his feet several steps above.

He looks ridiculous. You crane your neck to stare at him. He’s a big man—and the armor only makes him bigger. He looks like he fights hard and wins. You don’t know how to feel about it that. Brick shithouse gym bros were never your type.

You look down to his waist and realize he’s got two guns holstered there. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Nightwing notices your staring. He opens his mouth to comment, but you cut across his words.

“Who are you guys, anyway?” Nightwing stares at you, clearly affronted. “I’m new to Gotham,” you add.

He lets out huff. “We’re vigilantes. We fight crime and work with Batman.”

Huh. You know about Batman, but not these two. “Why?”

Nightwing runs his tongue over his teeth. “You’ll have to ask your soulmate yourself,” he answers. You nod. “What are you doing in Gotham?”

“I’m getting my PhD.”

This brings him to attention, although you don’t know why. “In what?”

“Applied mathematics.”

He lets out a sharp laugh.

“What?” you ask, annoyed.

Nightwing shrugs. “Your boy here likes books.”

You blink. “Okay.”

How stupid. Anyone can like books, you like books. Just because you’re getting your doctorate in mathematics doesn’t mean you can’t like fucking books. You let out a huff.

“By the way,” he nods at your torso. “How’s that cut doing?”

Oh, right. You shift to examine it and wince slightly. “Laceration, more like,” he adds sympathetically.

“S’okay. Not bleeding anymore.”

“Okay.” Nightwing nods. “You’ll have to get that checked out. Maybe at our base.”

That throws you for a loop. “What? Your base?”

He nods. “But, hold on. Big man’s coming in.”

What is he talking about?

He looks over his shoulder. “Hey, B.”

You hear a grunt and nearly piss your pants. Whipping your head around, you realize Batman had landed silently behind you. All six feet of him tower over you now.

He stares silently, face impossible stoic. You gulp nervously. Are you supposed to do something?

Thankfully, Nightwing takes over. “Red Hood is fully unconscious after making eye contact with his soulmate, here.” His lips twitch. “Said soulmate has a laceration and has likely been exposed to alien material, recommend further testing.”

“I got some shit in my eyes,” you add helpfully.

Batman grunts again. “We’ll bring you to the Batcave for testing.”

Uh, what? The fucking Batcave?

“How—how am I getting there?” you stammer.

“Batmobile,” Nightwing says easily.

Uh, you think the fuck not. “Can I take the bus?”

Nightwing snorts. “No,” Batman says in a clipped voice.

“Most civilians would kill for a ride in the Batmobile,” Nightwing points out. “What’s your deal?”

“I’ve seen that thing go. It’s a car accident waiting to happen, you’d think it was a racecar.”

“It’s reinforced,” Batman says.

“I’m not.”

“It’s either that or the back of my motorbike,” Nightwing offers.

Damn. You’re not opposed to motorcycles, but you trust this guy about as far as you can throw him.

“Put me in the Batmobile,” you sigh.

“You can ride alongside your unconscious lover,” Nightwing says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Fuck off,” you say without thinking. Your eyes widen as he bursts into laughter.

“Hmm.” You look up, but Batman’s face betrays nothing. “Nightwing, you’re dismissed.”

He hops up and gives a salute. Batman inclines his head, asking something, but Nightwing shakes his head no. “Great talking to you.” He offers you a hand, pulling you to your feet. “I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.” With a wave, he disappears.

That leaves you with Batman and your new soulmate.

Carefully, Batman leans down and scoops the man into his arms. It’s not like Nightwing, holding him slung over his back. Batman carries the man bridal style, and when he holds him close, the man, still out cold, leans his head on his chest.

Huh.

“This way.” You follow Batman away from the bank; down a side street. Under the shadow of a fire escape lies the Batmobile, a low-riding tank. You eye it fearfully.

“Don’t worry,” you glance up to see Batman giving you a small smile. “I’m a very good driver.”

You nod cautiously, watching as he carefully transfers Red Hood to the backseat. You’d hoped he’d strap the guy into the front so you’d be spared having to ride in the passenger seat, but oh well.

Stepping to the passenger side, you try and open the door, but the fucker is heavy. It takes two hands and all your weight to get it open. Slipping inside, you start to fight a similar battle to get it closed.

“Ahem.” You startle, then lean back as Batman reaches neatly across you and pulls the door closed. You scramble to get your seatbelt on.

Batman puts the car in drive and you’re off. Not quite reassured, you’re clawing at the seatbelt with clenched fingers. But Batman drives slowly and carefully through the streets of Gotham. You relax slightly.

You stare out the window, exhaustion setting in. You are so fucking tired, but the day isn’t over. You still have to meet fucking Red Hood proper.

“You’re injured.”

You jump slightly. “Uh, yeah. Just on my ribs.” You twist a little to show him.

He glances at the cut. “Hm.”

You wait for him to say anything else, but he doesn’t. You nod uncertainly.

The car is silent for several minutes. Then—

“I’m glad you found each other.” His voice is gruff, and he isn’t looking at you, his gaze is on the rearview mirror, on the man in the backseat.

You nod again. “Me too,” you supply, not quite meaning to.

You’re quiet for the rest of the ride.

Eventually, Batman carefully eases the car into a tunnel. A few twists and turns and you’re pulling into a garage. Batman quickly exits the car and gently pulls Red Hood out from the back. You fumble with the door, but Batman opens it for you, despite carrying Red Hood. You jump out, running to the other side of the door and slamming your back against it to force it shut.

“Hm.” Batman grunts, but you’re pretty sure you saw him grin. He turns and leads you up a flight of metal stairs, across a wide hall with a huge computer at one end, and into what must be the medbay. He gently lays Red Hood down on a cot, carefully pushing his hair out of his face. Then he turns to you.

“Laceration?” You shift and give him a view of the cut. He looks it over carefully, then nods. “I’ll handle it.” Pulling off his gloves, he strides to a cabinet to collect supplies. You hop up on a spare bed.

He comes back brandishing a pair of fabric scissors. “I need to cut more of your shirt out of the way,” he says apologetically.

“Go ahead,” you shrug. “Useless now anyway.”

Nodding, Batman cuts out a rectangle along your cut. He rips open an antiseptic wipe, but you stop him.

“Do you mind if I do it?” You’d rather administer the sting yourself.

Batman holds it out to you, and you begin cleaning your cut, wincing occasionally.

“What. What do you do?” You whip your head up. “In Gotham,” he amends.

You squint at him. Is Batman asking you a personal question? “I’m a doctoral candidate at Gotham U.”

“What subject?”

“Applied mathematics.”

He nods. “Scholarship?”

Apparently you’re having a full-ass conversation now. You go back to cleaning your cut. “No.”

“Are you working with an advisor?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you sigh. Asking a prof to be your doctorate advisor is going to be a pain in your ass. You’ll have to kiss up to someone, you just have to pick who.

Batman seems to pick up on your dilemma. “Who will you ask?”

Does he know every professor at the university? “Tanner,” you say suspiciously. “Or Al-Barazi”

He grunts, which gives away nothing. You eye him as he holds up a bandage.

“Do you mind?”

He can probably plaster it on better than you can, anyway. You nod, and he removes the paper adhesive and gently applies the bandage, making sure the cut is fully covered. “Thanks,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hn.” He picks up a tray with a vial, another antiseptic wipe, and a disposable needle laying on it. “Blood test,” he says apologetically.

Ugh. “Make it quick,” you say, holding out your arm.

He works fast, thank god, and you turn your head away and grimace until it’s over. “Well done,” he says, as you breathe out a sigh of relief. “I’ll go—”

A groan cuts through his words. You whip your head around to see Red Hood starting to sit up on his cot. In a flash, Batman has put your blood sample on a table and appeared at Red Hood’s bedside.

He murmurs something, but Red Hood groans again. “Back the fuck off old man, I’ll just—”

Batman silences him, low voice terse as he says something else. You see Red Hood’s gaze move to you over Batman’s shoulder.

You stare back silently. Maybe you should wave. Instead, you shrug uncertainly.

His eyes harden. Fucking excellent.

Batman takes a step back. “I’ll run the tests,” he says to both of you. Then he makes his exit.

Alone, you and Red Hood size each other up.

He’s the one to speak first, expression grinding into something mocking and almost cruel. “It’s you!” he says, smiling at you with false delight.

So this is how it’s going to go. You wish you could leave, but you don’t remember where the exit is. And you need to make sure you don’t have some alien disease.

You spy a cot next to his and walk carefully over to it, sitting gingerly down on the starched blanket. “I guess it is.”

He immediately busies himself by taking off his body armor, removing it piece by piece until he’s left in only a tank top and tactical pants. You stare at him, why the hell shouldn’t you? He’s muscled, but not as big as you’d feared.

He still looks powerful. And he has a lot of scars.

When your eyes travel to his face, you see he’s taken off the domino mask. Huh. He’s movie-star handsome, the kind of face you grow up wishing your soulmate has.

He’s being such a dick that it doesn’t even faze you.

Red Hood looks at you cockily, smirking. You look back blankly, face empty. You’re not giving this fucker anything until he plays nice.

He goes right on smirking, and you go right on staring blankly. You’re determined to wait him out.

He doesn’t drop the act, but Red Hood is the one to speak first. “Wanna tell me your name, sweetheart?”

“Sure.” After you tell him— “Am I supposed to call you Red Hood?” He must have a real name.

This, shockingly, makes him hesitate, before pasting on a crooked smile. “Name’s Jason.” He gets a gleam in his eye. “Jason Todd.”

You blink. Is that supposed to mean something to you?

“Congrats, you have two first names,” you say with a shrug.

He gets tripped up again. For a moment, you feel a flicker of savage victory, but it quickly dissipates. You aren’t supposed to be at odds with each other like this. This isn’t how you want to do things.

“So we’re soulmates, huh?” He switches gears, giving you a rueful smile that you don’t trust for a second.

“I guess.” You shift uncomfortably on the cot. Your bed is close to his, close enough that, when you’re pulling your legs protectively against your chest and he’s reaching to unlace his boot, your elbows brush against each other.

Your skin crackles where it touches his, like a live wire runs between you two. You gasp and he swears and wrenches his arm back. You remain frozen in place, arm suspended in the air. The slight patch that touched him is still tingling with residual energy. You run your other hand over it; it’s hot to the touch.

You and Jason stare at each other. Damn. This soulmate shit is no joke.

The physical reminder almost makes you want to cry. Why are you stuck with this asshole who isn’t even nice to you?

Jason recovers first, prodding at you while you’re still reeling. “So if we’re soulmates, does that mean we should tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets?” he asks with faux-earnestness.

Uh. “I mean, may—”

“‘Cause I…well, you might as well know now.” He grabs the neckline of his tank top and yanks it down. “I died.” He shows off what’s definitely a y-shaped autopsy scar, wearing a wide-eyed, mournful look.

Your eyes narrow, partly because what the ever loving fuck, but also because you can see a wedge of triumph in his eyes.

You suck in a sharp breath, seeing through him in an instant. Jason’s not telling you to get close to you; he’s trying to make you walk away.

Coward.

Quick as lightning, you reach out and grab him by the jaw. His chin buzzes in your hand, and he lets out a shout, twisting against you. You hold on, bringing your face close to his. “Don’t fucking bullshit me,” you say through gritted teeth.

“What the fuck?” He sounds amazed. “You don’t believe that I—”

“No, I know you died. But you didn’t tell me because you want me to know.” He looks shocked for a moment, then narrows his eyes. “You’re testing me.”

Jason looks away from you, gritting his teeth. “Don’t play me like that,” you add.

You let go, settling back on your cot. “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to do this,” you mutter. “Just be straight with me.” Man the fuck up.

You stare at your lap, trying to calm the adrenaline racing through you like wildfire. Your mind returns to his horrific scar, and you let a shudder escape. What happened to him? Did he really die and come back to life, is this some necromancer shit? You teeter on the edge of a panic attack.

“I—” Jason breaks through your rising hysteria. You raise your head as he cuts himself off with a growl. “Do you want to do this?”

Good question.

You study him as you mull it over. He’s not mocking you anymore; he’s defensive, holding his tank top up to his neck, hiding the scar. You were right, he doesn’t want you to know about it.

Jason’s eyes are guarded as they focus on you. It’s the closest to honest he’s been so far.

He really is beautiful.

You sigh. “I mean, are you gonna be nice to me?”

He acknowledges the hit with a tilt of his head. “I’m…not known for being nice,” he says ruefully. You squint; something in your gut tells you not to believe him. He’s a vigilante, isn’t he? Doesn’t that mean he saves people?

Which reminds you—

“Why did you become a vigilante?”

Jason laughs bitterly. “Wasn’t given a choice.”

Not a great answer. “Someone’s forcing you now?”

“…no, not now,” he adds begrudgingly.

You raise your eyebrows, prompting him to continue. Jeez, getting this guy to talk is like pulling fucking teeth.

“Now,” he chews the inside of his cheek. “I can do it. Most people can’t. It helps. Someone’s gotta do it.” Jason looks at you, eyes searching yours.

Yeah, you can get behind that.

You nod, and see him relax slightly. There’s quiet for a few seconds, but you can feel Jason’s eyes on you, silently pushing you to answer. Do you want to do this?

Based on whatever the fuck conversation you’re having, it seems like Jason’s not into it. You lay the groundwork for an exit strategy. “To be honest, it seems like a bad way to start a relationship,” you admit. “Knowing what’s meant to be the endgame and all.”

Jason face falls, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. Disbelief flows through you. What does this guy want?

“Yeah,” he grinds out.

Maybe he is interested? You go a different route. “I…” you force yourself to take a deep breath. “I’ve…dated, before but…” you smile ruefully. “I haven’t had a lot of success. Not with…other people.”

Jason nods but keeps silent.

You lose patience. “Can you just tell me what you fucking want?” you snap.

Jason seems taken aback by your forwardness. You glare at him.

“Ahem.” You both start as Batman appears in the doorway. “Test results came through.” He holds several papers in his hand.

You nod, tuning him out as he begins to read through them. The truth of the situation begins to creep through the adrenaline, and you turn your back on both of them as you start to cry silently.

You can’t help it, you have a soulmate and he doesn’t want you. It’s enough to break your heart. You can talk a big game about how soulmates are unrealistic and how it’s impossible to build a relationship based on some random quirk of fate, but deep down you’re hypnotized by the idea just like everyone else. Of course you are, a person who was made for you and no one else? Who you’re fated to be with? That’s the dream. Who wouldn’t want a soulmate?

Jason, apparently, even though he has the ill luck of having one. You have the ill luck of it being you.

“—and we couldn’t detect any STI’s so you’re all clear,” Batman says carefully. “Though your iron’s a little low.”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “I’m supposed to be taking supplements.” Keeping your back to him, you raise your voice so Jason can hear you loud and clear. “If you want me to go, tell me and I’ll go.”

You wait for several seconds. You don’t turn around. He doesn’t say anything. You take it for the answer that it is.

“Thanks for all your help,” you say to Batman, thickly. “I need to go home.”

Batman nods, narrowing his eyes over your shoulder. “I’ll have someone take you back.”

You follow him out of the sickbay and upstairs to the street level. You cry the entire time, and Batman patiently waits for you to stumble after him. Eventually, you make it outside to a sleek black car. You fall into the backseat.

An older man sits behind the wheel. “Where am I taking you tonight?” he asks in a kind, British accent. You look up to see his gaze on you in the rearview mirror, warm but sharp.

You give him your address. The tears don’t let up, but thankfully he doesn’t comment.

Some time later, you don’t know how long, he stops the car and steps out, opening your door for you. You quickly collect yourself and get out. “Thank you,” you say voice unsteady.

“My pleasure.” You look down to see he’s handing you a pharmacy bag. “Iron supplements.”

You open your mouth, then close it, nodding.

“Have a goodnight,” the man, eyeing you carefully.

You nod again, then turn and head into your building. Once inside your apartment, you get yourself a glass of water, strip down and crawl into bed, not bothering to shower. The day plays over and over in your mind, and you cry yourself to sleep.

•••

Jason’s starting to think he fucked up.

Maybe acting like a complete dick to his soulmate wasn’t the right move.

It’s been two weeks since you walked out, since he passed out at the sight of you and started this whole fucking mess, and everyone has been on his ass about this. Dick has been yapping in his ear, Bruce keeps trying to corner him and give him a lecture, and Alfred has been absolutely skewering him with disapproving looks. Jason can’t hold out under that kind of pressure, he cracks like a mirror and stops lying to himself.

He shouldn’t have forced you to leave by being such an asshole. Classic Jason, executing the perfect self sabotage. Ten out of ten.

In his defense, he never expected this to happen. In fact, he was pretty fucking sure it wouldn’t. How could Jason Todd possibly have a soulmate? He’d died for fuck’s sake, surely the universe knows not to touch that one. What if he hadn’t come back? Would you just be up shit’s creek without a paddle? What if you had found each other earlier, before he’d croaked? How fucked up would that have been?

It makes him shake his head. It just doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

And he…he’s not a good soulmate. Look at who he is, look at what he’s done. You’d be better off if you’ve never found him. He drove you away for your sake, he thinks to himself.

Alfred had called him on this bullshit immediately, as soon as he’d come back from driving you home. He’s been niggling at Jason, trying to get him to see that at the very least, Jason can’t make that decision for you. Just like every other relationship, you have to judge him for yourself.

Ugh. What fucking hell.

Whatever. It’s too late anyway. He’s pushed you away, you’re gone. Bruce has offered to find you, but it feels…wrong, to force his way into your life like that. Obviously, he could find you, but if you don’t want him in your life, then he shouldn’t be there.

Except maybe there’s more to this soulmate thing that he thought, because despite his refusal to look for you, he finds you anyway.

At a club.

On the dance floor.

It’s dark; pink, blue, and purple lights illuminating the room. Jason stands at the bar, three quarters of the way through a beer he’s been nursing for forty five minutes. Roy’s in the bathroom, and he must’ve invited someone along with him because he’s taking for-fucking-ever.

Jason glances at his phone, bored and ready to leave. He’s only here because Roy dragged him out, insisting it would help him forget about you.

Which it doesn’t. Because there you are.

You see him the second he sees you. Your expression hardens as you make eye contact. Before he knows what he’s doing, Jason takes a step forward. He holds his arms open, chest centered, eyes clear. Come on. Come on.

He sees you roll your eyes. One of your friends leans down to whisper in your ear. Jason can read their lips: do you know that guy?

Yes. You leave your friends and make your way toward him, stopping about a foot away. You stare at him, raising an eyebrow.

Jason looks at you, so uncertain. He—he doesn’t know what to do, now.

You sigh, gently plucking his beer from his hand and setting it on the bar. Then you grab his hand—holy shit, it’s all electricity, all the way down—and tug him onto the dance floor.

Your arms slot around his neck, and his hands find your hips. You’re wearing a shirt that leaves your midriff exposed, and his palms are hot against your skin.

It’s almost too much. Your skin buzzes and crackles and pops and he feels it all the way to his teeth. You’ve got your forearm pressed against his neck; it sends electric shocks down his spine.

From the way you’re frozen, gritting your teeth, you feel it too. For almost a minute, neither of you move as you adjust. Just as Jason starts to get used to it, you look at him with a wry smile. He returns it shakily.

Then you move an arm from his neck, letting your skin brush against his, and put your hand on his bicep, sliding down to his wrist and back up again.

Jason almost passes out. He’s panting, shaking like a startled animal. You smile triumphantly, and Jason knows he’s in trouble.

Trying to get ahold of himself, he squeezes at your hips, rubbing slow circles into your skin with his thumbs. You inhale sharply, glaring at him even as your body trembles under his hands. He gives you a smirk. You roll your eyes and then do what he’s been wondering about since he first brushed against you in the sickbay: you kiss him.

It’s dizzying.

All of Jason’s focus seems to be concentrated into his lips, which sizzle and pop like oil on a hot pan. You let out a shocked cry into his mouth and he swallows it eagerly. He slides his mouth against yours; the friction is unlike anything he’s felt before. Jason thinks to use his tongue and brushes it gently against the inside of your cheek, darting back as he feels you bite down hastily.

You pull away, panting, removing your hands from him and resting your head against his chest, t-shirt giving you some respite from the heady feeling of skin on skin. As soon as he notes your absence, Jason realizes he’s a goner. He’ll do anything, anything, to feel that way again.

He runs his hands up your arms encouragingly, using one to tilt your chin towards his so he can kiss you again, but you shake your head, pressing your face against his chest.

Damn. But he can feel the heat of you, pressed against him as you are, and this feels nice, too. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and another on your midriff, skin buzzing at the contact. You shudder but burrow further into his chest.

This gives him some time to think.

Yeah, he fucked up. Jason wants to kick himself.

And he knows, right down to his bones, that he’s pushed you out of reach. He’s certain that you won’t give him another chance, just like he knows he’s undeserving of you in the first place.

It’s too late. You’ll never be his. There he goes, breaking his own heart again.

For a moment, Jason struggles to breathe.

You shift, knocking your head against his chest. He looks down at you, heart thick in his mouth.

You’ll never be his, but you’re here now. Jason’s grip on you tightens. He’ll take whatever he can get tonight, and that’ll have to be enough.

He rests his chin against your head. You hum, stretching up to press lightly against him, and Jason could just die.

He rubs soothingly at your back. He has you tonight.

Or rather, he has you in this club. Jason wants to bite his tongue off when he realizes you’ll leave in less than a few hours.

He needs to stretch this out as far as it will go.

Jason sees two people disentangle enough to leave the dance floor and exit the club, groping each other the whole time.

Maybe you can leave with him.

The idea ripples through his body, taking hold immediately. He can try and convince you to come home with him and have you in his bed for one night. And then you’ll walk out of his life and that’s okay. It is.

Cautiously, he slides a hand under your shirt, caressing the skin of your back. The buzzing almost overwhelms him, but he doesn’t let up, stretching his fingers high enough to trace your shoulder blades. You freeze in his arms, but you don’t pull away. He sets his other hand lower, running a thumb just above the waistline of your jeans.

You tilt your head up and squint at him; you know what he’s doing. But Jason doesn’t care, he’s got a goal now, and he takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss you. You bite at his lips but kiss him back.

The sparks almost fry him. It’s easy to lose himself, and a moment later he finds his hips moving against yours without his permission.

Again, you freeze. Jason can’t help but marvel; so in control, so commanding of yourself. He panics for a moment before your hips start to grind up into his. You wrap your arms around his neck—sizzling against him—and pull him down to kiss him deeper.

Relief and adrenaline surge through him. For a few precious hours, he’ll get to have you.

You make out for ages. Jason can’t get enough. Around you, people come and go, but the two of you stay rooted to the spot. Jason feels his phone vibrate with a text from Roy and ignores it. He couldn’t give a fuck.

He feels like he could go on forever, but eventually you pull away, yawning. His chest tightens as you pull out your phone. Your eyes widen; it’s half past three in the morning.

Jason grits his teeth. He has to make his move, and he has to make it now.

His courage almost fails him; he has to bury his face in your neck, cheeks buzzing. “Stay with me a little longer,” he mutters into your skin. “Come back to my place.”

He holds his breath. You keep silent. Then, you pull away, eyes searching his face.

Old habits die hard; he gives you a cocky smirk. You grab his chin, just like in the sickbay, and pull his face down toward you.

His facade clean falls away. All he’s got left is hunger.

You examine him a moment longer before letting out a soft sigh. “Yes,” you say quietly.

He grabs your hand and guides you toward the exit.

Twenty minutes later, he’s got you on his couch, the long line of your body laid out beneath his. It’s heaven. You’re impossibly closer now, gravity pulling him in. He suspends himself carefully above you, not wanting to crush you, but still close enough to let your skin burn him.

You pick up where you left off, kissing messily. Eventually, Jason thinks to pull his shirt over his head and throw it to the floor. You quickly follow.

His chest explodes against yours. Jason bites his tongue sharp enough to draw blood as you let out a small shriek. Your skin reaches up and consumes him. It’s overwhelming, it’s too much skin to skin contact, it’s everything Jason has ever wanted when he’s flinched away from someone’s touch. Someone else’s touch.

Shakily, you bring your arms up to lay your hands on his back. Jason could cry. He loses hold of himself and collapses, putting his weight on you completely. You let out a small oomph.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, gasping.

“No, no, it’s okay,” you soothe him. Hesitantly, your hands begin to rub his back. Biting his lip, Jason maneuvers himself so that his arms are underneath you, holding you to his chest. You let out a small hum of contentment.

He lets himself settle against you, feels you shift beneath him until you’re comfortable. Again, he wrenches his face into your neck. You giggle quietly, and he smiles against you.

After a while, the buzzing cools into a warm glow. Jason could stay here forever.

Eventually, though, you cough. He can hear you yawn. “Jason,” you whisper apologetically. Hearing his name sends a jolt up his spine. “Jason, I gotta go.”

No. Not yet. He’s not ready to say goodbye.

Jason reacts on instinct. “Stay,” he mumbles. “Sleep here.” He sees it coming: again, you freeze. “We don’t have to…” he quickly adds. “Just…sleep.”

In the morning, he tells himself. He’ll let you walk away in the morning.

He looks at you, this time, as he waits for you to answer. Having you so close makes him brave, makes it easy to show on his face how much he wants you to stay.

Your eyes are guarded. “Sleep where?”

Uh…good question. In my arms.

“Take the bed,” he answers. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You look at him warily. He holds his breath.

You yawn again, and it takes the fight out of you. “Okay,” you mutter. You shift below him, and he gets up obligingly.

“In here.” Jason leads you to his bedroom, heart pounding. He opens the door, and you peek inside. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”

You look back to him, nodding. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jason shifts on his feet, lingering. You turn your searching gaze on him again.

Eventually you nod and dart into the room, pulling the door shut behind you.

Jason exhales. He turns back toward the couch. It’s going to be a long night of imagining what you look like, lying in his bed, steps away.

He lays himself down and closes his eyes. As if he’ll be able to let you go, now. He’s gonna fight like hell for you in the morning.

•••

This was a really fucking bad idea.

You clutch at Jason’s sheets, nearly ripping them in half as dread fills you. Why did you do this to yourself? The scent of him envelopes you and you almost want to cry.

What were you thinking, coming back here? You know he doesn’t want to be with you. The best thing for you to do now is just move the fuck on. Put him out of your mind before it’s too late, before you fuck up and get yourself addicted to a drug that doesn’t want you. You couldn’t help micro dosing him at the club, you didn’t know he’d be there. Mistakes happen. But you shouldn’t have fucking macro dosed him by sleeping in his goddamn bed, especially when it smells so good. You’ll be having withdrawals for weeks.

Last night was a fluke. You don’t know what on Earth possessed him to dance with you and hold you and kiss you like that, but you sure as shit know it’s not going to happen again.

But it happened. You stare up at his ceiling, trying to make it make sense. Jason doesn’t want to make it work with you, he’d wanted you to walk away back in the sickbay. Right? Then what the fuck was he doing last night? He wasn’t acting like he wanted you to walk away, he asked you to stay. And like the Grade-A idiot, fucking addicted junkie you are, you’d agreed.

You turn over on your side, mashing Jason’s pillow beneath you. Why did he even invite you back here in the first place? He clearly doesn’t want a relationship with you. Your breath stills; he probably just wanted to get lucky.

That little fucker.

The realization clears your head. That’s why he acted like that last night, that’s why he held you and danced with you and kissed you like—like he did.

Because he just wanted to get off.

Despair crashes over you, forms a lump in the back of your throat. You beat it back angrily. Fuck him. Fuck him for thinking he can just use you like that, use the hold he has over you for his own ends.

You rip the bedsheets off and pull your pants on, absolutely fuming. You’re going to yell at this motherfucker, you’re going to tear him a new asshole, and then you’re going to get the fuck out of here.

The bedroom door slams open with a bang. Snarling, you make your way into the kitchen, to see Jason’s jumped about a foot.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He looks down and swears again. “Motherfuck—”

He ducks down to examine something on the floor. You realize he’s holding a spatula. “I used up all my eggs. Fucking hell.” He sighs, grabbing a paper towel to clean up what must be egg on the kitchen tile.

He’s making eggs?

The scene deters you, but your anger comes roaring back. “Were you seriously just going to eat a whole fucking breakfast while I slept in your—”

“What?” Jason cuts you off, confused. “No! These are for you, too, dipshit!” He freezes.

You stalk toward him, furious. “What did you just call me?”

“…sorry,” he mutters, turning to the stove.

Wow. What a guy.

Scoffing in disgust, you walk to the door and grab your coat from the hook. That makes him pause. “Wait, you’re leaving?” Jason asks, surprised.

“Uh, yeah,” you say meanly. “You wanted me to walk away, so here I go.”

“But I…” he trails off. You look at him, eyebrows raised, expecting him to do nothing, just like last time. And you can’t work with nothing.

Jason turns off the stove and crosses the kitchen warily. “Just…just stay and have something to eat. Please,” he mumbles. He’s barely looking you in the eye, you stare at him until he meets your gaze. There’s nothing but open honesty on his face.

Hm.

Cautiously, you put your coat back on the hook and cross your arms over your chest. “Why?” you ask warily.

“Because, I…” he trails off with a growl, giving you a rough, earnest look.

Reluctantly, you sit yourself at the kitchen table. Ridiculous, ridiculous! You should be on the other side of that door, you should be on the street by now.

But you’re powerless against how much you want him, how much you want this to work. You’ve already swallowed the fishhook; all he has to do is reel you in.

Relief swamps Jason’s face. He turns and busies himself at the stove. As soon as his back is to you your elbows hit the table and your head is in your hands. What the fuck are you doing? Why do you insist on torturing yourself? Why are you giving him another chance?

You stay like that until you hear the knock of a plate hit the table. Looking up, you see Jason’s handed you a plate of eggs and toast, plus a mug of coffee. He sits across from you with his own plate and cup.

He’s got two eggs and you’ve got three. He must have given you the extra after one had ended up in the floor. Such a gentleman.

“Thanks,” you say, sitting up.

Jason nods.

Neither of you say anything, nor do you move to eat.

You glare at him. You’re sure as hell not going to move first.

“Fucking Christ,” he breathes, before deliberately slicing into an egg and mashing his toast into the yolk. You roll your eyes and follow suit.

“You got salt and pepper?”

“What?” Jason looks up, frowning. “I already put some on.”

“Not enough.”

“God almighty.” He heaves himself up and moves to the cupboard, quickly returning with salt and pepper shakers. “Happy?”

“No. I don’t want to be here,” you remind him.

That sucks the fight away. Jason looks at his plate, chastised. “Right.”

You grab the salt and pepper. The shakers are stupid, Batman novelty garbage: Batman’s the salt and Robin’s the pepper. The salt comes out of the pointy Bat-ears.

Ridiculous. You season your eggs angrily. “I’m finishing this meal and then I’m leaving,” you announce, scooping up some egg with your toast.

Jason offers you a leaky smirk, full of holes. “Not gonna help me clean up?”

It makes you furious. “What the fuck do you want from me, Jason?” you demand. “What do you want? Because I’m not playing your stupid fucking games and I’m not going to let you jerk me around.”

Untrue. You probably would. But he doesn’t need to know that.

Jason looks at his plate, hands curled into fists. “I—what do you want?”

You stand up, chair screeching. No fucking way are you taking a deflection right now.

“Sweetheart, wait.” Jason gets to his feet.

You swallow. ‘Sweetheart.’ He called you that before, but it feels different now.

Or maybe that’s your imagination.

“I—I shouldn’t have acted like a such dickhead.” His head is turned from you, but then he meets your eyes with gritted teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Great. “Answer my question.”

His face hardens. “I…I don’t…” Jason shrugs almost helplessly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away, but I didn’t do it for shits and giggles. I…” he ducks his head. “My life is…dangerous.”

He looks at you imploringly. Your eyes drift to his chest. Right. He literally died. “I didn’t want to drag you into that,” he says carefully.

You sigh, collapsing into the chair. He follows your lead, sitting across from you. “Slow down, cowboy,”you say, exhausted with the back and forth. You need to start smaller. “Do you want to see me again?”

You are being very fucking brave right now. Your breath freezes in your mouth as you wait for his answer.

Jason stares at the table. “Yeah.”

Your mouth melts. “Okay. Me too.”

He looks up at you, shocked. You roll your eyes. His face falls into a smirk.

“If you get too cocky I’m going to leave,” you threaten. Jason nods but doesn’t pare down the smirk at all.

Time to be braver. You grip the edge of the table. “Do you want to be…just, just friends?” You force yourself to look at him, his face has fallen.

You suck in a breath. “Because I want more.” The words spill out of you.

You want to throw up but by god you are going to maintain eye contact, come hell or high water. You grit your teeth and lock onto his eyes, so focused you almost miss what he says next.

“I do, too.”

You blink. Jason’s looking at you like you’d hung the moon.

Fuck, yes.

“Cool,” you say with a smile.

“You’re one in a million, sweetheart,” he adds, breaking out into a wide grin. “Couldn’t miss my chance.”

You blush. Jason’s eyes are hungry.

There’s a beat of silence. “What do we do now?”

Jason considers for a moment before picking up his fork. “Finish your breakfast.”

You take a bite of toast. “Then what?”

“D’unno.” He smirks, mischievous. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

You grin into your eggs, delighted. “‘Kay.”

———

I didn’t not mean for this to be so long, I wanted to write a cheeky jason soulmate fic but in my heart of hearts I truly believe that jason can’t have a cheeky anything. Why accept a soulmate when you can preemptively burn your relationship to the ground to save time?

#teeth writes #jason todd #batman #dick grayson #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd x gn!reader #red hood x gn!reader #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #dc imagine

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hellothereobiwankenobi · 4 months ago

Text

yellow ribbon on the door | chapter two

⟢ summary: Tommy convinces Joel to cover for him, and complete the repairs at your flower shop.

⟢ pairing: joel miller x afab!reader (femme but not descriptive as to actual features)

⟢ tags: no outbreak au, flower shop au, idiots in love, small age gap, joel is 35 and reader is 29 about to be 30, reader is a war widow, operation desert storm mentioned, reader is a single mother to ellie, eventual smut, no beta reader we die like men

⟢ wc: 3.2K

⟢ authors notes: Well, let me start by saying thank you for everyone who read chapter one! And an extra thank you to everyone who left such kind comments. I am so appreciative to everyone who has interacted with this story so far.

ꕥ previous │ navigation │ao3 │ next ꕥ

The following Monday morning, Joel carries tools back and forth from the garage into the bed of his work truck. He loves this part of his morning routine. It was still early enough that most of his neighbors were in their homes getting ready for work and late enough that all the school-aged children on his street had already been picked up by big yellow buses. It was quiet enough for Joel to get some peace, sip his coffee, organize his tools how he liked, and hear the morning birds sing overhead.

Joel had a busy day ahead of him. He needed to pick up the drywall order for tomorrow's job, place a new order for the correct sized plumbing hardware for a client's kitchen remodel (he knew he shouldn't have trusted Tommy with taking the measurements), and he hoped to stop by elderly Mrs. Williams' home to make sure the handrails he installed in her shower last week were to her liking. He also had an important meeting with a real estate development firm about framing the main entryway of a new apartment complex being built in the city. Landing this job could open more doors for his and Tommy’s business, and it offers a sizable payout.

He grabs his colt coffee mug from the edge of the tailgate before finishing it off. As Joel closes the tailgate, the cell phone clipped to his belt rings. He removes it from his belt and hits the green answer button without checking the caller ID "Miller Brothers Contracting."

"Joel, it's me." Tommy's voice comes through the speaker pressed to his ear "I screwed up, man."

What is it now? Joel thinks. This is far from the first time he has heard his younger brother speak those words over the phone. But this type of call usually comes in the middle of the night and is preceded by a robotic voice stating, "This is a collect call from the Travis County Jail—Central Booking. Do you accept the charges?"

There is no way Tommy has already gotten himself arrested. It's not even eight in the morning.

Joel prepares for the worst. "What now?"

Tommy explains that he double-booked himself today. He promised to come by your store this morning, but after checking his schedule, he realized he couldn’t make it across town in time for his next client—not in Austin traffic, at least.

"I need you to go and help her out," Tommy adds desperately. "I'll owe you one."

"Already do," Joel reminds him.

Maybe it was his fault. Joel always felt that, as the older brother, it was his responsibility to bail Tommy out of his messes. Joel couldn't count how many times during Tommy's high school years he had picked him up in the wee hours of the morning because he was too drunk to drive home and too afraid to call their parents. Or the time Tommy ran his mouth off to a couple of good ol' boys at a local dive bar, and Joel had to join in when the fists started flying. Or when Tommy threw a party while their parents were in Mexico visiting family, and one of his friends punched a hole right through the bathroom door because it "wouldn't open." Joel had spent the little money he had on the supplies needed for a patch job good enough that their father wouldn't notice.

"Joel, please. I'm beggin' here." Tommy pleads.

Joel drags his large hand down his face and sighs, "Fine."

"You're a lifesaver. I'll buy us a round tonight as thanks." Tommy rushes out the address of your shop, and the line goes dead as he quickly disconnects the call.

Joel sits in the driver's seat of his truck, eyes closed, both hands white-knuckling on the steering wheel, parked outside of your store: Iris-istible. Tommy hadn't mentioned you were a florist.

Joel takes a deep inhale and tries to give himself a quick pep talk. Just go in, tighten a bolt or two, and get out, he tells himself.

Joel gathers the strength to climb out of the cab and grab his navy blue toolbag from the truck bed. As he enters through the shop's front door, a small bell chimes and announces his presence. Three long, natural wood tables take up most of the floor space of the small storefront. The walls are exposed brick in alternating shades of deep burgundy and mahogany brown outlined in grey grout. Wooden shelves displaying premade arrangements, and various house plants in mismatched containers line the store's perimeter. A complex crystal chandelier hangs overhead, illuminating the cozy store front.

Joel looks to his left, and there you are, standing behind a waist-high butcher block counter stacked high with books on the language of flowers and beginner's guides to starting a garden. A goldenrod watering can and an old-fashioned register frame either side of the counter.

Your back is turned toward the door while you fiddle with the soil of a potted orchid. You're wearing a pair of denim overalls over a short-sleeve white t-shirt. The straps of a sunshine yellow apron wrap over your shoulders and tie neatly in a bow around your waist at the center of your back.

Your whole body whips around to face the entryway when you hear the bell's chime ringing out through the small shop. You are positively beaming, smiling ear-to-ear.

"Tommy, I thought you'd nev—" Your words die in your throat, and your smile melts away as you make eye contact with the older Miller brother.

"Sorry to disappoint," Joel grumbles, averting his eyes from you. There is an uncomfortable heat running up the back of his neck. Joel wouldn't describe himself as a proud man, but your ever-present fondness for his brother is on full display this morning, making him regret his decision to come.

You stand unblinking, still holding the potted orchid between your perfectly manicured fingers. French tips. Or at least that's what he thinks Sarah calls them.

"No," you come back to your senses and forcefully shake your head. A smile, while much smaller than the previous one, pulls back on your lips. "Not at all. Just surprised."

Joel could be just imagining it, but what looks like a rosy blush blossoms on the apples of your cheeks. From embarrassment or something else, he isn't sure.

Joel's feet remain planted just inside the entrance. He doesn't dare take another step into the store. Maybe it's not too late to leave.

"Let me show you where the walk-in is." You place the orchid on the counter and wipe away any remaining potting soil from your fingers onto your apron.

You step out from behind the counter and wave a hand for Joel to follow. You hold open the black, swinging door labeled "Employees Only" that leads to the store's backroom.

The back room was larger than Joel would have expected—maybe about half the size of the main storefront. Bags of potting soil and mulch are stacked against the wall next to a shelf of extra terracotta pots and crystal vases. A tall, light-colored workbench is pushed against the opposite wall. It is littered with discarded bruised petals and the clipped ends of flower stems.

On the back wall, there is a large silver door with a sizable latching handle. You place both hands on the handle and give it a couple of good tugs until it clicks open. You look over your shoulder with an embarrassed smile as you pull the door open. "Sorry, it sticks sometimes."

You and Joel finally step into the cooler. You had already turned off the A/C unit in anticipation of having it repaired. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving, all filled with different varieties of flora. Some flowers Joel could recognize: roses, daisies, daffodils. But most of them he had never seen before. A few even looked like something you'd find while hiking on a tropical vacation.

His eyes moved from the myriad of colored foliage to the ceiling. At the center is a small, two-fan A/C unit. He's not tall enough to reach it by only standing. He sets down his bag on the floor, directly below the unit. "I'll need to graby a ladder."

"Mhm," you nod, "whatever you need. I'll leave it to the expert."

You both exit the walk-in and head back to the front of the store. You return to your original position behind the counter as Joel exits to retrieve what he needs from the truck.

He re-enters the building carrying the six-foot ladder under his left arm. You're working on an arrangement of pink roses and yellow Asiatic lilies in a stubby vase. You place the flowers absentmindedly in the vase as you watch him walk by. Joel's biceps flex under the ladder's weight, causing them to pull the fabric of his short-sleeved, forest green cotton tee shirt taut around them.

You could always tell Joel was strong. He filled out his clothing in a way that only a man who'd worked physical labor his whole life could: broad shoulders, large biceps, and a strong chest kept hidden under a few layers of thin fabric.

Once Joel has disappeared into the back half of the shop, you let out a ragged breath and refocus on the bouquet in front of you.

You tried to keep busy with orders and reorganizing display shelves, but your mind kept wandering back to the man inside your walk-in cooler. Thankfully, a customer came in to distract you—a well-dressed, clean-shaven young man looking for a gift for his mother's birthday.

"She loves tulips," he explained. You showed him the premade arrangements on the display tables, but they weren't what he was looking for.

"Let me check the back and see what I can whip up." you give him a reassuring smile before disappearing behind the storage room door.

You're greeted by the sight of Joel standing halfway up the ladder. His hands are above his head, working on the A/C unit, causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose the smallest peak of his lower stomach. A trail of deep brown hair extends from below the waistband of his dark-wash denim jeans and travels up until it disappears under the soft fabric of his shirt. Your eyes begrudgingly tear themselves away from the exposed skin and move up his body. His stomach looks soft in comparison to the solid muscles of his chest and upper arms. Your eyes linger on the sharp angles of his jawline. Finally, your studying gaze reaches strong hands. His thick fingers delicately work over the intricate details of the unit.

He had so much control over the fine movements of his thick digits. He presses a petite silver knob between his thumb and index finger, giving it a gentle twist.

Your mind runs through the endless possibilities of what else he could squeeze between those two fingers.

The feeling of your weighted stare breaks Joel's concentration. He looks down to see you standing below him. He pulls his eyebrows together as you frantically try to collect yourself. You can't see it, but you are sure by the heat burning in your cheeks that your face is completely flushed.

"S-sorry," you manage to stammer out, "just need to grab something." You walk around him to the back of the cooler and grab a few different colors of tulips before rushing out.

The repair work took longer than Joel expected. One of the pipes responsible for circulating refrigerant into the condenser had corroded. He was able to complete a patch job, but the pipe would need to be entirely replaced for any long-term success. The twin fan blades whirl to life as Joel turns the A/C unit back on, giving his work a final once-over. He wants to ensure everything will hold up until he can get the part needed to finish the job.

When you re-enter the walk-in, Joel is collecting his tools back into his bag.

"How's it going in here?" you ask. You feel cool air brush across your bare forearms and look up at the ceiling unit.

"You fixed it?" it comes out as a half statement, half question. The same beaming regard from earlier on your face, but it is intended for Joel this time.

Joel felt a mysterious craving deep within him finally being satisfied. He didn't know it previously, but he must have wanted that look, the one you save for his brother, to be meant for him.

The warmth radiating from your smile was almost too intoxicating. Joel had to distract himself by closing the ladder, or he would have been completely engulfed by it.

"For now." Joel says, making a conscious effort to keep his eyes from returning to you, "I gotta order a part to fix it right."

Joel tucks the ladder under his arm again and moves to return it to the truck. You look down at his tool bag and reach for the handles with one hand. You can barely pick it up off the ground. It is much heavier than you expected. With a soft groan, you lift the bag and keep it secure in front of you with both hands.

Joel looks back at the sound and sees you struggling to hold the bag at waist level. "You ain't gotta—"

"But I want to." is all you say before overtaking him. You trek your way outside the shop with Joel close behind.

You set the tool bag on the curb next to Joel's truck, feeling accomplished about carrying it alone. Joel lifts the ladder over his head and slides it on the chrome rack suspended above the truck bed. He secures it in place with a couple of ratchet straps, then turns to grab the tool bag from the curb.

With one easy motion, Joel lifts the bag up and over the tailgate, returning it to its original place.

"So, what do I owe you?" you ask with a gentle smile.

Joel looks at you and shakes his head. "Was just doin' a favor for Tommy."

"Come on, I have to pay you somehow." Your smile grows. "There is this really great coffee shop about a block from here. My treat."

Your intention genuinely was to thank him for his help this morning, but a selfish part of you was also trying to find a reason for him to stay just a little bit longer.

"I'll let Tommy know when the part comes in," Joel states flatly. He is already behind schedule. He needs to leave now to make his meeting with the real estate developers.

Joel gives you a nod goodbye before walking around the truck and climbing into the driver's seat. He pulls away from the curb and rejoins Austin city traffic, watching your little yellow apron become smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.

Thankfully, the rest of Joel's jobs for the day go smoothly. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the melody playing from his Hank Williams cassette tape. Joel would be lying if he said the drive home from the city, back to the suburbs, wasn't his favorite part of the work day. He could reflect on his day, watch the sunset paint the central Texas horizon orange and pink, and he could listen to his "old man" music without Sarah making any comments at his expense.

He pulls into the small parking lot of The Whiskey Room, his and Tommy's usual watering hole. The drinks are cheap, the music is to his liking, and it is close enough to his house that he and Tommy can walk home after having one too many.

Joel spots Tommy's dark grey pickup, a weathered "OPERATION DESERT STORM COMBAT VETERAN" bumper sticker prominently displayed on the tailgate next to the driver's side taillight.

Tommy is saving a spot next to him at the bar. He puts out his cigarette as Joel pulls out the chair and takes a seat.

"Heard you landed that framin' job in those new apartments for us," Tommy says, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezing. "Ol' man still knows how to sweet talk a couple suits."

"Whiskey, neat. For my friend here." Tommy calls over to the bartender, "On me."

The bartender, a young woman in her mid-twenties, places a short glass containing two fingers of amber liquid on the bar top before Joel. Tommy gives her a wink as she walks away, flipping her long brown hair over one shoulder.

Tommy finally removes his hand from his brother's shoulder and returns to his own drink.

"Your girlfriend's A/C needs a new coolant pipe." Joel grabs ahold of the whiskey glass and takes a sip.

"Nah, man." Tommy lets out a soft laugh before bringing his drink to his lips. "It ain't like that. She's just my ol' sergeant's wife."

It takes Joel a moment to put the pieces together. Tommy's old sergeant. The one from his time in Kuwait. The one who moved to Austin after the end of Operation Desert Storm with his wife. The one whose funeral Tommy attended eighteen months ago.

Shit.

Joel stays silent as the overwhelming impact of his own stupidity washes over him. He can't think of a single thing to say.

Tommy rests his glass on the bar top "Wait, you really thought—"

Laughter erupts from Tommy, drawing the attention of those seated around them. Joel can feel the eyes of the bar's other patrons staring at his back.

"I've just been helpin' her out since Sarge passed. She's goin' through a lot." Tommy is gripping the bar with one hand and places the other over his chest, trying to catch his breath.

"Pendejo." Tommy takes his glass in his hand, grinning wide, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Joel's frigid embarrassment begins to grow into heated frustration. He downs his remaining whiskey in one gulp.

"She's always all over you. Gettin' you things, laughin' at your jokes," Joel snaps back at his brother.

"She's a sweet girl." Tommy nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. "She's the kinda person that likes doin' nice things for other people. It's a mom thing, I reckon."

"Not to me." Joel retorts.

"You don't give her much of a reason to." Tommy takes another drink of his whiskey.

Joel thinks back on the handful of past exchanges the two of you have had. The first time he met you at the Super Bowl party, he spoke maybe two or three words to you. You spent most of the night sitting next to his brother on Joel's brown leather couch, listening captivatingly to Tommy explain the basics of American Football. At the family dinner, he was almost wholly silent towards you. Other than sneaking a few quick glances your way over the kitchen table every time you let an unapologetically sweet laugh escape your full lips. Even today, when you offered to buy him coffee to thank him for the work he had done at your store, he immediately shut you down.

"You really are one dumb bastard, you know that?" For the first time in a long time, Joel found himself agreeing with his younger brother.

⟢ authors notes: I promised idiots in love, and I gave you idiots in love. Pre/non-outbreak Joel is my absolute favorite things to write currently. He is just such a goober.

I'm pretty insecure about the quality of my writing. I'm powering it though. I used to write fanfiction nearly everyday in my younger years, but as time went on I lost my love for it. But reading the phenomenal works of the authors in this community has reignited my passion.

I'm on spring break this week, so I am trying to write as much as possible until classes start again next Monday. My writing process is a little messy. I write in nonsequential order. As a scenes pops into my head, I scribble it out into a Google Doc the piece them together like a big jigsaw puzzle.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel mill fanfic #tommy miller #sarah miller #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #YRotD #maries library

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