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“How do you even know he's alive?” asks Fingon.
Maglor watches him for a long moment, his face grave and closed in a way Fingon doesn't remember ever seeing before.
“Come with me,” he finally says.
With a swish of his long cloak, his armour perfectly oiled and silent, he turns around and leads Fingon to a side door. They ascend the winding, undecorated steps in silence. Fingon has a million things to say, to ask, to shout now that they're in private, but in the face of Maglor's stone countenance, the magnitude of the loss of his uncle and Maedhros, he can no longer find the words.
Before the narrow, windowless staircase can grow fully dark, the light of the sun filters in from another opening at the top. They come out on a crenelled tower, far above the rest of the fortress. Fingon looks around, discovering the lands of Beleriand from a bird's point of view.
Maglor stands there and waits him out without a word. When Fingon finally turns to him, he gestures at the North. There, beyond the snow-covered plains and pine forests, looms a sheer black cliff.
“Angband,” Maglor says. “The mountain is called Thangorodrim.”
“What am I looking for?”
Maglor sighs and shields his eyes from the sun with his hands, staring at the cliff face. “Close to the top, where it's the sheerest.”
Fingon squints. He doesn't know what to expect, so he has no time to shield his mind between the moment he spots a figure up there, dangling from the cliff, and the moment he understands.
Maglor reels back, as if struck. Fingon finds that he can't breathe.
He falls to his knees against the battlement. Nothing can make him tear his eyes from the figure of Maedhros hanging by his arm from the cliff. His stomach is trying to rebel, and tears blur his vision, keeping him from desperately looking for any sign of life.
“How long?” he manages to choke out.
“Almost two years, as close as I could tell,” Maglor says. He doesn't sound much less choked up, though this is clearly a habitual sight to him.
Two years. Almost two thirds of the time it took them to cross the Ice.
How has Maedhros survived this long?
“There's a winged creature who comes to feed him once a week.” Maglor must have caught his thought. “Well, force-feed him, really. I suppose Morgoth must think him a valuable hostage.” He pauses for a moment, still staring forward. “He's not wrong.”
Fingon has had too much. The strangled sob in his throat comes out as a cry of rage.
“And you've just left him there?”
For some reason when I was first reading the Silmarillion I got it into my head that they could see Maedhros from Mithrim... It's not geographically correct, but it's heartbreaking enough to share. The years mentioned here are of course Tree years, ten Sun years apiece.
#silmarillion#the silmarillion#maglor#fingon#maedhros#tolkien#silm#silm fic#echo's fanfiction#ficlet
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Finally
My art for the @clonebang (thank you so much for this event!)
Also super BIG kudos💜 to my teammates for making the process so fun and really special!!
The source of inspiration is an amazing story What We Did on Felucia by @wolveria
And the source of motivation is very talented artist @binkyisonline
#fanart#bad batch#star wars#cb2024#arc trooper echo#tbb hunter#tbb crosshair#tbb tech#tbb wrecker#fanfiction fanart#clone bang 2024
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As the conspiracy reaches its finale, the Void Hunter joins the fight.
Uncover the Conspiracy in Zenless Zone Zero's All-New Version "A Storm of Falling Stars", S-Rank Agent Hoshimi Miyabi is here! With S-Rank Agent Asaba Harumasa Limited-Time Giveaway! Pre-register to obtain additional rewards.
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I can't find the original image to reboot and credit, but here you go.
TECH: When I analyzed Omega's DNA, I noticed an anomaly in her blood. Upon further research, she has a high volume of midichlorians."
WRECKER: What does that mean?
TECH: There was a correlation between a "high M-Count" and a Jedi's abilities using the Force.
OMEGA: Does this mean I'm a Jedi?!
TECH: Possibly. You would need extra training by a Jedi to use those skills.
ECHO: I've never noticed she has Force skills.
TECH: I thought her ability to connect with animals was an obvious manifestation of such abilities.
HUNTER: I am sensitive to vibrations. Do I have the Force?
TECH: It seems of the Kaminoans' experimental Clones, only Omega was specifically given a high M-count, which probably explains why she is so valuable to Nala Se and the Empire.
ECHO: Now we know what we're up against. Thankfully, we don't need to collaborate with any suspicious women to get this information. We must find a more secure location to hide. I will contact Rex immediately.
#star wars the bad batch#the bad batch#bad batch#bad batch tech#bad batch fanfic#clone force 99#bad batch hunter#hunter bad batch#tech lives#tech bad batch#bad batch wrecker#i thought it was obvious#tbb wrecker#tbb tech#tbb fanfiction#tbb echo#bad batch echo#echo bad batch#tbb hunter#arc trooper echo#the bad batch star wars#bad batch eve#force sensitive clones#tbb omega#bad batch omega#omega bad batch#force sensitive omega#m count#midichlorians#if tech lived
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𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖 ⋆*・゚ 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣
➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ꜱᴇʀɢᴇᴀɴᴛ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ☆ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜ.
➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜰᴇʀᴀʟ+ʜᴏʀɴʏ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ʜᴇᴀᴛ, ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱɪᴇꜱ, ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɪɴɢ, ʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜱᴇxʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴜʀʙᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɢʀɪɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴍɪʟᴅ ɢᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ, ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟᴍᴀᴏ
➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 9.1ᴋ
➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ
➼ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ☆ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ - ᴇᴛʜᴇʟ ᴄᴀɪɴ, ᴍᴏᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴇɴʜʏᴘᴇɴ
⋆ ★ … ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxᴀɢɢᴇʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ. ɪ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜʟʏ ᴏꜰ 2023 ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴏꜰꜰ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ ɪᴛ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜʜʜʜ ᴏᴏᴘꜱ ɪᴛꜱ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ 10ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ʏᴇᴀʜ, ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. ʏᴀʏ? ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ.
➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ
⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*・゚ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ
Despite the gradual (yet quite quick, in retrospect) increment of your feelings toward the skilled soldier, you do, in fact, notice the blunt sexual appeal of Hunter when you first meet Clone Force 99.
It’s difficult not to; with his long hair you can’t quite place how the Kaminoans allow him to have, the striking skull tattoo, his toned body, and discernable shape even through the heavy armor, you can’t help but flutter your eyelashes and rock your feet back and forth like you’re a schoolgirl all over again. Hunter is the Bad Batch’s essential leader, the closest in appearance to the rivaled ‘regs,’ leading them as their Sergeant and CT-9901, and he stands out more than any other clone you’ve interacted with.
His warm, welcoming, yet slightly wary smile is just as firm as the handshake he gives you when you first meet him, leaning down a little to your height (you’d think clone defects would be the same height, or maybe even shorter than a veritable trooper, but instead you feel enveloped by his vertical. Not that you don’t enjoy the feeling, of course) and nodding firmly.
Then you hear his voice.
It’s only a short sentence; a brief introduction and warm gratitude for joining them as their medic before you acquaint yourself with the rest of the squad. But your ears wrap around the waves of his rough, musky baritone like a magnet. Everything feels as though it’s finally clicked into place and created the perfect picture of your desired man.
Your mind immediately begins to create dreamy rhetoric, wondering silly things to yourself.
Had your mind been aimlessly wandering the galaxy for this long, circling like materials until you finally found an opposite —An opposite so charmingly rugged?
The feeling that rushes through you feels so destined.
Lucky for you, Hunter seems to express his commands frequently with his voice; sometimes hushed through a link, the vibrations of your comm humming pleasantly between the soft undersides of your fingers as he talks.
It always during the times when you’re deep past enemy lines, taking down clankers more efficiently than a Starfleet. Initially too, as you were still trying to memorize their master list of designated plans and being weighed down by the extra weight of regulation armor.
“Don’t go through there yet. Squad of clankers waiting for us.”
“You sure, Hunter? I don’t hear any steps.”
“Take it from the person with enhanced hearing, little medic. Just wait for me.”
Other times when he speaks to you, it’s thunderous commands; ones that he yells out across a field or war front. It frightens you at first, your shoulders jolting and hands instinctively clamping over your ears to deafen the noise, but you quickly realize he’s ordering you to act. Once you get used to the intensity, you come to equally enjoy and indulge how his voice takes on a new edge in fleeting moments of urgency and demand; a once blissful burning of wood turning into threatening crackles, and from there a bleeding forest fire.
“Wrecker, move in! Now, now! Crosshair, how’s the bird's view looking?”
It’s incredibly embarrassing how something as simple as his voice can leave you this breathless. Even from the snide comments he can’t seem to help himself from saying when Wrecker retells stories to you, either from their days as shinies and cadets to missions where you stayed back on the Marauder. Between Tech’s rambling and Wrecker’s enthusiastic narration, the sound of Hunter’s voice becomes even more of a calming sedative to you.
Though it equally arouses you in other moments.
How his morning voice is somehow even lower and raspier than his regular tone is a study that must be researched and conducted by only the galaxy’s best scientists. It seems just so impossible, unbelievable; none of it is inauthentic either—the grogginess is always equally spread through his body, from his tired slouch and ruffled hair, lolling eyes, the unkempt composition of the clothes hung over his broad shoulders and slim waist. It’s unspoken the things you might do if you felt there was even the slimmest chance of starting your every day with that sound so deep and lovely right in your ear.
When he addresses you directly before you both allow yourself the time to sleep, asking you to check on old injuries or patch up new ones he got on the last mission. He always manages to get hurt in the most menial yet bothersome ways, and you’re once again forced into close proximity; you’re beginning to consider paying a few scientists and investigators to study the sexy phenomenon that is Hunter. But either way, you sit legs crossed at the ankles in the cockpit, forcing yourself to zone out on anything he might be saying every few minutes so you don’t have to squirm and change your position in your seat every so often and prevent showing how damn flustered and hot he makes you; in more places than just your cheeks and ears.
In flitting moments you get time to relish in his conjured wavelength, take in the scene you can create with just the sound of his voice; he transports you to a world of the dark morning fog, the red of his bandana the most vibrant sight in your nearest vision as he takes you on the forest floor just like that, no civil thoughts daring to come to each of your minds as he finally gives you the relief you crave for in real life.
Your depraved fantasy of Hunter is all you can dream of when you sit yourself on your fingers, holding back as many of the impoverished whines you wish to let out due to your true desperation for such an attractive man.
And the sweet indulgences you luxuriate in make you selfish. You want more, need to know how he’d sound grunting, moaning your name while his cock lay on your tongue. Or how the oscillations of his words feel on your inner thighs, against your clit when he pushes his fingers past your tight barrier. There’s much more you could learn, could explore if you could attempt an advance. Or simply given something more than slight moments of suggestion that he might have the same deviant desires as you to allow the green light.
You’ve yet to receive such signals. And flimsy fantasies, the work of your fingers to chase unattainable pleasure, and insistent memorization of his voice can only keep you quenched for so long.
-
“Hunter,” The inadvertent, pathetic whine crawls up your throat the moment you feel his breath on your neck, lingering over your skin even as he pulls back after hearing the noise you make.
“Just a little more,” He reassures you. The hand not firmly gripping your wrist pats your shoulder, and your cheeks flush at the passing fondness. “Let’s try to get one more shot on target and we’ll call it quits, how does that sound?”
With the warmth of your flushed face spreading to the rest of your body, you mutter,
“Sounds good,”
and try to softly shake off your arousal, eyes zeroing in on the middle of the tree, the finger hovering over the trigger surprisingly still. You’re about to take the shot before he starts instructing you again.
“Fix your foot stance,” Hunter gently guides your legs apart with one of his own, fixing the positioning of your feet planted onto the dirt and you take in a deeper breath than you intend to. The fire kindle of his voice and the fire kindle of your core are equal matches now; the husk of his chunked honey tone will certainly turn you to mush if he continues any further, it feels.
Really, how does this oblivious, heart-seizing bastard expect you to keep your focus on this pointless shooting practice when he’s got you this compromised?
“Try again now,” he says after he’s got you in the position he wants. You huff again, letting the fiery stimulation fall to your diaphragm, and breathe down your arousal. Just one hit on the target and you’ll be free of this torture.
But as you lift your arm again, eyes narrowing closer and closer to your prize, the imminent feeling of his leg between yours rears its head. You become so incredibly, annoyingly aware of it, and grimace, biting your lip softly and knitting your eyebrows together to fully get him out of your mind and body. You tug on your bottom lip and pull the trigger.
The bullet lands left side.
A deep groan of frustration leaves you; it sounds much quieter with Hunter’s rumble and grunt in your ear. You gently pull away from his grasp, handing him the blaster, and turn to face him directly. And when you catch that damned expression you promptly decide that you don’t like to see him disappointed; at least, it looks as though he’s disappointed. Eyebrows pinched together with the smallest frown, his chin curled into himself as he looks down at you (Maybe you should look into research for lawyers in the case of when you sue Hunter for the neck pain he’s caused).
“It’s alright,” He assures you, but it doesn’t feel right. And from the way he looks at you, it’s not alright.
“No, it isn’t,” You tell him exactly that, your fingers curling and interlocking together by your stomach. His eyes dart down for a brief moment of scanning, and they don’t linger too long; Maker, you wish you had the power for your eyes not to glue to him and his absolute stature instantly when you enter a space. “I should be better at this by now.”
Hunter clicks his tongue and turns away, as if deep in swirling thought. His gaze comes back to you before you know it.
“You should be,” He agrees, but nothing is degrading or critical in his voice. In his eyes, the wave of gentleness that cascades and shifts his expression, there’s unconditional empathy that you do not deserve and he wouldn’t grace you with if he were to know what you beg him to do to you in your dreams.
“We can try again,” You then insist, but Hunter quickly shakes his head.
“We’ve been working on this for an hour,” He tells you, slickly spinning the blaster back into his holster. He sounds tired as well, a new jaggedness in the smoke tendrils of his voice. “That’s more than enough practice.”
“But I just want to–”
“I know.”
Somehow, those words are more devastating than anything else he’s said. You look back and catch the mysterious glint in his eye, almost as elusive as his words might connotate on a foggy day.
“Trust me,” He continues. You don’t even realize his hand has wandered and softly taken your chin between two fingers until you feel the soft pads brush against your skin; your jaw slacks. He pinches your chin a little tighter to ensure your eyes are fixed on him. “You just want to prove yourself.”
Well, of course, you think to yourself vindictively. It’s enough that you feel ever-so-slightly out of place in a squad of clone troopers, let alone defective ones; not being able to properly handle a blaster in the mere presence of your crush is even more embarrassing. How juvenile.
“We can try again another time. But you’re tired. I can feel it,” He continues. There’s the slightest hint of gentleness you only pick up on because of how you hone all your focus on dissecting and admiring every single crevice of his articulations. Suddenly, he drops your chin, and your head lolls back into place, rather sloppily, and you look up through your eyelashes. “Time for us to sleep, I think.”
With that, Hunter whips around and heads toward the ramp to the Marauder. You’re left there with a smarting jaw, discreetly trying to rub your legs together and take the heat out of the area.
“Alright,” You sigh, glancing around before trotting after him, the white noise keeping your thoughts off of the man in front of you.
Yet, you still picture what his knee had felt like parting your thighs open only half an hour later. Attempting to recreate it with your arm and then your pillow, you give yourself a foggy release and whimper a jumbled version of his name into your pillow before drifting off, body still buzzing with frustration.
-
The next week, as if the weeks and months before weren’t as excruciating, is pure sexual torture. Not to say it’s entirely filled with frustration and dull aching, however. When you and Hunter have a moment of silence, alone by the cots or the engine or the cockpit together, you both relax into the same, comfortable silence that fills the time.
It’s better to have him not running his mouth off, for sure. You still have to deal with it on deployments and missions, but it’s manageable when you’re knocking down clankers or trying to listen to Tech’s very confusing instructions on how to fly the plane to a certain location to pick them up. But he’s allowing the silence to fester between you two. All the better to preserve the actual sweet, steady relationship you have aside from your fiery attraction, you think.
Hey, it could be worse.
But then the dumbass decides to get himself injured. Get pushed into and dragged against hard durasteel, leaving a gash across his stomach that could challenge Wrecker’s spiderweb scars in its damage. Your jaw practically drops when they return and you see the wound out in the open; you can’t stop yourself before you lurch forward with worried eyes and grasp his wrist around your fingers, pushing him down onto a bench.
As Tech pilots the ship off the planet, the rest all recline and lick their minuscule wounds beside him, while you and Hunter remain cramped in the back, avoiding his gaze and praying to the Maker that he keeps his voice to quiet rough grunts of pain as you try to unclip each different plate of his armor and lay them neatly beside him, tutting when more of his wound is revealed to you.
”Oh my goodness, oh my goodness ohmygoodness,” You stammer to yourself, more and more strained with each breath you take, peeling off the tarnished fabric of his blacks.
“It’s not too bad,” He argues with a soft grin, which slowly fades away when you glare.
“Don’t,” You retort, firm and simple, flashing a genuine look of empathy, and even a drip of fear. If you didn’t know any better, you might think Hunter practically melts under your look with how he slumps and his expression droops. But he’s still an oblivious, sexy fool, you remind yourself.
You don’t even have the energy to fawn over how incredibly attractive he sounds with the rough baritone and anguished sigh-like tone he wears; you instead scramble to open the first aid kit. You can feel his gaze set selectively on you and it doesn’t help. In the corner of your eye, he tilts his head.
“Is everything alright?”
You nod automatically.
“Everything is fine.”
The Marauder jostles in rough air; the ship tilts, your stomach dropping with the altitude change, and you’re unwantedly yanked onto Hunter’s lap with a yelp.
You still for a moment, waiting for the ship to steady again before you become acutely aware of how your chest is almost completely pressed up onto his face. And how your knees are caged over his thighs, your pelvis way too close to his wound for each of your comfort. And pressure against your waist, not too firm but still weighting you to his body–wait, is Hunter holding you to him?
Your eyes widen and you stumble off, stammering nonsensically and afraid to gaze upon his face. You don’t for a long moment, before grabbing the disinfectant and pouring it onto a cloth.
Silence festers between the two of you. When Hunter does speak, it’s not to you.
“Tech! Get her steady, would you?” He yells across the ship, vexed and evidently not in an ideal mood. Tech immediately retorts in his typical, inappropriately casual, intellectual tone,
“That is not a light request, Hunter. I am already trying.”
Hunter scoffs and you finally get the gall to look at him. He exchanges a mutual look of annoyance and manages to grin wider for you. The sight soothes your frayed ends ever so slightly, and you stare down at his stomach again at the wound, biting your lip as you inspect the damage.
Your hands come to the hem of his blacks and you give him a silent ask with your eyes.
“Is it alright if I take this off?”
He hums, which you take as a yes, and you slowly peel it off of his skin, trying very, very hard to ensure your stare doesn’t linger. He looks at you with a mysterious gaze that's too hard to place for your liking. But you just try and shake it off as you slowly dab his wound with the bacta-dipped cloth, pressing it firm against the injury.
When he hisses, you perk up with wide eyes.
“Did that hurt?”
Hunter clenches his teeth and nods slowly, and you pull away with shaky hands. His arms reach out, encircling his fingers around your wrist, and guides them back tenderly.
“It’s alright,” He says, his tone dropping down an octave as your hands tremble again in his grasp. You gain the courage to look up at him, biting your lip softly. The grin he wears manages to soothe your nerves, just a little. “I’ve got you, girl. Just let me guide you so you don’t hurt me.”
You let out a shaky exhale of relief, and he sighs, dipping his chin down, but keeping the intense eye contact.
“How does that sound?”
“Good,” You squeak, the rise and fall of your chest the only constant managing to soothe your fried senses. After a couple of breaths, you finish your thought. “Better.” You press onto a side of his wound, softly spreading the bacta onto it; your eyes don’t separate from his once. “How’s that?”
He huffs, not of frustration or annoyance, but more a comforting relief.
"Fine. Keep going."
The rasp stirs between the space between the two of you, and you take a deep breath before you can do anything else.
With the firm grasp on your wrists and the low tendrils of his voice softly directing you, you continue to tend to his wound, your hands moving deftly over his skin. The thick, intoxicating tension in the air is palpable; the lingering silence between you weighs heavy despite your best attempts to snap yourself out of it and take care of him like you're supposed to.
It's not your fault he just sounds so damn sexy all the time.
"Careful, careful," He tuts when you're stitching up a particularly bad spot, pressing your fingers around the skin and holding it there as you thread the stitch through. "Just a little gentler, please."
Then, "Avoid that spot, please. I can't even-- shit -- breathe without it hurting. Just stitch around it. Yeah, just like that. Good job, little medic," As you're finishing up.
Once you finish wrapping the bandage firmly over the wound and around his waist, taping it firmly to him, he dislodges his fingers from where it's wrapped around your wrist, bringing it to your chin and manhandling you slightly to get a better look into your eyes.
"See, ‘wasn't so bad, was it?" He flashes you a grin, obviously masking the pain etching into his limbs, all to calm your nerves. The fact that he's making such a constant effort to make you feel better despite his state makes you positively soft. "You did great."
You grin back, nodding and averting your eyes.
"Thank you."
There's a pause before he bludgeons you with his next sentence.
"You enjoy getting instructions."
Your eyes widen; you almost drop the first aid kit; everything stills, your chest tight as you process his words. Shit, what the fuck?
What the fuck?
"Wh--What?" You stammer, taking a small step backward and tilting your head to appear more confused and insulted by the accusation. Maybe if you appear offended, he’ll take it back. "Who said that?"
"You don’t need to say it. I can feel it," He continues, gaze thoughtfully fixated on you. He doesn't even falter when you seem to panic. "I can see it." You try to gawk at him to make him feel stupid, make him retract what he's saying, but either he's so certain or you don't seem very convincing.
No matter; you're still fucked.
"You like getting told what to do."
Your heart pounds, and Hunter just sits there, legs spread leisurely, his eyebrow slightly raised in expectation. Seriously, what does he expect you to answer with? Does he want you to fess up and admit how depraved and desperate you are for his touch, then run off mortified to never speak to him again? Surely he doesn’t expect you to take.
Defeated, you sigh and softly run your hands over your work again, avoiding his burning gaze.
"Only from you," you mutter, then immediately pray devotedly to the Maker he doesn't hear. Hunter hums, a tone of question in his voice, then you proceed to figuratively jump off a cliff as you remember this fucker has enhanced senses.
"Why’s that, mesh’la?" He asks. Instinctively, your eyebrows knit together when the new nickname graces your ears.
"What does mesh’la mean?"
Hunter doesn't seem very phased. Can't you just throw him off his rhythm once?
"Don’t worry about that," He quickly excuses your question as a distraction from the question at hand. "But tell me why you only enjoy getting instructions from me."
There's something smug to the way he talks, hidden behind insistent concern and curiosity.
"Why’s that, tell me."
Your hand comes up to hide your face, but he takes it and keeps it away from disfiguring his view of your expression. You want to babble; you can feel your face heating up. Instead, you frown.
"I, uh," You try to discreetly rub your thighs together languidly, easing the tension and buildup of heat in between them. A huff leaves his lips that sounds oddly close to a chuckle.
"Come on," You lift your head, perplexed for a split moment, but then he pats the top of his thigh. You blink once, then twice, then another time for good measure, just to make sure you're seeing correctly. Is he... what's he even implying?
"Sit down. On my lap."
Oh. That’s what.
Your mouth opens, a strange sound bordering on a choke leaving your throat as you try to retort or deny him. He only raises his eyebrows and dips his chin down, gesturing toward his lap again.
You huff, eyebrows knitted, and take a small step toward him, slowly, and you envelop his figure, trapping his legs between your knees and careening slightly, hands still meeting at your stomach, unsure of where to move. He nods encouragingly.
“Good job, just like that,” He praises you, hands slowly rising to rest on the handles of your hips, fingers tracing your waist. You take a sharp intake of breath, eyes drifting down to where your bodies meet, and look back up at him again. Hunter’s wearing this oh-so-innocent, deer-in-headlights expression you know is bantha-shit. “What’s got you so hot and bothered?”
You sough vindictively, averting your eyes.
“Stop teasing me.”
He laughs— though it’s more of a snarky, yet affectionate chuckle. You feel so naked in his presence, given such focused, vehement attention.
“I’m not teasing. Just concerned,” He tells you. The problem is, Hunter does well making you think he’s actually this clueless when he does know and just wants to hear it from your lips.
“Mhm,” You hum sarcastically with a pout.
He manages to grin at you, the corners of his eyes scrunching up as he looks at you. You let your eyes come back to him.
“I can do both, can’t I?” He offers.
“Sure,” You retort.
Squinting his eyes, he casually rubs his hands up and down the sides of your body.
“I’ll figure it out, one way or another,” He affirms, ending the sentence with a wink; you take a deep breath, letting your jaw slack. Hunter keeps talking like there’s nothing thick in the air between you.
“Put your hands on my shoulders.”
You furrow your eyebrows; he pouts like an upset child. Chastising, you huff and do as he says. When your hands shake slightly, he continues giving you instructions. They are so simple, yet they seem so alluring and nuanced in this context. In his voice.
”Steady yourself. Yeah, like that. Good.”
You wiggle your hips slightly, and something boils in his stomach slightly, something bordering on a groan. Your legs are warming up but you have no way to close them and satiate yourself. So all you can do is squirm.
Hunter perks up in concern.
“Are you comfortable?”
You take a moment to respond but then nod.
“Good.” Hunter grins softly, patting your left hip. For a moment, he decides to rake his eyes over you appreciatively, almost in the same way you do when you assume he isn’t looking. “I’m glad.”
Offering a civil smile of mutual understanding, you wiggle your hips, trying to find a better position if you’re going to be compromised on his lap.
”Trail your hands down for me.”
It's hard to deny or disobey him with a voice like that, especially when you know it’s directed toward you. So you slowly let your hands slip from his shoulders and descend his chest and torso.
“Yeah, down,” He encourages you when you reach the top of his wrapped wound. “Maybe try to avoid the gash.”
You lift your hands and let only the pads of your fingers place feather-light touches over the wrapping. When your hands begin to tremble again the further you descend, reaching his pelvis, he tuts to stop you. “That’s a good place to stop.”
You look up again with wide eyes, trying to stop your erratic (embarrassing) trembles and tilt your head. There’s more he’s going to say. At least it seems so.
“Whenever you’re ready, put your hand over my crotch.” He gives you a soft look of reassurance, making sure you’re completely comfortable in this position, before finishing. “I want you to feel me.”
Gasping softly, you pull your hand away, fingers curling into your palm and gripping tightly. A shiver runs through you, and you can’t seem to figure out if it’s from shock or pleasure.
“What?” You begin, eyes flitting from his face and back. “H-Hunter, I shouldn’t.”
“I’m asking you to.” Polite insistence is the game he plays. If this truly is a trap, you might happily fall if it means you get to touch him. He runs his hands over your curves again. “I want you to.”
You tense further, something bordering on fear in your eyes. Hunter notices and frowns while he clarifies:
“Unless you don’t want it. ‘Cause then… we can stop. No hard feelings…”
You can see how he’s getting lost in his thoughts. For a split moment, that perfect composure he holds in your presence fractures; he seems insecure and nervous; anticipating inevitable rejection because he’s pushed you too far.
That isn’t the case.
As you finally press your palm to his bulge, you contain your gasp. He’s big. And so hard.
“Fuck,” He groans, head tilting back. “Feel that?”
Oh kriff, that rumble. It’s warm and smooth yet rough all the same, creeping its way over your skin until you’re forced to keep the faintest whimper from leaving your throat. You string your lips tight and nod.
“Mhm,” Is the only thing that manages to leave your mouth, whiny and soft. You palm him further, as if the fabric would simply tear away and you could finally feel his skin on yours. He hums again, and you’re left looking doe-eyed in his direction. “Shit, Hunter.”
He throws a heavy statement onto you.
“It’s my voice, isn’t it?”
You tilt your head up, containing the urge to gasp.
“What?”
“What’s making you so hot and bothered,” He continues. You want to look away, hide your face in your hands with humiliating embarrassment, but you’re trembling so much on top of him that you can’t even flit your eyes away. “You like my voice. And you like it when I tell you what to do.”
You gasp lightly when you feel his warm hand on your thigh. Your cunt twitches and it really shouldn’t. He’s barely doing anything.
“Well,” he continues, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to deny it?”
The answer is delivered non-verbally. You relax into his lap, palm pressing further to his bulge, and then you squeeze oh so gently. That heavenly groan graces your ears and you devoutly catalog it into your mind for later recollection.
His chin dips down to catch a glimpse of your hand before he meets your eyes.
“Mesh’la,” he says; even without knowing what it means, just hearing how he speaks with such beguile and worship tells all that you need to know. “Mesh’la… can you do something for me?”
“Yeah. Of course. Anything,” You stammer out with a slack jaw, far too enthusiastic. Hunter doesn’t seem to regard it as anything distorting the absolute utmost respect that he must feel while he has you in his lap with your hand on his dick.
“Slip your pants off.”
It’s practically instinctual how efficiently you gingerly push yourself off of his lap and follow his order. With your hands chastely placed above your waistband, you let your thumbs push past, then await Hunter to grant you to pull them off. His eyes dilate with the view, and he nods.
The pants find their way to the ground clumsily, and you cringe internally at your lack of grace, but when you finally catch sight of Hunter’s expression, perhaps it’s nothing to worry about.
He looks… starved. Hypnotized by the splendor in front of him, for his eyes and his hands and his body only to touch, feel, hold, take.
“You’re… fuck,” he sighs, sounding out of breath, as though you’d just swept his leg and taken him off his feet. His hand methodically strokes up and down his thigh, only lightly grazing the tent in his pants as he takes his eyes over how you look, over and over again.
“You’re stunning,” he finally manages to say. His hand stops stroking to pat his thigh lightly, and his voice simmers in a way you know is on purpose. “C’mere, sit on my lap again.”
“Are you sure?” You ask for permission despite rocking your feet back and forth to shimmy your way back. As you gesture toward the bandages wrapped around his middle, Hunter huffs and frowns with miffed frustration. “You’re still injured.”
Hunter gripes to himself as he pushes himself up, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you to the free space between his two hard, firm thighs. His dexterity surprises you. The warmth radiating from his body does even more.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
Oh.
Shit.
He looks the part, certainly; you only try to feel the faintest tremble of his fingers when his hands float away from your hips to sit on the top of his legs again,
“Okay,” You mutter aimlessly, reaching up to your face to brush your hair away in a measly attempt to look more presentable. Your voice is just a squeaky little thing, and it’s so incredibly humiliating. “Okay…”
“It’s alright,” Hunter tries to soothe you, and you breathe shallowly.
“I know that.” Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you heave. “I just…”
Before you’re able to process what’s happening, Hunter’s reaching a hand out to cup your face. Despite the coarseness of his skin, his callouses fall on your cheek, it’s so tender, and you melt into his touch.
“Do you need some guidance, little medic?”
With a slight whine, you nod, letting your lashes flutter. Hunter lets his thumb swipe over your bottom lip, and your mouth parts. He grins at your unprompted compliance.
“Then let me tell you what to do. Let me tell you how to touch yourself and make you come from that, and my voice too.”
A depraved noise is choked out of you.
“Fuck,” your head careens to the side, but his firm hold on the side of your face keeps your gaze on him. His grin turns more into a cheeky smirk.
“How does that sound?” He asks. You nod adamantly before he tries to change his mind, so worried that he’ll push you away at any moment. As though he can read your mind, the hand that was still on the back of your thigh takes a gentle squeeze before trailing up your body, taking appreciative feels of your ass and hips before settling on your waist again.
“Mm…” You hum, reveling in the sensation. “Really good.”
Hunter gives you a half-crooked smile, and you want to cuss him out, or yourself, you’re not sure who to be fed up with.
“Come on, little medic,” He urges you on, patting your hip. “Slip your hand down your panties.”
Wordlessly, you let a trembling hand descend down your body. You have little dignity left in you to try and make yourself appear more seductive, but you hope your image isn’t so repulsive. The moment your fingertips make contact with your heat, your fingers grazing over your mons and clit, your mouth falls open in a silent gasp.
Hunter tilts his head.
“How does it feel? Are you wet?”
He should know already, smug bastard.
“Yeah,” you nod, keening further into his touch when he tilts his chin down, leaning toward your ear.
He takes a gentle lick, so light that if you weren’t in his grasp you wouldn’t have noticed.
“How wet?”
Your hips instinctively buck to rub yourself over your hand, a rush of arousal washing over you.
“Re–“ You swallow a wad of spit sitting on your tongue. “Really wet.”
Hunter’s lips are gentle when they undulate as he speaks oh so close to your ear, quiet and warm, words just for you.
“Just from my voice?” When he asks this time, you don’t detect much smugness; he wants the confirmation and credibility for a foundation of fact he’s built for himself.
You nod, but add on more.
“Not just that.”
“Hm?” His dark rumble travels down your spine and you squirm with pleasant upheaval. Your hand is still awkwardly lodged down your panties with nothing to do.
“Tell me more,” he demands with an assuasive croon. With one last kitten lick that lingers on the shell of your ear, he allows his lips to wander, mouthing against your skin, leaving delicate kisses on your temple, your jaw, and any moles and freckles in his nearest vicinity while he awaits your answer.
“I, uh,” you begin, awaiting to land on a coherent stream of words loosely strung together to fall on your tongue. “your—“
Just as you feel something begin to tie, your gaze drops down. Hunter palms his full erection over his blacks, languidly as though without a care, and the thought of him being aroused by this, aroused by you, slaps your mind into a render less zone.
“—fuck.”
He chuckles right in your damn face, and Maker he’s just too pretty not to kiss. But you resist the temptation with the festering worry of crossing the barrier past simple attraction into affection.
So you swallow slow and hard and try to compose a sentence.
“Your, face—“
Yeah, real eloquent, idiot.
“—That skull tattoo, it’s, well, shit…”
Your tongue wraps around itself again, words becoming more and more hard to piece together the longer you think about it. All that your primal mind begs you to think of is the olympic man presented under you, and the heat that radiates off the both of you.
“Alright now, you don’t have to continue,” Hunter huffs with no real malice contained in his words. It still makes you cringe nonetheless.
“That bad?” You ask with a clenched jaw.
A simple head shake is all you receive, but it’s more than enough to sedate a growing burn in the pit of your stomach. The hand not pressed to his crotch gently holds your hip, thumb swiping over your panties and bare skin; he even dares to let it slip past the waistband. The accurate awareness of your hand pressed to your pussy returns to you.
“Don’t want you to focus your energy on that,” he clarifies, eyes looking into yours with a softness you’ve never associated with Hunter. You’d find it peculiar in a regular conversation, but everything about this interaction has been anything but normal.
You suddenly realize you’re at a loss again. “So what do you want me to do?” You ask because you feel humiliated just straddling him like this.
Hunter puffs out his chest and you prepare yourself for the worst.
A coarse hand presses to your navel, trailing up underneath your shirt to sketch an image of your body underneath, stopping right where “Rub your pussy for me.”
It’s worded like a demand, but he voices it as though it’s a request. Your body wants to tense and retract, but the palm spread over the expanse of your stomach prevents you.
“You can do that,” Hunter encourages you, almost as though you were a creature he’s saddled on to ride. Though in this instance, you’d much rather be the one to ride. “Can’t you? For me?”
With a huff, you look away and nod bashfully. It’s wordless when you begin to move your hand, let your fingers get soaked as they rub up and down, up and down… you’re almost too tense to really feel the sensation, but Hunter’s doting gaze and his firm hand on your stomach keep you grounded. As you collect slick, running your fingers through your folds, it takes heavy petting for you to relax your jaw and let out the most pleasantly pathetic whimper.
Hunter groans, adding fuel to the flame flourishing in your pants, a dark sound of thunder rumbling in the sky, forewarning something much more devastating.
“Yeah, just like that,” he encourages you in that same husky tone following the groan. “Rock your hips too.”
You do so diligently, using your palm to press against your clit as a foundation for the rest of your hand to move leisurely while you rock your hips into himself. Hunter’s hand retracts from your stomach, fingers curling into his palms as he lets his knuckles graze against your skin. When you shiver, he takes it as an invitation to shush you gently against your temple, before his hand falls to your waist again.
The moment you glance down, you have to tip your chin back with an ascendant sigh. He’s got his hand over his clothed erection, palming it with a firm hand, almost absentmindedly as he keeps his eyes on you.
“Fuck, Hunter…” The desperate, embarrassing whimper comes out of you far more loud than you intend. Hunter shushes you gently.
“Keep quiet for me,” he commands; how are you meant to be by him when he speaks like that?
“Good?” He then asks, seemingly seeking approval good enough for him to continue. “Do I sound as good as you imagined?”
You want to say yes, declare it to the entire galaxy, and tell him just how wonderful this man is, but you’re far too overwhelmed by all the pleasurable sensations disrupting your thought process. So instead you nod.
That seems to satisfy Hunter, and the smallest smirk curls on his lips as he watches you squirm and rock your hips into your hands.
“Don’t you as well.”
With a hum, you try to dismiss the comment. But only as you let it sit does the implication of his words sink to your stomach. But he doesn’t allow you to dwell on it for too long, it seems, as he continues,
“I want you to keep touching yourself. Do whatever you need to for me. Whatever makes you come.”
He pats his incredibly intimidating bulge as though it’s an invitation.
“Right here, on my lap.”
You resist the dizzyness that threatens to overtake your senses, but as you steady your breaths, you suddenly feel so exposed. Far too exposed compared to Hunter.
So you try to level the playing field.
“Would you… er…”
If only your words could come out correctly. Hunter raises an eyebrow, perked with a cheeky glint in his eye.
“Hm?” He hums.
You grunt and attempt again to tunnel out the words. Like a plow shoveling out snow or sand.
“It—It feels unfair that I’m the only one here getting off.”
You wince as you finish the sentence. Maker, you sound so clunky and awkward. So much for being seductive.
But Hunter hums with total compliance, letting his hand trail up to where his bottoms cling to his skin.
“‘Guess you’re right.” Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Hunter peels back the waistband of his blacks, letting his hand slip through to free his cock from underneath the garments.
You think you’ve been knocked out for a healthy minute when you get a proper look. You’d never imagine describing a cock as pretty, but just like everything else, Hunter may become an exception. His fingers curl around the base with rather ease, before reaching up with it to his chin. He opens his mouth, letting a wad of spit collect and drop onto his palm, allowing him to stroke his cock with a more slick movement.
Maker, he’s so… so…
No, that can’t be right. His cock is far too thick for his hand to wrap around it so easily. But then you remember his proportions, especially compared to yours. A small chuckle leaves you when you imagine how you might try to wrap a full hand around his length.
Hunter leisurely strokes himself, eyes set on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach leap bounds up to your chest.
“Now it’s more fair, little medic,” he says. “Don’t you think?”
You nod adamantly with no hesitation.
“Yeah, yeah…” Your fingers deftly move to trap your clit between your index and middle, your mouth falling open when you feel the pressure hum over you. “Shit.”
Hunter huffs with a smugly saccharine look, his hand slowly stroking up and down his cock, lingering at the tip before he returns down again.
“You look really good like this.”
You tilt your head and grunt in disbelief. It’s hard to believe him when you feel simultaneously so powerful and so humiliated. Even though he’s just as physically exposed as you, you still feel more vulnerable.
“Do I now?” Despite being sarcastic, you try not to come off too mean.
But then Hunter sighs out the most exasperated, “ Fuck yeah,” his chin tipping upwards as he gathers his breath, tongue darting out to lick his lips, eyes half closed while he squeezes the tip of his dick, and you’re left render less to your own attraction again.
He seems to see the disbelief in your eyes.
“Don’t you believe me, mesh’la?” He asks. You remain still. “You really need me to spell out just how hot you look right now? How sexy .”
“Hunter,” you whine.
He continues without regarding you.
“I’m trying so hard not to— fuck—“ he tenses his stomach as he tries to compose himself. “—just blow my load right now. You’re just so— so pretty and pliant and so damn obedient .” You tremble slightly, and Hunter reaches to hold the back of your neck; not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, of course.
“Listening to my every order,” he continues, oddly affectionate.
A rush of confidence flows through your veins. You try to smirk, but instead it comes out toothy and bashful.
“That’s my job, sergeant.”
Hunter groans, his fingers curling into your neck, one pressing to your pulse point so purposefully.
“Fuck, don’t say stuff like that,” he says, shaking his head, though he doesn’t seem too displeased. “Or else this’ll be really short.”
You giggle, trying to look away, but Hunter’s grip on your neck keeps your head in place. You blink rapidly, suddenly overwhelmed by his stare. But you can’t. Move.
You whisper out a weak, “Keep talking,” before your eyes shut close. You press your palm to your clit, whining softly. Hunter uses the grip on your neck to bring you in closer, whispering slow and softly into your ear with purposeful oscillations of his lips,
“I wonder how you’ll feel around me.” You sigh out the faintest hint of his name in surprise, just as you begin to press a finger into your entrance. “I bet you’re so tight you’ll squeeze me out. Warm, and hot, and loud .”
“Fuck,” you swear, both in response to his words and to the feeling of a single finger pumping in and out of you. You’ve done little to stimulate yourself and cum, but somehow you’re already feeling an anticipated crawl up of an orgasm.
The things Hunter does to you.
“I want your mouth on my cock too.”
You clench involuntarily o over your finger, bucking your hip so your clit catches against your palm. Oh. He isn’t done.
“‘Thinking we’d both have fun if I tried a hand at commanding you around, fucked your face a little.”
Hunter tilts his head. as though expecting a response, so you nod your head — or tilt your chin down, you’re unsure— and he grins in deep settled approval at your compliance.
“How does that sound, hm?”
In a split moment of respite, while he awaits your response, you gaze down, watch his hand wrap around his cock with more insistence than before, stroke at the same rate you move. The hand on your hip drifts down to hold your hip again, rocking you with more fervor. Inadvertently, the movement forces your fingers in a new direction that grazes your g-spot just so perfectly, and you’re sighing again.
“ Oh… ”
The silence becomes too long for Hunter to bear, and he grunts.
“Answer me, mesh’la,” his tone is commanding, yet not overbearing. You appreciate it considering the sliver of shame remaining in your stomach. “Would you like that?”
“I’d–I’d like it,” you stammer out, slowly rubbing a second finger down your folds before pressing in slowly to meet the other. “A lot … fuck.”
With a tilt of his head, Hunter leans in closer, lips dangerously close to yours and for a split moment you consider pulling away.
“Something the matter?” He asks, but he knows the answer. Hunter can damn well see how your legs begin to twitch and shake more rapidly, the unsteadiness of your breathing as you simultaneously calm yourself and try to bring about your high.
“You fucking know what’s the matter, Hunter,” you bark back.
“I don’t think I’m sure exactly,” he responds dismissively. “Could you say it clearly, just in case?”
Something you hope sounds like a playful growl leaves you, but in reality, it probably sounds like a moth cat purring.
“You bastard .” There’s no real bite to your insult, and Hunter knows it, so he grins.
“I do my best.”
Your pleasure overtakes you and a shiver runs from the top of your spine to your legs, your thumb moving to properly rub your clit.
“Oh, fuck, I’m close,” you’re moaning out before you know it, voice dwindling so you’re not too loud.
“Ah,” Hunter hums, affectionately rubbing your hip. “That’s what I thought. ‘Was just making sure.”
His strokes have become more erratic and frantic, but his composure doesn’t give it away. If you weren’t to gaze down, you’d have no tell how aroused he truly was. Though perhaps that’s how he wants it to be— you’re a pretty mess while he’s the foundation to keep you upright.
Suddenly, he’s talking again, using the hand on your hip to encourage you to keep rocking.
“Come on, you pretty thing,” he rumbles. “Come for me and I’ll come for you.” Then you’re remembering what brought you to this attraction in the first place; that damn voice of his. Truly, and you mean truly, never saw yourself being in this position; situated over Hunter’s lap, touching yourself for him while he gets off to you and only you.
With one more curl of your fingers against your g-spot and your thump insistently rubbing your clit, you’re over the hill, and you’re twitching and rocking your hips over and over in arches of your back, jumbled syllables vaguely making up Hunter’s name spilling from your lips like sticky sweet sugar.
That’s when you hear it. When you glance down to catch his spend start to spill on his bare skin the bandages of his, he groans out the most pleasant incantation of your name you’ve ever heard. The moment the noise graces your ears, you’re certain that you never want to hear anything else. Or at the least, any other version of your name.
A few moments pass where you remain panting in each other's presence, his hands remaining render less at your side, rubbing up and down in uncoordinated patterns, while your hands grip his shoulders. You only start to pull away from him as you catch your bearings— and your dignity.
Hunter interrupts you by grabbing the wrist of the hand you had stuffed down your panties. He leans in closer, tongue darting out like a teasing little offer.
“Can I get a taste, mesh’la?” His voice is slow, and warm, like honey pouring into a pot of tea—in any other situation, it would sedate your nerves. But those words ignite that fuel inside you. You press your fingers still coated in slick to his lips, and he opens his mouth graciously, letting his tongue swirl around your digits with a gracious hum that vibrates your skin. Your other hand drops to his chest just before where the gash begins and holds onto it with a tremorous touch.
Hunter pulls away with a resounding ‘pop’ that makes you cringe, but not pull your eyes away.
“Delicious,” he remarks.
Your face is hot again and Hunter is smiling wide, but you’ve figured out by now he means no malicious intent with his mannerisms. His hand reaches out, cradling your face
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Hunter admires you with a glint in his eye you’ve never seen before. Sure, you’ve seen affection— plenty at this point— but there’s a tenderness to his words as he continues. It still doesn’t feel fair to not return the compliment, however.
“You’re one to talk.”
The only response you get is a scoff.
“Have you ever seen yourself?” He asks, posing the rhetoric as if you’d go out of the way to compliment yourself. It’s hard to feel anything more than pretty when you have the most handsome man trapped between your thighs.
Hunter doesn’t budge — states it like a fact, as though he truly believes it. “I always get ravenous just looking at you.”
“Oh,” You reply dumbly. “I… I didn’t think.” Your ability to talk to Hunter improves after getting off for him, it seems.
“You thought wrong,” he replies, shaking his head slightly with a smile. He leans his head down, looking better at your face before reaching with his palm to hold your cheek with hands so calloused they feel soft.
“You’re a capable woman, a great addition to the batch–” Your cheeks heat up, and he smiles. “--And I think you’re beautiful. Mesh’la. That’s what that means.”
Your hand crawls up slowly against his arm, unknowingly following the pattern of his skeleton tattoo before your much smaller hand is placed against his.
“Hunter…” You whine.
He tilts his head, that goofy smile still stuck on his face. “What?”
“You flatter me.” With a shake of your head, you unpeel yourself from his lap, and Hunter whines so, so soft as you do to the point you almost leap back onto his lap again.
“I’m being honest,” Hunter insists, lazily using the underside of his blacks to clean his spend off his skin and the bandages. You’re standing idly, stupidly, and you know he’s waiting for you to say something— and you do, you do, but you don’t know what.
“Well, thank you,” you finally answer, attempting to compose yourself. You awkwardly place your feet back into the holes of your pants, pulling them up in a swift motion that leaves you put away wet, but you care very little at this point.
You look up at Hunter, appreciatively looking over his features, before a forlorn feeling fills your stomach when you gaze down at his lips. You felt them delicately graze against your ear, wrap around your fingers to gently suck and lap at the spend coating them, yet you haven’t felt them against yours once.
He notices the look on your face.
“Something up?” He asks.
In retrospect, it must’ve been a rush of confidence through your veins after having him in such a vulnerable state only a moment ago, but you truly don’t know where your next words come from.
“Can I have a kiss?”
You expect, hope even, for Hunter to be thrown off his rhythm so he can be on the same level as you for once. Rather he takes a step closer to you, his hand methodically wrapping around the back of your neck again, thumb pressing the juncture between your jaw and throat for that extra leisure, feeling your pulse as he pulls you in for a kiss.
In your dreams, Hunter's kisses are wholly devouring. But in reality, it’s warm, tender, brimming with an underlying passion you least expected. As his lips press against yours, you can feel the velvet caress of his skin, the exchange of breath between the two of you that makes you hum into him.
His other hand rises to gently stroke your back before pulling you closer, and you feel so enveloped in his embrace that neither of you will be harmed again. You press your foreheads together and pull away, each taking slow, savoring breaths.
Truly, you never expected to be in this situation.
“...I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” you mutter shyly, a bashful look on your face. It’s that little smile, that damned voice of his, that delivers the final blow, sending you back into his striking orbit.
“Of course,” Hunter tells you, smooth as ever. “I still haven’t gotten to be inside you.”
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𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢
↳ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC
Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.
A/N: My newest series is finally here, and it's one that I am incredibly excited about. I'm not going to say this is fully a reader-insert, because there will be a few minor characterizations for the main girl, I even considered writing this in third person but at the end of the day second person is the style I'm much more used to and comfortable with. However, I believe it is still "vague" enough that it can be considered a reader-insert too. All in all, I sincerely hope you can enjoy this story, I promise it'll be a good one. <3
Word count: 2k
Masterlist
"Tell me again."
From one of the highest points in the Red Keep, you could see the immensity of King's Landing and the waves of Blackwater Bay crashing to shore.
"Tell you what?"
The wind was cold yet gentle, dusk settled on the horizon; painting the skies and clouds in deep golden.
"The story of how you found your dragon."
You smiled, easy and knowing. Aemond has heard this story a dozen times already, yet you never refused to tell him just one more time, whenever he asked. From the glint in the young prince's eyes, you knew that it gave him hope that one day he would find a dragon of his own.
"My father, Laena, my sisters, and I were traveling again, we had stopped by a small town to let the dragons rest. And there, they told us they had spotted a rogue dragon. As wild as a lioness. She'd come out to hunt at night, during heavy rain and lightning storms." You motioned theatrically with your hands, an excited grin on your lips as you recounted the fateful night you'd met your dragon.
Aemond listened closely, as he always did, leaning his elbows on the balcony's balustrade and keeping his gaze attentively on you.
"One night, when we were staying at a house at the edge of town, I walked out while everyone was asleep. Do you know why?" You bit at the inside of your cheek, playing the usual game.
"You heard her," Aemond answered with the same spark of youthful joy.
"I did," you whispered as if it was a well-guarded secret, leaning closer to the boy. "I could hear her outside, the sound of her wings, her heavy steps on the ground. It was raining, and dark, but I felt as if... as if she was calling to me." You placed a hand over your heart.
"I think Caraxes heard when I got out, I think I ended up waking him," both you and Aemond chuckled. "But he kept quiet when he saw it was me. I walked for a while during that night, until..." You paused dramatically, and Aemond grinned. "Until I saw her, feasting on a stolen lamb."
Aemond's eyes were sparkling, he was drinking in every word.
"She was so pretty," you recalled with a soft smile, looking out to the horizon and the darkening sky. "I could see the dark blue of her scales, and then the brighter blue of her wings. Her horns were long and pointy, and she had this patch of fur in between them and on the back of her neck that I'd never seen before."
"She didn't attack you," Aemond mumbled, more a statement than a question; he knew the answer.
You shook your head; "No, she just looked at me with those beautiful eyes, they looked like they were glowing. And then she came closer, baring her teeth, but I asked her to stay calm. Told her I was a friend." You picked at your nails, a fondly nostalgic look in your eyes. "She followed me back home after that. I think she liked that I wasn't afraid of her. Father was furious for what I had done, but I think he was even more curious about my new dragon." You shrugged, with a cheeky grin, "The next morning, I chose to ride her for the first time, and she let me. We don't know if she ever had a rider before me, but we share a deep bond now."
"You are so lucky," Aemond told you, his voice low and eyes downcast; not because of your story, but because the boy wished to have the same luck you did.
Turning your head to try and catch his gaze, you spoke with conviction, "You're going to find your dragon soon, Aemond, I know you will. And when you do, we're going to fly together over all of King's Landing, I promise you."
Despite the solemn look in his eyes, the young Aemond smiled.
You extended a hand to him then, "Come on, your mother will be mad if we're late to supper… again." Wiggling your fingers for him, you held back a grin.
Aemond rolled his eyes halfheartedly, taking your hand anyway.
You walked together through the hallways of the castle, blissfully innocent and unaware of the amused whispers between the maids about how you two would still marry someday.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
Two nights later, Aemond did find his dragon. However, it came at a cost.
The day had been one filled with grief. Laena had passed away after trying to give birth to her third child. While she was not your birth mother, you had spent enough years by her side to consider her something similar to it; as she was, after all, the closest thing to a mother that you knew. She had always been kind to you, treating you no different than how she treated your two half-sisters.
You mourned her loss, the salty air of the sea mixing with the salt of your tears as you watched the ceremony unfold.
As soon as she had learned of her third pregnancy, Laena wanted to return home. Your father eventually agreed to halt the travelers life for her sake, and once King Viserys got word of your return he offered all of you a home in King's Landing again. Laena had been happy with the agreement since her brother lived there too.
And so that's how you came to meet Aemond. That was several months ago, yet it sometimes feels like it was just yesterday.
Tonight, you had gone to bed with red and puffy eyes, but it didn't take long for the distant sound of fast-paced steps and arguing to pull you from your sleep. You got up, rubbed your still tired eyes, and tiptoed towards the commotion, bare feet padding over the cold stone floor of Driftmark.
After turning corners and almost getting lost in the infinite hallways, you found your family. Everyone stood around the lit fire of the throne room fireplace while the Maester tended to someone you couldn't yet see as the back of the chair they were sitting on blocked your view.
Alicent was shouting, Rhaenyra and her sons were shouting, everyone was shouting; you heard the sharp words yet couldn't make much sense of them.
You spotted your father leaning against a pillar, a couple of feet away from everyone, and ran up to him, immediately clinging to the fabric of his vest and looking up at him with questioning eyes. He didn't speak, simply lay a hand on your back and then on your head, in the best comforting manner he could muster.
The shouting match continued until Viserys had to raise his own voice, everyone in the spacious room stayed quiet for a moment then. You could hear your shaky breath, feeling it in your bones that something was wrong. You gripped tighter onto your father, leaning your head against him.
Breaking the silence, Viserys demanded answers from Aemond, and your heartbeat sped up at the sound of your friend's name. And then his mother was speaking about the injustice of him being maimed. And when Rhaenyra mercilessly demanded that he be questioned, Aemond finally looked in her direction, and consequently, yours.
You saw it then. Deep red blood glinting in the low light of the fire, painful stitches stretching skin while also holding it together, his eye sewn shut. You couldn't hold back a gasp at the sight of him, the whole left side of his face now forever marked with an angry, deep cut that went from his forehead, over his eye, and down to the middle of his cheek. Seeing your friend like this twisted your stomach in all the wrong ways and made you feel like puking out your dinner, you were almost poking holes in your father's vest with how tight you were gripping it, already feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
Aemond met your gaze from afar, he looked almost as stunned and lost as you; but he was also quick to look away and hide behind the back of his chair again.
You didn't hear much of the rest of the fight then, all turning into muffled noise to your ears as your father took hold of your hand to pull you forward with him and into the commotion when Alicent picked up a dagger, dashing towards Rhaenyra. The sight of Aemond's bruised and slashed face forever burnt into the back of your mind.
The only voice you clearly heard again, was his; "Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
You were only able to meet Aemond again on the next day, minutes before both of you had to leave Driftmark.
You found him in a secluded hallway, he looked out at sea through the large windows, watching as they readied his ship for departure, the left side of his face carefully bandaged to keep the cut clean. Holding onto the sides of your dress so as not to step on it, you ran to him.
He heard you, of course he did, you were hardly the sneakiest of people. Part of him wanted to turn away and leave, deeply ashamed of the fresh scar marking his skin; perhaps even afraid that it might scare you off. But you were his friend. His only friend.
"Aemond..." you spoke softly when you reached him, biting at the inside of your cheek and nervously gripping onto the cotton fabric of your lilac dress. You were only kids; you didn't know what to say to someone who'd just lost a part of himself, and Aemond cowered under your gaze, making himself smaller as shame and timidness filled his gut.
"Does it... hurt?" You chose to ask, voice hesitant.
The young prince took his time, pursing his lips as he looked down at his feet and then out the window again. "Yes," he admitted, "but less than it did last night."
"I'm sorry," you said without a second thought.
Aemond glanced in your direction with the corner of his good eye, refusing to turn toward you completely. "Are you not upset that I claimed your step-mother's dragon?"
The corners of your lips turned up into a small smile, it held sorrow and affection in equal measures. "I'm not." You stepped closer to him and turned to look out the window as well, watching as gentle waves washed to shore. You bumped your shoulder onto his. "I'm glad it's you."
For several moments you stood in silence, simply enjoying the easeness that came with each other's company.
Alicent's voice was the one to eventually break the quiet. "Aemond," she called.
Both you and him turned in the direction of her voice, finding her looking at you with a fond smile on her lips. "It's time to go, my dear." She gestured outside, to where their ship awaited, now ready to set sail. Aemond nodded at her words and she turned around, making her way to the docks.
The prince, however, made no effort to leave, he kept his gaze focused outside, following a flock of birds that overflown the ocean.
You followed it too, the sight bringing an idea to your mind. You had a tentative smile on your lips before you even started speaking; "You should go," despite not looking at you directly, you noticed Aemond's attention shifting to you. "I'll meet you again once we reach King's Landing, and... now that you have a dragon, perhaps we'll soon be able to fly over it together, right?" Your voice held a hopeful tone as you spoke.
For the first time since he had lost his eye, Aemond smiled; a real smile that stretched the fresh stitches on his cheek and gave a prickling feeling to the sensitive skin around them, but he didn't mind. He finally turned to look at you fully, all hopeful excitement and pink cheeks.
"We will," he affirmed without losing his grin. He held your gaze for a moment longer, lips parting as if he wanted to say something more, but didn't.
From the same window, you watched, now alone, as Aemond's ship sailed away; the colossal figure of Vhagar flying close to it, as if to protect her new rider.
Later this same day, your father married Rhaenyra, taking both you and your sisters to live in Dragonstone without ceremony.
You never said goodbye to Aemond. You would have, if you knew you would not be seeing him again for many years to come.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚
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Two Faces
Word Count: 11k Pairing: fem!reader x Bad Batch, light Tech nods Warnings: nada except light violence. Training, some fluff, and general fun Summary: When your sister becomes a senator, you decide to join her guard to protect her. Your mother sends you to train on Kamino as backlash. You are paired with Clone Force 99 under the guise of a regular trooper. Encountering you outside of uniform they mistake you for your sister. It is a delicate situation and you have to play your cards carefully.
This started out as a request for the guys getting jealous of you undercover and here I am. When I tell you this was SO FUN to write but took SO LONG. If y'all like imma make it a part 2.
Edit; you wanted it so here it is Two Faces pt 2
“You want to be a foot soldier.” Your mother snarled down her nose. She was a tall woman, taller than you at least, and the governor of your planet. She waved a slender dismissive hand. “Then be a foot soldier.”
Face neutral, you stood before her in the white armor of a clone trooper. You held the helmet with both hands and a white knuckle grip. This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you told your mother you wanted to join your sister’s guard
From your mother’s right your sister stood wringing her hands together. She stood at your height with a face that mirrored your own. Often you were mistaken as twins. Only a few years older than you and already she was the senator for your planet -- the perfect example of what you should have been. Despite everything, the two of you were extremely close.
Concern ate her alive as she watched on. She opened her mouth, but your mother’s hand splayed out in front of her face, cutting off your sister’s voice and view of you.
Continuing to stare you down, your mother’s mouth twisted into her nose. Your family practically bred politicians and that was never your path. If the two of you agreed on nothing else it was that you were no politician.
When your sister was elected as Senator, you knew if you were trained you could be in her guard and keep her safe. It was a decision you were proud of and one that sealed your fate in the eyes of your mother. You would be of no use to her. She heard your wish and wanted to make sure you fully regretted it.
Rolling her eyes away from you, your mother turned her attention to a Kaminoan by her other side. As the leaders of two allied planets, your mother and Lama Su maintained a close relationship. At least close enough to call in favors.
“Thank you, Prime Minister, for this opportunity.” Your mother’s disgust faded into a pleasant smile. “Although, I worry she may damage the reputation of your clone troopers.”
The Kaminoan shifted his gaze to you. In near boredom he said, “You do realize she is liable to die?” Settling his hands in front of him, he turned back to your mother.
She scoffed, the idea of no concern to her. “She made her choice. Should that come to pass, Kamino will not be held responsible.” They spoke of you as if you weren’t even present. “But, do make sure they don’t take it easy on her.”
They. An ‘unorthodox’ squadron of clones you would be paired with.
Your mother said your name, her tone sharp enough to straighten your back. Her head tilted back, the crimp in her lip returning. “If it is discovered that my daughter is beneath that armor, forget ever coming home.” She muttered something to your sister and, in unison, they made for the door.
Your sister managed one last glance at you before the Kaminoan door swirled open and your mother shoved her through. Your heart sank as the giant white doors shut behind the women.
What if you never saw your sister again?
Alone with Lama Su, the bright, sterile room began to strain your eyes. The unnatural ambience of the room was enough to unsettle you without the addition of the Kaminoan’s cold stare. With slow fluidity, he fully turned towards you. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “The modified armor will hide your identity. All you have to do is follow orders.” Lama Su said in his smooth, detached voice. He gestured a long finger towards you. “Put on your helmet, do not remove it in front of others, and remain silent. Your family may tolerate embarrassment, but I will not endure it here.”
Under his cold stare, you lifted the helmet and sealed it over your head. Your eyes had barely adjusted to the restricted line of sight when the doors hissed opened again.
Where your mother and sister had left, five men strode in. Their armor was mismatched in shape and color, but there was some vein shared between them. It took you a moment until your eyes widened and the gears finally turned. These were the clones!
You were no stranger to clones. The Republic had dispatched a group of troopers to your planet as a show of good faith and alliance, although you wondered at times if your family fully reciprocated that sentiment. That said, these men were unlike any clones you’d seen.
Their appearances were as mismatched as their armor. Your attention immediately drifted to a behemoth of a man towering over his cohorts and obviously blinded in his left eye. Standing shorter than the rest, one man sported a tattoo covering half his face. Two of them stood at the same height, one with goggles and the other with silver hair. The fifth man looked more akin to a standard clone than the rest, yet his complexion was blanched and he was outfitted with cybernetic prosthetics.
They were the most mesmerizing things you’d ever seen. And none of them spared even a glance in your direction.
Resisting the urge to look to the Kaminoan for clarification, you kept your eyes forward and did your best to look at attention.
“Clone Force 99, welcome.” Lama Su took a smooth step forward and swept a hand in your direction. Still, their eyes remained trained on the Prime Minister. “This promising trooper is being assigned to your squad for training. While their designation number is of no concern to you, you may refer to your new addition as ‘Phi.’”
Phi. A word you recognized as meaning nothing.
A pale hand landed gently on your shoulder, finally dragging Clone Force 99’s collective attention to you. Even through the armor, Lama Su’s touch made your skin crawl. The urge to bite settled between your teeth and the intensity of his stare did nothing to dissuade that.
His next words came across as almost proud. “I trust you will find the skills of this soldier to be exemplary, possibly even to surpass standard clone trooper protocol. It has been decided that integrating with your unit will provide... a most beneficial learning environment for all.”
The praise threw you off until you noticed the change in the squad’s expressions. Something in Lama Su’s words did not sit well with them. In particular, the tall silver-haired clone did nothing to hide his annoyance. Whatever it was, the undue praise clearly sealed your fate in some way. His sharp glance alone indicated that the undue praise had somehow sealed your fate—a fate Lama Su had very intentionally engineered.
“Training will begin immediately.” Lama Su said. “Proceed to the training facilities to begin. You have your orders. You are dismissed.”
Clone Force 99 wasted no time in filing out of the room, offering no introductions or even a glance to see if you followed. Their dismissal was clear; you were an outsider, not worthy of their camaraderie. Hurrying after them, the quiet of the corridor seemed to amplify the shifting of armor and footsteps.
"Just our luck!" His voice boomed, echoing off the walls. "Why do we get stuck with a reg?" He threw a glance over his shoulder, his good eye scanning you with disdain.
Reg? The term echoed in your mind, a label you didn’t yet understand.
The cybernetic clone fell back beside you. “The question is: what did you do to get stuck with us?” His tone wasn't unkind, merely curious, probing.
Instinctively, your mouth opened to respond, but Lama Su’s directive flashed in your mind—Do not speak in front of others. Clamping your mouth shut, you turned your gaze forward again, grateful for the helmet’s limited field of vision that spared you from seeing their reactions. You did see the way Crosshair's eyes narrowed, it was safe to assume your silence hadn’t helped matters.
Adjusting to the weight of your gear seemed trivial compared to the weight of maintaining silence.
Sighing, the tattooed man shook his head. “Listen,” He said as he stopped and turned. “If we are stuck together, we might as well get along. I’m Hunter.”
He gestured to the others as they continued walking. "That’s Wrecker," pointing to the large man, "Echo," indicating the cyborg, "Tech," nodding towards the one with goggles, and lastly, "And Crosshair," with a tilt of his head toward the silver-haired clone who had kept his distance.
They all waited for your addition, but it didn’t come and your silence remained. From behind your helmet you cringed. This was shaping up to be a terrible idea. You held your breath, bracing for the uncomfortable journey ahead.
Your silence only fueled Crosshair’s anger. His gaze narrowed, head cocked like a raptor eyeing prey. "Too good to speak to us?" His lip curled in a familiar, cruel sneer that reminded you of your mother.
Noticing Crosshair had an actual crosshair tattooed over his right eye you couldn’t help the little snort you made, emphasized by your helmet’s voice modulator. You immediately regretted your slip up as Crosshair set his shoulders, head snaking forward. “Something funny, reg?” The way he said that word was pure venom.
You almost conceded at the guttural sound he made at your continued silence, but before you could react Crosshair cracked his elbow into your helmet. The helmet crashed into your face and pain bloomed across your nose, knocking you down to one knee. Blood trickled from your nostrils, leaving you reeling with doubts and likely a broken nose.
"Crosshair!" Hunter barked. He didn't need to step in further; Crosshair stood back, arms crossed and lips twisted into a smirk of satisfaction.
Echo and Tech shared a glance, Wrecker gave a supportive smile, and Hunter shot Crosshair a sharp, disapproving look before turning his attention back to you. "Get up," he said firmly, "and keep up."
With one last glare from Crosshair, you pushed yourself up to your feet, determined not to show weakness. But as the sharp metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, you couldn't ignore the cold reality of your situation.
They certainly did not take it easy on you and by the end of your first session it was clear to all of you that you were a miserable excuse for a recruit. In the solitude of your room, you finally removed your helmet. In a small mirror you twisted your head, examining the crusted blood and swollen nature of your nose.
A gentle, and painful, touch confirmed your broken nose suspicions. You leaned in for a better look and smiled. It hurt like hell, but at least you made it through your first day.
You looked to a photo of your sister you’d pinned to your mirror. It’s worth it for her. Giving yourself a nod, you replaced your helmet and headed for the med bay- a trip you were going to frequent.
As you entered the medical wing, the only presence were that of two medical droids floating about and a female Kaminoan. The female swept her head in your direction, slowly blinking as you stood at the entrance. You recognized the Kaminoan as Nala Se. She’d given your family a tour of the cloning operations in the past.
She addressed you with a good evening and gestured for you to approach. “I am aware of your identity. You may remove your armor in my presence.” Nala Se said in her ever measured tone. When you still hesitated she added, “The clones are currently in the canteen.”
Reluctantly, you lifted the helmet from your head, exposing the bruised face underneath. Nala Se observed you quietly, her expression unreadable. “You should return home.” She suggested. “Our clones are trained from their creation. You will not be able to match their abilities.”
“That’s not an option now. I either return with training or in a body bag.”
You placed your helmet in a tote at the foot of the medical table and began discarding the rest of the armor in the same fashion. Clad only in your black undersuit, you continued undressing under Nala Se's impassive watch. Her clinical detachment did little to ease the discomfort of the situation
Stripped down to a bandeau and shorts, you climbed onto the examination bed. A droid hovered over you, scanning your body. "Subject exhibits a broken nose and extensive bruising," it reported to Nala Se, who nodded slightly before administering two injections—one for pain and another to reduce future bruising.
As the droid tended to your injuries, Nala Se handed you a set of clothes. "There is more than one way to remain hidden," she stated as she unfolded a Kaminoan-style outfit—a set of dark, tight-fitting pants and a long-sleeve shirt, complemented by a light-colored vest with fabric strips cascading down your legs
You’d no sooner dawned the outfit when the doors slid open again and voices immediately broke the silence.
You froze with your back to the door. Tech's analytical voice floated through the air, "I am merely saying, excess violence will only worsen the situation for all of us."
It was Crosshair who answered with dry amusement. "Speak for yourself," he scoffed.
Nala Se held your gaze a moment longer before she looked to the approaching clones. “CT-9902 and CT-9904, what is it that you require?”
Tech spoke up from behind you, "There is a high probability that Crosshair fractured his knuckles during training." You could think of a few instances that could’ve caused that, the bruises across your body serving as evidence.
Swallowing the groan in your throat, you finally faced them. Tech and Crosshair stopped in their tracks both staring at you with some confusion.
“Senator.” Tech offered a nod of respect. His polite tone threw you off balance as he mistook you for your sister. The Kaminoans' medical treatment had indeed worked wonders, hiding your identity well enough to prompt the error.
Crosshair frowned, a toothpick tilting in his mouth.
Tech, noticing Crosshair’s tight expression, nudged his brother. “We passed her on the way to meet the Prime Minister.” This was enough for the sniper to remove his toothpick and stand a bit straighter.
The immediate respect was a stark contrast to the blows they’d dealt you all day. Embracing the assumption you smiled graciously despite the stiff feeling in your face. “It is a pleasure to formally meet you, troopers.” You rounded the table to stand before them.
Without your gear, you realized just how much taller they were. And without the restrictive view of your helmet, you could fully appreciate how striking they were. They stood with practiced military bearing, radiating strength and a sense of purpose that matched their formidable presence.
Absolutely breathtaking, and in a much different way than when they'd been knocking the wind out of you earlier.
“The honor is ours, Senator.” Tech said. His eyes searched your face, for what you weren’t certain.Though having his eyes on any part of you was a lovely sensation. He paused momentarily, but found your eyes again.
Crosshair kept his gaze steady as he studied you, lending some clarity to your earlier question. "What brings a senator down to the med bay? Surely not curiosity."
Holding your composure, you lied, “I am… personally interested in the development and progress of the valiant men keeping our galaxy safe.” You took the opportunity to circle the two men while they remained still and eyes forward. The men had equally long legs and cinched waists that were positively sinful. This view of them was certainly an upgrade, igniting an idea in you.
“In fact,” You polished a smile as you came back to their fronts. “I’d be interested in some personal lessons from esteemed men such as yourselves.”
Surprise lifted Tech’s eyebrows and pulled the corner of Crosshair’s lip up.
“Mistress Se mentioned your squad is already undertaking the training of a new recruit.” Their expressions dulled at the reminder. “What’s a few extra morning sessions with a mere Senator?”
Nala Se, observing the exchange from the background, stepped forward to say, "That can be arranged for the morning after next. For now, the senator has matters to attend to. CT-9904, please proceed with your treatment."
Tech offered another polite nod before leading Crosshair to the medical equipment. As they moved away, you exhaled, glancing at Nala Se, who gave you an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
The following morning, back in your armor, you walked into the training room and the middle of Clone Force 99’s conversation.
Wrecker was throwing his head around, moaning about something you couldn't quite catch. “-well, why didn’t I see her?”
“You did, Wrecker.” Tech said in a flat, exasperated breath. “If only in passing.”
“But why would a senator want to watch us train?” Echo shook his head in confusion.
Tech adjusted his goggles. “Correction: she wants to train with us.”
As he twirled a knife between his fingers, Hunter asked, “Then why would a senator want to train with clones?”
“Does it matter?” Crosshair drawled from his perch on a rectangular obstacle with a knee pulled up.. “If the little princess wants our hands on her, who are we to deny?”
Little princess. Your mind stuttered at the words while your body visibly jerked at them. The squadron cut their conversation short and looked to you. The amusement between them quickly faded, yet even this attention had heat crawling through you.
“Let’s get this over with.” Hunter gruffed while putting on his helmet. The rest followed suit and training began.
The session was as brutal as the day prior, starting with sparring and finishing with blaster drills. You didn’t do much better than the day prior, but you were proud to have left with no new fractures. By the next morning you could barely leave bed.
But ‘little princess’ was enough to push you up.
You arrived at the training room early. It was much smaller than the usual arenas, scattered with mannequins instead of physical obstacles. You traded your armor for a form-fitting suit similar to the blacks troopers wore. Without a helmet, you felt exposed—but exhilarated.
When the doors slid open, your pulse quickened. With composure your mother would admire, you smoothed your expression and smiled. “Nice of you boys to join me.”
A small smirk lifted Hunter’s lips as he regarded you. “Senator.” he greeted, his gaze sweeping over your form. The word almost caused your smile to falter, reminding you of the misconception they were under.
They made their introductions before Hunter, hand at his hip, gestured for you to advance. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
The soreness that wracked your body protested when you squared your shoulders. “I was born ready.” Hopefully your feigned confidence won them over.
The way the leader’s head dipped with a small laugh said it did. Even from a distance, the sound reverberated through you to your core.
“Don’t worry,” Wrecker’s large hand clapped down on your shoulder and right onto an unseen bruise. “We’ll take it easy on ya!”
Crosshair rolled a toothpick between his lips. “Easy’s not our style, Wrecker.” You met his still skeptical stare, not backing down from the challenge.
“I can handle it.”
He snorted, flicked away his toothpick, and strode over to you. Leaning in he said in a low, snippy voice, “Better keep up, princess.”
As much as the nickname heated your blood, you maintained your smile, determined to earn their respect. “I intend to.” You said in an equally low, taunting tone.
From the very beginning, their training style was a complete turn around compared to the borderline abuse you endured while in armor.
Hunter set the pace, showing you rapid movements to prove your reflexes. When a moment of exhaustion hit and you noticeably slowed, Hunter teased, “I thought you said you’d keep up.”
Sagging your shoulders, you rolled back your head with a laugh. “Alright, maybe I wasn’t born for this.”
“We sure were.” Wrecker laughed and took over, launching into instruction about utilizing your body weight against an opponent. He demonstrated on Crosshair, who loudly hissed in protest. Wrecker put a shoulder into Crosshair’s abdomen and tossed him over his shoulder like a sandbag.
Crosshair struggled against his brother’s hold, until he landed safely on the ground. He snarled at Wrecker, then caught the amused smile tugging at your lips. With a grunt of annoyance, he averted his gaze and casually placed a toothpick back between his lips, feigning indifference.
“C’mon, now you try,” Wrecker encouraged as you stepped close. He used his massive hands to reposition your torso into a bent over position. “Like this, see? You gotta feel the power through your whole body!” His bubbly enthusiasm made it hard to take the movement seriously.
His demeanor wasn’t your only distraction. Despite your mother’s disregard for you, as the daughter of a politician, people were always careful with you. Between their ruthless training of you as ‘Phi’ and their gentle instruction as a ‘Senator,’ you were finding them more and more captivating.
Their presence was intoxicating.
Tech used a more methodical style of instruction. His hands deftly maneuvered your body into a slightly different form. “Optimal form is crucial,” he explained. His fingers lingered just a moment too long on your spine, sending an unexpected shiver down your back. With one hand he pressed your bruised shoulder lower.
Your teeth clenched against the pain, a quiet whine making its way past your lips. Tech immediately released his hand, observing you with a tilted glance. “Interesting,” he whispered with curiosity that pulled your eyes to his. Behind those brown eyes of his, something passed through. He blinked once, twice, and stepped back.
The moment went unnoticed as Echo chimed in. “Throw your weight behind it and aim for his diaphragm.” Wrecker tried to chuckle, but you cut him off by doing just that. Despite your best efforts, he didn’t even flinch. A chorus of chuckles erupted around you, but it felt good to join their lighthearted banter instead of getting the kriff kicked out of you.
The training continued until you were slick with sweat. You were exhausted, sure, but the exhilaration you felt in the beginning only grew with every brush with the men.
Though throughout the trading, Crosshair paid the experience little interest. He meandered the outskirts of the room, only chiming in when you had a misstep. Finally, winded but grinning, you let yourself sink to the floor. Crosshair sauntered over, standing behind you as he shifted his weight onto one foot.
His weight shifted onto one foot and postured over you. “Looks like what they say about senators is true.” He snorted, but the bite his voice carried when you were Phi was missing.
You leaned back, hands propped behind you, and squinted up at him. “And what’s that?”
His keen eyes scanned you, briefly pausing on your heaving chest before meeting your gaze again. “You’re all talk.”
Crosshair maintained a smug expression while his brothers fell silent, their attention fixed on the two of you. For the first time since training began, the ache in your nose surfaced in your mind. The memory of Crosshair's initial blow hung in the air as you carefully considered the situation, your tongue slipping over your teeth. He didn't realize it, but as you sat there inches from his feet, he was perched right within your reach. His guard was down, dismissing you as a non-threat.
The backhanded comment about Senator inaction was the deciding factor in your next move. You could always tolerate insults aimed at you. The rough training was even tolerable if it meant a means to your purpose.
Calling out a senator’s - your sister’s - resolve, however, was a step too far.
In one swift motion, you fell back, hooked an arm around his ankle, and yanked his foot out from under him. Crosshair's arms swung through the air, desperately trying to catch his balance, but he tumbled to the ground with a thud, a gasp of air forced from his lungs. Lounging back on one elbow, you kept his ankle cradled firmly in your arm.
The rest of Clone Force 99 tried - and failed - to stifle their laughter. Eventually, they gave him the same round of laughter you received. Crosshair shoved up on his elbows with a scowl. The twitch in his lip betrayed the amusement nipping at him. Grunting with a roll of his eyes, he pushed you off his foot. “Lucky shot.”
You raised your eyebrows with a satisfied hum, then let yourself fall back onto the training mat. As you lay there, staring up at the bright ceiling and still catching your breath with a laugh lingering on your tongue, you felt an unfamiliar sensation—happiness.
All your life, you’d been chasing after your sister, constantly seeking your family's approval. You had never been allowed to simply exist or pursue anything for yourself.
But laying there, beaten and exhausted, you felt strangely good.
Wrecker’s face appeared above you with a lopsided smile. He extended a hand as he said, “Now, where’d you learn to do that?”
Groaning, you accepted his hand and he lifted you with ease. “It comes with having a sister,” you replied. The mention of your sister brought a bubble of anxiety to the surface and Lama Su’s warning pricked you.
“Ha! Just like us then.” With his hand still clasping yours, Wrecker steadied you by gently pressing his other hand against the small of your back.
Your face heated, though it was already flushed from training, and you quickly cleared your throat, stepping out of his grasp. Brushing off imaginary dust from your thighs, did your best to sound casua. “I’m curious,” you said, eager to switch topics, “how’s training that trooper Nala Se told me about?”
Just like mentioning your sister had done to you, bringing up the trainee cast a shadow over the troopers’ mood, which only heightened your anxiety.
“Don’t remind us.” Wrecker gruffed. “It’s bad enough we’re missing out on missions and we’re stuck with a reg.”
“Reg?” You repeated.
Echo sighed with exasperation. “Regular clone.” The way you muddled your face prompted the others to elaborate on their own differences. Though you knew Clone Force 99 was different, you hadn’t realized the full extent until now. You understood now why Echo was the least brutal in his training. With his origins as a regular clone, he sympathized.
Lama Su’s conversation with them finally made sense. He was stoking a fire meant to burn you out.
You laughed nervously, “Surely it can’t be that bad.”
Hunter rubbed the bridge of his nose, dreading the afternoon ahead. “Trust us, you’re showing more potential than this guy.”
They all launched into a conversation about the trainee's abysmal performance, not realizing the irony. Meanwhile, Tech stood back, focused on his datapad, occasionally looking up at the group- at you.
Walking away from the group, you tried to peek at his screen. “What are you looking at?”
Tech glanced up at you and quickly tucked the device away. “I was reading up on some political matters.” He adjusted his goggles and glanced at his brothers still chatting away. “Nothing you are not already appraised of.”
Mouthing an ‘oh’ you followed his gaze t back to the others. They looked so different now, discussing the reg amongst them, than they did just moments ago. “Why exactly are you here?” Tech questioned, you could feel his attention on you.
Not bothering to meet Tech’s stare, you answered without hesitation. “To make a difference the only way I can.”
From that point on, a cycle began. Every morning they trained you as the Senator and every afternoon you received a beating as Phi.
Knowing their distaste for Phi was completely unrelated to you may have eased your anxiety but it didn’t make your training any easier.
That came with your mornings with Clone Force 99 and, on occasion, an even meeting.
The first time you ran into them outside of training happened when you’d snuck off to comm your sister. After stealing a holocom from the medical facility, you wandered the corridors for a few nights to find the best place to reach her. You always worried about an unexpected visitor in your barrack room. Wrapped in a cloak, you huddled beside a viewport, lost in thought as you stared at the device in your hands.
It had been the longest stretch you’d gone without speaking to your sister. Nerves kept your fingers hovering over the controls, practicing how you'd greet her, when suddenly your vision went dark. Your hands dropped the holocom in surprise, but it never hit the ground.
“Look who we found!” Wrecker’s boisterous voice boomed, warm and close, as his large form pressed up behind you.
Letting out a startled breath, you gently pulled his hands away from your eyes. Standing before you were Hunter and Crosshair, both of whom looked amused.
Hunter practically sauntered forward as he offered you the holocom back. "Caught you," he teased, handing the holocom back to you with a sly grin. His eyes dipped as your fingers brushed against his, he shot a question with smirk at you. “What are you doing out here so late?”
You clutched the device a bit more securely and shrugged. "Just needed a quiet spot to contact my sister," you admitted.
Crosshair raised an eyebrow, plucking the toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at you. "And you chose the coldest corridor on Kamino for your heartfelt chat?" he was unconvinced.
You spun the device nervously in your hands. “I didn’t think anyone would be out at this time.”
The silver haired clone gave a low chuckle, twirling the toothpick between his fingers. "Well, don't let us interrupt your cozy little conversation.”
“We’re headed to the canteen for a bite to eat, you should come.” Wrecker suggested, resting his hands on your shoulder.
Hunter nodded in agreement. "You’re right about one thing - it’s quieter this time of night. Less regs to get in the way."
Wrecker grinned wide and leaned in closer, giving you a gentle shake as his presence nudged you forward. "Besides, it's warmer there!"
You certainly felt warmer, but not just from the prospect of a heated room. Glancing down at the holocom, you wondered if your sister was even awake. Unable to resist their invite, you stashed the device away and smiled. “Alright, why not? Lead the way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Crosshair said in a way that made you roll your eyes. He could make anything sound sarcastic.
Joining them turned out to be a worthy trade. Crosshair and Hunter sat across from you and Wrecker. Wrecker made a habit of pushing into your space, offering bites of his favorite bits, while Crosshair and Hunter discussed your upcoming training sessions as Phi—a topic you found less than thrilling. Instead, you chose to bask in Wrecker’s warm attention.
Despite his high energy and monstrous strength, Wrecker proved to be the most gentle of the batch. Always the first to help you to your feet or catch you when you stumbled. His touch light, the calluses of his hands only ever brushing you. The skinship was a new experience for you, but one you wanted more of each time.
After your last bite of a chocolate morsel, Wrecker caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed a thumb over the corner of your mouth, dragging your lip down with the pressure of his touch.
“Got a little somethin’ there,” Wrecker chuckled, showing you the smear of chocolate on his thumb. “Guess I’m not the only messy eater ‘round here.” His smile crinkled his eyes as he dipped his thumb into his mouth to suck off the sweet remnant.
The casual intimacy of the gesture wasn’t lost on you, though it seemed to escape him. He turned back to his plate, completely missing the heat rising to your face. As a soft smile lilted your lips, you shut your eyes and leaned into Wrecker’s form. Surrounded by them, you felt a wave of contentment—you could happily spend all your free time like this
Wrecker perked up, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised as he felt your weight against him. He sat stock still for a moment, glancing between you and his brothers. Gradually, he relaxed into your touch and reached an arm around you.
“H-Hey,” he stammered slightly, patting a hand on your hip, “What’s all this?”
A foot knocked into yours from beneath the table. Peeking out from under an eyelid, you met Hunter’s lopsided smile and received another gentle tap. “Don’t be falling asleep on us. It wouldn’t be a good look for us to be carrying your limp body back.”
“Is the little princess tired?” Crosshair added lightly, a rare hint of playfulness in his tone.
Closing your eye once more, you hummed in agreement. Sitting alone with them in a mess hall, sharing a meal and laughing under the harsh lighting, you felt completely at peace.
Your mother had meant this all to be a punishment. She couldn’t have imagined that this place, these men, would heal a part of you you hadn’t realized was broken. They built you up and their training made you feel strong. They never admitted to it while you were in armor, but from their observations of the Senator you were improving.
Something you showcased one afternoon as Phi. During a drill with dummy droids, you found yourself blindsided by a metallic blow to your back. Another droid seized you by the neck and hurled you about twenty feet, leaving you crumpled on the ground as the simulation abruptly ended.
Still seeing stars, you heard the familiar cadence of Crosshair’s footsteps. “Get up.” Crosshair growled from above you.
Twisting onto your side, you struggled to catch your breath. Crosshair’s helmet angled to the side as he clicked his tongue, shoving his heal into your hip. “I said get up.” He punctuated his words with another kick. The sharp pain instantly boiled up weeks of frustration and pain.
Not a single thought registered with you as you snapped. As fast as a hydrosnake, you lashed out, looped an arm around his ankle and thrashed him back as you had before. This time your training took over.
You didn’t stop at holding him by his foot. No, you pulled his leg to the side, opening his hips, and pinned his thigh under your knee. Before he could grab at you, you pressed your torso across his, driving an elbow into the side of his helmet. Your hands clasped behind his bicep, effectively locking him in place.
Crosshair thrashed against you as his free hand hammered into the soft spot between your chest and shoulder plates. With every hit, you tightened your grip on him. His vile threats drowned out the sound of Wrecker’s stomping towards the two of you.
A large hand ripped you by the back of your neck, instantly detangling you from the sniper. “Not so tough now, are ya?” Wrecker taunted.
Dangling in the air, your legs kicked and fingers scratched at Wrecker’s fingers. The fingers that otherwise delicately touched you choked you in more ways than one. Crosshair shot up from the ground, ripping off his helmet to expose his seething expression.
“Wrecker!” Echo’s voice rang out from the sidelines, but his veiled command did little to deescalate the situation.
The sarcastic, teasing Crosshair who interacted with you as a senator was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he whipped a finger at you, a silent but unmistakable threat as he closed in on you.
It was Tech that quickly slid between you, effectively barring Crosshair from getting his hands on you. “Crosshair.” Tech’s tone was firm, if not altogether scolding. “You kicked them while they were incapacitated. Therefore, their actions were justified, while your reaction is not.”
Crosshair shook with rage, eyes burning into you past Tech's shoulder. The silent threat of his pointed finger became a promise.
“Wrecker, drop him.” Hunter ordered he yanked Wrecker’s arm down.
Wrecker begrudgingly released you, setting you down with a rough thud, but you quickly steadied yourself, brushing off the dust. Your breath was labored, but you didn’t falter under Crosshair’s glare. It didn’t matter who Crosshair thought you were at this point, he was just being cruel. It fully pissed you off more than anything up to that point. Tension hung in the air, and with each passing second, your urge to snap grew stronger.
Tech stepped aside and Hunter’s stern gaze moved between you and Crosshair. “Are we done?”
Crosshair let out a low growl before reluctantly shoving his helmet back on with a quick twist. You, on the other hand, weren’t done and needed to calm down fast.
“You’ll never be worth our time,” Crosshair said with venom. “You fight like a child.”
That simmering urge burst through. You lunged forward, craned your head back, and bashed the front of your helmet into his. The old wound on your nose flared, but watching Crosshair thrown back and stumbling dulled the pain to an ache.
He shook it off quickly enough and charged you again, narrowly missing as Echo intercepted him.
While you regained your balance, Tech fell in beside you, gently catching you by the forearm. You were too busy wheezing to notice the strangeness in Tech’s assisting you as Phi. While you watched Hunter and Echo work to calm Crosshair, Tech brought his head closer, whispering for only you to hear, “Do not antagonize him. You’ve already had one broken nose, let’s not aim for another.”
All of your burning rage cooled in an instant. You slowly looked at the technician, whose eyes watched you intensely from behind his helmet. Something in his gaze drowned out all other sounds around you. He looked at you differently from how the others ever had.
You had no idea how he knew, but the way he looked at you made it clear: Tech knew exactly who you were.
He leaned closer, his voice a low, amused murmur. "It was obvious." Your head jerked back as if to say ‘how was it obvious?’
Sensing your immediate tension, he added quickly, "To me, at least. The others don’t seem to have noticed." He glanced over his shoulder to ensure Crosshair remained restrained before looking back at you. "We'll manage Crosshair. You should head to the medical facility to have your nose examined."
“Tech-” You tried to whisper but Tech cut you off, spinning you towards the exit. You didn’t wait for him to tell you again.
You did manage to hear Tech quip, “For the record, Crosshair, that would be twice now they bested you.” You made sure you were out the door by the time Crosshair turned on his brother.
Tech was right to send you to get checked out. You’d avoided a broken nose, but the swelling did need attention. You were still in armor when you got back to your room. Dropping down onto a storage tote, you set your helmet between your feet. Elbows on your knees, you sat looking out over the swath of ocean beyond your windows.
The steady drum of rain against your window helped soothe your nerves, which had barely eased since you left the training grounds. You sat there for a while, combing through your time on Kamino, searching for any clue as to how Tech figured out who you were. With his keen mind, anything seemed possible, but you still wondered when you slipped up.
The sound of your barrack door opening snapped you out of concentration. You couldn’t reach for your helmet fast enough when someone said,“You need not bother with that”
You whipped around, twisting in your spot. Sans helmet and alone, Tech stood in your room. He’d already seen your face and touched your body, but this felt like you were meeting for the first time.
You slowly stood, picking at your fingertips. “Hi,” was all you managed to croak out as the door shut behind him.
It must've been an odd sight, you thought. The face of a senator on the body of a trooper. You snuck a glance at your reflection in the window. The sight was familiar to you now, but you remembered the juxtaposition taking time to get used to. You weren’t happy that the first time Tech was seeing you as you, your hair was stuck in a bird’s nest of a bun with crooked hairs jutting out at all angles
Tech said your name and something in your chest lurched at the sound. “If I am correct,” He said as moved his goggles up his nose. “-And I usually am, that is your real name. Is it not?” He remained standing just at the entrance of your room.
Your lips tucked into your mouth as you nodded slowly, still unsure about what to even say. “How did you know?”
Upon your admission Tech walked closer, free of the tension you carried. “Observation and deduction.” He explained, stepping around the tote separating you to take you in fully. Unlike when you portrayed Phi or the Senator, you had never noticed him observing you with such explicit curiosity.
Tech circled you, one hand cradling his elbow and the other holding his chin. “I was fairly certain Crosshair broke the trooper’s nose during the initial altercation. When we met in the medical facility, I noticed a distinct mark on your nose—an odd thing for a distinguished guest such as a Senator.” He moved around your right side, his finger gently pressing into your shoulder. “To confirm my suspicions, I applied pressure to a region I hypothesized would be tender if my assumptions were correct.”
"Your reaction confirmed it," Tech concluded, stepping back to give you space. "It was subtle, but it was enough for me to piece together the truth about your dual identities."
He took a seat on the tote facing the window and pulled out his datapad, tapping away as he continued. “Still, I didn’t have an explanation as to why a senator would be here like this. Until you mentioned your sister, which finally prompted me to do a bit of research.” Tech angled his datapad towards you, displaying a news article with a photo of your sister. “I must admit, the resemblance is uncanny. However, with her being accounted for on Coruscant, it would prove impossible for her to be on Kamino.”
He pressed a button and a photo of a stoic family appeared - your parents standing behind you and your sister. You only got a glance in before Tech pulled it back to his face. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the photo. “Besides, while the two of you do share similar features, you are far more… captivating.” Tech looked up at you, still standing beside him. “I could never confuse the two of you.”
Your breath hitched at ‘captivating.’ No one had ever remotely said that to you. It was always either you could pass for twins or your sister was the more fortunate child. Coming from Tech, such a logical and blunt man, it took your breath away. He saw no point in undue praise or flattery; to him, he was merely stating facts. It melted you.
You lowered yourself next to him, knees turned in his direction. “Why haven’t you told the others?”
Tech thought for a moment, his eyes shifting to the side as he considered your question “I do not know your reason for anonymity, but I respect your decision and will not jeopardize that. Your privacy is your own.” He nodded, pivoting to fully face you. “And I find I rather enjoy being the only one to know this about you.”
The tension in your shoulders ebbed, replaced by a fluttering that started in your chest and made breathing a manual task. You caught your reflection again, feeling frustrated that in such a moment you looked so disheveled. You balled your fists tightly enough that your fingernails dug into your palms, embarrassed that he offered such compliments to someone like you.
“Why are you making such a face?” Tech asked.
You watched yourself a second longer before offering him a sad smile. “I think I know now why you wear those goggles.”
Tech’s brows pulled together. “They alter the way light enters my eye to correct my eye’s refractive errors.” You sat back, blinking at the explanation, humor coming to your smile. Tech kept a serious face, not understanding the nuances you were attempting. “They help me see,” He clarified in a flat tone.
You yielded a small laugh, leaning over to tap his knee. “I know, I was trying to say you must need them if you think I’m the pretty sister.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized how mean they sounded. Not just insulting Tech’s taste, but fully airing the distaste you held for yourself. Your smile dropped and along with your eyes to the hand still on his knee.
A drop of panic hit your gut as you started pulling your hand away. “I’m sorry, I-”
Tech grabbed your wrist and you couldn’t react before he hushed you, “Get down.” He said, pulling you both down to the floor. He ducked his head, pushing yours down and pulling you flush against him in one motion. His hand cupped over your mouth just before you heard the door open. Two sets of footsteps echoed in. Whoever it was, they were too far away for you to get a clear image of them in the window’s reflection.
You craned your neck, trying to get a look but Tech held you fast.
“His armor isn’t here.” Crosshair’s sharp voice rung out. “The little snake isn’t home.”
Hunter answered with a sigh, “Cross, none of us like this but you need to ease up. The sooner we get him trained, the sooner we get rid of him.” The two of them made themselves at home, walking around on a light inspection of your space.
Tech kept you both completely still, staying so silent you weren’t sure he was even breathing. Which was impressive considering that between the intruders and being positioned between Tech’s legs you were having a hard time regulating your own sounds.
One set of footsteps quieted. “Would you look at that?” Crosshair snarled. “Looks like the reg has a little crush.” The sound of paper snapping told you he found the picture of your sister hanging from your mirror. The level of agitation in his voice made you worry for the next time Crosshair caught you in uniform.
“That might be why I-” Hunter stopped mid-sentence. You heard footsteps shuffle in place.
“What is it?” Crosshair pressed.
A moment passed before Hunter continued. “It’s nothing. We should go. You can play nice later.” Crosshair made a noise of frustration, and the two of them left the room.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Tech eased his grip on you. His arms hung beside you while you instinctively sagged against him in relief. You twisted around to ask, “What were they doing in here?”
“My guess would be that Hunter wanted Crosshair to make amends.” You could see a thought turning over in him. “And I would say Hunter either just realized the situation or is on the very cusp of doing so.”
“How did they-”
“We have always known which barrack was yours.” Tech answered before you could get the question out. He glanced away momentarily, considering his words carefully. “I advised them early on to leave well enough alone.”
The two of you held each other's gaze for a moment, and Tech's expression softened, becoming more reflective. “I did say I enjoyed being the only one to know your identity,” he murmured. “What I neglected to mention is that I took measures to keep it that way.” Gently, he lifted a knuckle to your cheekbone, brushing back a stray hair. The corner of his mouth ticked upwards.
“It doesn’t bother you - not really knowing me?” You asked.
As Tech began to help untangle the two of you from your hiding spot, he responded. “We may not have had traditional introductions, but I know all that I need to.” You pulled your legs beneath you, reaching out for Tech as he stood. He gripped your hand firmly and pulled you up.
With a slight grunt as he helped you to your feet, Tech continued, “You are resourceful and brave. These qualities are not just observed; they are proven through your actions and decisions here.” Tech’s voice carried a respect and a hint of admiration that felt more personal than his usual factual observations.
“And while I may not know every detail of your past or every layer of your personality yet, I understand your core—your competence, your strength, and your commitment to your goals. These are the attributes that define you, not just the name you carry or the role you play.”
Tech bent over and plucked your helmet from the floor. “Plus, as a clone, a name doesn’t hold a great deal of value for me.” He held the helmet in his hands, He rotated the helmet, examining it before gently handing it back to you. “Does that answer your question?”
Nodding in slight awe, you gently accepted the helmet and immediately dropped it, opting instead to quickly wrap your arms around his waist. “Thank you, Tech.”
Tech stiffened slightly, the rush of adrenaline visible as his posture tightened—a clear sign of his surprise at the physical closeness. This type of interaction was uncharted territory for him. In the window’s reflection, he watched the two of you. Your face was tucked into his chest, hidden from view, but he could feel the tremor of your breathing. Unsure of what else to do, Tech lightly touched your head. “O-of course.”
Tech had a myriad of questions for you about your past and your motivations.Holding you in that moment, he decided, was enough. The questions could wait for another day.
The next morning's training session was particularly challenging for you. It was hard to ignore Hunter's scrutinizing gaze. He watched you as if decoding every movement, his eyes sharp and probing. Tech's earlier observations were spot on—Hunter was definitely onto something.
For once, you found yourself eagerly awaiting the end of the session. As soon as it was over, you hustled away faster than usual, leaving Clone Force 99 to prepare yourself for that evening. You were going to tell them the whole truth.
After mentally rehearsing several scenarios multiple times, you donned your armor and headed for the training facilities. However, as you stepped out of your room, you nearly collided with Nala Se.
She didn’t flinch, embodying the typical Kaminoan stillness. Towering above you, she blinked slowly, her gaze piercing. “Before you go, I must see to your injuries,” Nala Se stated matter-of-factly. Without waiting for your response—accustomed to your practiced silence—she turned and headed towards the medical wing.
You followed quietly, your mind racing as you pondered which injuries she referred to. Certainly, your nose and the rest of your face still ached from the previous day's exertions, and your torso was a tapestry of bruises, but these were all injuries that had been treated before. Moreover, Nala Se had scarcely crossed your path in recent weeks. Initially, she had helped you avoid detection, but she had not intervened since.
Her sudden appearance was less than comforting.
In the quiet of the medical facility, oddly void of the typical droids, Nala Se motioned to a bed. “Have a seat and remove your helmet.”
You were so preoccupied with thoughts of how your tardiness for training might disrupt your planned conversations that you barely registered her instructions. Nala Se said your name, snapping you back to the present.
Removing your helmet, you looked across the bed at her and realized her gaze was focused past you. It hadn’t been her calling your name.
Outside, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair were on their way to the training facilities, helmets under their arms, when they noticed the Senator entering one of the medical rooms. Today, you weren’t cloaked in your typical attire but wore a robe of deep purple with gold threading, which seemed oddly formal.
Crosshair snorted, “Looks like we need to ease up on our little princess.”
Tech, who had been absorbed in his datapad, looked up. “To what are you referring?”
“I told you she was actin’ weird.” Wrecker said, more concerned than accusatory, ignoring Tech’s question. “Should we do somethin’?”
Echo, looking to clarify for Tech, gestured with his prosthetic arm. “We just saw the Senator enter the medical facility. And yes, we should check on her before heading to training.”
Tech paused, processing the information. He knew you well enough to be aware of your usual post-training soreness and kept an eye on the medical records associated with your after-training exams. You hadn’t sustained injuries severe enough recently to necessitate a deviation from your normal routine. He buzzed with suspicions and worried over the implications of your unexpected visit to the medical facility at such an unusual time.
“Let’s get this over with.” Hunter said, moving forward with all but Tech who stood in place a second longer. If his suspicions were correct, this was not going to go well.
Back inside, you were faced with your reflection. Blinking back confusion, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Stepping towards you, adorned in the traditional regalia of your homeworld, was your sister, looking every bit the senator she was meant to be, her hair elegantly braided back with strands of gold and pearls woven through. The purples and golds of her dress made her appear radiant and regal—so much like your mother, and so unlike you in your scuffed armor and haphazardly tied hair.
Nala Se wordlessly removed herself from the room, making the entire setup evident.
“Sister?” Your voice barely whispered as you took a hesitant step forward, half-fearing that any sudden movement might cause her to vanish like a mirage.
Her eyes widened, her pace slowing, as she scanned your face. Her face, so alike and unlike yours, crumpled with emotion, her lip trembling. Then, with a burst of energy, she ran towards you, hands reaching out from the folds of her cloak. You caught her in a tight embrace as she collided into you, her presence grounding the surreal moment.
She didn’t speak at first, only managing to choke back muffled sobs against your shoulder. You rested your head against hers, holding her close, and savored the familiar scent of her perfume—a reminder of days long past. “I’ve missed you,” you murmured, your voice not choked with sadness but steady and comforting. You had always been the pillar for her to lean on; this time was no different.
Your sister pulled back, rubbing tears away with the heel of her hand. She managed a shaky smile, laughing through another small sob. "I’ve been so worried. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner."
You shook your head with a smile, gently gripping her shoulders. "You have more important things to do. Like, I don’t know, running the galaxy," you joked. Pulling her into another hug, you held her close for a moment before stepping back to reassess her. "Though… what are you doing here?"
Your sister took your hand, her grip soft against your calloused skin, and squeezed it tightly. "I’ve come to take you home. Mother—"
"Mother?" you interrupted, your tone sharpening as you pulled your hand away.
“We need you-”
“We?” You repeated louder. The joy of your sister’s visit dimmed the instant you remembered why you were standing together in a Kaminoan facility in the first place. “If this is for her, you shouldn’t be here.”
Your sister pressed a hand to her chest, perturbed by your tone. You’d never spoken to her like that. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
Swallowing the instinct to give in to her, you reached for your helmet. “I don’t need to. You know why I’m here and I intend to see it through. You should leave-”
The sounds of the doors whirring open cut you off as you snapped your helmet on in a hurry.
Suddenly confused, your sister opened her mouth to say something, but instead you heard a familiar voice and the strength you’d maintained was replaced by panic.
The sudden arrival of Crosshair and the rest of Clone Force 99 sliced through the tense atmosphere like a vibroblade. “How touching,” Crosshair drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he rounded the privacy divider at the room's entrance. “What is our little princess doing alone with a reg? I didn’t realize you had a pet.” His cold gaze landed on you, igniting a tremor in your hands.
Your sister’s expression twisted in a stomach churning and familiar way. She scoffed and turned, “Little princess?” She spat the words out, her disdain palpable. You felt like you might gag yourself.
Your attention snapped to Tech who was just as stunned as you’d been moments before. Apparently he’d not predicted this. Hunter kept a straight face, eyebrows a little furrowed. If he had any suspicions about your dual identity, this chaotic reveal was likely skewing his thoughts. Echo, ever the sentinel, stood slightly taller, his posture tightening as if preparing for conflict. Wrecker towered behind the group, watching on with a rare sense of seriousness.
Crosshair, shifting his weight casually and placing a toothpick between his lips, continued to provoke. “What? Don’t want him knowing about our little fun together?” His wording would’ve made you laugh had the situation been different. He stirring up a misunderstanding for his own amusement.
Your sister didn’t bite. She cocked an eyebrow, giving the sniper a challenging stare before turning her attention back to you. “Are these the clones that have been training you?” Her tone was sharp, and her expression mirrored the stern demeanor of your mother.
Caught between weeks of training to maintain silence in your armor and the escalating tension, you found yourself paralyzed, struggling to formulate a response. It seemed all you could do was breathe through the growing panic.
“You two know each other?” Wrecker piped up.
Your sister, her confusion morphing into frustration, glanced quickly back at the group. “Answer me,” she demanded, her voice heavy with authority that did nothing to ease the stiffness of your tongue.
“You little shit,” Crosshair fumed, stepping towards you but immediately restrained by Hunter’s firm grip. Despite being held back, he snapped, “Show respect and answer her.”
Receiving his anger as an unnamed clone never felt as painful as the anger directed to you now.
Whirling on them, your sister jabbed a finger at him. “Who do you think you’re talking to, clone?” The disrespect in the way she said ‘clone’ gutted you and visibly startled Wrecker and Crosshair.
“Me?” Crosshair retorted, pointing a finger back at her. “Why are you defending him?”
“Him?” Her voice rose almost to a shrill. You reached out, trying to pull her back from the brink of the confrontation, only to have your hand sharply slapped away. She spun around to face you. “Take that ridiculous thing off!” She reached for your helmet, and this time, you reflexively slapped her hand away.
Crosshair, seething with anger, wrenched free from Hunter's grasp and charged toward you. Tech's shouts echoed behind him, but Crosshair was undeterred. He brushed past your sister with a dismissive flick, gripped the rim of your helmet with one hand, and shoved you backward with the other. Just as you tumbled to the floor, your sister retaliated, pushing him away forcefully. From your position on the ground, you didn't see it, but the sharp slap she delivered resounded through the room.
With his cheek stinging from the slap, Crosshair held his ground, his grip white-knuckled on your helmet as he turned a furious gaze on the woman standing defiantly before him. The intensity in her eyes was something entirely new to him. They locked eyes, each poised for further confrontation, when a realization dawned on Crosshair.
He’d never seen you look quite like this. In fact, you seemed like a completely different person. Dropping the toothpick from his lips, confusion replaced the anger on his face as he scrutinized the subtle differences in the face before him—slight variations in aging lines and hair length. There was more than that, Crosshair realized as he picked out the innumerable differences.
“Crosshair…” Echo said hesitantly. Still sat on the floor, you were on full display for Echo.
Wrecker’s face fell as he glanced around Crosshair at you.
Steadying a shaky breath, you gathered what composure you could and pushed yourself up off the floor. "Calm down," you whispered, touching your sister’s shoulder as you rose beside her.
Standing there, you couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Crosshair, afraid of the disgust you might see mirrored on his face. You missed the horror breaking across him. Instead, you kept your gaze fixed on your sister, silently pleading, "Sister, please."
Snapping her hand out, your sister harshly gripped your face and forced it towards the men. “You're the ones who did this to her?” She was likely referencing the scar marking your nose or the other tiny, healed wounds your helmet had dealt you over time.
Heat scorched your face as you were forcibly put on display. You reluctantly met the eyes of Clone Force 99. Crosshair’s face was pale, his brows furrowed deeply and his mouth slightly ajar in a mix of horror and disbelief. Echo and Wrecker were in similar shades of shock. Hunter, on the other hand, looked almost regretful.
Gently removing your sister’s tight grip, you attempted to soothe her. “They didn’t know. Mother-”
“Do not blame Mother for your stupid decisions!” She screamed, gesturing a hand at you.
“Stupid decisions?” You challenged, feeling insulted. “My decisions have been for you. So I can keep you safe.”
“I didn’t tell you to do something so childish and I didn’t tell you to go and ruin your face.” You inhaled sharply at her words. She knew how to slap with more than just her hand.
Ignoring the clones, she straightened herself, her demeanor cooling into a composed facade that echoed your mother's authority. “Enough.” she stated firmly, making you straighten your posture subconsciously. “You are to come home and act as my body double at an upcoming gathering. The clones who trained you are to act as your security.” Pulling her hood up to shroud her face, you saw a glimpse of your gentle sister once more. “We will discuss your future afterwards.”
With that, she was gone.
Left alone with the squadron, you looked to the ceiling as opposed to facing them immediately.
Tech approached, saying your name. The others whipped their heads to him, the familiarity in his tone throwing them off. “Are you alright?” He asked gently.
“You knew about this?” Echo accused, turning on Tech.
“Of course I did.” Tech said quickly and dismissively.
Crosshair's hands clenched into fists repeatedly, his anger barely contained. "Was this all a game to you?" he growled, his gaze intense and accusing as he finally turned to you.
You were to weary to be angry at him. How he could ever think being pummeled everyday for weeks was anything close to a game was beyond you.
Meeting his fierce stare you offered a weak smile. It lasted only a second before it fell with your eyes. “No, never. I was sent here for training… I didn’t mean to deceive you.” Your mouth pressed into a tight line. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”
The room fell silent. Wrecker, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice a mix of confusion and concern. "So, all this time, you were…”
“Yes,” You finished for him. “But I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I’ve been taking all the training seriously.”
“It shows.” Echo said softly.
Hunter stepped forward. “Alright, we can sort this all out later.” He gave you a firm nod. “As a team. But right now, we have a mission.” He extended you a hand and a smirk, an offering. “The rest… you can explain on the way.”
Your chest caved at the sight. Taking his hand you choked out, “Gladly.”
Tech adjusted his goggles with a smile. “Then that settles it.” Brandishing his datapad, he started scrolling through the screen. “And I have compiled a list of questions that will clarify this entire ordeal.”
Hunter walked beside you, placing an encouraging hand on your back. “Let’s get going.”
Echo and Wrecker still looked conflicted, but nodded in agreement with Hunter's decision, and even Crosshair, though still visibly upset, did not contest.
Tech gave one final note. “All things considered, that went far better than even I could have predicted.”
@bruh-myguy-what i hope you like <3
#I miss my boys so much#I'm dying for these men.#the bad batch#tbb#star wars#bad batch#tbb tech#tech#the bad batch tech#tbb crosshair#the bad batch crosshair#crosshair#echo#hunter#wrecker#wrecker x reader#tech x reader#hunter x reader#echo x reader#crosshair x reader#fanfiction#the bad batch x reader#the bad batch x you#tbb hunter#tbb wrecker#tbb echo#please please give them back
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As the conspiracy reaches its finale, the Void Hunter joins the fight.
Uncover the Conspiracy in Zenless Zone Zero's All-New Version "A Storm of Falling Stars", S-Rank Agent Hoshimi Miyabi is here! With S-Rank Agent Asaba Harumasa Limited-Time Giveaway! Pre-register to obtain additional rewards.
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You are cordially invited…. 🥰💚💕
(Happy ARC Trooper Thursday! This was totally inspired by @rainydaydream-gal18 ‘s https://www.tumblr.com/rainydaydream-gal18/750754157428916224/the-bad-batch-imagine-a-pabu-wedding post! Go check out her writing, it’s wonderful!)
@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @sukithebean @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha
#leena the green girl#inspired by other’s writing#rainydaydream gal18#star wars#the bad batch#i love the bad batch#tbb#star wars the bad batch#bad batch#tbb echo#oc aiko#echo x aiko#the bad batch au#starwars au#arc trooper echo#arc trooper Thursday#star wars fanfiction#starwars oc#the bad batch fanfiction#the bad batch oc#tbb echo x reader#arc trooper echo x reader#echo x oc#the bad batch happy on pabu#pabu#Pabu wedding#others hc’s#Star Wars Pabu#echo tbb#clone trooper echo
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Echoes of Her: Part Three
A/N: Hey y'all ! I'm back with the final part of "Echoes of Her" ♡ I seriously want to thank everyone for your comments, reblogs and interactions with this mini series. I loved being able to write this and bring these ideas to life! Again, y'all mean so much to me...so THANK YOU! Stay tuned for more soon ♡ - Libra * .♡ *:・゚✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆ Word Count: 1738 CW: Angst, love triangle, hurt with comfort (Part one) (Part Two)
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The days following your conversation with Logan were a torment you hadn’t anticipated. Each hour seemed to stretch endlessly, the pain of your unresolved feelings gnawing at you from the inside out. The mansion, once a place of comfort and familiarity, had become a labyrinth of haunting memories, each corridor a reminder of what you had lost—or perhaps never truly had.
You moved through it like a ghost, your presence almost ethereal, as if the very walls knew you were clinging to a love that had slipped through your fingers. Every corner you turned, every room you entered, was steeped in the past—a collection of fleeting glances, whispered secrets, and moments stolen from time, all of which now seemed like distant echoes of a life that no longer felt like your own. The spaces that had once been filled with the warmth of his presence now felt cold and empty, as if the mansion itself mourned the uncertainty that had settled between you and Logan. And as you wandered through this once-familiar place, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were trapped in the shadow of something you could never fully possess, lost in the remnants of a love that might have never truly been yours to begin with.
Logan kept his promise. He gave you space, but his presence was everywhere: the scent of his cigar lingering in the air, the faint echoes of his voice in the halls, the emptiness that seemed to follow you, reminding you of the distance between you. It was unbearable, the constant ache in your chest, the gnawing fear that you’d never find your way back to each other.
The nights were the worst. The quiet darkness left you alone with your thoughts, with the haunting image of Jean in Logan’s arms, with the memories of the life you’d imagined with him. Sleep eluded you, your mind racing with questions that had no answers.
And every night, without fail, you found yourself standing outside his door, your hand hovering over the wood, your heart pounding in your chest. But you never knocked. You never found the courage to face him, to ask the questions you were too afraid to know the answers to.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the silence felt suffocating, the emptiness too much to bear. Your heart ached with the need to see him, to hear his voice, to find some semblance of closure, whether it meant saying goodbye or finding a way forward together.
Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and knocked on the door. The sound was soft, hesitant, but in the quiet of the night, it echoed like a gunshot.
The door creaked open, and there he was, his eyes widening in surprise as they locked onto yours. He looked as worn and tired as you felt, and the sight of him made your heart twist painfully in your chest.
“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Logan nodded silently, stepping aside to let you in. The room was dimly lit, the shadows dancing across the walls as you entered. It was the same room you’d left him in all those nights ago, but now it felt different. The air was charged with something unspoken, something that made your skin prickle with anticipation.
He closed the door behind you, the sound of it clicking shut sending a shiver down your spine. You turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest, your hands trembling at your sides.
“I’ve been thinking,” you began, your voice shaky. “About us. About everything.”
Logan didn’t respond, his eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. The tension between you was palpable, a thick, heavy thing that hung in the air, pressing down on you both.
“I’m scared, Logan,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I’m scared that no matter how much we try, we’re always going to end up back here. Hurting each other, tearing each other apart.”
He took a step closer, his gaze softening as he reached out to gently touch your arm. “I’m scared too,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But I’m more scared of losing you.”
Your breath hitched, the raw emotion in his voice cutting through you like a blade. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to be with you when I know… when I know she’s still a part of you.”
He winced, the pain in his eyes almost unbearable to see. “She is a part of me. Always will be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. I’m tired of running from this—from us. I’m tired of living in the past.”
The sincerity in his words made your heart ache, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilling over. “I don’t want to be second best,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to spend my life wondering if I’m just a consolation prize.”
Logan’s hand moved to your cheek, his touch gentle as he wiped away your tears. “You’re not. You never were. I’ve been a fool, and I’ve hurt you in ways I can never make up for. But I’m here now, and I’m telling you that you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
His words hit you with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of you, your breath catching in your throat as you stared up at him, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt. But there was none. Only raw, unfiltered truth.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can keep loving you when it hurts this much.”
Logan’s grip on your face tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a soothing gesture. “Then let me help you. Let me prove to you that I’m not going anywhere. That I’m choosing you.”
You hesitated, the fear still gnawing at the edges of your heart, but beneath it, there was something else—a flicker of hope, of longing, that refused to be extinguished.
“I want to believe you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I want to trust you.”
“Then do,” Logan urged, his voice rough with emotion. “Trust me. Trust us. We’ve been through hell, but we’re still standing. That’s gotta mean something.”
His words hung in the air, the truth of them settling deep in your bones. You knew he was right. Despite everything, despite the pain and the heartache, you were still here. You were still fighting.
And maybe that was enough.
Slowly, tentatively, you nodded. “Okay.”
Logan’s breath escaped him in a rush, relief flooding his features as he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against him. You melted into his embrace, the warmth of his body chasing away the cold that had settled in your heart.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”
You closed your eyes, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions—fear, hope, love—all tangled together in a messy, beautiful knot. “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life apologizing,” you whispered back, your voice soft but firm. “I just want you to be here. With me. For real.”
“I’m here,” he promised, his voice rough with sincerity. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And as his lips met yours in a tender, lingering kiss, you allowed yourself to believe it—to believe in the possibility of a future where the echoes of the past no longer haunted you, where the love you shared was enough to overcome the pain.
The kiss deepened, the taste of him filling your senses, grounding you in the present, in the reality that he was here, with you, and that you were choosing each other, despite everything.
When you finally pulled away, your breath ragged, your heart pounding in your chest, you looked up at him, your eyes searching for any sign of hesitation. But there was none. Only love, raw and unfiltered, staring back at you.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Just stay.”
You nodded slowly, feeling the last remnants of fear and doubt dissolve like mist under the warmth of his gaze. The walls you had built around your heart began to crumble, replaced by a quiet, unwavering certainty. With a gentle but deliberate motion, you reached up, your fingers trembling slightly as they found their way to his face. The rough texture of his stubbled cheek was a comforting reminder of his strength, of the man who had weathered so many storms yet still stood before you, willing to face the tempest that had raged between you both. Your thumb traced a slow, tender path along his jawline, as if trying to memorize every detail, to anchor yourself in this moment of fragile peace. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice steady, filled with a conviction that surprised even you.
As his arms wrapped around you, drawing you close, you let yourself melt into the embrace, feeling the solid warmth of him against you. The tension, the pain, the wounds that had festered between you for so long seemed to dissipate, leaving behind only the raw, undeniable truth of your connection. His arms were both a refuge and a promise, holding you in a way that spoke of comfort and commitment, of a bond that had been tested but refused to break. Despite the scars that marred your past, despite the echoes of hurt that would always linger in the shadows, you realized that you had finally found your way back to one another.
This time, there was no hesitation, no lingering doubt. You knew, with every fiber of your being, that this was where you were meant to be—in his arms, with him. The journey had been long and painful, marked by loss and longing, but it had led you to this moment, to a love that had survived the worst and emerged stronger. As you held each other close, you silently vowed that this time, no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.
You weren’t letting go—not now, not ever.
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Taglist: @littledebbieinabigworld @sasuke-kun0 @mrs-schoenheit @daily-evanstan @aliisa-jones @danicl25 @shortbk @hynjjine @nonamevenus @yawnetu @enashift
#logan howlett#james logan howlett x reader#wolverine x reader#deadpool 3#marvel#mcu fandom#hugh jackman#jean grey#gender neutral reader#gender neutral y/n#angst#hurt/angst#hurt/comfort#xmen fandom#xmen comics#xmen fanfiction#x men 97#love triangle#wolverine#Echoes of Her#deadpool and wolverine
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“You will be able to recover in safety here in the Jedi temple,” said Anakin
“Thank you, sir,” said Fives.
“We will have guards outside in case someone tries anything.”
“Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please ple-“
“FINE!” Commander Fox shouted. “You can kidnap Fives but under NO circumstances are you to involve or implicate the Coruscant Guard! Of all the things for me to get caught for, it will not be your idiocy!”
“Yes sir!” Cheered Echo.
“Of course sir,” said Dogma. They ran off together to get Tup from medical where he was recovering from his recent fake death and smuggling to Coruscant.
“It may take a few weeks for him to return to full health but-“ the healer froze in the doorway and Rex had to stand on his toes to see over her. Fives was not in the bed where he had last seen him. He was held in between Echo and Tup, who where both dead. Of that Rex was sure.
They froze and stared, looking like deer in the headlights. Echo wore his ARC trooper armor, filthy and broken and covered in dripping blood. Tup was in his blacks with a line of blood across his throat.
“We, uh…. have come from the afterlife to collect this fallen brother,” said Echo, doing his best to sound mysterious and spooky. “His time has come.”
They tossed a still unconscious Fives out the window and jumped after him. Rex unfroze himself and ran to the window in time to see a speeder disappear around a building.
#idk where to go with this#fox was so close to getting another arc trooper#but noooo the Jedi just had to save him 🙄#star wars#commander fox#unhinged fox au#the clone wars#arc trooper fives#fives#arc trooper echo#tcw dogma#clone trooper tup#tupperware#marshal commander fox#coruscant guard#tcw#star wars fanfiction
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Echo wearing a hoodie in the rain, trying to hide his headpiece and looking like a civilian? ☔️ This is my fanart for the amazing fanfiction ‚Starstruck‘ from @isthereanechoinhere96 🫶🏼 Sorry minors 🙈
Here en detail (for the eyes):
Taglist: @eclec-tech @lonewolflupe @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven
#star wars#the bad batch#tbb echo#arc trooper echo#star wars fanfiction#emotional#fanfiction fanart#is there an echo in here?#isthereanechoinhere96#star wars fanart#bad batch echo#the bad batch echo#echo#clone trooper echo#tbb art#ct 1409#clones#artists on tumblr#writers on tumblr#artists supporting artists#starstruck#echo fanfiction#clone wars#echo fic#fic fanart#star wars the clone wars#others writing#my artwork#eobe
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As the conspiracy reaches its finale, the Void Hunter joins the fight.
Uncover the Conspiracy in Zenless Zone Zero's All-New Version "A Storm of Falling Stars", S-Rank Agent Hoshimi Miyabi is here! With S-Rank Agent Asaba Harumasa Limited-Time Giveaway! Pre-register to obtain additional rewards.
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Echoes Of Nebula - MYG
Summary: Some people say that soulmates are made of the same star, a part of each other, one and the same. Stars don’t live forever, Yoongi found, but they do burn forever.
Genre: Exes to lovers, angst, fluff
Word Count: 5.5k
Warning(s): I don't think there's any, but let me know if I've missed! Any mistakes are my own, I proofread this one (1) time 😭
Masterlist
Notes: Eep, hello! Here's this lil thing I've been working on! Also, Yoongi and Mc didn't end on bad terms, their separation was somewhat mutual and they're all good :)). Feedback is always appreciated and encouraged! Enjoy!
“Make sure to eat, okay?”
Snow swirls along the train tracks, following a gust as a train pulls into the station. There’s the bustle of people getting on and some getting off, bundled up warmly against the winter air. Some are going to see their families, some are taking a break from theirs. Some of them are stepping onto the train to never step foot in this town again. Some of them are just starting the first day of their adult lives.
Min Yoongi? He’s moving to Seoul.
Your hands tuck the ends of his scarf securely into his sweater, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize his face. Your tears make tracks against your cheeks and dry quickly in the cold.
Min Yoongi is breaking up with his girlfriend.
“Eat on time. And I don’t mean ramyeon because you’re too lazy to cook.” You sniffle, and Yoongi wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. His glove has a hole in it. Not that it matters much right now, he’s trying to get you to stop crying. “Sleep on time, not when the sun’s coming up.”
Min Yoongi is trying not to cry.
“Okay.” He holds you still because he’s trying to memorize your face. He’s got pictures, even the silly ones that he took and promised to delete, but they won’t compare. “I’m sorry.”
He must’ve apologised for the millionth time. He doesn’t know what else to say.
You nod, smile — sadly, tears on your waterline — and, “I understand.” for the millionth time.
He’s moving to Seoul, a long way away from Daegu.
A mixtape he made for shits and giggles took off and pulled him with it, and he has no choice but to follow. Your life is in this little town like a ship in a bottle and like a captain you’ll go down with it. You can’t follow.
You both talked about it for days, compromising, bargaining, but in the end, your lives are going separate ways.
Stars either explode or implode when they die, and Yoongi feel like the star you’re both made of has finally reached its end. It’s imploding, folding in on itself and pulling everything with it.
He has five minutes left to take you in, how the tears shine in your eyes despite his efforts, the string of the necklace he won you at a fair peeking from behind your scarf. The way you smile and your eyes squint, the way he could feel the chill of your hands through his gloves.
He wants to stay right here in this moment and never leave if it meant he could take you in for five minutes till eternity.
“Remember to...” His throat feels raw, but it’s because of the cold and definitely not because he’s crying. The lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow. He looks somewhere above your head to give himself a second, things like these are always hard for him. “Remember to dress for the weather.”
He squeezes your hands, takes a breath that he almost chokes on, and looks back at you. “Don’t skip meals. Get warm when you feel cold. Always carry an umbrella in July.”
Sometime later, Yoongi will wonder if the things he reminded you to do made much sense, if they mattered at all. Wonders if you’d actually remember. The umbrella one is really important; you always forget.
He sat where he could see you when his five minutes were up and eternity never came. Waving from behind a glass and missing the warmth of you and the sound of your voice. He watches you wipe your tears and smile big and you walk alongside the train when it pulls off and then you run, and then, Yoongi could no longer see you.
Min Yoongi broke up with his girlfriend and left her in the middle of winter chasing a train.
July is always rainy.
And every time it rains, Min Yoongi remembers the love he left in winter. He wonders if you remember to carry an umbrella. It’s been five years; he wonders if you remember him at all.
He watches the rain splash into puddles and listens to the patter against his umbrella. Seoul bustles on, indifferent to the weather, its crowds meandering through the mid-summer downpour. Despite the season’s warmth, a stray breeze slips past his collar and reminds him of colder days. He’s grateful his gloves no longer have holes.
He walks along the sidewalk, carried by the crowd’s flow without much thought.
There’s not much that he wishes for anymore, not much he can wish for when he’s got everything. He lives in a high rise, works at the top music production company. Sometimes it’s a bit hard being the most sought-after producer in Seoul. Life has been good; he can’t complain. That mixtape opened doors he thought he’d be knocking on forever, and he’s worked hard to keep them open.
Min Yoongi doesn’t need much of anything else.
But on days like this, when the wind is just a little chilly and the sky’s opened up and crying, he misses you.
Sometimes he looks back on that day and feel guilt. He knows it was just as hard for you as it was for him, the pain in your eyes that you smiled through.
For a while, he’d call you every night and update you, made sure that you were doing well. For a while, he’d keep up with you and made sure that you’re doing well. For a while, he’d call you every now and then, see if you’re doing well.
For a while, it had been a while and life, and then five years slinked on by.
Yoongi sighs, and there’s guilt in it. He got busy, as one gets being a producer in Seoul with a shit ton of expectations. He’s changed phones over the years, lost your contact, and he got busy.
Of course, he’s dated — mostly blind dates his friends set him up on — and he’s tried his best to push forward. There’s no point living in the past, he’s sure you’ve moved on and on by now. Sometimes he’s fine, and sometimes he’s back on that train station platform, wishing he’d begged you to come with him.
It would’ve been the selfish thing. It wouldn’t have been fair to you had he done that. When he got to Seoul, he’d buried himself so deep into his work he barely found himself. He would’ve dragged you out here, made you give up everything just to sit on the side-lines.
He misses you sometimes, anyways. He’s forgotten the sound of your laugh, but he still remembers the way your nose scrunches when you do. He’s forgotten the scent of your favourite perfume, but he remembers the way you lit up when he saved up and bought you a bottle forever ago.
Min Yoongi wonders if you remember him at all.
As Yoongi turns the corner, his umbrella catches a gust of wind and flips inside out. He fights with it for a moment before giving up, letting the rain soak his hair and the front of his jacket and jeans. He can’t help but laugh at the irony, standing there drenched, remembering the countless times he reminded you to carry an umbrella.
In the distance, he spots a small café and decides to seek shelter. The bell above the door jingles as he enters, and the warm, cozy atmosphere wraps around him like a comforting hug. He shakes off his umbrella – finally pulling it back down – and steps up to the counter, ordering a hot coffee to chase away the chill.
As he waits, his eyes wander around the café, taking in the rustic décor and the soft hum of conversation. A bulletin board on the wall catches his attention, filled with flyers and photos. His gaze lands on a familiar face, and his heart skips a beat.
It’s you. Your photo, smiling brightly, pinned among various advertisements and announcements. You’re standing next to a large canvas, looking proud. He steps closer, reading the caption beneath your picture: “Local Artist Exhibition - Featuring Works by ________.”
Yoongi’s mind races as he takes in the information. You’re here in Seoul, and you’ve been showcasing your art. A mix of emotions floods through him—relief, excitement, and a twinge of nervousness. He jots down the address of the gallery from the flyer without much thought and leaves without his coffee.
As Yoongi steps out into the rain, a million thoughts swirl through his mind, each one more turbulent than the last. He wonders why you never sought him out. Seoul is vast, but you’d known he was here, making waves in the music scene. Did you ever think about him? Did you ever miss him?
The realization hits him hard: he never knew you were doing art before he left. In all your conversations, all your late-night talks and shared dreams, you never mentioned a passion for painting. He feels a pang of guilt. Had he been so wrapped up in his own ambitions that he failed to notice yours? The thought stings, and he can't shake the feeling that he should have been there for your journey, supporting you the way you always supported him.
The gallery isn’t far, and soon he’s standing in front of it, his heart pounding in his chest. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, the sound of soft music and hushed voices greeting him. There’s quite a bit of people mingling about in quiet discussion, taking photos of the art mounted on the walls under ambient lighting.
Inside the gallery, he feels out of place. The walls, adorned with your art, are a testament to a part of your life he knows nothing about. Each piece is beautiful, but they also serve as a painful reminder of how much he’s missed. He wonders how many late nights you spent creating these, how many times you might have needed someone to share your successes and frustrations with.
Yoongi wanders through the gallery, the sound of soft music and hushed voices creating a backdrop to his thoughts. The rain outside has left him feeling introspective, and as he takes in the various pieces of art, he feels a strange mix of pride and sadness seeing how far you’ve come.
Each painting tells a story, each one a glimpse into your life over the past five years, a life he wasn’t a part of.
His gaze is drawn to a large canvas on the far wall. The colours are bold and dramatic, the brushstrokes chaotic and full of emotion. As he steps closer, he realizes with a jolt that the scene depicted is achingly familiar: a train station, snow swirling in the air, and two figures standing close together, wrapped in scarves and winter coats.
His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the details. The style is unmistakably expressionist, the exaggerated forms and vibrant colours capturing the raw emotion of that day. The figures are abstract, but he knows them instantly: one is you, and the other is him.
He remembers the way you tucked his scarf into his sweater, the tears that made tracks down your cheeks, and the way you both tried to memorize each other in those final moments. The painting captures all of it, the pain and the love, the sorrow and the hope.
Yoongi feels a lump in his throat as he stares at the piece. It’s a testament to your skill as an artist. He wonders how long you carried the weight of that moment, how many times you revisited it in your mind to create this masterpiece. He’s overwhelmed by a wave of emotions: regret, longing, and a deep, unspoken connection.
The title of the painting, written on a small plaque beside it, reads “Departure.” It’s fitting, he thinks, for the moment it captures, but also for the way it marks the beginning of your separate journeys.
As he stands there, lost in thought, he hears your voice nearby, and for a moment, he simply stands there. Your words meld together and he isn’t hearing much of what you’re saying, just the sound. His heart pounds against his ribs as your laugh — it sparks a memory and adds sound to the ones that were muted — bounces off the walls and around in his head.
He turns and sees you, in a corner, your back to him talking to a taller man, discussing a point of space where you’re standing. The sight of you, so vibrant and alive, sends a mixture of relief and nervousness fluttering around in Yoongi’s tummy.
Gathering his courage, he takes a step forward, then another, until he’s standing just a few feet away. You turn and startle, staring at him like he’s a ghost. There’s a brief moment of surprise — he gets it — and then you blink.
“Yoongi,” you breathe, and turning to the man next to you, you smile gently. “Taehyung...Can you give us a moment?”
The guy looks between you both for a second with a raised brow before he’s gone, walking off to some other part of the gallery. Yoongi’s mind is too occupied taking in the sight of you to wonder what that man’s presence may mean.
“Hi,” he replies, his voice soft and filled with all the words he’s wanted to say for years. Despite this, he doesn’t actually know what to say, he didn’t actually think this far ahead. He glances back at the painting of the train station platform, then back at you. “I saw your painting.”
You follow his gaze and nod, your smile tinged with a hint of sadness. “It was a significant moment for me. For both of us, I think.”
It’s a lot awkward, with him just standing there, not sure what to do with himself. You look the same, though now your hair is styled professionally and not the frizzy, wind swept mess it was when he last saw you.
There’s so much he wants to say but he feel like he doesn’t have enough words, or the right ones, so he takes it easy. “I saw a flyer...in a café. Um... It’s amazing...your work.”
“Thank you,” you say, your eyes reflecting a mixture of pride, nostalgia and a certain sadness. “I didn’t know you’d be here. It’s... good to see you.”
The conversation goes slowly, awkwardly. There are long pauses and nervous laughter, each of you trying to bridge the gap of five years with small talk about your art and his music.
“You’ve done well,” he says, gesturing to the paintings around you both. “I didn’t even know you were into art.”
You smile, the same just barely there sad smile from earlier. “It was something I started after you left. It helped me cope.”
“Oh...” His heart aches at the thought of you turning to art just to fill the void he left behind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
You shake your head and shrug. “We both had our paths to follow. It’s just... life.”
He nods, but the guilt lingers. Life had taken you both in different directions, but he can’t help but wonder what might have been different if he had stayed, or if he had at least tried to stay in touch better.
Min Yoongi is an idiot and he’s always told himself so. He’s an idiot and he sucks at this sort of thing.
As the gallery starts to empty out, Yoongi looks at you, the rain pattering gently against the windows. There’s a part of him that wants to apologize, to make up for all the lost time, but he knows it’s not that simple.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” he asks, hope and uncertainty mingling in his eyes.
Your smile is a little hesitant, but you nod, “Sure.”
You excuse yourself to grab your jacket and an umbrella — you remembered, he smiles privately —, and then you talk to the man from earlier for a minute before Yoongi follows you out of the gallery and onto the wet street.
The walk is quiet, filled with the awkwardness of five years’ worth of missed everything’s, and Yoongi holds tight to the handle of his umbrella. There’s a confidence to your step as you weave your way through the crowd, head straight forward and not looking down at your feet like he remembers.
You’re not the girl he left on that platform five years ago just as he’s not the guy that left you there.
You walk back to the cafe he’d come from, and he realises that you’re probably a regular here. The barista behind the counter greets you with a smile and asks if you’re having your usual. You order a coffee and Yoongi asks the girl behind the counter to reheat the one he bought earlier, and the barista’s eyes dart between you both.
You lead him to a cozy corner table after the order was called, and as you settle in, the conversation starts up slowly again.
“How long have you been in Seoul?” Yoongi asks first, his voice a little hesitant, not sure if he’s allowed to ask.
“Almost three years now,” you reply, looking down at your coffee cup, the tiniest furrow between your brows. “It took a while, but I got settled.”
Yoongi takes a moment to observe you, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the memories he’s held onto for the past five years. You don’t look much different, your hair’s in an up-do, your cheeks are a little fuller, but that’s as much as he notices.
The silence that rings between you both is louder than the other customers in the cafe. Yoongi can only imagine what this scene looks like to others; two people who are barely looking at each other, like awkward strangers forced to share a space.
His coffee is still hot, and it burns his tongue when he sips at it, but at least it’s given him a distraction. He steals glances at you, watching the way your eyes comb the cafe and avoid his gaze.
Unfortunately, Yoongi is naught but a man, and there’s a nagging sound at the back of his brain. It grows louder until he fidgets, the nerves of his free hand feel like they’re dancing and he takes a breath. He looks down at his coffee cup, glances at you and then back to the cup. Then, he asks a question that made him want to crawl out of his skin.
“So...that guy back at your gallery seemed nice...”
He knows it’s been five years, and a lot can change in that time. As toxic as it may sound, the thought of you moving on with someone else stirs a mix of emotions in him.
He knows he has no right to be upset if you’ve found happiness with someone else. It’s not his business anymore, not after all this time.
Still, the fear is there. He doesn’t want to admit how much it hurts to think of you with someone else. He can’t deny the pang of jealousy at the thought, but he tries his best to ignore it. He has no claim over you. You deserve to be happy, and if you’ve found that with someone, then he’s happy.
He sighs inwardly, pushing the thoughts aside. He wants to focus on the present, on the fact that you’re sitting in front of him right now. Whatever happens, he’s happy to be here, he hopes he can be a part of your life again of you let him, even if it’s only as a friend. He doesn’t want to ruin this, whatever it turns out to be.
You stare at him for a moment and Yoongi can’t tell what you’re thinking, “He is...he’s got an eye for art.”
Yoongi nods slowly, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. He hums softly, and now it’s his turn to pretend you’re not looking; he finds interest in the light fixtures above.
His next question sits on his tongue trying to pry past his teeth. He feels like a kid trying to find the right moment to ask his parents if he could go play outside. There’s a nervous churning in his tummy that isn’t at all pleasant. How does one ask their ex of five years if they’re seeing someone?
Yoongi imagines they’d just ask, out of curiosity, and get it out of the way. He could play it well. Maybe lean back into his seat and appear more casual before he says the stupid words. Maybe he could stop staring at the lights like a damn moth, and act like a being with a fully developed frontal lobe.
“Are you two...close? Or...you know...” He waves a hand and then lays it on the table. The sound of his ring knocking against it is kind of jarring, but it gives Yoongi an opportunity to look away again.
You make a quiet sound, and Yoongi finally meets your gaze. There’s amusement in your eyes, it’s obvious you’ve figured him out already — he wasn’t exactly being subtle. Which is unfortunate, because now Yoongi could feel embarrassment tapping on his shoulder.
You say nothing of it, even though he knows you want to. He could feel it.
“As close as business partners can be, I suppose.” You say, and Yoongi can see the beginning of a smile as you lift your coffee to hide it.
“Right...Sorry.” Yoongi says sheepishly, though, a weight lifts off his chest. As he looks at you, he notices something that makes his heart skip a beat.
You’re still wearing the necklace he got you all those years ago, the one he won for you at the fair. The twine that the little pendant hangs on looks worn, fraying a bit at some points, but you’re wearing it.
You kept it.
He clears his throat, the words he’s been holding back spilling out. “I’m sorry I lost touch. I got so busy, and then it felt like too much time had passed to reconnect. I lost your contact, and… I didn’t know how to find you again.”
You nod, your fingers brushing over the necklace like you sensed his gaze on it. “It’s okay. Life happened, for both of us.”
“But why didn’t you seek me out when you got to Seoul?” Yoongi asks, his voice soft, devoid of accusation; genuinely curious.
“I thought it would be for the best,” you say, equally as soft, staring into your coffee as though it would give you the words you’re looking for. “So much time had passed, and I didn’t want to disrupt your life. You were doing well.”
You look so sad when you say it that it almost breaks Yoongi’s heart.
“You know I wouldn’t have...” He wouldn’t have turned you away.
“I know, I just...” You sigh, your eyes dart somewhere to his left, and then back at him, “...I really missed you.”
Yoongi wants to reach out and take your hand so he does. Your fingers are warm from the coffee, squeezing his own, and tears beads at your waterline.
“I missed you too.” His gaze is soft and he knows it, but he doesn’t care because its you. You’re still you and he’s still him, and he misses you and the girl he left on that platform.
You’re both still made of the same star. It’s imploded but still glowing, and your necklace pendant catches the above head light.
His finger brushes over your knuckles, he stares at them, the shape and colour and all the little things about them that makes them a part of you. All that with his heart in his throat because he wants to ask something.
“Do you think…” His voice is barely a whisper, as if he’s afraid the wrong volume might shatter whatever delicate thread holds this moment together. “Do you think there’s a chance… that we could try again?”
You stare at him, your eyes wide, and he feels the subtle pressure of your fingers in his. He knows it’s a lot to ask, but the longing, the sense that maybe something beautiful can still be salvaged from the pieces, presses him to keep going.
Hope catches on the glint of your necklace pendant, and he clings to it.
“I don’t expect anything to happen right away. I just… I want to be in your life again, even if we start slow. No pressure, just… what feels right.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and then a soft smile curves your lips, almost as if you’ve been waiting for him to say something like this.
“We could try,” you murmur, the words tentative but filled with the same cautious hope Yoongi feels.
And from there, the pace is unhurried. You both ease into each other’s lives like rivers that find their way back to the same stream.
Some days Yoongi feels like he’s been whacked on the head with a giant stick. Anyone could tell by looking at him, when he’s got that stupid look on his face. Like he’s seen a goddess and she spared him a glance. He feels like he’s dreaming, and the last five years without you seem to blur.
He starts small, a text here and there; good morning and good night. Even if he’s busy he’d keep up with you, except when his work demands his focus. There are some days when you’d disappear, and Yoongi understands when you explain you’ve been in your studio for hours.
Your gallery isn’t far from his work, and as much as he could he’d go see you. He finds himself drawn to small gestures—bringing you lunch or a cup of coffee, or sometimes a sweet he thinks you might like. Each time he steps into the gallery with something for you, he feels a warmth settle in his chest.
It’s an excuse, he knows, to see you smile, to watch you light up at the thoughtfulness of it. And each time you look at him with that gentle, appreciative gaze, he feels his hope grow a little stronger.
You’d tell him all about your creative process, how you’d spin and weave what’s in your head onto a canvas. He’d listen attentively because he’s interested and he owes it to you. All those nights spent burning the midnight oil, steeping in his frustrations; you were there. You’d listen to him rant and cry when things weren’t working out the way he wanted.
He owed you much more than that.
He feels like he has to learn you all over again, which, in a sense, he does. Even if the bases of you are the same, there’s new facets. Little shards that fit into the mirror that reflects you, some pieces are a little dusty and worn with time and others are new and shiny. Yoongi has to take his time cleaning the old ones to see them again, and get used to the new ones that twinkle his eyes.
He invites you to his place for dinner, something simple and easy, and the conversation flows a lot better than it had a month before.
There’s no awkward sentences that cut off somewhere in the middle. Yoongi knows what to do with his hands and he has a better time looking you in the eye now. He feels a lot like he did back then, like a school boy taking his crush to meet his parents. His hands are a little sweaty, but the food is good and your eyes sparkle like they did back then, too.
You seem so sure, like you’re not worried one bit. Like you knew you’d meet him again and you’d be here in this moment; sipping on white wine – something new he’s learned – and chucking over stories set in the past.
The day he let a pet name slip was the day Yoongi wished a chasm would open up and swallow him. He had his excuse ready; the clock’s pushing one in the morning; he’s tired. The truth? It’s so easy to slip back into old ways, like nothing changed at all.
Like a smouldering fire in a hearth. It’s not quite out yet, and if you throw some sticks in there, they’ll catch.
After a while, on some sunny evening, Yoongi invited you to his studio.
“This is where I spend most of my time.” And he means that, letting you into his studio. There’s a blanket tossed haphazardly on the black couch that lines the wall near the door.
There’s day old take away coffee cups that never made it to the bin, cluttered in a designated spot. The bin he meant to empty is overflowing with scraps of paper and crushed takeout containers. That’s as far as the clutter goes. Though, Yoongi’s embarrassed now – he prides himself on keeping tidy. He wasn’t thinking when he asked you over, didn’t expect you to agree either.
So now he’s clearing up his desk and tying a knot on the waste bag. You make yourself comfortable on his couch like you’ve been there before, throwing the blanket over your lap as your eyes dart about to take everything in.
You’re impressed, he could tell by the gleam in your eyes and your little down turned smile. He’s come a long way from his old computer and MIDI.
“Its nice, cosy. Beats camping out in your bedroom.” You smile and Yoongi chuckles, nodding.
“Damn right.” He agrees, but he wouldn’t trade in those days for anything. Truthfully, he’s been here for three days, only going home to shower. Inspiration on an all time high and he’s just been riding the wave, you’ve been his muse for the past month. It isn’t the first time, at moments over the years gone you’d float into his mind like a mirage, and he’d get stuck on you.
He’s grateful for the break, though, there’s nothing much to do and he doesn’t want to bore you with rambling about what he’s working on. So he orders something, and lets a movie play on his laptop.
The clock ticks softly in the corner, its sound nearly drowned out by the hum of the desk lamp — he should really get that replaced. You’re still curled up on his couch despite the hour, the blanket pooled around your legs, your eyes scanning a painting on the wall he doesn’t remember hanging.
“It’s peaceful here,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, like you’re speaking directly to the heart of the room—and to him.
Yoongi glances up from the cluttered desk he’d been half-heartedly straightening; resorting his things because he can’t sit still. He watches the way you seem to belong in his space, your presence settling into the corners he never realized were empty. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You think so?” he asks, moving to lean against the edge of the desk. He crosses his arms, the soft light from the lamp catching on the fine lines of his face. “I always thought it was too chaotic.”
You turn your head, your gaze locking onto his. “Chaos can be beautiful. It just takes the right eyes to see it.”
The words settle between you, their weight both gentle and profound. Yoongi feels something inside him shift—a small piece of armour finally cracking and falling away.
He takes a step toward you, his hands slipping into his pockets, his expression tentative. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
You sit up a little straighter, tilting your head. “What is it?”
“Would you…” He hesitates, his fingers brushing against the edge of a USB drive in his pocket—the same drive that holds the tracks he’s been working on for weeks. “Would you let me write something for you? About you?”
Your surprise shows in the slight widening of your eyes, followed quickly by a soft, warm smile. “You already do that, don’t you?”
Yoongi chuckles under his breath, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “Maybe,” he admits, with a small smile that meant more than he could say. “But this time, I want you to know it’s for you. No hiding it in metaphors or beats no one else understands. Just…you.”
You rise from the couch, the blanket slipping to the side as you close the small distance between you. Standing so close, Yoongi count all the things that make you you.
“Okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing against his. “But only if you let me paint something for you, too.”
Yoongi takes your hand because he wants to, and his fingers make home in the spaces between yours. It feels like déjà vu and an epiphany all at once: five years ago you were this close and he was saying goodbye. His gloves had holes. Today...he’s saying hello again, and it feels like no time had gone by. And he kisses you now because he didn’t kiss you then, and you sigh into it like you’ve been waiting a lifetime.
Some people say that soulmates are made of the same star, apart of each other, one in the same. Stars don’t live forever, Yoongi found, but they do burn forever.
Tagging: @hoseoksluna @xpeachesncream @amon-rei @allhobbitstoisengard @euphoricfilter @madbutgloriouspond
#Persphonesorchid#Fic: Echoes of nebula#Min Yoongi#Yoongi x reader#exes to lovers#bts x reader#bts fanfiction#bts fanfic#bts suga#suga x reader#agust d#agust d x reader#min yoongi x reader#yoongi x you#yoongi x reader#bts#bts fic recs#bts fic rec#yoongi fluff#yoongi angst#suga fluff#suga angst#AHHHH I LOVE THESE TWO 😭
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Noldor Hair Headcanons (3/4)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3
Some lighter Kidnap Fam content, after the downhill freefall that was the last chapter. With a dash of Finrod in Valinor.
Elrond and Elros have never had their hair braided when they end up with Maedhros and Maglor.
They don’t realize what they’re asking when Elros grabs a hairbrush and puts it in Maglor’s hand.
Maglor understands that, but decides that the twins need parental care, even though he has no right. He brushes their hair and leaves it loose at first.
But the twins have watched Maglor braid Maedhros’s hair and they soon start asking for more interesting hairstyles.
Eventually Maglor explains to them that it can only be done by family.
The twins have a whole silent conversation.
“What does it take to be family?” Elros asks eventually.
Well, braiding an unrelated child’s hair is pretty close to informal adoption.
Elros forces the brush into Maglor’s hand again.
Maglor stares.
Elrond shakes his head and runs out.
Of course, Elrond must hate them. He has every right. Sure, Elros has started to warm up to them, but that’s just because he’s affection-starved, probably. They’re still kidnappers.
Maglor is about to put down the brush and try to refuse when Elrond comes back.
He’s holding a second hairbrush.
He hands it to Maedhros expectantly.
Maedhros cries.
Maglor cries.
The twins’ hair really doesn’t hold braids very well, and they’re still kids who run around and play, but damn them if Maglor and Maedhros aren’t going to do their best.
Now all of their people can see that the twins are well-loved.
Maedhros and Maglor also proudly sport a few clumsy, wonky braids each.
They’re less wonky with time, and eventually the twins are doing their fathers’ (kidnappers’) hair as often as not.
Finrod is reembodied shortly before Eärendil and Elwing gets to Valinor. It’s too early and he’s Not Doing Well. While in Middle Earth, he was the one who let basically every one of his friends braid his hair, now he can’t stand the thought of someone touching him that way.
But Beleriandic battle braids feel wrong in Tirion. And he’s desperately trying to reckon with his trauma, with Sauron defeating him by singing about the kinslaying, so he can’t leave his hair loose like the Teleri.
And he can’t quite get the sight of Edrahil’s bloody braids spat out by a werewolf out of his head.
He wears nothing but the very strange-looking (to Amanyar) Mourning Braids he designed after Dagor Bragollach for a couple of years.
Then after an episode of really bad depression and nearly fading, he cuts his hair short.
No-braiding-possible kind of short.
While not unheard of in Beleriand (sometimes former thralls keep their hair very short, like Rog), it’s unthinkable in Valinor, especially for the Crown Prince of the Noldor.
He is stared at a lot, his reputation goes down the drain, but to Finrod it’s liberating.
He does let his hair grow out again eventually, but only when other Exiles start coming back and choose to keep the Beleriandic braid styles, and it becomes a fashion statement rather than a mark of shame.
Finarfin is Very Shocked arriving in Beleriand when he finds his (single remaining) child with her hair loose and everyone else with weird self-braided battle hairstyles.
After a battle or three where he ends up with his hair matted with blood and mud, he caves and gets Galadriel to give him battle braids.
By the end of the war he’s even learned to do them himself! Let it not be said that King Arafinwë Ñoldóran didn’t rise to his calling.
The night before sending the Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad, Maedhros and Maglor undo all of their braids. Everyone cries.
Maedhros and Maglor meant this to minimize the ‘taint’ their names would put on the twins, by making it look like they were still hostages to the end, but the twins stop on the way to do each other’s hair because one does not meet a king with their hair loose, they have manners (which the Fëanorians taught them, so they’re Very Specific Manners), so the effect is lost. Gil-galad has Questions. The twins refuse to lie.
Then, before going to steal the Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor do each other’s hair, in a style of their father’s that they haven’t worn since the Oath.
Maglor braids a single golden ribbon into Maedhros’s hair.
They have very few pieces of hair jewellery left of their brothers’, but they use all of them.
They both know it’s the last time.
To be continued
I did some sketches for visual reference of a few of the hairstyles mentioned here, if you want to see what I'm imagining!
#noldor hair headcanons#if i am to braid my mystic crown#noldor#maedhros#maglor#elrond#elros#finrod#kidnap fam#silmarillion#silm fic#tolkien#tolkien fanfiction#echo's fanfiction
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crosshair drabble cause that man has taken over my thoughts
- crosshair is the type of guy to literally act like your bodyguard. you wanna go on a mission by yourself? funny.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He picks up his helmet, “That’s nice. I’ll meet you on the ship.”
- will absolutely pick you up and throw you over his shoulder whenever you give him attitude.
“roll your eyes again, pretty.”
so you did. the two of you had gotten a little agitated with each other on this particular mission.
he sighs and flicks his toothpick to the ground.
you see his hands reach for your waist, “what are you-“, you cut off with a yelp as he throws you over his shoulder.
“I’ll put you down when you’re done with that attitude.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
he pats the area behind your knee, “how touching.”
- LOVES to pull you into a random alcove of the marauder and kiss you like the ship is going down. any minute he can get alone with you is a blessing. idc what anyone says, this man is a gentle kisser. the kind to put his hand on the back of your head to keep you in place UGH!!!
#star wars#bad batch#the bad batch#bad batch fic#bad batch fanfic#star wars fic#star wars fanfiction#crosshair tbb#tbb#tech tbb#echo tbb#tbb hunter#tbb tech#tbb crosshair#crosshair bad batch#crosshair x reader#bad batch crosshair#crosshair x you#crosshair fanfiction#crosshair fluff#clone wars#clone troopers#clone force 99#bad batch x reader#bad batch x you#hope this hasnt been done before#the bad batch crosshair#fanfiction#drabble#star wars drabble
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| Programming |
A comic? From me? Magic.
Honestly, this idea has been plaguing me for a while, so I decided to just sit down and draw it. Please excuse this quality, my Procreate crashed trying to finish this so it has had to be coloured slightly differently than how I wanted.
I feel like Echo would have been so against leaving Crosshair, especially after they found out about the chips.
Also, did anyone tell him that they couldn’t confirm he was the Algorithm? Like, Rex knew and when Echo gets out of it, he thanks him for coming back, but like, the rest weren’t there to rescue him. Their mission was to shut it down, it just happened to be him.
Before anyone comments on the armour not being correct, translating it into a comic is hard, and I always draw Echo with Fives vambrace so that’s why it’s not his official set. Honestly, I just loved making this (insert me screaming at my iPad while it crashed multiple times) so maybe I should live up to my namesake and make more comics. (I have lots of joke ones in the works, I mean like proper ones like this.)
Anyway, sorry for ranting, the issues making this has frustrated me.
Hope you enjoyed
#star wars#the bad batch#tbb echo#arc trooper echo#tbb fanart#tbb fanfiction#fanart#tbb crosshair#order 66#tcw fanart#star wars tcw#tcw#tbb tech
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As the conspiracy reaches its finale, the Void Hunter joins the fight.
Uncover the Conspiracy in Zenless Zone Zero's All-New Version "A Storm of Falling Stars", S-Rank Agent Hoshimi Miyabi is here! With S-Rank Agent Asaba Harumasa Limited-Time Giveaway! Pre-register to obtain additional rewards.
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Echo's promise
#murder drones#md: echo#murder drones: echo#echo#my art#md au#murder drones oc#murder drones au#murder drones fanart#murder drones art#md fandom#md oc#md art#procreate#artwork#illustration#artists on tumblr#synemy#murder drones fanfiction#md fanfiction#my writing#drone#absolute solver
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𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢
↳ 𝐂𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐀 𝐭𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬
Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC
Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.
A/N: This chapter is a little event-heavy at parts, I hope it's not boring, but all is essential to the plot. <3
Word count: 4,9k
Masterlist | Previous chapter
There would be a supper.
The whole family united once again at the Red Keep, Viserys had said; had wished.
You, along with Helaena, Baela, and Rhaena decided to get ready together. Helaena had been a good friend to you during your stay at the Keep when you were younger, and she, unlike Aemond, had been overjoyed with your return; welcoming you with a tight hug and wide smile.
Now, you stood before the tall mirror in the princess' private quarters, slowly twirling in your heels as you held the fabric of the black and gold dress she'd given you.
"Oh, you look divine, it suits you brilliantly," Helaena exclaimed, softly clapping her hands together. She came to stand behind you, clasping a golden necklace around your neck. A finishing touch, as she'd said earlier.
"Are you sure?" You asked timidly, glancing between Helaena and your sisters who sat on her bed waiting for you.
Baela nodded, a smirk stretching her lips, "It's beautiful, sister, dare I say that perhaps you should indulge in gowns and dresses more often." Her tone was playful, she knew you better than that already.
You scoffed halfheartedly, looking down at yourself and the rich dress you wore—intricate golden details were sewn into the dark fabric, the skirt wasn't bulky but it was long enough to prompt you to take care of where you'd be stepping. "I can only imagine trying to ride with something like this."
"Maybe if you spent less time on dragonback and more time being a proper lady you wouldn't have to wonder," Baela teased, raising a brow at you and holding back a chuckle.
Your cheeks warmed up, it was true that more often than not you favored the company of your dragon over other people; finding an easeness to being yourself when her fiery gaze held nothing but devotion for you. Yet you narrowed your eyes at your sister, "And you set a fine example, do you, sister?"
Baela simply shrugged, falling into a fit of giggles shortly after. You, Helaena, and Rhaena couldn't help but join in, as the last rays of sunlight seeped through the thin curtains.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
The arrangements for the supper started being made as soon as the sun vanished on the horizon, a large table set with the finest of feasts, illuminated by several candlelights and torches as the maids brought forth tray after tray of fruits, meat, bread, and wine. A small group of musicians even stood at one corner of the room to provide entertainment.
As the King wished, the whole family was indeed present. You and the girls were the last to walk in before Viserys arrived. Baela and Rhaena kept on towards their seats beside Jace and Luke respectively, while you hung back when Helaena tugged at your hand.
You turned to the Princess then, taking hold of her other hand as well. From the corner of your eyes, past the table and the figure of Aegon, you caught a glance of Aemond; his brother spoke with him but he didn't appear to be listening as his eye met yours. He looked at you rather unabashedly, a barely there smile hinting at the corner of his lips as he gave you a curt nod in greeting.
"Tell me you'll be staying."
Halaena's voice captured your attention again before you could react to Aemond, and your gaze fell back onto her.
She squeezed your hands, "For a while, at least," she smiled, a little shy but genuine, "I could use the company."
"I-" You hesitated, unsure if it was even up to you to decide. You settled for giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile in turn, "I can certainly try to."
It seemed to be enough to lift her spirits, as she let go of your hands to walk toward her seat at one side of the large table, while you headed for the other, closer to your father.
Viserys finally arrived, his chair being carried by four guards as it would be too much effort for him to walk. Everyone stood up, out of respect for their King, father, grandsire, and uncle. The silence was held in the warmly lit room until he was in place beside Queen Alicent.
One of the nearby guards pulled a chair out for you when everyone sat down again and you thanked him with a nod and a smile. You were sitting at one end of the table, just beside Rhaenyra and your father, and Aemond happened to sit at the opposite end, looking directly in your direction.
You refrained from meeting his stare again, part of you could feel the tension lying heavily in the air and, amidst so many other people, you found it best to ignore and avoid questioning and curious glances. Instead, you noticed Rhaenyra looking at you, one hand resting atop her pregnant belly and the other holding her chalice of wine, a gentle smile on her features. "You look lovely, darling."
Glancing down at your hands in timidness, you mimicked her smile; "Thank you, you do as well."
Much like Laena before her, Rhaenyra had always been kind to you. When Rhaenys had taken Baela to ward on Driftmark, Rhaenyra had subconsciously done the same to you, she'd treated and educated you as her own; While Daemon taught you how to handle a sword, she'd shown you everything she'd learned as a young princess at the royal court, as well as lessons in High Valyrian—which you caught on pretty quickly and had the time of your life rubbing on Jace's face, dropping random lines in the old language only to watch him roll his eyes halfheartedly.
Daemon would usually try to hide a smile whenever he caught you and Rhaenyra together, just as he is now.
"How good it is, to see you all tonight," Viserys spoke slowly, his voice tired and taking much effort off him, drawing everyone's attention, "Together."
Alicent suggested a prayer before eating, and so you drew your hands together atop the table and closed your eyes. While she spoke you felt the familiar weight of Aemond's gaze on you; the waters were still murky between you and him, and despite having already exchanged a few words, you still didn't have a single clue of where you stood with each other. Things still felt… strange and out of place, the invisible wall dividing you stood ever so high.
Viserys then proceeded to raise a toast to both Jace and Luke, and their betrothed Baela and Rhaena; with a special mention to Luke being the future Lord of the Tides.
You raised your cup along with everyone else, a small smile hanging on your lips as you inclined it towards Luke before taking a sip; stealing a smile from the young boy in return.
With a tap of his cane on the floor, the King stood up from his seat, albeit with slow and unsteady movements as his body barely supported his weight anymore. "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table," Viserys spoke, taking a steadying breath between each word as he looked around at every member of his family. "The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."
At the other end of the table, Aemond's heart bled at the last of his father's words. He clenched his jaw, eye remaining downcast, and observed the gentle flickering of the candlelights atop the table. He refused to look up again as he knew he'd get trapped by how the golden light of the fires highlighted the outlines of your face, as you offered that kind smile of yours ever so freely to the very people who'd once hurt him.
The one-eyed prince wanted to be angry at you, to say he didn't care whether you now favored Rhaenyra's bastards over him. But a more stinging feeling decided to take hold of his heart, and he felt bitter and hurt with envy… and longing.
Viserys then removed his golden half-mask, exposing his decaying face. "My own face… is no longer a handsome one," he jested with a bittersweet grin, "If indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am." The King gestured at himself, his voice holding as much conviction as he could muster, "Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you."
The room held the silence for a moment, everyone feeling the grim reality hang heavy in the air. Aemond chanced a glance up then, only to find your eyes already on him. The prince gulped, closing his hand into a fist as he held your gaze; gentle, welcoming, caring. For someone who had abandoned him, you still insisted on looking at him with unbridled sympathy.
"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," The King insisted, "The crown cannot stay strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. My firstborn, Rhaenyra, will assume the throne once I'm gone, and I wish her rule to be as peaceful as mine. With her family stood by her side." Viserys weakly hit the table to accentuate his point, looking around himself as everyone remained quiet yet with attention trained on him.
"So set aside your grievances." Around the table people from both sides of the family looked at each other, the unspoken tension still present, anyone would be able to see it. "If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man... Who loves you all, so dearly." Viserys finished at last, falling back onto his chair as the exertion of speaking took its toll.
Rhaenyra was the first to raise her cup, in a toast to Queen Alicent, who in turn, raised her own cup to the Princess. Both seemingly rather committed to acquiescing to the King's wishes for peace and unison.
Their sons, however, had diverging ideas.
Aegon had been having quite the fun teasing Jace about his new betrothal, and you nearly choked on your wine when the Velaryon boy suddenly slammed his fists on the table, standing up. You glared at him as you set down your chalice, even if he wasn't looking at you.
At the other end of the table, Aemond slowly got up from his chair as well, keeping quiet yet with a narrowed, nearly taunting eye. You brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, entirely fed up with the boys' antics.
With a tight smile and a voice bordering on sarcastic, Jace raised his cup; "To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, we have not seen each other in years," he glanced in your direction for a moment, yet you couldn't read what his look meant, "But I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we can yet be friends and allies. To you and your families good health, dear uncles." Bringing his cup to his lips, Jace finished his toast with a teasing grin.
You played along, bringing your chalice back to your lips as well to hide a chuckle. Eyes ahead, you held Aemond's gaze while you took a slow sip, watching as he settled back in his chair. Candlelight burned within his pupil, there was a barely there sway to his lips as he took a sip of his drink as well.
"I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena," Helaena started, getting up and holding her cup as she turned to your corner of the table. "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you," she spoke, tone soft despite the lamentable words, "Except sometimes when he's drunk."
You shot her a sympathetic smile when she finished, and when she saw you, Helaena quickly added; "And to my good friend," she spoke your name with fondness, "Whom I've missed dearly, and hope to share more days together, before she leaves again."
"I hope so too," you mouthed to her with an even bigger smile, raising your cup high before bringing it to your lips again. The wine burned down your throat in a mix of bitter and sweet, and you turned to Aemond out of instinct, only to find him pointedly avoiding your eyes this time around; his head angled away from you and towards the band at the corner, his blind side now turned to you, eyepatch over the scar that brought telltales of a tightness to your throat and made you gulp down another sip of wine.
A cheerful melody began as the musicians played their instruments. At last, supper proceeded without interruptions; Jace invited Helaena for a dance, many more food trays were brought forth, and your family was happy, laughing and talking and being together as if this had been your normal for the past several years.
Yet for you, there was a gaping wound that was Aemond's absence, a doleful sentiment in your heart at the clear distance that still lingered. He still refused to look in your direction, instead keeping his eye focused on Jace and Helaena as they swirled together. You watched his fingers tap the table rhythmically, posture ever so straight with his hair falling neatly over his shoulders. It felt wrong to be at the Keep and not have him by your side.
You were in the middle of pushing food around your plate with your fork when you heard Luke quietly chuckling beside you; once, twice, and a little louder. The boy had what seemed to be a rather mocking smile on his lips as you glanced at him, with your brows furrowed in mild confusion.
Aemond abruptly slammed his fist on the table, causing you to startle and snap your head forward. The music stopped, and the one-eyed Prince raised to his feet, holding his cup high. "Final tribute," he spoke rather calmly.
Silence lingered in the room, and you could feel tension and apprehension coming back into the air as everyone waited with bathed breath. You glanced around yourself, sitting straighter, but ultimately your attention landed back on Aemond.
He held your gaze for a moment, and he had a smug tilt to his lips but the glint in his eye you couldn't decipher. "To the health of my nephews," Aemond continued steadily, "Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…"
There was a pause. With trouble a wrong word away, you knew. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head to Aemond almost imperceptively. He looked away from you then, focusing instead on Luke, who sat beside you.
The one-eyed Prince hummed, and grinned. "… Strong."
"Fuck," you cursed under your breath, feeling the weight in the air pressing down on your chest.
"Come," Aemond chipped, his smile widening and cup still raised high. "Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys."
"I dare you to say that again." Jace challenged in the same heartbeat, having stopped his dance with Helaena, his chin raised high and fists already clenched.
"Why?" Aemond turned to him, standing just as tall, "It was only a compliment." He walked towards the older Velaryon boy, a cocky stance and self-satisfied grin betraying his words. "Do you not think yourself strong?"
Aemond had barely said the rest of his words when Jace's fist collided with his cheek in a firm punch, forcing the Prince's head roughly to one side, his long hair flying with the motion yet none of his wine was spilled.
And so the brewing tension tipped over the edge.
Both you and Luke abruptly raised from your seats, chairs loudly scratching the floors. Luke barely managed to take a single step before Aegon unceremoniously pushed him face down onto the table, plates clattering with the disturbance.
Someone screamed; "That is enough!" Yet you couldn't really figure out who, as you hurriedly rounded the table. Why, you weren't exactly sure, but your heart was pounding.
Aemond easily shoved Jace to the ground, turning away with a chuckle falling past his lips as the guards proceeded to hold Jace from fighting back.
Everyone was standing up from their seats, some faster than others. Your father had a bored look on his features while Alicent and Rhaenyra seemed quite alarmed with the small fight unfolding amidst their family yet again, right after the King had begged for peace.
You stood frozen to the stone floor, breath hitching until there was a distant sting in your lungs. You couldn't help but think if both sides of the family were fated to be forever apart. And if you and Aemond were to share the same destiny.
"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother," Aemond explained without an ounce of shame when Alicent grasped at his arm—as mothers do with misbehaving children, you couldn't help but think.
A low hum fell past Aemond's lips again and he pried his arm free from Alicent's hold, in favor of taking a few steps closer to Jace, bordering on provocative; "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."
Jace shook himself free from the guards who had been holding him back. He dashed for Aemond with reckless abandon, a furious expression on his features.
And you… suddenly all you saw was your best friend, blood on his lips and face held together by fresh stitches—doomed with a fate you'd die before allowing to happen again. There was a flame pulsing through your veins, it spurred your feet forward before you even had time to think.
You reached Aemond at the same time Jace did, and you came to a stop between them, one hand flat against Jace's chest, keeping him in place. You stood between them, unafraid, with a fury in your eyes—the same one people kept saying you'd taken after your father.
Seconds of silence trickled by ever so slowly, like drops of the thickest blood. Everyone's eyes were on you yet for the first time you paid no mind to it, narrowing your eyes and glaring through your lashes, you held your ground. Jace clenched his jaw and huffed through his nose, his eyes a mix of confusion and anger.
You could feel Aemond's stare on your back as well, yet you couldn't have a single clue what he was thinking, you only knew it was heavy and insistent. You couldn't know how the one-eyed Prince's heart started thundering inside his ribcage; or how any and all thoughts of striking up trouble had vanished like smoke in the wind when you stepped in front of him, when yours was the hand that stopped the Velaryon boy from attempting to harm him.
"That is enough, Jace," You spoke with a finality that left no room for argument or challenge, leveling Jace down with a step forward, which forced him to take one back and away from Aemond. "We are here to make amends, not make things worse." Lowering your voice, you tried reasoning.
Jace scoffed indignantly at you, he seemed to have other words on his tongue but decided to bite them back. Instead looking at you with a scowl on his face; "You tell him that", he nodded toward Aemond, who stood behind you with a small yet proud smile.
"Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now," Rhaenyra finally intervened as she and Daemon approached you, shifting a warning glare between Jace and Luke.
The young Princes hesitated, the oldest still holding a staring contest with Aemond. Yet when you refused to move aside he relented to his mother's orders and followed his brother, as well as Baela and Rhaena, to their quarters.
A shaky exhale passed through your lips when, slowly, the adrenaline left your body. Your shoulders slumped and you closed your eyes briefly, hearing nothing but the crackling of the burning torches on the walls and a few distant steps as your family left the room—supper most certainly over now, even if half the meals on the table were barely touched.
Aemond's presence was warm and persistent behind you; you could feel how he had come closer, breath almost fanning over your neck, but you didn't dare turn around. Instead raising your eyes to meet your father's gaze.
Daemon had both hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He regarded you with amusement, if nothing else. One corner of his lips turned upwards. You watched as his gaze drifted up and behind you, his expression hardening the slightest bit in what looked a lot like a warning, before he too slowly turned around and left the room.
You couldn't know if your father's silence meant something good or bad, but right now you couldn't dwell on it. Aemond took a step around you at last, his eye remaining downcast, yet a shiver ran up and down your spine when, as he walked past you, his hand brushed yours.
You kept your eyes trained on him as he slowly walked away, turning right and taking the path to a secluded hallway. After a few seconds of debating, you followed.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
Aemond's steps were not hurried, moonlight coming through the tall windows of the lone hallway created a silhouette of his shadow as he wandered. Waiting for something, someone. With hands loosely held behind his back and silver hair almost shining under the soft light, he seemed… serene.
Yet the Prince was anything but, his eye was hazy and unfocused whilst his mind drifted. It had taken him off-guard, how you stood between him and Jacaerys, one hand firmly holding the bastard back; and if Aemond didn't know better, he'd dare say there had been a protective aura to your presence then, undeniable and unwavering, as you shielded him—the mere thought of it left Aemond lightheaded as his heart picked up pace, and he decided it'd perhaps be too dangerous to indulge.
But you had taken his side, nonetheless. Against his own volition, Aemond found himself smiling.
"Had you been looking for opportunities to ruin supper?"
The familiar sound of the one voice Aemond had missed so dearly, for so many years, made him halt his steps. He kept his back to you, only turning his head to glance over his shoulder. He hummed, keeping his voice steady and neutral. "I don't know what you speak of, my words were innocent and true."
The low sound of your chuckle graced Aemond's ears, and he held onto his breath as you came closer. His eye tracked your movements, you circled him with your gaze down and the light of the moon shaping your grin, until you reached the stone walls beside him and leaned back in front of the tall windows.
Caught in your orbit, Aemond was drawn to you, taking one and then two steps after you; he stood before the moonlight and before you. He kept his distance yet never strayed far, trapped between two halves of his heart; one naive and bleeding with longing, and the other broken and still abandoned.
"Oh," You breathed, a glimpse of your teeth showing with your grin, the apples of your cheeks highlighted by the silver haze of the moon. "As innocent as a maiden."
"The night had been much too dull for my tastes, my lady. Wouldn't you agree?" Aemond raised a brow at you, fighting a grin of his own.
"Perhaps I would, had you not taken away my chance of toasting you and your remarkable sense of decorum." The smile on your lips gets a little loose having Aemond so close again, "Or lack thereof," you teased; he seemed oblivious to the warmth you felt.
Aemond clicked his tongue, glancing away and then back at you, "Shall I grab us two cups of wine then? Aegon tells me I should drink more anyway." If the light of the moon weren't so silver and bright, you would've seen the pink dusting his cheeks ever so lightly.
Another chuckle escaped you and Aemond almost joined you. And for a small moment in time, it was easy. For a moment, you were both eleven again, young and carefree and laughing together. Always together.
But the cold wind of reality seeped through the open windows.
"Se dārys eptan syt lyks," You spoke, becoming quieter and more careful as your smile dropped a little and your gaze raised in hopes of finding his. ('The King wishes for peace.')
Aemond pursed his lips, blinking once, twice, and you wondered if he felt it too. He took you in with a guarded stare, hesitating, until; "iksis bona skoro syt ao iōrtan rȳ nyke se nādrēsy?" His voice was tight yet devoid of much sentiment. ('Is that why you stepped between me and the bastard?')
You lowered your head with a sigh, avoiding his eye again and focusing instead on the ends of his long hair and how the silver strands contrasted with his Targaryen blacks. "Don't call him that," you mumbled.
"Why?" Aemond inquired in the same heartbeat, a little louder and urgent, "Because you've grown so fond of them over the years you've-" He choked on his own words, unable to speak them out loud as he felt the heartache inside his chest and around his throat eat him alive.
"Aemond." And oh, the sound of his name in your voice could make him crumble. You spoke it all soft and tender, and Aemond didn't know his name could be uttered with such devotion. You spoke as if you cared, as if you had never left. It felt like a cruel kiss over his gaping wounds.
You pushed yourself off the wall you were leaning against, one hand slowly wanting to reach for him. "I could never forgive them for what they did to you, but they are… family now."
But Aemond took a step away, straightening his posture and clearing his throat. The one-eyed Prince strived to keep his face devoid of any emotion, even if it was nearly impossible as a sharp pain started from the depths of his skull and eventually surrounded his scar—he knew a pounding headache would soon follow too, as it always did.
"Why did you do it?" Aemond mumbled, voice stiff.
You regarded him with an unreadable look for several moments, and then; "I don't know." You spoke in an almost unheard breath.
It felt as if a dragon stood in the lone hallway with you, threatening to burn both you and him; the heat of its flames looming in the corners since the first time you saw each other again. With your heart in your mouth, you asked what perhaps both of you had been avoiding until now.
"You stopped sending me letters, why?"
It caught him off guard, you saw it in the way Aemond turned his head from you with a grimace, his jaw tight. "It became pointless... after such a long time. Did it not?" He looked at you again only after he spoke, there was something accusatory in his eye; or that's what he wanted you to see.
You mulled over the words, and something akin to boldness—or desperation—urged you to take a step closer to him. "Aemond, our time apart," your lips hung open and you fidgeted with the fabric of your dress, "I never meant for it. It was never my intention to stay away for so long." You promised, looking Aemond in the eye after seven years of only ever seeing him in your memories and dreams.
Aemond's face did something complicated, like he was sorting through how he should feel about this. His brows scrunched and you could hear his breath catching as he stood unmoving.
"My father… he thought it best that I didn't leave Dragonstone on my own." You ran your tongue over your dry lips, "And I… didn't fight him." The last of your words were spoken with a defeated sigh, loaded with regret.
"I could have gone to you," Aemond uttered, almost whimpered. The corner of his lips raised in a half smile that held nothing but pain as his eye pooled with unshed tears that blurred your silhouette. "Had you only asked."
Both of you hung by a thread under the weight of how much you'd missed each other, how much you wished for nothing more than to fall into a forever embrace; and yet, none of you felt entitled to it. You were finally within arm's length of each other again, yet it felt like you'd never been further apart.
"Perhaps I should have," you whispered to him, and it felt a lot like a loss, of something you'd only just found again.
For a moment you and Aemond held each other's gazes, both filled with tears of sorrow and longing; and even so, both reaching the mutual agreement that something had been lost.
Time.
The time lost couldn't be returned, the distance still lingered, and rebuilding would take time and care.
Aemond still believed you'd stopped caring for him, sometime during those seven years. An evil part of his heart sometimes whispered to him that you never did care, that you were like the others, and he feared that perhaps the only friend he knew wasn't even his to lose.
And you now believed that Aemond held only resentment toward you, that your connection had been forever stained; and you couldn't help but feel guilty for it, for not fighting harder to come back to him.
If only you and he knew the depth of the love you still felt for each other, things would be ever simpler.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚
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