#emergency protocol lockdown

[altarisgroup]

Lockdown protocols for schools

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[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”

Bat boys x reader:Giving birth unexpectedly!

This is a filler headcannon. I will post works next week hopefully.This is inspired by the way i had my son;In our car in a campsite😭😭.wrote this while my partner and son are asleep (Finally.)💛Enjoy!!

Bruce Wayne –

Gives birth in the Batcave during a lockdown

• Bruce has contingency plans for everything. Protocols. Staff. Medical equipment. Even a direct line to the best OB-GYN in Gotham, complete with a private hospital suite prepped and waiting.

• So when you go into labor two weeks early during a surprise cave lockdown triggered by a bio-threat alert, Bruce realizes just how little plans mean in the face of reality.

• “Of all the days to trip the emergency security seal…” he mutters while trying to override the system that locked down the Batcave.

• You’re pacing in the command center, gripping his arm mid-contraction, and Bruce—THE Batman—is rattled. Not visibly. But his jaw is tighter than steel, and his voice keeps lowering into that clipped, deadly tone.

• “The ventilation systems are sealed. Medical wing is sterile. We’ll stay here.”

• He clears the armory’s examination table, then covers it with sanitized cloth from the medkit. Everything becomes clinical—measured.

• But then you cry out in pain and fear, and that cold steel in his voice breaks just slightly. “I’m here. You’re safe. I promise you—you’re safe.”

• He’s no doctor, but his hands are steady. He follows the steps like a soldier disarming a bomb, all while keeping your eyes locked with his.

• When the baby finally comes, Bruce catches them with reverence and holds them for a moment before laying them on your chest. “Hello,” he whispers, as if stunned. “You’re early. Just like your father.”

• Once the lockdown ends, Alfred is the first to arrive. He says nothing when he sees the scene—just places a blanket over your shoulders and smiles at Bruce. “Master Wayne, it appears your most impressive legacy has just begun.”

⸻

Jason Todd –

Gives birth in a remote mountain cabin during a snowstorm

• You and Jason were supposed to be taking a quiet getaway in the mountains—no crime, no city noise, just peace.

• But a snowstorm traps you both in the cabin, and you go into labor with no service, no landline, and no neighbors for miles.

• Jason tries to stay calm, but his hands keep flexing like he wants to punch the storm into submission. “You’d think after all the crap I’ve survived, I’d get one weekend off,” he growls while boiling water on the stove and digging out the first aid kit.

• The fireplace crackles as he builds a makeshift birthing space with every warm blanket he can find. He holds you through the worst of the contractions, whispering calming reassurances that are so unlike the man most people know.

• “You’re not alone. Not for a second. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”

• You scream through it. Cry. Curse. And Jason stays right there, steady and strong, letting you dig your nails into him without complaint.

• When the baby comes, he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you reach up and brush his cheek.

• “They’re perfect,” you whisper.

• Jason looks down at the tiny, red-faced bundle and chuckles—half disbelief, half raw emotion. “You know… I’ve cheated death, escaped hell….but this is the scariest, most incredible thing I’ve ever done.”

• The storm finally ends the next morning. Jason steps out onto the porch with the baby swaddled to his chest, looking out over the snowy mountains and whispering, “No better place to start over.”

⸻

Tim Drake –

Gives birth in the WayneTech server room during a tech emergency

• Tim was showing you around the newly renovated WayneTech R&D floor when the unthinkable happens: a massive tech breach hits the servers, and your water breaks at the same time.

• Alarms are going off. The elevators are frozen. And you’re gripping a rack of prototype tech while Tim stares at you in utter disbelief.

• “I—uh—okay. Okay. Baby. Yes. Not now, but yes.”

• He immediately drops into triage mode. He reroutes power, uses an emergency system override to lock down the room for privacy, and hacks a medbot to assist.

• You’re lying on a pile of foam floor tiles, breathing through a contraction while surrounded by glowing server lights and the hum of computers.

• “So…this isn’t exactly the sterile birth plan,” you groan.

• “Statistically speaking, no,” he deadpans, then flashes a smile. “But the lighting’s dramatic.”

• He talks you through each contraction, quoting snippets from baby books and software manuals alike, as if he’s compiling his own parenthood operating system in real-time.

• “You’re doing amazing. I don’t know how you’re handling this with only 20% battery and no Wi-Fi.”

• You scream again. “Timothy!”

• “Right, shutting up.”

• When the baby finally arrives, he goes silent. Truly silent. No jokes. Just wide-eyed, overwhelmed wonder.

• “They’re… ours,” he whispers, staring down at this impossibly tiny human like they’re a miracle.

He wraps you both in his jacket and sits on the server room floor with the baby in his arms.

Dick Grayson –

Gives birth in a subway car

• Dick had planned everything. He mapped out the fastest hospital routes, kept emergency bags packed, and even memorized breathing techniques like he was preparing for an Olympic sport.

• But fate has a flair for drama, and on a completely normal afternoon ride through the Blüdhaven subway, your water breaks in the middle of a crowded train.

• At first, you thought it was just a Braxton-Hicks contraction. Dick was even joking about the train delays. Then you grabbed his arm and said, “Dick… I think it’s happening.”

• All the blood drains from his face. “Happening like… happening happening?”

• He immediately takes charge with a surprising level of calm—because behind the charming, goofy exterior, Dick Grayson is a born leader.

• “Alright everyone, I’m going to need some space. My partner is about to give birth. Please—back up and someone call emergency services.”

• Someone tries to film, and Dick glares. “Unless you want a lawsuit and a shattered phone, put it down.” The phone disappears instantly.

• He helps you lie down on a bench in the mostly-cleared car, cushions your head with his jacket, and holds your hand like a lifeline. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

• Between contractions, you keep asking if the train is moving. It isn’t. Power outage. Of course.

• “You had to propose to me on a rooftop, and now our baby’s coming in a subway,” you groan.

• “What can I say? We’re just a very public transit family.”

• You scream at him to stop making jokes. He doesn’t. It’s the only thing keeping him sane too.

• When the baby is finally born, the train lights flicker back on—almost poetic. Dick holds them like the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

• “Hey, little one. Welcome to Blüdhaven Underground.”

• When help finally arrives, you’re both surrounded by a circle of subway strangers who are all a little teary-eyed.

• Dick doesn’t let go of either of you for hours. “I’ve done a lot of things in tights and under pressure… but nothing as incredible as this.”

⸻

Damian Wayne aged!up

Gives birth in an art gallery during his solo exhibition

• Damian, now 26, has traded the Robin mantle for a quieter life—he’s a respected artist known for surrealist pieces that blend traditional Middle Eastern motifs with Gotham’s harsh modernity.

• You’re 8 and 1/2 months pregnant when he unveils his latest collection in a sleek, intimate art gallery downtown. The night is supposed to be a celebration of his evolution as a person and creator.

• But the gallery is warm, and crowded, and you’ve been on your feet all night admiring his pieces with other guests. That’s when you feel the sharp, unmistakable pain of labor.

• “Damian,” you whisper, grabbing his hand. He thinks you’re just tired until you add, “It’s happening. Now.”

• His whole face changes. Not panic—just immediate, tactical focus. “We need to leave. Now.”

• But the contractions are fast and furious. You’re not making it to the hospital. A horrified gallery intern runs to grab supplies, while Damian helps you to the quietest room—a stark, white-walled exhibit space filled with his paintings.

• Ironically, the piece behind you is called Rebirth.

• Damian sheds his jacket and lays it beneath you. He calls Talia first—yes, his mother. Say what you will, she knows how to keep her cool in chaos.

• “She’ll be fine,” Talia says over the phone. “Trust her. Trust yourself.”

• He gently presses his forehead to yours between contractions, speaking to you in soft Arabic—his most vulnerable, instinctual language. “You are strength. You are life.”

• He coaches you through the birth with focused determination and awe. When the baby arrives, it’s quiet for a moment… then a cry. He exhales shakily.

• The first thing he does is lay the baby on your chest, whispering reverently, “My finest creation.”

• Someone tries to enter the room, and Damian growls, “You will not disturb them.” The door shuts. Fast.

• Later, he paints a piece inspired by that night—an abstract image of you and the baby, surrounded by the negative space of a blank canvas. He titles it Origin.

• “I thought my art was complete,” he says quietly, holding your hand. “But nothing I ever make will compare to the life we just brought into this world.”

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

xavier x reader smut with no plot. one shot. minors dont interact

xavier secret moments : games

The stormy night raged outside, a furious symphony of wind and rain against the windows of Xavier’s apartment.

The city, Linkon, was under an emergency protocol – a directive for everyone to stay indoors, while Hunters like you and Xavier were on high alert, ready to deploy specialized equipment if a Wanderer dared to show its face.

Dealing with those monstrosities in a storm was a recipe for disaster, and the Hunter Association valued your safety above all else.

The first three days of the lockdown had been surprisingly smooth, not for lack of Wanderer activity, but because you and Xavier had seized the unexpected downtime for some much-needed rest – and a fair bit of naked activities in between.

Now, on the fourth day, you found yourselves utterly bored, watching the angry storm lash out.

You were nestled comfortably between Xavier’s legs, both of you freshly bathed, reveling in the softness of his hoodie and pants against your skin.

Even though your unit was just a floor below his, there was something undeniably intoxicating about being completely enveloped in his scent. He loved it, how you smell like him, while his presence is a comforting weight around you.

You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the gentle rhythm of his hand lazily caressing your belly. Every so often, he’d nuzzle the tip of his nose against your cheek, pressing a soft, affectionate kiss to your skin.

"I’m so bored," you whined softly, the words a low murmur against his shoulder.

He hummed, "Want to watch something?"

You sighed, "We've exhausted every good show on every streaming app."

He chuckled softly in agreement, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back. As you sat there, enveloped in his warmth, a wicked idea sparked in his eyes. "We should play rock-paper-scissors," he suggested, a playful glint in his gaze.

You raised an eyebrow, "That’s for kids, Xavier."

A smirk, delicious and full of unspoken promises, spread across his lips. "There’ll be a dare every time someone loses a round." His intentions were clear, a mischievous prelude to the delicious fun he planned to have with you on his bed.

You squirmed, a thrill already coursing through you, your core already a little warm at the thought. "Okay," you nodded, shifting to face him, your legs still delightfully entangled.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice a low growl, his fist already closed, held out to you. You mirrored him, your heart quickening with anticipation.

The first round went to you – your scissors triumphing over his paper.

You pointed a finger at his hoodie, a silent command for him to shed it. You couldn’t hide your disappointment when a t-shirt appeared beneath it.

He just chuckled, a deep, knowing sound, his eyes lingering on your pout. "Impatient, are we?" he murmured, tossing the hoodie to the floor.

Another victory for you, your rock crushing his scissors.

"Shirt off, mister," you declared smugly, a triumphant gleam in your eye. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, a small smile playing on his lips as his shirt joined the growing pile.

"Anything for you, love," he purred, his gaze raking over you, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Then, Xavier had a winning streak – three consecutive victories.

Now, you were down to your underwear, your hoodie, shirt, and pants scattered among his clothes. His eyes, no longer just playful, were fixed on your bare chest, your tits in full display.

"Hey, mister," you teased, playfully commanding, "my eyes are up here."

"What?" he drawled, a lazy smirk on his lips. "Can't help it, they're both staring at me. And what a view it is." His eyes devoured you, and a shiver ran down your spine.

The next round, you won.

His pants hit the floor, leaving him in just his boxers. Your gaze was glued to the huge bulge straining against the thin fabric, and you unconsciously licked your lips. A soft moan escaped your throat, barely audible.

He smirked, mirroring your earlier words.

"Hey, miss, my eyes are up here, you know?" His voice was laced with amusement, but his eyes were dark with desire, mirroring your own.

A blush crept up your neck, but you didn't deny your blatant staring.

He was gorgeous — lean and muscular, chest and abs, strong shoulders and biceps — wearing nothing but his boxers, all in display for your eyes.

And you? You weren't far behind in your panties. His gaze devoured every skin displayed for him, eyes dark and predatory, mind already imagining the things that he'd do to you.

The air between you thickened with unspoken wants.

Xavier won the next round, his paper besting your rock.

As you reached for your underwear, he stopped you, both palms extended towards your chest, his fingers making a playful squeezing motion in the air, his eyes locked on your breasts.

You rolled your eyes at his childlike eagerness, but moved forward, arching your back slightly to give him better access.

You tried to maintain your composure as his large hands cupped both of your breasts, his fingers expertly pinching and rubbing your nipples, sending shivers of arousal through you.

You gasped, a small sound that he seemed to savor.

He hummed softly, a low growl in his throat. "I can see you're getting even wetter," he teased, his voice husky, his thumbs tracing circles around your hardened nipples. "Can't hold back, can you?"

"Time's up!" you stammered, your breath catching, your body already tingling with a delicious ache.

But he won again, his scissors defeating your paper.

With a smug, handsome smirk, he gestured playfully to his hard-on, his fingers clearly indicating what he wanted.

"Your turn to make me happy," he whispered, his eyes burning into yours. You grinned back, a wicked acceptance in your eyes.

You positioned yourself between his spread legs and freed his hard cock. The tip was flushed pink, damp and leaking with precum.

You gave it a little lick, savoring his taste on your tongue. He groaned softly above you, a sound of pure pleasure. His hand settled on your head, and you began to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper, until his tip brushed the back of your throat.

Your fingers worked the rest of his shaft, which your tiny mouth couldn’t accommodate. You gave him a few delicious bobs, licks, and took him deep, relishing his soft grunts and groans, feeling his hips twitching against your face, until he finally whispered, "Okay, that's enough."

You gave his dick a final, lingering lick and kissed the tip before returning to your spot, feeling victorious even though you'd technically lost the round.

You looked up at him, a triumphant sparkle in your eyes. He just smirked, a slow, predatory grin.

But the subsequent rounds weren't in your favor.

It wasn't long before you were completely naked before your boyfriend, his gaze shifting from playful to intensely possessive.

The next round you lost earned him a finger-fuck pass at your pussy.

He hissed with pleasure as his two fingers slid into your heated wetness, feeling how eagerly you sucked them in.

"Fuck, you're wet and tight," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. He relentlessly rubbed that sensitive spot, working you over and over until you came, your fingers digging into his thigh as you stared into his hungry, dark eyes.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "Good girl," he murmured, "so responsive."

After that, the game was forgotten.

You lunged at him, craving his touch, wanting him to fuck you stupid.

He kissed you hard, hungrily, his hands squeezing your ass cheeks, spreading them apart. His mouth roamed your naked body, his lips and tongue swirling around your nipples, biting and sucking them softly, making you moan his name, a desperate plea for more.

When he was done playing, he firmly pushed you onto the bed, spreading your thighs wide before him.

Slowly, torturously, he pushed his hard length inside you, pulling your hips closer, one hand lifting your leg onto his shoulder as he kissed your ankle, thrusting deeper into you. You cried out, a raw sound of pleasure and need.

"Xavier, more," you whimpered at him.

The languid roll of his hips against yours made your eyes roll to the back of your head. He kept hitting that specific spot, his thumb relentlessly rubbing your clit until you came multiple times.

He groaned with each orgasm, his body a solid weight against yours, pushing deeper still. He changed positions, his sheets becoming slick with your sweat and juices, making you come over and over.

But then, you felt something different, something more intense… something you'd never felt before in your lower belly.

Panic flared.

You told Xavier to stop, a breathless plea, but he was too focused, too wrapped up in ecstasy, his body a taut bow of muscle. His thumb continued its relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn't stop it.

His eyes widened as your body convulsed beneath him.

He smirked, a triumphant glint in his gaze, continuing to thrust, noting the clear color of the liquid that spurted from you – definitely not piss.

He commented in victory that it was the first time he'd made you squirt, his voice thick with pride and desire, while you lay beneath him, a limp, defeated mess of ecstasy and lust, overwhelmed by the sensations he was orchestrating.

His smirk deepened, becoming even more dangerous. He leaned down, close to your ear, delivering deep, hard thrusts as he whispered, his voice a low, possessive rumble.

"Let's see how many times I could make you do that."

And oh boy, you were in a big, delicious trouble.

[jeszrosse]

bro ur wesker fic is so good i wanna eat it aaaa

🥼 “Precautionary Measures”

One-Shot part 2 | Albert Wesker x Reader | AU: Overnight Lock-in | Slow tension to heat

“Security protocols are temporary.”

He says it like a promise. But his eyes say—“I planned this.”

.

.

---

🧬 You stayed late. That was your first mistake.

Lab 3C was always freezing past sundown. The kind of cold that hummed in your molars. You should’ve left two hours ago, but your project data was finally syncing and you knew if you didn’t back it up manually, the system would eat it alive.

Besides… Wesker was still on-site.

You’d seen his shadow move behind the frosted glass of his office when you passed by earlier—tall, controlled, silhouetted in gold and blue light. The late afternoon sun had cast long beams across the corridor, catching the edge of his frame and turning him half-myth, half-monument. He rarely acknowledged you outside of debriefings, but you always felt him before you saw him.

His presence was clinical.

Like a scalpel laid neatly beside an open wound.

You hear the metallic clang of security shutters dropping—one by one.

There’d been a pause.

Not one minute later, the emergency lights flicker red. A low, stuttering whir begins to echo through the hall—the telltale warning of isolation mode—and then, without ceremony, the sirens start. Not loud. Not panicked. Just a shrill, calculated chirp every few seconds. As if the building itself were breathing slower. Sharpening its teeth.

The lab doors hiss shut behind you with a finality that rattles the glass.

LOCKDOWN PROTOCOL – UMBRELLA HIGH SECURITY ZONE. ALL ACCESS RESTRICTED.

You freeze mid-step, breath caught.

The hallway, once humming with fluorescent light and the low murmur of researchers, now pulses crimson. Shadows crawl and multiply in the corners. Every movement looks suspicious under emergency lighting—every silence louder.

You break into motion.

Your shoes tap brisk against the linoleum as you move back toward your desk—heart already thudding against your ribs. Fingers slightly trembling, you swipe your ID badge at the reader.

Nothing.

Red light.

No response.

You swipe again. Harder. Slower. Faster.

Still red.

Still nothing.

“…No, no no—come on—”

Then—

“Having trouble?”

The voice—low and measured—rolls from behind you like the drop in a symphony.

You turn.

Albert Wesker stands in front of the threshold of the lab, arms folded behind his back. Sunglasses on, as always. No lab coat. No clipboard. Just him—dressed in tactical black, gloved hands pristine, boots gleaming beneath the pulsing red lights. He looks like he stepped out of some other world entirely. One with tighter rules. Sharper consequences.

You hesitate.

“…Sir. I—uh, I think the system—there’s a malfunction—”

“There isn’t.”

That makes your heart drop.

“…Sorry?”

He approaches.

“Security initiated a precautionary lockdown. Protocol requires a full overnight reset before clearance is restored.”

“…You mean we’re stuck?**”

He inclines his head.

“Temporarily.”

Silence creeps in, unwelcome and heavy. Somewhere in the ceiling, a vent groans as the ventilation adjusts to lockdown mode. Your pulse pounds in your ears—too fast, too loud for the silence that follows his answer.

Wesker steps further into the room, his boots quiet against the tile but still deliberate—measured. You track his movement out of instinct more than choice, like a rabbit unable to look away from the wolf.

“No staff may enter or exit,” he adds, tone bordering on casual, as if quoting an instruction manual. “Until 0600 hours. All systems are suspended. Communications are disabled.”

You glance toward the terminal again, trying not to show your unease. “Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

He pauses in front of one of the containment consoles. Gloved fingers drift over the edge, not touching, merely hovering—like a man familiar with every inch of this place, yet still amused by its little performances.

Then he looks at you again.

“Your shift ended forty minutes ago.”

Your throat tightens. “I—I was logging the results from the sequence trial. I didn’t know the lockdown was about to—”

“I didn’t ask why you were still here,” he says smoothly, and there’s no sharpness to the words—just a kind of quiet, clinical amusement. The kind that makes you feel like a scalpel laid out on a tray. Examined. Catalogued.

He begins to circle the room slowly, glancing over the scattered reports, the sterile equipment, the monitor still blinking an error code. You fight the urge to follow him with your eyes, to watch him too closely—but it’s impossible not to. There’s a gravity to him. Calculated. Cold.

And then:

“It’s fortunate,” Wesker remarks, “that I remained on the premises. Some staff tend to… panic. During containment scenarios.”

You blink. “Oh. No—I’m not panicking. I just—”

“You’re trembling.”

He says it plainly. A statement. Not an observation, not a judgment. Just a fact, delivered with surgical precision.

You glance down at your hands. Damn it. You hadn’t noticed.

“…It’s just adrenaline,” you mutter.

Wesker steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the shape of him—presence, more than proximity. He’s a wall. A locked door. A sealed vault of intent you cannot read.

“I’d advise you to sit down,” he says. “You won’t be leaving for quite some time.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips—just barely there, just long enough to make you question whether you imagined it.

And then he turns, slowly, walking back toward the central terminal.

Behind you, the lab doors remain sealed. The red emergency light pulses.

Your badge is still useless.

And you are very much alone with him.

---

🧬 The night passes in a blur of static silence.

You pace. He does not.

You check your watch. The hands haven’t moved in minutes. Or maybe you’re imagining that.

The lab feels colder now—just a few degrees, but enough to slip beneath your clothes like a second skin.

You try again to badge out as if you're in denial. No response.

You try your company-issue phone. Dead. No signal. No bars. Just the dull, mocking glow of the Umbrella logo.

Wesker hasn’t moved.

He stands near the server rack, arms folded behind his back, legs squared. Perfectly still. Like he’s waiting for something—watching something—but not you. Never just you.

He might as well be carved from obsidian. A fixture of the room. Part of the design.

You break the silence first. Voice quiet.

“I wasn’t informed of any lockdown drills tonight,” you mutter.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

Just that faint hum, low in his chest. Amused.

“Not a drill.”

You frown, trying to keep the edge of nervousness out of your tone.

“So it’s real?”

A beat.

“…Real enough to warrant containment.”

He finally glances your way, just over the rim of his glasses. You catch your breath, unsure why.

“But there’s no incident?” you ask.

He tilts his head—just slightly, the kind of motion that feels reptilian somehow. Studied. Deliberate.

“There is no need for alarm.”

He says it with that steady, quiet finality that makes you feel ridiculous for asking.

You swallow.

“Feels a little excessive,” you offer, with a half-laugh you regret the moment it leaves your mouth.

Wesker’s head turns the rest of the way, attention fixed on you now like a pressure point.

“Excess is subjective,” he replies. “Containment, however… is effective.”

The words hang there.

You don’t speak again.

Not because you agree.

But because something in the way he said it—measured, near indulgent—tells you he’s enjoying this. Not the situation.

Your reaction to it.

A chill settles deep in your spine.

You take a seat, finally. Far corner of the room. As far as the walls will allow.

He watches you only briefly.

And then the silence returns.

Soft. Clinical.

Unbroken.

---

🧬 Hours pass.

The hum of the lights becomes a lullaby for anxiety. A perfect, droning loop.

Your hands are cold. You rub your palms for warmth, pacing in tight loops near your workstation. Not out of restlessness anymore.

Out of survival.

Motion keeps you from spiraling.

From the corner of your eye—you catch him watching.

Not idly. Not incidentally.

Wesker watches like it’s a diagnostic process.

As if your heartbeat is on a screen.

As if he’s logging how many steps you take before you start repeating yourself.

His head tilts a fraction—almost imperceptible.

His arms remain behind his back, posture straight, boots planted with a soldier’s rigidity.

No movement. No flicker.

Like a statue carved from something ancient and intentional.

Like a predator learning your pattern.

You speak before you can stop yourself.

You try not to meet his gaze. Try to pretend it’s nothing.

But the silence stretches and coils, tighter and tighter, until—

“...Do you ever blink?”

A pause.

Then—barely—his lips curl.

“I do many things you don’t notice.”

There’s no need for emphasis. No shift in tone.

Just that sentence. Icy. Controlled. Unsettling in how true it feels.

You feel your throat tighten.

Across the lab, Wesker doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

You do.

You turn back to your terminal, pretending you have something to check. Pretending the screen isn’t blank. Pretending you're not being studied like something contained.

And from behind you, the weight of his presence lingers—coiled, steady, waiting.

---

🧬 Around 3:00 AM

You’re exhausted. Strung out. Muscles trembling from tension you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since the doors sealed. His presence has made the air itself feel wired.

Like the oxygen has teeth.

Like the walls are watching with him.

“I’m cold,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The words fog a breath into the sterile air.

He doesn’t respond right away. But you hear the soft flex of leather as he moves. He doesn’t respond right away. But there’s a shift—so subtle it’s soundless.

You hear the soft flex of leather, a movement so deliberate it cuts through the quiet like a thread being drawn taut.

click.

The overhead fluorescents dim a fraction.

Then—like dusk slipping in—the corner near your workstation glows softly with ambient light. A warm, amber hue. Not Umbrella standard.

Your eyes adjust slowly, blinking at the unexpected softness.

“…How did you—?”

“I made a few modifications.”

You stare.

“So… you can override lighting, temperature, access—?”

“Correct.”

Your stomach dips.

“And you didn’t use any of that to let us out?”

He regards you evenly. Calm. Not defensive—never defensive.

He could be talking about the weather.

He looks at you.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t. I said we were required to wait.”

Your stomach turns.

“Why wait?”

He steps forward, boots whisper-quiet against tile. He doesn’t rush. He never does.

And somehow, that’s worse

“To... observe.”

You stand up sharply. The chair scrapes.

Your heartbeat stutters in your throat.

“Am I being tested?”

A pause.

“Not officially.”

Your fists clench before you can stop yourself.

“Then what the hell is this, sir?”

He doesn’t flinch at your tone.

If anything, there’s a flicker of interest. Something beneath the surface—sharp and cold and interested.

Then he steps into your space.

Closer than he’s ever been.

Close enough that you can see the faint lines at the corners of his mouth, the hint of something nearly-smiling.

Close enough to catch the pale reflection of yourself in the dark sheen of his lenses.

Close enough that the scent of sterile gloves and something colder—metallic—lingers in the space between you.

“I’ve found,” he says quietly, “that true behavior reveals itself only under pressure. In isolation.”

You inhale sharply. Your breath sounds too loud in your ears.

“You planned this.”

“I enabled it.”

The correction slices cleanly through your accusation.

You shake your head, disbelief warping into something half-wild.

“That’s—psychotic.”

“That’s efficiency.”

He brushes past you then, and you nearly flinch.

But his hand—gloved, precise—ghosts along your wrist as he passes.

A touch so fleeting it barely counts as contact.

But it lingers. Burns.

Like static. Like warning.

“You’ve performed admirably.”

You turn to face him, pulse high in your throat.

“I wasn’t performing—”

“And yet you still impressed.”

The words land somewhere low in your chest, where panic and something colder begin to mix.

Where you start to realize:

You’re not just being observed.

You’re being chosen.

---

🌶️🧬 The air shifts.

You're not sure when the tension stopped being frightening and started feeling... charged. Heavy. Electrical.

Like something waiting to strike.

He stands just in front of you now, a wall of silence and shadow. When he speaks, it’s lower than before—closer.

“You adapt well. Even when discomforted.”

His presence fills the space like gravity—anchoring, absolute.

He's so close now that the sterile scent of leather and ozone wraps around you, tightening with each breath.

“You wanted to see how I’d what—break down? Panic? Run?”

He studies your face, head angled just slightly, as if fine-tuning an analysis only he can see.

“None of those. I wanted to confirm your capacity.”

Your voice softens, barely a whisper.

“…For what?”

A pause.

His gloved hand lifts with surgical precision, fingers brushing the collar of your lab coat—just once.

It’s not a grip. It’s an assessment.

“Obedience.”

Your throat dries.

“Why—why would you want that?”

“Because chaos is inevitable. And I require constants. Assets I can rely on.”

You bristle, jaw clenching.

“I’m not an asset.”

But instead of correcting you—he agrees

“No. You’re not.” Then the curve of his mouth shifts—slow and slight. Not a smile. Something more primal. More interested. “You’re something far more rare.”

He steps forward, the motion quiet but undeniable.

You feel your back nudge the edge of the desk behind you.

Trapped—not by force, but by design.

“Sir, I—this is—”

But his voice dips beside your ear, a phantom breath across your skin.

“You don’t need to speak.”

You freeze. Not out of fear.

But because it’s working.

Because every molecule in the room feels aligned with him.

You gather breath, manage:

“Is this protocol?”

A stillness, brief—and then:

“No.”

He reaches up.

Removes his glasses.

You’ve never seen his eyes before.

They’re golden. Glinting with something not entirely human. Not soft, not kind—but focused.

Hungry. Clinical. Inevitable.

“This is instinct.”

Your heart stutters.

And before your brain can catch up, leather-clad fingers tilt your chin upward.

Deliberate. Gentle. Commanding.

The first kiss doesn’t arrive like a question.

It arrives like a conclusion.

Planned. Earned. Controlled.

Like you’ve crossed an invisible threshold—and he’s marking it with the most human gesture he knows.

You don’t resist.

You don’t want to.

Because part of you has always wondered if Albert Wesker ever blinked.

Ever broke.

Ever burned.

Now you know—

He saves it all for moments like this.

---end of part 2---

(A/N: I give you crumbs… because watching you starve is part of the fun >:3 stay hungry until the next drop. It's gonna be full of 💦😈😩)

[athenasdaydreams]

Hey I have never requested anything before so I hope this is right but can you please write like literally anything for Jack

Head canon list

What a random day with him is like

going on a date

a meet cute

literally anything you want I crave more of him or if you also have and good fanfic recommendations for him I would love them

pairing: jack wilder x reader

summary: you're stuck in a bank vault. with a wanted thief.

chapter warnings: being stuck in a place for 12 hours (claustrophobia maybe?)

A/N: MY FIRST REQUEST IM LITERALLY GIGGLING

You weren’t supposed to be there. At least, not according to your manager, who had very specifically told you to run your systems diagnostics in the morning, during working hours, with someone else present. But you were tired of being treated like a rookie. You knew this place like the back of your hand—and besides, if you could finish the audit tonight, you’d finally have enough leverage to stop being handed intern-level tasks.

So there you were at 12:47 a.m., crouched by the biometric scanner inside Vault Room C, tapping away at your tablet and listening to the faint hum of the security grid recharging.

You had just finished syncing the AI lock’s firmware when you heard it. A soft click. Then a quiet shuffle.

Your shoulders stiffened.

You weren’t alone.

You reached slowly for the emergency baton strapped to your hip. It was more ceremonial than practical—mostly for insurance compliance—but it was heavy enough to crack a nose.

From behind one of the tall shelving units, a voice broke the silence: “Okay, so technically I didn’t know anyone would be here tonight.”

You spun around. “Who the hell—?!”

A man stepped into view, hands up, expression guileless. He wore all black, which you had to admit was very on-brand for a burglar, but the thing that really got you? He was smiling. Like this was a meet-cute at a goddamn coffee shop.

“Hi,” he said casually, giving you a little wave. “Love what you’ve done with the lighting. Very ‘Mission Impossible meets Bond villain.’”

You stared at him. He looked... young. Handsome. Way too pleased with himself. And familiar.

Your eyes narrowed. “Wait—Jack Wilder?”

He gave a low whistle, impressed. “Aw, you do know me. That saves us so much time.”

“You’re a wanted thief.”

“Magician,” he corrected, casually plucking a playing card from thin air and tossing it aside. “Thief is such a harsh word. I prefer ‘liberator of overly guarded things.’”

You didn’t lower the baton. “You broke into a high-security vault in the middle of the night. Do you want to go to prison?”

He tilted his head. “Not particularly. Though, if I had to share a cell with someone, I could think of worse company.”

You tried to keep your face neutral, but you felt heat rise to your cheeks anyway. “No,” you said flatly. “You’re not charming your way out of this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He looked past you, eyes scanning the wall-mounted control panel. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to make a very flashy exit.”

And that’s when the vault door—triggered by the AI lockdown you had just rebooted—slammed shut with a thunderous hiss of pressure.

You froze. Jack’s eyes widened.

Overhead, the ceiling speaker chirped to life: “Emergency lockdown protocol engaged. Vault sealed until 1:00 p.m. Estimated remaining time: 12 hours, 9 minutes.”

Jack blinked.

Then turned to you with a crooked grin. “...Sooo. What’s your policy on spooning for warmth?”

You groaned, turning to bang your head against the vault wall. “This is so far above my paygrade.”

-

The silence didn’t last long.

It never did, around him.

After approximately four minutes of your best “don’t even look at me” energy, Jack made a quiet tsk sound and got to his feet.

“I don’t know who designed this place, but they definitely weren’t thinking of guests,” he muttered, brushing his hands off on his pants. “No chairs. No water. Not even a panic button disguised as a fun little puzzle. Lazy.”

You gave him a look. “It’s a vault, not a hotel suite.”

Jack glanced around like he hadn’t noticed that before. “Could’ve fooled me. All this brushed steel and mood lighting? Very Death Star chic.”

You didn't respond, mostly because you were doing mental math.

Vault Room C was climate controlled, and once the lockdown began, non-essential systems—like heat circulation—powered down to conserve energy. That meant that somewhere in the next few hours, this place was going to get cold.

Uncomfortably cold.

Jack, seemingly unaware or just willfully ignoring the same realization, resumed shuffling his cards, occasionally flicking one across the room and catching it with maddening ease. You tried not to watch, but your eyes kept drifting.

There was something infuriatingly smooth about him. Not just his hands, but his whole presence—like he’d trained every inch of his body to move on a beat you couldn’t hear. Even now, locked in a vault with no escape plan, no phone, and no heater, he was performing.

You hated that it was starting to work.

“I can feel you watching me,” he said, not looking up.

“I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow and lazily caught a card behind his back. “Liar.”

You blew out a sharp breath and stood, rubbing your arms against the rising chill.

Jack noticed. “Oh, right. Temperature drop.”

You didn’t answer.

“Vaults are always set to power down non-essentials. Should’ve brought a coat,” he added lightly. “Or a date.”

“Stop talking,” you muttered.

But your voice lacked bite.

Because your fingertips were already going numb.

Jack noticed that too.

He walked over slowly, arms folded, cards gone. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why your lips are turning blue.” He paused. “Look. I know you hate me—”

“I don’t hate you—”

“That’s progress—but unless you want to end up as a freeze-dried cautionary tale, we should at least try to stay warm.”

You stared at him. “Jack. If this is some ploy to get me to cuddle with you—”

He raised his hands. “No tricks. No charm. Just survival instincts. You don’t have to like me. But you’re cold. And I run warm. And—” he motioned to the walls, “—we’ve got twelve hours and no blankets. That’s math.”

You hesitated.

Everything in you screamed not to give him the satisfaction. But you could already feel the chill settling into your bones. And your uniform jacket wasn’t built for subzero conditions.

Wordlessly, you sank back down onto your crate, drawing your knees up to your chest.

Jack waited a beat, then carefully sat beside you—not too close, just near enough that the heat from his body made a difference. After a moment, he shrugged out of his outer jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

You stared at him.

He didn’t look smug. For once.

He looked… thoughtful.

“Told you,” he said softly. “Not always trying to charm my way out of things.”

You didn’t speak for a while.

Eventually, the quiet filled with soft breathing and the far-off hum of the AI systems in sleep mode.

Then—

“You know,” Jack murmured, voice low and surprisingly sincere, “this isn’t exactly where I pictured myself tonight.”

You turned your head.

“Where did you picture yourself?”

He gave a slow smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Anywhere else.”

The quiet between you was comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected. Jack’s words hung in the air, honest and raw, but then—

A sharp beep cut through the silence.

The AI’s voice returned, calm and mechanical: “Emergency lockdown protocol disabled. Vault unlocked.”

The heavy door slid open with a slow pneumatic hiss, spilling harsh light into the room. One of the security guards must have noticed you didn't sign out after 4 hours of what was supposed to be a one hour check-up.

Jack immediately sprang up, the familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes.

“Well, that was fun,” he said with a grin, stepping toward the exit.

You scrambled to your feet, rubbing the numbness from your arms.

“Wait—”

Jack looked back over his shoulder, holding out a playing card; specifically, a queen of hearts.

He smirked. “In case you’re ever tempted to test another vault. Call me.”

You stared at the card—the only tangible thing he’d left behind.

Your fingers brushed the hastily written numbers.

Before you could say another word, Jack slipped past you like a shadow, already half out the door.

You called after him, but the hallway was empty.

Just like that, he was gone.

The sound of distant sirens approached, and you knew the police were close behind.

You stood there, the card heavy in your hand, and wondered if you’d ever see Jack Wilder again.

-

wc: 1.3k

[strawb3rryg2l]

The Temp, Part 2

Characters: Robert Reynolds x (Female) Reader.

Summary: Mel trains a new temp - Y/N. Y/N just wants a normal life, one where she can forget her past as a spy and start anew. When she meets The Thunderbolts, she can't help but notice Robert Reynolds... or Bob, as everyone calls him. He's quiet, shy, and seemingly holding a lot inside. She almost feels the same, even if she doesn't know him personally. They find a likeness in one another and grow closer.

Warnings: reader is an ex-spy, fighting, bleeding, reader gets injured, the void appears, spoilers for the movie (Let me know if there any more warnings I should put).

Word Count: 1341

Note from the author: This is my work and not only will it be posted on this account (@Strawb3rryg2l) . It will also be posted to my account of Archivesofourown (@ Strawb3rrygal). I will link it here once it is uploaded. This is a work in progress, and my first ever fanfiction so please be kind. This movie brought back my love for Marvel, and I'm super excited about this series I will be writing. This is my first attempt of a slow-burn, friends to lovers, and smut (mueheh). So without further ado... Happy reading!

Post Note from the author: I thought I'd add a picture this time hehe:)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with the alarms.

Shrill. Pulsing. Immediate. The kind that didn’t wait for protocol or polite warning. Red emergency lights flooded the white walls of the compound, casting everything in a warlike hue. The automated voice blared overhead, cold and measured.

“Security breach. Level 3 lockdown initiated.”

Y/N stood in the records wing, her hands still on a manila file. A quiet moment snapped in half. She didn't move right away, not out of fear, but calculation. Her mind flipped through the possibilities, cataloging escape routes, fallback positions, security override codes. She’d been trained for this. Not officially, but enough to know what to do.

She reached into her pocket, fingers brushing the emergency keycard nestled in her coat, and hesitated just a second longer.

Protocol dictated she call Valentina.

But instinct told her to move. She slipped the comms piece into her ear and tapped the button.

“Mel’s coverage. This is Y/N. What’s the situation?”

She heard static. Then a crackle, and a voice she didn’t recognize, tight and rushed.

“—sublevel two. Not ours. Not friendly.”

Her grip on the key tightened. She turned to the wall-mounted security panel, already punching in the first override sequence. A plan formed in her head, one step at a time: lockdown the breach points, isolate the threat, stall them until—

Footsteps.

Behind her.

Fast.

She spun, fists already rising—

“Whoa, it’s me!”

Bob.

His eyes weren’t glowing yet. Not completely. But there was a shimmer beneath the surface that barely leashed power, like something boiling just under his skin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.

They stared at each other; he didn’t seem happy to see her in the middle of whatever was going on.

“I’m not leaving,” she answered simply.

And then she turned back to the panel and finished the override.

“Can you get me to sublevel two?”

Bob paused. “Yeah. But if it’s bad—”

“If it’s bad, we deal with it.”

Another beat. He seemed to think about this for a while. Y/N tapped her foot with a little impatience, and then finally he nodded.

They ran. The hallways blurred by in flashing red light. Y/N moved in measured strides, fast but controlled. She didn’t look at Bob. She didn’t need to. The tension in the air between them was almost tactile. She knew Bob wasn’t usually the one to respond to these kinds of breaches. Which had her wondering where the rest of the team was. 

They reached the stairwell to the sublevel just as the compound shuddered with the force of an explosion. A door, farther down the corridor, was ripped off its hinges and hurled into the wall.

Y/N crouched low, back to the wall.

“Visual?”

Bob stepped forward, peering through the smoke and flashing lights.

“Two intruders. Armed.”

“Mercs?”

He glanced at her. “Could be. Or bait.”

“You armed?” Bob asked.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She reached down, drew a thin blade from her boot, then snapped open a telescoping baton from her sleeve with a clean metallic click.

Bob gave a crooked smile. “I thought you were just the assistant.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am. Among other things.”

Then came the storm.

The mercs moved with practiced aggression too fast and trained to be amateurs. Everything in her narrowed to motion and reaction. One merc lunged, swinging a heavy arc meant to knock her flat. She ducked, stepped in, slammed her baton into his ribs. He staggered, and she was already spinning to meet the second attacker. Her dagger flashed a precise cut, enough to disarm, and disable. Not to kill. She was only trying to temporarily stop these mercs.

She felt it rise in her like muscle memory. The rhythm of the fight, the silence between movements, the thrill she didn’t let herself acknowledge.

Bob moved to engage, but she stepped in front of him. She could see the glow building in his eyes now, pulsing with something alive. He was holding it back. Barely.

The merc she knocked down began to rise again. She pivoted, planted a solid kick to his side. He dropped out cold. The second merc came at her silently, a blade flashing in his hand. She tried to block him but was not fast enough.

A slice. Shallow. Blood began to wet her shoulder. She inhaled sharply. 

Bob’s eyes locked on her shoulder, and the world shifted.

The transformation was instant. An eruption of golden light exploded outward like a sun collapsing in reverse. The hallway shook as concrete cracked, dust rained down, and the air buzzed with raw energy.

Y/N hit the ground hard, wind knocked from her lungs. Her ears rang. When she pushed herself up, the golden blur hovering in the chaos wasn’t Bob.

It was Sentry.

He hovered, untouchable. Burning with energy that bent the very air around him. And he moved, no, appeared before the merc in an instant. A hand shot out and clamped around the merc’s throat. He lifted him and slammed him. The wall cracked with the impact. The merc didn’t get back up.

Sentry didn’t speak.

He floated there, a silent storm wrapped in flesh and gold.

Y/N rose slowly, ignoring the sting in her shoulder. She didn’t reach for a weapon. She didn’t run. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but clear.

“Bob,” she said, “it’s okay. You’re here.”

He didn’t answer. The air around him shimmered, gold dimming at the edges. Flickering and there was darkness. Not just light now, but a shadow. Crawling, writhing. The edges of something else rising behind him.

The Void.

“No,” she whispered. And she stepped forward.

“I know you’re still in there. You don’t want this. You don’t want to become him.”

He turned his head slow, jagged, like it hurt to move. “I can feel him,” he said. His voice was layered. Shattered. “He’s close. I can’t hold him.”

“You can.”

“You don’t know what I am.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I know what it’s like to be shaped into something you're not,” she said. “To have people look at you and only see what you can do for them. What you can destroy.”

Behind him, the shadows thickened reaching, trying to take form. A monstrous echo of something unspeakable. A reflection of fear. Maybe what he feared he was.

She didn’t stop.

“I used to think power meant control. That if I was feared, I couldn’t be hurt again.”

Her steps were steady, even as blood darkened her sleeve.

“But that kind of power? It just makes you disappear.”

The darkness hissed behind him, curling up like it knew she was getting too close.

“I disappeared for years. Forgot what it meant to be more than useful. To be seen.”

She stopped in front of him.

She spoke, low and steady. “I see you, Bob. Not the Void. Not the Sentry. You.”

His hands trembled, not from rage, but from restraint. The gold shimmer around him pulsed like a heartbeat erratic and fractured.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I was made to break things. That’s all I am. I’m not enough to stop this.”

“I’ve felt that too,” she said. “That I wasn’t enough unless I was winning. Unless I was the strongest one in the room.”

The shadow behind him reared. She didn’t flinch.

“You are enough, even when you’re scared. Even when you’re fighting.”

The gold surged then dimmed. As if her words, quiet and true, reached somewhere deeper than fear.

“I’m still afraid,” he admitted, voice cracking.

“So am I,” she said. “But I trust you.”

The shadow screamed without sound and then shattered like smoke in wind.

He fell to his knees, hands braced on cracked floor, breath ragged. Shaking. There was no weapon left, just a man.

Y/N dropped beside him without hesitation. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He flinched. Then leaned in.

No words, just warmth.

And then darkness, as Y/N’s world tilted and slipped out of focus. Her head fell to his chest.

[insomniaccorner]

The Making of a Villian - Chapter 1

The WayneTech board meeting was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.

By 9:03, their encrypted systems were silently bleeding data into a private offshore server. No alarms. No alerts. Just a quiet, surgical extraction—clean, undetectable, and irreversible.

You watched from a dusty rooftop across the street, sipping coffee like any civilian on a break. Except your hands weren’t shaking, and your eyes never left the mirrored windows reflecting a city that forgot you.

It wasn’t about the files. Not really. You’d already read them—twice—before deleting the backups. What mattered was what came next: one carefully altered blueprint. A subtle change in the emergency lockdown protocols, buried deep in the code. Harmless… until the moment someone needed them most.

You didn’t need chaos. Not yet.

You needed doubt.

Down below, Bruce Wayne’s car pulled into the underground garage. Right on schedule. You watched as security greeted him with smiles and clipped nods.

They didn’t know.

No one ever did—until it was too late.

You slipped the burner phone back into your pocket and turned away from the skyline. One step. Then another. Quiet boots on concrete. No capes. No flashy suits. Just a face they’d stopped looking at long ago.

But you were done being invisible.

Your game had just begun.

It hadn’t always been like this. You remembered your first week training with them. You’d shown up early—excited, eager to learn. Tim had offered a nod. Dick had smiled. Barbara barely looked up from her console.

You thought they were just busy. That maybe, in time, you’d earn your place. That if you just proved yourself…

And you did. Over and over again.

Yet somehow, you were always the footnote. The cautionary tale. “Don’t be like them,” Bruce had once said to Damian during a sparring match. You’d laughed it off then. Told yourself he meant your form. Not you.

You knew better now.

You remembered a moment not long ago: standing in the Batcave, trying to offer insight into an unfolding hostage situation. You had mapped out a possible escape route—one they didn’t see. You weren’t loud. You didn’t shout over anyone. You just slid the schematic across the table. Bruce didn’t even glance at it. Tim talked over you. And when the building collapsed—when things went wrong—no one asked why.

Just a quiet, disappointed look. A cold shoulder. Another mark against your record.

You weren’t angry anymore. Not really.

Just focused.

You stepped onto the street and vanished into the crowd. No one looked twice.

Perfect.

They wanted a ghost. They’ll get one.

But not the kind they can exorcise. Not a whisper or a shadow. You’ll become something worse.

Something undeniable.

You passed a newsstand on your way to the subway. The headlines blared about another WayneTech breakthrough. Another miracle. Another story that never had your name in the footnotes, even though you remembered the late-night sessions, the endless trial runs they’d let you conduct just to see if the theories held.

And they had. But it hadn’t mattered.

You dipped underground, swiping a fake MetroCard as you passed the gate. A man bumped into you—apologized quickly. You nodded, saying nothing, and slipped the tracker into the fold of his coat pocket. It wasn’t personal. He was just the next piece. A courier. Unwitting. Useful.

Your network was small. Precise. Built on favors, blackmail, and anonymous generosity. They didn’t know you—and you liked it that way. Your face was forgettable, and you’d sharpened that into a weapon.

As the train sped through the tunnels, you stared at your reflection in the window. The person looking back wasn’t a villain yet.

But they were getting close.

You smiled—just a little.

“Soon,” you murmured.

This wasn’t about revenge.

It was about recognition. About truth. About making them see the cracks they’d built their empire on—starting with you.

And when it all came tumbling down, you’d be standing at the center, calm and untouchable, while they scrambled to remember where it all went wrong.

Right here.

Right now.

And by then, it would be far, far too late.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Finished both Chapter 0 and Chapter 1 around the same time and figured I'd post them both.

Let me know what you guys think of this and if I should turn it into a full on fic or just post bits and pieces every once in awhile.

[aynavaano]

Call me friend but keep me closer

Commander Fox x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 9.3k

Summary:

You are working in Senator Chuchis comitte and your life on Coruscant is not exactly how you had pictured it. But there is one good thing. Fox. You are best friends and he spends more nights crashing on your couch than in his barracks. You quickly caught feelings for him but you are pushing them away, afraid to ruin your friendship. But after an unlucky mistake you made things take a different turn.

Notes:

I’m a bit late to the game but this turned out too sweet not to publish it even if Valentines is over. The focus of the Festival was on the Bad Batch but my prompts were «workplace booty call» and «hang on, we’re going to fall off the bed» and we all know there is only one chronically overworked gruff clone that needs to be peeled from his desk so I decided to write this with Fox. This is a classic friends to lovers story that includes mutual pining, sending nudes to the wrong person, love confessions, a little pinch of hurt/comfort, lingerie, oral f and m receiving, PinV sex, unprotected, creampie and aftercare.

I hope you all like it. Comments, likes and reblogs appreciated as always.

Coruscant had never felt like home. It was too loud, too fast, and too indifferent. The Senate District was a machine that never stopped moving, and you were just one tiny cog in it—part of Senator Chuchi’s committee, buried under an endless pile of policy drafts, security protocols, and late-night crisis management. It wasn’t exactly what you had envisioned when you left your homeworld, but it was a step up, wasn’t it?

At least, that was what you told yourself whenever you trudged into your apartment after another exhausting day, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the couch.

And then, at some point, Fox had just… become part of your routine.

It started with the heightened security measures after the bombing threat. He had been assigned to oversee the Senate protection detail, and somehow, in the chaos of late-night security briefings and emergency lockdowns, you and Fox had become friends. Real friends, not just polite workplace acquaintances.

You weren’t even sure how it happened. Maybe it was the way he always made sure to walk you to your speeder after a long day, or how he’d show up at your office under the pretense of checking in, only to grumble about whatever kriffing disaster the Chancellor was throwing at him that day. Maybe it was the first time he crashed on your couch because it was “a hell of a lot better than the damn barracks,” or the way he somehow kept coming back.

You hadn’t questioned it much.

Not when you found yourself leaving an extra blanket on the couch. Not when you started ordering an extra portion of food without thinking about it. Not when the sight of him slumped against your cushions, snoring softly, felt… normal.

Fox was gruff and always overworked, constantly running on caf and sheer spite, but in your apartment, the tension in his shoulders eased, if only slightly. He rolled his eyes at the holodramas you insisted on watching, but he never left. He complained about your terrible food choices, then stole bites off your plate.

“You know this is basically toxic waste, right?” he grumbled once, staring at the greasy mess of noodles and deep-fried meat in front of you.

“You don’t have to eat it,” you replied sweetly.

Fox huffed but grabbed a fork anyway.

The evenings passed like that—easy, warm, unspoken. When you were too exhausted to do anything but stretch out on the couch, Fox would sit on the floor beside you, rubbing the knots from your sore feet with his calloused hands, muttering about how you needed to stop wearing those kriffing shoes. He was warm and solid, it felt good to lean on him, and even when he eventually passed out on the couch, you never minded.

You should have minded. You should have thought more about what it meant, how your chest felt a little too tight when he let out those rare, quiet chuckles at something stupid you said. How you found yourself glancing at the door, waiting for him, when he worked late.

But you didn’t.

You were happy.

And if you were a little too happy when Fox was there, if your heart tripped over itself when he tossed his armor aside and let himself relax in your space like he belonged there, slipped some of his civies into your closet—well.

That was something you could keep telling yourself didn’t mean anything.

Right?

Your love life was a mess anyway.

Dating on Coruscant was a nightmare.

Between your work schedule and the chaotic nightlife, you hadn’t exactly had the time or energy to put yourself out there. Senatorial committee work wasn’t the most social job in the galaxy—late hours, endless meetings, and the constant looming threat of some political disaster meant that your personal life had been put on hold more often than not.

And yet, you still wanted to try.

Fox had laughed when you mentioned signing up for a dating holoservice.

“You know people still meet the old-fashioned way, right?” he teased, sprawled on your couch as he flipped through your holo channels.

“Yeah, well, not all of us can just walk around in intimidating armor and have people throw themselves at us,” you shot back.

Fox snorted. “Trust me, that is not how it works.”

But even if he made fun of your digital matchmaking, the holoservice was easier. You could chat with people without the pressure of an immediate connection, and for a while, it seemed promising. Most of your matches fizzled out—either they were too busy, too weird, or just not that interesting—but then there was him.

Tall, dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile that made your stomach flip. He was handsome, charming in a casual way that made conversation easy. You’d messaged back and forth for a while before meeting up for caf, and it had been nice. Simple. Comfortable in a way that made you want to see where it could go.

And then Valentine’s Day started creeping closer, and you thought—why not?

You were touch-starved, lonely, and ready to do something about it. You didn’t just want romance; you wanted connection, something real. So, in a moment of determination (and maybe a little desperation), you had spent an embarrassingly high amount of credits on a cute red lingerie set. Something bold. Something that would make you feel sexy and wanted.

But then, he stopped messaging.

At first, you convinced yourself that he was just busy. People got caught up in their work all the time, right? It didn’t mean anything. A few days passed. Then a week. By the time Valentine’s actually arrived, you had no more excuses left.

You had been ghosted.

The disappointment was sharp and bitter, curling in your chest like a stupid ache you didn’t want to admit to. Maybe it wasn’t personal—maybe he had just lost interest, or met someone else—but it still sucked. It left you feeling stupid for getting excited, for spending money on something no one was even going to see.

For a brief moment, you considered going out alone, just to do something—but the idea of sitting in some bar, surrounded by happy couples and overly flirtatious strangers, made your skin crawl.

There was only one thing you wanted now, your best friend. You grabbed your com and messaged Fox.

You free tonight? I got ditched, I need duraslug rolls and someone to let me sulk in peace.

It took him a few minutes to reply.

Buried in reports. Might be late. But I’ll come over, I promise.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. At least someone still shows up for me.

Slumping back onto the couch, you tossed your com aside and sighed. Well. Happy kriffing Valentine’s Day, you exhaled sharply as you stared at the ceiling. Well, this was pathetic. It wasn’t like you had expected some grand, romantic night, but you hadn’t thought you’d be spending Valentine’s alone, pouting into your throw pillows.

The door system chimed.

You frowned. You hadn’t ordered anything.

Dragging yourself up, you made your way to the door and opened it to find a small delivery droid hovering there, a neatly wrapped package clutched in its mechanical arms.

“Delivery for you Miss,” it chirped.

Your brow furrowed as you accepted the package. It was a bottle of wine—Alderaanian, expensive-looking. Definitely not something you’d ordered for yourself.

“Thank you. Who sent this?” you asked, but the droid had already begun its departure, floating off down the hall.

Curious, you turned the bottle over in your hands and spotted a small note attached to the neck. You peeled it off and unfolded it.

I’m sorry you got ditched. You deserve better. Enjoy the wine and leave some for me. See you later. -Fox

A startled giggle bubbled up in your throat.

Of course it was him.

For all his gruffness, all his constant exhaustion and dry sarcasm, Fox still had his moments—little things that reminded you why he was your best friend. This was so him it made your chest ache. He hadn’t even asked what happened, hadn’t prodded or teased, just… made sure you weren’t spending the night wallowing alone.

Smiling, you grabbed your comm and quickly typed out a message.

Thanks, Fox. You didn’t have to do this. I owe you one. Security code is the same in case I pass out before you get here.

He didn’t answer immediately, probably still drowning in reports, but you felt lighter knowing he’d be coming over.

You took the bottle to the kitchen, pulling out a glass and pouring yourself a generous serving. The wine was good—rich and smooth, exactly what you needed. You made your way back to the couch, sinking into the cushions as you took another sip, trying to push away the lingering frustration from earlier.

But then your gaze drifted toward your bedroom.

And landed on it.

The neatly wrapped box, still sitting on your dresser.

A reminder of your own foolish excitement.

Your stomach twisted. That idiot. That kriffing idiot.

You had spent a ridiculous amount of credits on something beautiful, something you had wanted to wear for him—and for what? To get ghosted? To sit here drinking alone while he probably entertained someone else?

For a moment, you considered returning it. Maybe you could get at least some of your credits back.

But then a slow burn of anger started rising in you.

No.

No, you weren’t going to let some random guy make you feel unwanted. You weren’t going to let him ruin this night entirely.

He had disappeared. His loss.

You took another deep sip of wine, feeling the warmth spread through your chest as you stood up and made your way to the dresser.

Maybe it was time to teach him a lesson.

The neatly wrapped box stared back at you, a cruel reminder of what should have been. Not anymore.

You tore the packaging open, peeling away the delicate tissue paper to reveal the lingerie set inside. The price tag still dangled from the lace, mocking you, so you ripped it off and tossed it aside. If that di’kut thought he could ignore you and walk away unscathed, he had another thing coming.

You tipped the wine glass back and took a slow, deep sip, the warmth pooling in your stomach. Then, without hesitation, you pulled your shirt over your head and let it drop to the floor. Your pants followed, pooling at your feet.

The lingerie was soft beneath your fingers, the lace delicate and intricate as you slipped the bra over your shoulders and adjusted the cups. It was scandalously sheer, barely covering anything—but that was part of the appeal. The center tied closed with a luxurious satin bow, resting right between your breasts, practically begging to be undone.

The matching thong was just as sinful. Made of the same sheer lace, it sat high on your hips, the satin heart appliqué nestled right above your mound. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, taking a moment to appreciate how good it felt.

You reached for the complimentary satin robe, slipping it on and letting it drape over your shoulders. The material was smooth against your skin, adding just the right touch of elegance. When you turned to the mirror, a slow smirk curled at your lips.

Damn.

The ridiculous amount of credits you’d spent? Worth every single one.

The lingerie hugged your curves perfectly, accentuating everything it should. The lace was suggestive enough to tease but left little to the imagination. You ran your fingers through your hair, loosening the bun you’d haphazardly tied earlier. Your locks tumbled around your shoulders, framing your face in soft waves.

Perfect.

You rummaged through your vanity drawer, searching for the final touch. A moment later, you found it—the perfect shade of soft pink lipstick. You twisted the tube, swiping it across your lips with practiced ease before pressing them together. A single spritz of your favorite perfume followed, the scent light yet intoxicatingly sweet.

You met your own gaze in the mirror, tilting your head as you admired your handiwork.

You looked like a treat.

No. You looked like a feast.

And what a pity that no one was here to appreciate it.

You sighed, picking up your holopad and shifting your weight. Then a thought—a wicked, petty thought—slid into your mind, and your smirk returned.

If he didn’t want you, then he was damn well going to regret it

You turned slightly, angling yourself in the mirror, and lifted your wine glass. The dark liquid contrasted beautifully against your fingers, and the movement made your robe slip just enough to reveal the delicate lace beneath.

You snapped a few pictures, each one more tempting than the last. The soft lighting of the little lamp beside your bed cast a warm glow over your skin, and your hardened nipples—barely covered by the lace—pressed against the fabric, making the images even more suggestive.

One final shot.

You shifted, letting the robe slide down one shoulder, your lips slightly parted, your gaze smoldering. It was perfect.

Satisfied, you attached the best one to a message and typed out the words that would seal the deal.

Look what you’re missing out on, di’kut.

Ha, what a good use of the mando’a word Fox had learned you.

You smiled to yourself. And then you hit send.

You tossed the holopad onto your bed and flopped down beside it, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. Now it was his turn to sulk.

You sighed, stretching out on your bed, the silky fabric of your robe cool against your skin. The wine had left a pleasant warmth in your belly, making your limbs feel heavy, lazy. You turned your head, glancing at the chrono on your bedside table.

How much longer until Fox finishes his work?

You had no idea. He hadn’t given you an exact time—just a vague promise that he’d come over, even if it got late.

You huffed, staring at the ceiling.

You missed him.

You missed the easy, effortless way he fit into your life. The way he crashed on your couch like it was his, how he bitched about his work while you rubbed his shoulders, how he made fun of your garbage taste in holodramas but still ended up watching them with you anyway.

He made everything better.

You toyed with the satin tie of your robe absentmindedly, twisting it between your fingers as your thoughts drifted.

You imagined him here with you now.

Not just on the couch, like usual, but here, in bed.

You pictured the way he’d look at you—warm brown eyes dark and focused, his strong hands pinning your hips, his broad chest pressing against yours.

Heat bloomed deep in your core.

You swallowed, shifting against the sheets, your breath coming just a little quicker.

No.

You forced the thoughts away, shaking your head. This was Fox. Your friend.

It wasn’t the first time your thoughts had drifted into a territory you knew was dangerous. Hell, you had started this whole holo dating thing to keep yourself from falling for him even more.

He didn’t see you that way.

And even if he did—even if, by some impossible chance, he wanted you the way you wanted him—was it worth the risk?

Your friendship with Fox was the best thing in your life. The thought of ruining it, of making things weird, of losing him because you couldn’t keep your feelings under control—No.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

You exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down your face as if you could physically wipe away the dangerous thoughts clinging to your brain.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

The flickering lights outside your window. The senator’s latest scandal. Anything but Fox.

You reached for your wine glass, taking another sip.

***

Fox rubbed his eyes, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. It was already too late—long past the end of his shift, not that such a thing really existed for him. He had stopped counting how many cups of caff he’d consumed today, but the sharp bitterness still coated his tongue.

He should be with you right now.

His fingers hovered over the datapad as his thoughts drifted where they shouldn’t.

You had messaged him earlier, something about a bad date and needing company. He wanted to be there. Kriff, he should be there—on your couch, his hands kneading the tension from you, listening to you rant about whatever di’kut had decided to ditch you.

Fox scowled at the thought, his grip tightening around his pen until the cheap plastoid creaked in protest. He didn’t understand how any man could stand you up, let alone ghost you. The idea made his blood boil. You were the most beautiful, soft, good thing in this whole damned galaxy—sharp when you needed to be, quick-witted, stubborn, but never cruel. You had a way of making him feel like more than just a soldier, like more than a walking blaster waiting for orders. You saw him, really saw him, and these idiots? They didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you.

If it were him—kriff, if only it were him—he would never make you feel unwanted. Would never make you doubt yourself, not for a second. He’d treat you the way you deserved, worship you the way these blind, clueless di’kuts never even thought to.

Fox exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus, this was dangerous thinking, dangerous, selfish, and a waste of time. But he wanted to be with you now, distract you from your misery.

Instead, he was stuck here, drowning in endless reports. His men had already called it a night. Even Thorn, who was nearly as much of a workaholic, had begged him to go the kriff to sleep when he passed him in the hallway earlier.

Fox had ignored him. Just one more report.

He forced his focus back on the datapad in front of him. Some incident with a Jedi and a Senator on the lower levels, again. He had skimmed it at least three times already, but none of it registered. The words blurred together, his mind elsewhere.

Back with you.

He could almost hear your laugh, the way your eyes sparkled when you gossiped about the latest. Senate drama, how your lips curled in amusement when you called his caff addiction ‘a slow-motion suicide.’ He huffed, rubbing a hand down his face.

Enough.

He needed to get through this, or he’d be stuck here until morning.

Fox stood, grabbing his empty cup, and stalked toward the caf station. The last dregs of the pot were cold and sludgy, but he poured himself another cup anyway. It wasn’t as if the caf here was good when it was fresh—it was the cheapest the Senate offices provided for the Guard. The real stuff was reserved for Senators and their guests.

Like you.

You always had the good stuff at your place. You insisted on it, claiming he deserved better than the swill they forced on him. That was just who you were—always looking out for him, making sure he had something decent, something warm, something real.

His throat tightened.

He wanted that warmth right now. Wanted to be with you.

Fox exhaled sharply and forced himself back to his desk. He could entertain those thoughts later—no, he shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. He had no business wanting things he couldn’t have. There had never been any signs you were interested in him beyond friendship and he would not destroy that.

He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and forced his gaze back to the report. Just finish it, sign off, go to you.

His comm beeped.

A message. From you.

His lips twitched into something close to a smile—until he saw the attachment.

He hesitated for only a second before opening it.

The moment the image filled his screen, all the exhaustion in his body vanished.

Oh. Fuck.

You. In your bedroom, standing in front of your mirror, wrapped in red lace and satin.

The lingerie barely covered anything. The sheer lace of your bra clung to your skin, the satin bow between your breasts looking as if it could come undone with a single pull. The matching thong sat high on your hips, the soft heart appliqué teasing at the very place he should not be looking at.

Your lips—plush and perfect—were painted a soft pink. Your hair was tousled, like you had been running your hands through it, or maybe—kriff.

Fox swallowed hard.

This couldn’t be real.

His fingers curled around the edge of his desk as heat rushed through him, tightening low in his stomach. His body reacted instantly, blood surging south in a way that made sitting in this kriffing chair unbearable.

A part of him—his more rational, self-preserving part—knew he needed to put the comm down. Needed to pretend he never saw this, needed to erase it from his mind immediately.

But another part?

Another part wanted to burn the image into his memory.

His breath came a little quicker, heart pounding as he stared at the screen, taking in every detail. The way the lace stretched across your curves. The way your lips were slightly parted, like you were waiting for someone to claim them. The way your robe hung open just enough to tease what lay beneath.

His comm beeped again.

Another message from you.

Look what you’re missing out on, di’kut.

Fox cursed under his breath, heat surging through his veins like a live current.

He wasn’t getting any more work done tonight, his pulse hammered as he typed out a quick reply.

Stay where you are. I’m on my way.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. No thinking about what he should do—only what he wanted to do.

His body was already moving before his brain could catch up. He pushed back from his desk, standing so quickly his chair nearly toppled over. His codpiece had become unbearably tight, and he readjusted it with a frustrated grunt before snatching up his helmet and belt.

Then he was out the door.

His boots pounded against the cold, polished floors of the Senate Guard Headquarters as he strode through the halls with singular focus. The lingering exhaustion from his endless shift had evaporated—burned away by something hotter, needier. The only thing on his mind was you.

He didn’t even glance at the few troopers still stationed on night duty as he pushed through the exit, his long strides carrying him toward his speeder.

He needed to be with you, he should have left all these karking reports behind already after your first message.

***

You let out an amused huff as your comm chimed with a reply.

That was fast.

Maybe that idiot did have some regret after all.

You took another slow sip of wine, letting him stew for a moment longer. You had no intention of entertaining him again—he had his chance, and he blew it—but you enjoyed making him suffer a little.

Smirking, you finally flicked your thumb over the screen, opening the message.

Your heart stopped.

Stay where you are. I’m on my way.

Not from him. From Fox.

For a long, terrible moment, your brain failed to process what you were looking at. You stared at the screen, a cold shock crashing over you like a tidal wave.

No. No, no, no, no—

You scrambled to check the message thread, dread creeping into your stomach. You had sent it to Fox.

Fox, your best friend. Fox, who crashed on your couch. Fox, who made fun of your trashy holodramas and stole sips of your expensive caf because he refused to admit it tasted better than the cheap mess hall stuff. Fox, who was now on his way here because he had seen you in that lingerie and—

Oh fuck.

Panic seized you. Your fingers flew over the screen, typing in a rush.

Oh kriff, no, please, Fox—I’m so sorry. Forget what you saw. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to send it to you.

You hit send.

Seconds passed.

No reply.

Your stomach twisted.

Then—another chime.

A new message.

You stared at your comm, pulse roaring in your ears as your eyes flicked over the message again and again not able to process what you were reading.

If that’s really what you want, tell me. I’ll head back to the barracks and try my best to pretend it never happened. But I am tired of watching when another one of those idiots lets you down, tired of pretending I don’t want you.

The air in your apartment suddenly felt too thick, your skin too warm. Your brain tried to rationalize, to find some kind of misunderstanding—because Fox didn’t just say that. He couldn’t have.

But the words were right there, glowing against the dimness of your room.

I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.

Your breath hitched. Your chest tightened.

Your fingers hovered over the keypad, but you had no idea what to type. What could you even say?

For so long, you had convinced yourself that what you felt for him was just friendship, that the easy comfort between you wasn’t something more. You had forced yourself to believe it—because wanting him, really wanting him, had felt like an impossible dream.

But now? Now he had stripped that illusion away with a single message. And you couldn’t pretend anymore either.

I want you too, you thought. I’ve always wanted you.

But you still hadn’t typed anything when another chime made your heart nearly jump out of your chest.

I’m here. Let me in or tell me to leave, please be honest.

For a moment, you just stared.

He was here.

Not in his office. Not across the city. Here, outside your door, waiting for you, exactly where you had wanted him just minutes ago.

Your stomach flipped violently, and suddenly you were scrambling to your feet, nearly tripping over yourself as you rushed toward the door.

Shit—your robe.

You yanked the silk tighter around your body and securely tied the belt, hyperaware of the flimsy lace beneath it. What the hell are you doing? You had sent him the picture. He had seen it. And yet, the reality of standing in front of him like this sent a fresh wave of nerves through you.

But there was no time to think. Your feet carried you forward. The door hissed open.

And there he was.

Fox stood just outside, still in full armor, helmet clipped to his belt, his stance tense as if bracing himself for the worst. The dim corridor lights cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes—but beneath it, beneath the weariness and the ever-present weight of command, there was something else, something you hadn’t seen there before. Something hungry.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you moved. The tension between you crackled like a live wire.

And then—

You broke.

You surged forward, hands flying up to curl around his neck, pulling him down as you crashed into him. Your lips found his, desperate and searching, pouring everything you couldn’t put into words into that one kiss.

Fox made a sound deep in his throat, a half-growl, half-sigh, and then his hands were on you—one curling around your waist, the other threading into your hair as he yanked you closer, kissing you like he had been starving for it.

As soon as the door hissed shut behind the two of you, you yanked him further inside, your hands grabbing at his armor, at the fabric of his blacks—anything to keep him close.

You nearly tripped over each other in your urgency, stumbling as he kicked security panel to seal the door. Fox let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tightening on your waist to steady you both, but neither of you spoke.

Because the moment you stopped moving, your hands still clutching at his armor, your body pressed against his, you both realized—this was real.

Fox’s gaze swept over you, taking in the way your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the way your lips were still parted from the last kiss, swollen and inviting. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

And then he snapped.

He surged forward, claiming your mouth again, one hand cradling the back of your head as he kissed you with a heat that made your knees weak.

You melted into him, gripping his chest plate for balance, but the cold plastoid only reminded you that he was still wearing too much and this was not enough.

Fox must have thought the same thing because his hands roamed down, gripping your hips, guiding you back—until your shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud, and suddenly, his thigh was pressing between your legs.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers digging into his armor. The hard press of his thigh against your core sent a shock of pleasure through you, and without thinking, you rocked against him.

Fox groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. “Kriff,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough with restraint. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” you teased, but your own voice was shaky, betraying how much you wanted him.

Fox pulled back just enough to look at you. His golden-brown eyes burned into yours, searching, waiting.

Then his hand moved, trailing up your side, slow, steady—before curling around the silk tie of your robe.

He hooked a finger beneath it, giving it a gentle tug but not untying it just yet. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

His voice was softer now, quieter, but there was something deadly serious in the way he said it, in the way his fingers trembled just slightly against the silk.

You swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest. Did he really think you didn’t want this? After everything?

The words tangled in your throat, and instead of answering, you reached for his wrist, guiding his hand up to your pounding heart.

Fox sucked in a sharp breath at the feel of it, and his fingers flexed against your skin, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you finally whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

His breath hitched, his entire body going still for half a second—then he moved.

Fox’s thumb traced over your jaw, down the slope of your neck, then lower, dragging over your shoulder as he pushed the fabric of your robe aside.

The silk slipped from your skin, revealing the lacy red lingerie beneath and Fox froze.

His eyes darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the sheer bra, the delicate bow between your breasts, the tiny satin heart on your thong. His hands twitched like he wanted to grab, to tear, to devour—but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he let out a low, shaky breath. “Karking hells.”

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly feeling the weight of his stare, but before you could react, Fox leaned in.

“I don’t think you understand what you just did,” he murmured against your lips.

Your pulse stuttered. “What did I do?”

His fingers brushed down your arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You just made it impossible for me to pretend I don’t want you,” he admitted, voice raw. “And now…” his hands gripped your hips again, his thigh pressing up between your legs once more, making you gasp. “…now I’m not pretending anymore.”

And then he kissed you again, harder, deeper, like he had finally let himself fall.

His hands trembled slightly as they traced along the delicate lace of your bra, fingers ghosting over the intricate patterns, over the bow that sat right between your beautiful titts—just begging to be untied.

He swallowed hard. You really were a present.

Perfectly wrapped. Made to be unwrapped.

And he was aching for you.

His cock throbbed painfully against his blacks, the tight fabric doing nothing to ease the need pooling low in his gut. His hands clenched where they rested against your ribs, his self-control hanging by a thread.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I still can’t believe you wanted to give this to some idiot who just—” He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Who just threw you away.”

You bit your lip, shifting slightly against his thigh, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Fox cupped your jaw gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. His golden-brown eyes burned with something dark, something possessive.

“I’m glad you didn’t send it to him,” he murmured. “He didn’t deserve this.”

Didn’t deserve you.

You hesitated for only a moment before admitting, “I was only dating because I wanted to distract myself.”

Fox’s brows furrowed slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “From what?”

You swallowed, nerves twisting in your stomach, but there was no going back now. You let out a shaky breath.

“From you.”

Fox inhaled sharply, like the words had punched him, and his grip on you tightened.

“Mesh’la.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Promise me something.”

You nodded weakly, lost in the intensity of his gaze.

“Promise me you’ll never waste yourself on someone who doesn’t deserve you again.” His voice was firm, steady, but underneath it, you heard something else—something desperate.

Your throat tightened. “I promise.”

Fox let out a breath like he had been holding it in for years.

Then he leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “Then I promise to be better.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“To treat you the way you deserve.”

And then he kissed you. This time, it was needy. Messy.

His hands gripped at you now, no longer holding back, no longer afraid to take what he had wanted for so long.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him closer. The friction against your core was maddening, not enough, never enough—

Your hands fumbled between you, grabbing at the silk bow between your breasts, and you took one of the ends, pressing it into Fox’s palm.

His breath hitched.

His eyes flickered between you and the delicate ribbon, realization dawning in his expression. He didn’t need you to say anything. Slowly, carefully, he gave the bow a gentle pull, the knot unraveled, the lace parting, slipping from your body like it had only been waiting for his touch.

Fox stared.

His breath was ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze drank you in. His hands hovered at his sides like he didn’t know whether to worship or ruin you.

Then, slowly, he reached out, his thumb ghosting over one of your hardened nipples. A soft whimper slipped from your lips.

Fox exhaled shakily, his hand sliding down to grip your waist, but the gentle touch wasn’t enough. You needed more. You ground down on his thigh, gasping at the delicious friction, he groaned, his grip tightening, but it still wasn’t enough. You needed him.

Your hands moved to his armor, desperate to get it off, to feel him, to have him skin to skin—but your fingers were trembling too much, the clasps refusing to budge.

You let out a frustrated noise, tugging at the chest plate uselessly.

Fox chuckled, voice low and dark. “Mesh’la, if you keep that up, I’m going to lose whatever restraint I have left.”

“Then lose it,” you begged, arching against him.

Fox cursed under his breath, then pulled back.

You whined at the loss of contact, but Fox only smirked, his hands already moving to tear his armor off. The plates hit the floor with dull thuds, one after the other, as he shed the heavy layers in record time. Then, finally, finally, he stood before you in nothing but his blacks, the tight material stretching obscenely over his body.

Your eyes dropped—

And you let out a needy whimper.

Because fuck, the bulge straining against his blacks was huge. Fox let out a low chuckle, the sound downright predatory.

“Something wrong, mesh’la?” he teased.

You swallowed hard, pressing your thighs together.

“Bedroom,” you panted. “Now.”

Fox groaned, his grip tightening on your waist before he scooped you up effortlessly. A gasp left your lips as your legs wrapped around him, your arms locking around his neck. He was so strong, holding you like you weighed nothing.

On the way to the bedroom, your robe slipped from your shoulders, pooling onto the floor, and the delicate lace of your bra followed—leaving you in nothing but the tiny scrap of lace that barely qualified as a thong.

Fox didn’t stop.

He carried you straight to the bed, laying you down gently before crawling over you. His lips found your neck first, his breath warm against your skin. Then your collarbone. Then lower.

His hands slid down your sides, rough fingertips tracing every inch of bare skin as he worked his way down, his lips finally closing around your nipple.

You gasped, arching into his mouth, fingers threading into his hair as he sucked, his tongue flicking over the hardened bud.

“Fox—” you whimpered, back arching against him.

His only response was a pleased hum, sending vibrations through your sensitive skin.

But it still wasn’t enough. You needed more. Your hands slid lower, clawing at his blacks, searching for the damn zipper. When you couldn’t find it, you let out a desperate whine. “Please—”

Fox pulled back, amusement flickering in his expression. “Please, what? Use your words mesh’la.”

“Take them off,” you practically begged, shifting underneath him. “Now.”

Fox chuckled, clearly enjoying just how needy you were for him. “So impatient, mesh’la,” he teased, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before finally sitting back.

Your breath caught as he reached for the hem of his blacks, his fingers slowly peeling the fabric away from his body.

The first thing you noticed was the warm, golden-brown of his skin, perfect, just like the rest of him. The second thing was the dark trail of hair running down the center of his toned stomach, leading lower. Your mouth went dry. He was gorgeous.

Solid. Warm. Strong. Yours.

And then he pushed the rest of his blacks down, and your heart stopped.

His cock was big. Thick. Hard. The tip already glistening with pre-cum.

“Like what you see?” he smirked satisfied, “it’s all yours.”

You let out a needy little sound before you could stop yourself, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You couldn’t help it, your hand slipped between your legs, pressing down against your neglected clit through the lace of your thong, desperate for any relief.

Fox’s eyes darkened instantly.

His voice was low when he spoke. “That’s not yours to touch tonight, mesh’la.”

Before you could react, he was on you, his body covering yours as his mouth crashed against yours.

You gasped into the kiss, but Fox swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours as he ground his aching cock against you.

“F-Fuck—” you whimpered, hips lifting to meet his.

He groaned, the fabric of your thong barely a barrier between you as he rolled his hips again, his cock pressing right against your clit.

You squirmed, trying to slip your thong off, but Fox grabbed your hips, stilling you instantly.

“That stays on,” he murmured against your lips.

A shiver ran down your spine.

“But—”

Fox smirked, dragging his cock along your soaked core again. “I like it on you.”

Your breath hitched, your body trembling beneath him.

“Fox—”

He grinned. “Patience, mesh’la. We’re just getting started.”

Fox kissed his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a burning trail in their wake. Every press of his mouth sent a shiver through you, anticipation coiling tighter in your core. His hands gripped your thighs, squeezing, massaging as he settled lower.

Then he ghosted over where you needed him most—his warm breath fanning against your soaked folds, teasing, driving you insane.

“Please—” You whined, hips shifting restlessly.

“I know, mesh’la,” he murmured, his voice low and needy. “Been wanting to taste you for so long.”

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, his stubble dragging against your sensitive skin in a way that made you shudder. His hands held your thighs apart, thumbs tracing soothing circles as he teased just outside where you wanted him.

You were dripping, and he could see it.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me.”

And then, finally, finally, he hooked a finger into the thin strap of your thong and pulled it to the side.

The moment his lips met your soaked folds, you both let out a moan.

It was like a revelation.

Something that had always been there—something you had ignored, pushed down, denied—finally being acknowledged.

His tongue flicked against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. Your back arched, your hands fisting the sheets.

“F-Fox—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your dripping core.

And stars, he devoured you.

His tongue was everywhere, licking, tasting, swirling around your clit with slow, deliberate pressure. Then he sucked, and your hips jerked.

He groaned, loving the way you reacted to him, the way you melted beneath him.

“Kriff, you taste so good,” he rasped, the vibrations of his voice sending another wave of pleasure through you.

Then he slid a finger into you, slow, filling you just enough to make you desperate for more.

“So tight,” he groaned. “Want another, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, “Yes—yes, please—”

He added a second finger, curling them inside you as his tongue kept working your clit. The stretch was perfect, filling you up while he rubbed against that sweet spot inside you.

You were already close, your thighs trembling, pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Come for me, mesh’la,” he rasped. “I want to feel it.”

And stars, you did.

Your release crashed over you like a tidal wave, pleasure rippling through every nerve in your body. Your back arched, a choked cry escaping your lips as you clenched around his fingers.

Fox groaned against you, not stopping, working you through your orgasm until you were trembling, whimpering and almost too sensitive.

You gasped as he finally pulled back, pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, looking up at you, lips glistening with your release.

But you weren’t done with him.

As soon as you caught your breath, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him up before shoving him onto his back.

«Hold on cyare we’re going to fall off the bed»

You didn’t even care. He grunted as he hit the floor, but there was amusement in his dark eyes. “What are you—”

“My turn,” you whispered, crawling over him, pressing kisses to his warm, golden skin.

His breath hitched as you made your way down, kissing every inch of him, every scar, every muscle, worshipping him the way he deserved.

You reached his stomach, your lips grazing the trail of dark hair leading down to his cock.

He was aching for you, so hard it almost hurt, his length flushed and leaking against his stomach.

You pressed a kiss to his hip bone, then another just above his cock, your hand wrapping around the base, feeling the heat of him.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his hips twitching.

You smirked before finally, finally, lowering your mouth to his tip, flicking your tongue over the bead of pre-cum gathered there.

Fox shuddered. “Kriff—”

You took him into your mouth, inch by inch, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

His groan was deep, his fingers threading into your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed something to ground himself.

“So good,” he panted. “Mesh’la, you feel so—fuck—”

You moaned around him, letting your tongue swirl over the head before sinking down again, taking more of him. Your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit, your pace slow, teasing, savoring the way he twitched under you.

His thighs tensed. “If you don’t stop—”

You hummed, sending vibrations down his length, and he jerked, letting out a choked groan.

“Fuck—” He suddenly grabbed your wrist, pulling you off him with a pop.

You blinked up at him, lips swollen, breath heavy. “What—?”

Fox was panting, his golden eyes dark with lust. “I don’t want to finish like this,” he rasped. “I need to be inside you.”

Fox barely managed to tear himself away from your mouth, his entire body tight with restraint. His cock was throbbing, desperate for you, but he wanted this to last. Wanted to feel every second of you wrapped around him, to memorize the way you felt.

He peeled you off his cock and effortlessly threw you back up on the bed, guiding you down onto your back. His hands were firm but reverent as he spread your legs, settling between them. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then ran his hands over your thighs, pushing them wider, savoring every inch of you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Mesh’la… can’t believe this is real.”

His cock pressed against your entrance, the thick head nudging against your dripping folds. The pressure alone made you giddy, your body aching for him.

“Fox—” you whined, shifting your hips in desperate invitation.

He locked eyes with you, dark and full of unspoken things, and then—finally—he pushed in.

The stretch was exquisite, the slow, steady glide of his cock splitting you open inch by inch. Your walls clamped down on him instinctively, drawing him deeper, desperate to keep him.

You both groaned.

“Fuck—” Fox gritted out, his fingers digging into your hips. “So kriffing tight—”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but feel. The way he filled you, the way your body stretched around him, the way he fit—like he was made for you.

“Kriff—Fox—” you gasped, nails raking down his arms.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I know.”

He started to move, slow at first, letting you adjust, letting you feel him. The friction was unbearable in the best way, every drag of his cock sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his pace quickening. “So fucking good.”

You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

Fox snapped his hips into you, the wet, filthy sound of him filling you over and over making your cheeks burn.

“Fox—” you gasped, hands gripping his broad shoulders, desperate for more.

“I’ve got you,” he panted. “Gonna make you come, mesh’la. Gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

He shifted, adjusting his angle, and stars—he found that spot deep inside you that made your vision go white.

“There—there—” you cried, your thighs trembling.

Fox grinned, dark and pleased. “Right there, huh?”

Then he pressed a hand against your lower abdomen, and a lewd, broken scream ripped from your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmured, watching you unravel beneath him. “Kriff—so perfect.”

It took only two more thrusts before pleasure crashed through you, your entire body shaking as you clenched around him, milking his cock with pulsing waves of bliss.

Fox groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs, fighting to hold on, to not come just from the way you squeezed him.

“Fuck—” he panted, burying his face in your neck. “You’re gonna kill me, mesh’la.”

He barely managed to hold himself back, his body trembling with restraint. But then he shifted, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, his cock sinking even deeper into your still-throbbing core.

You gasped, overstimulated, but needy.

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles. “Give me one more,” he rasped, his voice strained. “I know you can.”

You sobbed, gripping onto him as he drove you higher again, his thrusts relentless, the way he stretched you perfect.

The sight of you like this—your red lace thong still pushed to the side, completely soaked, barely covering your swollen folds where his cock was sliding into you—was something he would never forget.

He was ruined.

“Come for me,” he murmured, voice raw. “I want to feel you.”

You shattered around him, your second orgasm tearing through you even harder than the first.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his pace faltering. “So good—fuck—”

He was losing it, chasing his own release, but still, still he held on—”Where do you want me?”

You barely managed to catch your breath before you answered. “Inside—please—make me yours.”

Fox snapped, he couldn’t hold back any longer, not after what you had just said.

He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he came, his cock pulsing, thick ropes of warmth filling you.

The feeling of him spilling inside you was almost better than your orgasm itself, you clutched at his thighs trying to force him even deeper. The way he claimed you, the way you took him, the way you fit together—like you were always meant to.

Fox collapsed against you, his breath ragged, his body trembling from the force of it. He pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, still buried inside you, reluctant to ever leave.

“Mesh’la…” he murmured, his voice rough but tender. “I’m never letting you go.”

You kept your legs wrapped around him, not ready to let him go just yet. You wanted to feel him for just a little longer, to savor the warmth of him still inside you, to keep him close.

Fox groaned softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, then another to your jaw, then your shoulder. He was gentle now, unrushed, showering you in kisses, in soft murmurs of praise.

When he finally slipped out of you, you whimpered at the loss, and he hushed you with another kiss before collapsing beside you. Without hesitation, he pulled you onto his chest, wrapping you up in his arms like he never wanted to let you go.

You nuzzled into him, inhaling his warm, musky scent, burying your face against the crook of his neck, your arm draping over his chest. Even after everything—after having him so deep inside you, after coming twice on his cock—you still wanted more of him, still wanted to be as close as possible.

Fox ran his fingers along your back in slow, lazy strokes, pressing another kiss to your temple.

You let out a sigh. “I was so stupid.”

“Hmm?” he hummed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Trying to deny my feelings…” you admitted, pressing a soft kiss against his neck. “Dating those random guys, pretending I didn’t want you.”

Fox scoffed lightly. “You’re not stupid, they are,” he murmured, fingers trailing over your bare skin. “You’re perfect.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were soft, full of something deep, something unchanging.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His expression melted, something in him cracking open.

“I love you too,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Your chest ached with it—with the sheer relief of saying it, of knowing he felt the same. You kissed him, slow and sweet, and he kissed you back like he meant it.

After a while he finally pulled away, running his knuckles over your cheek. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving, scooping you up into his arms like you weighed nothing.

You yelped, but he just chuckled, carrying you towards the refresher.

“Fox—” you huffed, looping your arms around his neck. “I can walk, you know.”

“I know,” he said, grinning. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You giggled, letting him take care of you, feeling warm and cherished in his arms.

As he stepped into the refresher, a sharp drip of warmth slid down your inner thigh.

You both paused.

And then—plop.

A thick drop of your mixed release splattered onto the floor. There was a beat of silence. And then Fox snorted and you both dissolved into laughter

“Look what a mess you’ve made mesh’la.” he chuckled.

“Me?” you squeaked, looking at him in playful protest.

Still grinning, he set you down in the refresher, making sure the water was warm before adjusting the settings.

As the steam began to rise, he turned to you, brushing damp hair from your face. “Still want duraslug rolls?”

You nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”

Fox smirked. “Thought so.”

He kissed you one more time before stepping out to place the order.

You sighed, watching him go, your heart feeling full in a way it never had before.

And when he returned, slipping into the shower beside you, his hands finding your waist as if it was normal —you knew, you were his, and he was yours.

After your shower, you both slipped into comfortable clothes—well, you did. Fox had only grabbed a fresh pair of his blacks, the tight fabric clinging to his body in a way that made you almost regret putting on your own cozy pajamas.

You ended up on the couch, exactly like always. But everything was different now.

Fox had gone overboard with the food, ordering not just the duraslug rolls but every kind of greasy, indulgent junk meal you could imagine. Spicy fried nuna bites, crispy noodles, something smothered in way too much melted blue cheese—it was a feast.

“You do realize there’s only two of us, right?” you teased, plucking a crispy nuna bite from the pile and popping it into your mouth.

Fox just smirked, pouring you both another glass of wine. “The evening was long. We need to refuel.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with that.

Curled up against him, you giggled as you both gossiped about the Senate staff between bites of food. It was a favorite pastime of yours, but this time, something about it felt even better.

“—so I finally gave up and signed off on it,” Fox was saying, chewing thoughtfully on a duraslug roll. “Because I don’t care if a Jedi and a senator want to get up to questionable business on the lower levels. That’s not my problem.”

You nearly choked on your wine. “Wait—what?”

“Oh, yeah.” He smirked, taking another sip of his drink. “They weren’t exactly subtle. I think I lost count of how many reports I had to overlook. ‘Suspicious activity in a back alley,’ ‘disturbance in an abandoned speeder lot’—like, c’mon. It’s clear what they were doing.”

You cackled, covering your mouth. “You mean to tell me you’ve been burying evidence of a secret affair?”

“Burying? No.” Fox shrugged innocently. “Just… acknowledging that it’s none of my business.”

You giggled, leaning further into him, wine warming your veins, food making you sleepy, and the solid weight of Fox next to you making everything feel perfect.

And despite how much it was the same, something had changed.

The way he looked at you now—soft, open, like you were his.

The way you didn’t have to hold back anymore, no longer forcing yourself to ignore the way you longed to curl up against him.

You could. And you did.

And the best part?

Later, when the two of you finally made your way to bed, he wouldn’t be snoring on your couch.

He’d be warm and solid beside you, yours in every way.

And you had never been happier

[probablyasocialecologist]

Though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has stopped counting Covid-19 cases, according to wastewater data—which emerged early on as an accurate tracker of the ebbs and flows of the virus—we are currently in one of the biggest surges of the pandemic, amid the spread of a new variant, JN-1, as the virus keeps mutating. More than three-quarters of U.S. hospital beds are currently in use due to Covid hospitalizations. Uptake of the most recent booster shot, which should help to protect against the new variant and lower the risk of severe cases and the odds of getting long Covid, hovers around 19 percent. Meanwhile, the most recent White House response to a question about whether they had any guidance for hospitals, some of which have brought back mitigation protocols in response to the most recent Covid spike, came courtesy of press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre: “Hospitals, communities, states, they have to make their own decisions. That’s not something we get involved in,” she replied, appearing exasperated. “We are in possibly the second-biggest surge of the pandemic if you look at wastewater levels,” said Dr. Monica Verduzco-Gutierrez, who runs a long-Covid clinic at the University of Texas, San Antonio, and has had ongoing Covid symptoms since August 2022. “There is no urgency to this. No news. No discussion in Congress. There is no education.”

[...]

Since the Biden administration declared the end of the national emergency in May, Americans across the political spectrum have largely followed the example set by the government and entirely disposed of any level of Covid precautions. Liberal and left-wing outlets have participated in the normalizing of Covid too, dismissing or even ostracizing people who still take precautions as if they are tin-hat conspiracy theorists. “We can’t be in lockdown forever,” has become a common refrain, as if wearing a mask on the subway constitutes “lockdown.” In September, Biden himself participated in the spread of this kind of harmful disinformation when he declared the pandemic “over” on 60 Minutes. “If you notice, no one’s wearing masks,” he said. “Everybody seems to be in pretty good shape.” This is, essentially, governing via “vibes”—so much for “following the science.”

[...]

The consequences of discarding all Covid precautions are becoming clearer, as more people get repeated infections and long-term symptoms, amid an alarming spike in heart problems among healthy young people. People are getting sick more often not due to the myth of “immunity debt,” which posits that the lack of exposure to other people during lockdown has made people less able to fight off infections (three years later), but because Covid weakens the immune system. Each time someone contracts Covid, the odds of long-term complications increase.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Nine: Tipping Point

The Bad Batch x Reader

Tipoca City — Three Months Before the Events of Attack of the Clones

The rain hadn’t stopped in days.

Then again, it never really stopped on Kamino.

You wondered if you’d miss it, once the war began.

Probably not.

From your place at the edge of the training yard’s upper tier, you watched them — four dark figures moving like a storm across the obstacle course. Even now, after nearly five years of training, Clone Force 99 still didn’t run like anyone else.

They didn’t march. They moved — Wrecker crashing through obstacles instead of climbing over them, Tech slicing a control panel mid-run to reprogram the terrain ahead, Crosshair shooting out lights just because he could, and Hunter already knowing where the drops and enemies would be before they appeared.

No formations. No verbal commands. Just chaos honed into violence.

You heard it before you saw it — a voice behind you, nasal and mocking.

“Freak show’s back on.”

Two regs, older cadets, stood at the railing beside you, arms crossed. One of them snorted as Wrecker tore through a reinforced barrier like it was cardboard.

“They might be strong,” the first said, “but they don’t know how to follow. You watch — they’ll get half a unit killed first time out.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because below, Hunter stopped running. His head tilted slightly, just enough to track the voices above him. He didn’t look up — just gave a sharp whistle.

Wrecker turned mid-sprint. Tech stopped dead. Crosshair spun, rifle rising lazily toward the observation deck.

The two regs backed up quickly, suddenly realizing they’d been heard — and marked.

You smiled, just a little.

“Maybe,” you said, finally, “but they’ll survive. Not because they’re better. Because they don’t waste time being the same.”

⸻

Mess Hall — Later That Day

The air always felt heavier in the mess — not from heat or scent, but from the unspoken lines drawn between every table.

The Regs stuck to their ranks. ARC cadets huddled together. Nulls loitered in corners like knives in sheathes. Omega and Delta moved among their own.

And then there was Clone Force 99.

Their table sat near the far wall — not isolated, exactly. Just… apart. A little wild, like no one wanted to get too close in case it rubbed off.

“Ignore them,” Tech murmured, scanning through datapad readouts even as the Regs at a nearby table snorted and muttered.

“Not like I was gonna offer to braid their hair,” Crosshair muttered.

“Do people… do that?” Wrecker asked, blinking.

“No, Wrecker,” Tech sighed.

Hunter didn’t speak.

You watched them from a distance, standing with Kal Skirata and Vau, who were arguing over Null squad again. Neither of them noticed that your focus had drifted.

You’d seen this play out before.

The glances.

The tension.

The fight brewing.

And then it happened.

One Reg — tall, a little too cocky — stepped toward Clone Force 99’s table.

“You freaks think you’re better than us?”

Crosshair didn’t even blink. “No. I know we are.”

Wrecker grinned.

You moved before it escalated.

But not fast enough.

Tables overturned.

Trays airborne.

Clone cadets shouting, instructors yelling, and somewhere in the mess Wrecker was spinning two regs over his shoulders like they weighed nothing.

Hunter had pinned another to the wall.

Crosshair and a reg were rolling under the table.

Tech calmly activated an emergency lockdown alarm that released stun-gas into the mess hall before things got worse.

You were this close to putting your fist through the reinforced plastisteel wall.

⸻

“Again,” said the Kaminoan with icy patience. “Clone Force 99 has failed to maintain discipline.”

“They didn’t start it,” you snapped. “They never do.”

Nala Se tilted her head. “That is irrelevant.”

“They are a tactical asset,” you said, “not pet protocol droids. If you want them to act like drones, put them in white armor and wipe their memories.”

“You are becoming… attached,” she said.

Kal Skirata grunted. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“They are soldiers,” Nala Se said. “They are not meant to be seen as family.”

You met her gaze evenly. “Then you should’ve made them without hearts.”

⸻

Clone Force 99 sat on the edge of the darkened platform, overlooking the roiling ocean.

You walked up behind them slowly, not saying anything at first. Just sitting down beside Wrecker, who gave a soft “Hey.”

No one talked for a long time.

Eventually, Hunter said, “They’ll never accept us.”

“They don’t need to,” you said.

He looked at you. Younger than the others, always. But older in some ways too.

“We’re not like them.”

You nodded. “No. You’re not.”

Wrecker leaned his head against your arm.

Crosshair kept cleaning his rifle, but said nothing.

And Tech said, quietly, “Is that… bad?”

You smiled faintly.

“No,” you said. “It’s the best thing about you.”

⸻

Tipoca City — Private Hangar Bay, Late Evening

You found him where you often did — beside Slave I, its hull gleaming under the artificial lights, faint mist curling around its landing gear.

Jango Fett didn’t look up when you approached. He never really had to.

“I know that walk,” he said without turning. “Something on your mind?”

You stopped beside him, crossing your arms.

“Something’s been off with you lately.”

That got a small twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite.

“I figured you’d notice eventually.”

You didn’t answer. Just waited.

The silence between you was different now — not the quiet of camaraderie, but something more brittle, like the edge of a blade being drawn.

“You’ve always been loyal,” Jango said finally. “To the boys. To Mandalore. To me.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Then he turned to face you fully.

And you saw it — not weariness, not guilt, but calculation.

“You ever wonder why they picked me?” he asked.

“For the clone project?” you replied. “You were the best.”

He laughed softly. “No such thing as best. Only what’s left standing at the end.”

You frowned.

“Jango—”

“I’m working both sides,” he said, bluntly.

Just like that. No pretense. No apology.

Your stomach dropped.

“The Separatists?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Count Dooku pays well,” Jango said. “Better than the Kaminoans. Better than the Republic ever would’ve.”

You stared at him. “You’re training an army for the people you’re helping fight.”

“War’s coming no matter what,” he said. “I’m just making sure my son has a future when it’s done.”

You went very, very still.

“You could’ve told me.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

And you believed that. Not because it wasn’t personal — but because it was.

There were things even you didn’t get to know. Not from him.

Not about this.

“So what now?” you asked, voice low.

He exhaled, shifting his stance slightly.

“I’ve got work lined up,” Jango said. “Side jobs. Outside Kamino.”

You raised a brow.

“And you want me to help.”

“You’re good at what you do. You don’t ask too many questions. And most importantly—” he looked at you, sharp and knowing, “—you already know this place is rotten at the core. You’ve seen how they treat the boys.”

Your jaw tightened. That was true.

Didn’t mean it sat right.

“They’re still kids, Jango. They’re still being raised to die.”

His voice went flat.

“We were raised the same. Only difference is, now they’ll win.”

You looked away, heart thudding, unsure if it was from anger or fear or something worse.

He didn’t press you.

Didn’t try to explain.

Just said: “I’ll give you time to think about it.”

And he turned back toward his ship, boots silent on the hangar floor.

⸻

You stood alone, high above Tipoca City, watching lightning flash far out over the sea.

Clone Force 99 had just finished a brutal sim run. You’d seen the fatigue in their faces, the weariness behind their bravado.

They were still boys.

But soon… they’d be soldiers.

And now, you knew what that really meant.

Jango Fett wasn’t just their template.

He was their architect — not just of their bodies, but of their futures.

And his plans didn’t include peace.

⸻

In Orbit Above Kamino — Slave I

It had been years since you’d left the surface of Tipoca City.

The familiarity of the rumbling hum beneath your boots, the precise interior of Slave I, the faint scent of blaster oil and long silence — it was all exactly as you remembered. And yet nothing felt the same.

You sat across from Jango in the hold, helmet at your feet, arms resting on your thighs as the ship carved through the stormy sky and broke atmosphere.

“You really sure about this?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” Jango said.

“No,” you corrected. “I mean me. Are you sure about me?”

He glanced at you, and for a moment you thought he might smile.

“Thought you didn’t ask too many questions.”

“Don’t confuse silence with agreement.”

That got a real smirk. Brief, but it was there.

The silence stretched again.

Then, softly, you said, “I don’t like the Jedi. I never have. The Republic’s not much better. They call it peace, but they just mean order. Their order. Their rules.”

Jango didn’t interrupt.

“But playing both sides?” you went on, voice low. “Selling soldiers into a war you’re helping start? That’s not survival. That’s betrayal.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“That’s not what the Creed teaches,” you said, and meant it. “We fight. We protect. We don’t stab from the shadows like cowards.”

Jango looked away for a beat.

Then said, “You’re still thinking like a foundling.”

You flinched. Not from the insult — from the truth in it.

“You don’t like what I’m doing,” he said. “But you’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

You looked out the viewport as stars warped into starlines, pulling you farther from everything you knew — and deeper into something darker.

⸻

Serenno — Count Dooku’s Fortress

The planet was quiet. Too quiet.

Steep mountain ranges blanketed in dark forest, winding stone roads that hadn’t seen Republic boots in decades, and a castle that stood like a grave marker over all of it.

You followed Jango through a towering corridor of stone and shadow, your armor quiet save for the dull clink of gear at your side. It wasn’t a Republic installation. It wasn’t home, either.

It felt… ancient. Cold.

And the man who greeted you made the air feel colder.

Count Dooku stood at the far end of the hall, framed by gothic pillars and a flickering chandelier above his head. His robes flowed like oil across the marble, and when he turned, the weight of his gaze struck like a blow.

“This is the one?” he asked Jango, voice smooth, aristocratic, but lacking warmth.

“She’s good,” Jango said simply. “Loyal. Discreet.”

“Is she now?” Dooku’s dark eyes landed on you. “And what do you believe in, Mandalorian?”

You didn’t answer right away.

“Not you,” you said finally.

Jango’s head tilted slightly, but Dooku’s smirk only grew.

“You may find we share more common ground than you expect. The Republic is rotting from the inside. The Jedi are blind, bloated on their own hypocrisy. They will fall.”

“Maybe they should,” you said. “But that doesn’t make you right.”

Dooku stepped forward.

“You were brought here for a purpose,” he said. “There are… operations. Quiet ones. Tasks your Mandalorian friends would not accept under Republic credits.”

You raised your chin slightly. “What kind of tasks?”

Jango looked at you. But didn’t stop it.

“A Jedi Temple on a backwater planet,” Dooku said. “Obsolete. Abandoned. Forgotten by the Order. But its archives contain data I require. You and Jango will retrieve it.”

“Stealing from the Jedi?” you said. “That’s your big job?”

“There is power buried in their arrogance,” Dooku said. “I merely intend to excavate it.”

You didn’t like it.

But Jango was watching you.

And you had already come this far.

⸻

You stood alone as the ship was prepped for departure, the Serenno wind tugging at your cape. Distant thunder rolled through the mountains, echoing off the stone like cannon fire.

Jango joined you without a word.

“You believe him?” you asked.

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I just need the credits.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then finally, he said, “You think I want this war?”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re helping it happen anyway.”

Jango didn’t look at you. But he said, quietly:

“I’m doing what I have to. For Boba. For the ones they’ll never call sons.”

You thought of the Batch — of Hunter’s silence, Crosshair’s scowl, Wrecker’s soft heart, Tech’s curiosity.

You thought of them being used. Burned.

And you clenched your jaw.

“I’ll do the job,” you said at last.

“But if this war starts… and the boys get caught in it… don’t ask me to stand by.”

Jango looked at you, eyes hard. Searching.

Then he nodded.

“Fair enough.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[officialbetterlivingindustries]

EMERGENCY PROTOCOL: THERE HAS BEEN A BREACH; THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS HAVE BROKEN OUT.

ENSURE ALL DOORS AND WINDOWS IN YOUR HOME OR APARTMENT ARE LOCKED, THE BLINDS ON YOUR WINDOWS CLOSED, AND STAY AS FAR AWAY FROM THE DOOR AS YOU CAN. IF YOU HEAR THEM, CALL 911 AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. REMAIN CALM, AND FOLLOW ALL LOCKDOWN PROCEDURES FOR THE NEXT 2 HOURS UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE. (current time is 22:32 PDT)

JP:

緊急プロトコル: 違反が発生しました。ファビュラス・キルジョイが脱走しました。

自宅やアパートのすべてのドアと窓が施錠され、窓のブラインドが閉まっていることを確認し��ください。また、ドアからできるだけ離れてください。もしそのような音が聞こえたら、できるだけ早く911に電話してください。特に指示がない限り、今後2時間は落ち着いて、すべてのロックダウン手順に従ってください。（現在時刻は太平洋夏時間22時32分です）

[sabrinajenre96]

Title: In Sickness and In Sleuth

Paring: Conrad Hawkins x Reader

Warning: this story contains some adults content mention of blood and murder and strong language. Read it on your discretion

Word Count: ~8,000

Author note: I created a one shot story about two favorite tv shows that I like " The resident" and "Will Trent" . I made a crossover since both shows are implemented in Atlanta, Georgia. You can share and like my work but don't steal it and make it your own. I was inspired by an episode of Will Trent in season 3 .

The storm rolled into Atlanta like a freight train, darkening the sky and flooding the streets. Power outages flickered in various neighborhoods, emergency services stretched thin. But within the halls of Chastain Park Memorial Hospital, the real storm was just beginning.

Special Agent Y/N Hawkins of the GBI stepped through the sliding glass doors of the hospital with her partner Will Trent at her side and APD detective Angela Polaski following close behind. Y/N's dark hair was pulled into a braid, GBI windbreaker zipped high. A quiet intensity radiated from her. As always, she and Will moved in perfect sync, not needing words to communicate. Their minds already raced ahead.

"We need eyes on Lena Santiago," Y/N said, glancing at her phone. "She’s the nurse who reported the incident. She's the key to this whole thing."

Angela frowned. "And now she’s gone off the grid."

Y/N’s gaze hardened. "That’s not a coincidence."

---

Inside Chastain, Dr. Conrad Hawkins was already several patients deep into his shift. He glanced up from a chart just in time to see his wife walk in with Will and Angie, their faces set in stone.

“Hey,” he called softly, walking over. “Storm chasers now?”

Y/N barely cracked a smile. “Just chasing something uglier than lightning.”

She pecked him on the cheek quickly. Conrad's brow furrowed at the tension in her shoulders.

“GBI business?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Will said cryptically, already scanning the area.

---

Elsewhere in the hospital, Amanda Wagner arrived with Evelyn Mitchell and Ava Barnes in tow. The three retired powerhouses weren’t exactly the trio you’d expect in a murder investigation—but they weren’t the type to sit on the sidelines either.

“Ava,” Amanda muttered, “tell me again why you’re tagging along?”

Ava smirked. “My daughter’s working this case. And Faith’s working it too. Like hell I’m missing the action.”

Evelyn patted Amanda on the shoulder. “Admit it. You missed us.”

Amanda didn’t answer.

---

Just after noon, the storm struck hard, and Chastain initiated lockdown protocol.

Y/N, Will, and Angie were in the elevator heading toward the third floor when it shuddered to a halt.

“Please don’t tell me we’re stuck,” Angie said.

The flickering overhead lights blinked out and came back with a pop.

Then something hit the elevator roof with a sickening thump.

A red, viscous substance began dripping through the seam in the ceiling panel.

“Blood,” Y/N whispered.

Will’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw clenched.

Y/N stepped into action. “Angie, help me up. Will, boost me. I need to see what’s up there."

“You sure?” Angie asked.

“Yes.”

Y/N popped the panel open. The copper tang hit her nostrils instantly.

“Dammit.”

“What is it?” Will called.

Y/N looked down, pale. “It’s Lena.”

The elevator doors opened at that moment, and they sprinted to the nurses' station.

Conrad, Nic, Devon, Faith, Amanda, Ava, Evelyn, Dr. Bell—all gathered.

Y/N, out of breath, looked at her mother. "She’s dead. Lena—the witness. She was on top of the elevator."

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me—?”

“Yes,” Will and Y/N said at once.

“The killer is here,” Y/N confirmed. “In the hospital. During lockdown.”

Nic clutched Devin’s arm. "What does this mean?"

Will, Y/N, and Angie replied in eerie unison: "We’re trapped with a serial killer."

---

The team split up. Will and Y/N’s group: Ava, Evelyn, Conrad, Devon, Nic, Faith, and Dr. Bell, who insisted he had a right to know what was happening in his hospital. Amanda led the second group with Michael Ormewood and Angie.

Faith pulled Nic aside briefly. “Try not to let them freak you out.”

“Who?”

She nodded toward Will and Y/N, who were already speaking rapidly in shorthand, both sketching timelines, theories, connecting clues.

“Those two,” Faith said. “They move like one brain. It's spooky. Welcome to my life.”

Y/N and Will began to reconstruct the timeline. Conrad watched as his wife moved through the halls like a force of nature, not a trace of hesitation in her movements.

“You’ve never seen her work before?” Faith asked.

“Not like this,” Conrad admitted.

Ava and Evelyn, meanwhile, traded theories with Nic and Devon, almost cheerily.

“I forgot how fun this could be,” Ava said, eyes alight.

---

Hours passed. The group reconvened in the stairwell.

Y/N knelt beside a trail of smudged shoe prints.

“Blood. Fresh,” she murmured.

Will crouched beside her. “There’s something else. Look—”

He plucked a tiny metal pin from the corner where the stairwell met the wall. A brass flag pin.

Faith stepped forward. “Oh no. I know that look.”

“What look?” Conrad asked.

“The look they get right before dropping a bomb.”

Y/N turned to the group slowly.

“That’s a DA’s flag pin. Only worn by state prosecutors.”

Faith took a deep breath. “You’re not saying—?”

Will nodded grimly. “The DA. He’s the killer.”

Gasps rippled through the group.

Ava stepped forward, stunned. “Why would the DA—?”

Y/N answered, grim. “Every woman we traced—each of them rejected him. Lena’s friend—his first victim—turned him down after he gave her the creeps. Lena knew. That’s why she was killed.”

“We’ve been chasing a cold case killer and a predator hiding in plain sight,” Will added.

Faith swore. “We need to move. Now.”

---

They sprinted back to the main lobby. Amanda, Angie, and Michael raised their weapons at the sight of Will and Y/N entering with urgency.

“What is it now?” Amanda asked.

Will and Y/N pointed in unison. “It’s him. The DA. He’s the killer.”

A commotion erupted behind them. Screams.

The DA emerged, blood smeared on his coat, holding nurse Ada Moreno hostage.

Everyone froze.

Amanda’s voice was firm. “Don’t do this.”

The DA laughed. “You think I’d go down over this? I did what needed to be done. They were all ungrateful. Entitled. They owed me.”

Y/N stepped forward, calm and unflinching.

“Let her go,” she said, slowly approaching.

“Don’t come closer!”

“I understand you,” Y/N said gently. “You felt invisible. Rejected. You needed control. But you never had any. You’re afraid.”

“Shut up!”

Will moved silently to flank him while Y/N continued her psychological takedown.

“Every woman who said no to you proved you weren’t powerful. That’s why you had to kill them. But here? Right now? You have no control. Just desperation.”

The DA hesitated.

Y/N saw her chance. A clean shot.

She took it.

The bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him backward. Ada was released, scrambling into Amanda’s arms. Michael cuffed him as backup poured in.

---

The storm passed. Lockdown lifted. Emergency lights powered off.

Devon was practically bouncing. “That was—insane. I feel like I need a cigarette. And I don’t smoke!”

Faith chuckled. “Welcome to murder investigations.”

Bell blinked, stunned. “I run a hospital. This is not in my job description.”

Amanda deadpanned. “You think this was bad? You should’ve seen ‘92.”

---

That night, Y/N stood under the hot stream of the shower, scrubbing blood and adrenaline from her skin. Steam curled around her as she let the chaos of the day wash away.

When she stepped out, Conrad was already in bed, shirtless, watching her with a look somewhere between admiration and disbelief.

“You are…” he began. “Something else.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I scare you a little?”

“A little.”

She crawled into bed beside him, stretching out. “You’ve seen me in scrubs. Today you saw me in predator mode.”

“I kind of loved it.”

“Yeah?”

He leaned over and kissed her shoulder. “Absolutely. But remind me never to lie to you.”

Y/N laughed, curling into him.

“Too late. I already know when you’re lying,” she teased.

He grinned. “Terrifying.”

“Hot?”

“Definitely.”

They dissolved into laughter and kisses, the storm behind them now just another chapter in their unpredictable lives.

But one thing was certain.

There was no safer place to be than in each other’s arms—even when the world outside raged with chaos.

---

END.

[emma23]

Enclosed by fate :

Steven grant x reader

It was supposed to be a routine evening for you, wrapping up your research at the British Museum. As an Egyptologist, your work often extended into the quiet hours after the museum closed, when you could sift through ancient texts without interruption. That night, however, everything changed when you ran into Steven Grant, the mild-mannered gift shop employee known for his vast, if occasionally overwhelming, knowledge of Egyptian mythology.

The encounter occurred in the Egyptian exhibit, where you were carefully examining a recently acquired artifact. Steven, on his way out, paused to admire the artifact as well, his eyes lighting up with recognition. Noticing your intense focus, he hesitated but eventually spoke up.

"Excuse me, but that's a fascinating piece, isn't it?" he said, his voice laced with enthusiasm and a hint of nervousness.

You looked up, surprised to see anyone else still there. "Yes, it is. This amulet has inscriptions that are quite rare," you responded, warming to the conversation.

Steven nodded, his excitement palpable. "Exactly! It's linked to Thoth, the god of wisdom and writing. Did you notice the unique hieroglyphics on the edge? They suggest a ceremonial use, possibly linked to moon rituals."

Impressed by his insight, you introduced yourself, and soon, the two of you were engrossed in a lively discussion. You discovered that Steven's knowledge went beyond just casual interest; he had a genuine passion for the subject, much like you.

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself enjoying Steven's company. He was earnest and kind, his awkwardness endearing rather than off-putting. Little did you know, this chance meeting was just the beginning of a series of unexpected events that would bring you closer together in ways neither of you could have anticipated.

A few weeks later, the museum hosted a special event featuring rare Egyptian artifacts. You were responsible for curating the exhibit, ensuring everything was perfectly in place for the grand unveiling. Steven, as always, was in the gift shop, recommending books and trinkets to enthusiastic visitors.

As the event wound down, you decided to take a final look at the exhibit, double-checking the displays and security measures. Steven, seeing you pass by, waved and offered to help, eager to share more of his knowledge.

Just as you both finished securing the exhibit, an unexpected power outage plunged the museum into darkness. Emergency lights flickered on, casting eerie shadows among the artifacts. You and Steven exchanged concerned glances as the PA system crackled to life, announcing that the museum had been locked down due to a suspected security breach.

"Great," you muttered, trying to keep calm. "We're stuck here."

Steven looked around nervously. "Well, at least we're in good company," he joked weakly, gesturing to the ancient artifacts surrounding you.

Despite the situation, you couldn't help but smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "True. But I'd rather not spend the night with mummies and relics."

The security team soon confirmed that it was a false alarm, but the lockdown would last until morning due to procedural protocols. With no way out, you and Steven had no choice but to wait it out together.

As the night wore on, you and Steven settled into a quiet corner of the exhibit hall. You shared stories, snacks from Steven's gift shop stash, and your mutual love for ancient history. The situation, while inconvenient, offered a rare opportunity to connect beyond the brief interactions you'd had before.

"Do you think they'd let us keep these artifacts if we stayed here long enough?" Steven mused, his tone light-hearted.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Somehow, I don't think that's how it works. But it's a nice thought."

The conversation drifted from work to more personal topics. Steven opened up about his fascination with Egyptology, sharing how it had been a lifelong passion. You, in turn, revealed your journey into the field, your love for uncovering stories buried in time.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. You found Steven's quirks endearing, and his genuine nature refreshing. Despite the forced proximity, you felt a growing sense of ease with him.

The night stretched on, and with it, an unspoken tension began to build. You couldn't ignore the way your heart fluttered when Steven laughed, or how his eyes sparkled when he spoke passionately about his interests. It was becoming clear that what you felt was more than just friendly affection.

Steven, for his part, seemed equally affected. His usual self-doubt and shyness gave way to moments of surprising confidence, especially when discussing his favorite topics. You noticed the way he would glance at you when he thought you weren't looking, a soft, almost wistful expression on his face.

Despite the burgeoning feelings, both of you seemed hesitant to acknowledge them, perhaps afraid of what might happen if you crossed that line. The museum, with its ancient relics and whispered secrets, became a silent witness to the emotions neither of you dared voice.

As dawn approached, the museum's lockdown was finally lifted. The incident was resolved, and you and Steven were free to leave. The shared night had brought you closer, but also left you with lingering questions and unresolved feelings.

As you prepared to leave, Steven hesitated, seemingly struggling to find the right words. Finally, he looked at you, his expression earnest. "I'm really glad we got to spend this time together," he said softly. "I don't think I would have managed without you."

You smiled, touched by his sincerity. "Me too, Steven. It was... a night to remember."

There was a brief, loaded silence, and then you both left the museum, returning to your separate lives. Yet, the experience had changed something between you, leaving you both wondering what could happen next.

In the following days, you found yourself thinking about Steven more than ever. His kindness, intelligence, and genuine nature were qualities you admired, and you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more between you, waiting to be explored.

Steven, too, seemed different, more confident and open. You noticed he was more relaxed around you, initiating conversations and sharing more about his life. The connection between you grew, and with it, the unspoken question of what this relationship could become.

One evening, as you were leaving the museum, Steven caught up with you, a determined look on his face. "Would you like to grab a coffee sometime? Outside the museum, I mean," he asked, his voice tinged with hope and nervousness.

You felt your heart leap at the invitation. "I'd love that, Steven," you replied, smiling.

Over coffee, you and Steven talked for hours, sharing more about your lives, hopes, and dreams. The conversation flowed easily, and the connection between you deepened. It became clear that the night at the museum had been a catalyst, bringing you together in ways neither of you had anticipated.

As the evening came to an end, you found yourself feeling hopeful, excited for what the future might hold. The forced proximity had been a blessing in disguise, revealing feelings that might have otherwise remained hidden.

"Enclosed by Fate" had become a phrase you both jokingly referred to when recounting your unusual night at the museum. It was a story that marked the beginning of something beautiful, a relationship built on mutual respect, shared interests, and a deep emotional connection.

As you and Steven walked out of the café, hand in hand, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the strange twist of fate that had brought you together. What had started as a night of inconvenience had turned into the start of a new chapter, one filled with the promise of love and adventure.

[mammalsofaction]

So recently I got back into PnF and have been marathoning it (to catch up for the revival), and I finally rewatched at2d again. I have no idea if anyone else has talked about it, but how did Perry create the necklace key, the homing device inside it that led to his lair, as well as that replication machine that replicated all of Phin's and Ferb's inventions?

Like, if Perry really is monitored nearly at all times, how was this possible? How did he get the technology? When could he have even gotten it installed? Could it be possible that maybe he got insider help from someone in OWCA (Carl maybe?) or... Just maybe... Perry could have gotten help from Heinz? The amnesia-inator is a thing after all, so he could have mind wiped whoever helped him just to ensure that no one knew about all of this. (Because clearly if Monogram knew about it, he'd instantly have it all shut down and potentially relocate Perry immediately if not jail him like other rogue agents).

Anyway, I hope you don't mind me dropping this on you! I was just curious to see what others might think!

Nonnie, I do not mind at ALL, and i always love love love listening about AT2D and lore theories.

Dwampy is a fan of handwaving lore implications in the show.

HOWEVER. The replication machine WAS mentioned, i think, at the beginning of the movie. The analyser is in Perry's (and likely every other active field agent's) hats. Monogram says they use it to replicate and reverse engineer evil inventions, both for their own use (see the re-modded "Amnesia-Inator"), and also analyse if any of Doof's inventions get smarter ("jury's still out").

But consider; being able to FIT a 3D analyser that works with such terrifying efficiency in a collapsible fedora implies that invention is small, durable and practically unnoticeable. So theoretically? If Perry could get his hand on the analyser, he DOESN'T have to be in the backyard. At the end of every work day he STILL gets to see whatever it was the boys worked on, and keep those plans in a personal archive (probably the same archive he uses to store the edited BFF photos with Doof and the AT2D photos with the boys) for what if situations.

The replication machine is probably accessible to ANY agent with the right kind of security clearance. As we know, from "Where's Perry," and "OWCA files" Perry's security clearance is PRETTY GODDAMN HIGH, since his biometrics are the only ones registered as a backup to un-initiate Doomsday lockdown protocols. He's probably what we call a gold access card for Danville's OWCA division: what Perry wants in his lair, he gets.

He doesn't have to be at home to see what the boys get up to in the backyard. The Flynn-Fletcher house is DROWNING in OWCA cameras and speakers. A security measure both for family's safety, as well as a precautionary measure against Phineas and Ferb's evil potential. Like we KNOW the genius scares OWCA, low key. (See Carl Undercover). I know the movie wants you to think Perry's secretly there all the time for sentimental reason, but like. Yeah that doesnt make logistical sense.

So yeah, Perry can't logically be there all the time for every invention what with how they work him to the bone, but he DOES see every adventure, collect every invention, and he DOES have access to OWCA's replication machine.

The homing device as a spare key to the lair AND the secret data archive is exactly what Phineas says it is: a blatant show of trust. It is absolutely impossible to think of it as anything other than Perry having SPECIFICALLY anticipated an emergency scenario where he CAN'T be there for the boys, one way or another, because of OWCA or some other evil thing. At this point, Perry's been hunted, captured, relocated and almost KILLED both by OWCA and other villains. His worst nightmare is of his family taken hostage. After the events of Carl Undercover he knows he can't trust his employers, not completely. And while he loves and trusts Heinz to not endanger the boys so long as he is kept oblivious to some CRUCIAL information, that's still too high of a risk.

That key, and everything the boys see, was Perry saying, "I do. I trust you. I was there in spirit for every adventure you've ever been on, and no matter what, I have your back. I TRUST that you have mine. I TRUST that you know the right thing."

And to make that key the locket on his collar, with a picture of his boys? It's saying "I trust you because you mean as much to me as I do to you. I trust you because you are family."

Nonnie, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how absolutely HUGE that is. Perry has very valid abandonment and control issues, and he is NOT easily impressed. I choke up, watching that scene. I still do.

TLDR; there IS a rational explanation to the replication machine that is Perry-going-behind-OWCA's-back related, and sadly not Perryshmirtz related. Honestly using the amnesia machine is possible but probably not too well thought out, which would be uncharacteristic. Perry loves and trusts his boys a LOT, and also hes an overthinker. Valid. What's new?

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Just A Little Spice - Dean x Reader

“Just A Little Spice” - Dean x Reader

Rating Teen

Dean x Reader

Tags: Language, Dean Makes Bad Decisions, Dean in Mild Peril, Dean is Infuriating but We Still Love Him

Word Count: 1500

Dean likes to spice things up, but it would be nice if he didn’t have to put his life in danger in the process.

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "I would burn down the world for you." dialogue square.

A/N: Something Short and Kinda Cute. I ended up finding a way to tie this to my other Bingo Square “Ice Play.”

Image created in Canva (photo used/found through Google Image Search)

You’d gotten back to the bunker a day later. Exhausted from the heat, satiated by the relief from the iceman. You’d found Sam organizing and labeling ingredients in his witchcraft cabinet. He was going to try a few new spells from Rowen’s bequeathed library. Realizing he needed some specialty items, he had to head up Nebraska way to meet with an herbalist who sourced supernatural spices.

Dean hovered near the cabinet, picking up jars, and mumbling pronunciations to himself. Sitting on a nearby stool beside a podium meant to support hefty grimoires for spellbook incantations, you chuckled at Sam’s constant swatting of Dean’s hands with each new inspection. You stared at Dean with your best telepathic “stop playing with your brother’s toys” look.

He frowned, relented, and placed a tincture back on a shelf. “That dude, Elijah?”

“Yep,” Sam huffed.

“What’s so important you gotta get right now?” Dean shrugged.

“Nothing important. I found a couple of spells that can change atmospheric pressure and manipulate temperature shifts. Was thinking those could come in handy in the greenhouse. Planning some experiments with out-of-season fruits and vegetables or plants that usually can’t grow in our area.”

You smiled. Sam had become quite the gardener the past year.

Sam eyed Dean in a way that cued me in on the fact that they had something private to discuss. Dean shot you a gentle “get the fuck out” request with raised brows and a head tilt.

“Alright, I’m gonna get unpacked.” You slapped your thighs and gave Sam a forearm squeeze as you passed. Dean tapped your ass on your way out.

You closed the door but lingered long enough to hear Sam, “I figured you were still planning something for-”

“Keep it movin’, sweetheart!” Dean bellowed.

You sighed and smiled to yourself. Dean had a surprise in mind for your anniversary.

~

You’d gone along with Dean’s ask for you to head out solo and grab beers and other supplies later that afternoon. Sam was well on his way to Nebraska by then. And, even if you didn’t play dumb well, you could give Dean time to do whatever it was he was doing for you.

Neither one of you was terribly romantic, but Dean could on occasion whip up the softest, cuddliest little moments.

So, two hours later, as Dean had nonchalantly yet specifically detailed for you to return, you stood outside the bunker door and readied for an anniversary celebration for the books.

Instead, after a hefty pull and the rattle and creak of the iron cell-like door, a plume of smoke released and assaulted your senses. Your eyes watered and you began to cough.

Beer and supplies dropped outside the threshold, you covered your mouth and nose with the collar of your T-shirt and darted inside. You crab walked down the stairs, below the cloud of smoke that hovered at the ceiling. Emergency flood lights flickered over the war room, washing it in an eerie red glow.

The bunker door slammed shut when your boots hit the ground floor, but that never happened. Some sort of automatic electrical protocol engaged for a lockdown scenario?

“Dean!” You tried your best shout to carry through the cavernous levels. He wasn’t in the library and the source of the smoke wasn’t anywhere near your current location. You dashed to the kitchen to what you assumed held the source.

You rounded the kitchen entrance. The contents of a heavy stock pot flicked with flames and churned out thick puffs of smoke on the stovetop. Your heart stopped, finding Dean splayed on the floor by the oven. Your eyes widened. Your coughing worsened at the acidic, burning taste filling your nose and mouth.

“Dean!” you called out again between wheezes. In the hazy film of smoke you spotted his head roll at your voice. You surveyed the area in seconds. You dropped to your knees and crawled over to him. You nestled by his side, grabbed his face by the jaw and jiggled. “Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

His lids flitted open. Upon a deep inhale, his coughing fit began.

You’d freak out and try to figure out what irritant or poison was in the smoke later. For the moment he was alive.

After shielding him from further smoke inhalation, you dragged him by his ankles out of the kitchen unceremoniously up and over a step. The back of his head cracked onto the granite with one of your sharp tugs. He cursed into a terry kitchen towel you’d wrapped around his mouth and nose. About 20 yards into the shit show of a rescue he had enough awareness to flip onto his stomach and urge you that he could manage.

You hopped up, lungs on fire, and ran back into the kitchen despite his yelling and a failed attempt to hook his hand around one of your shins. You grabbed the fire extinguisher in the kitchen corner, pointed the nozzle at the pot, and, from a safe distance, sprayed the flame retardant all over the stove.

The fire was finally out and with it the smoke production.

A familiar smell wafted through the heat now that the flames had dissipated. Roasted Pork? Barbecue?

Arms dropped to your side. They were heavy and searing from the exertion. Tears poured from your eyes. Through blurry blinks as the scene cleared, you spotted a tiny glass jar a few feet from where you’d found Dean.

The extinguisher clattered to the floor. You picked up the jar, examined it with a sigh, accompanied by many more coughs, and trudged your way back to Dean.

He was sat on the floor, back against one of the hall walls. He clutched the towel that had been wrapped around his face. He looked up at you with tear-streaked cheeks beneath the flashing red floodlights. “Thank Christ,” he wheezed out.

“You alright?” you asked and fell to your knees beside him. One hand steadied yourself on his thigh.

He nodded.

You waited a few agonizing minutes with him, gaze steady on each other. The air cleared as each second ticked by, enough for you to both begin to breathe with some regularity. The coughs subsided. His hand clutched yours and squeezed.

You pulled your phone out and dialed Sam.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sam.” You swallowed, throat dry. “Got a question for you,” you rasped.

“Yeah, sure. You okay?”

“Just peachy.”

You watched Dean’s face begin to redden for another reason.

“Curious, what’s this firecracker pepper do from your stash?”

Sam’s silence on the other end didn't bode well. “Why?”

“I’m guessing it’s not an herb you’d use for culinary experiments.”

After three more beats. “He didn’t?”

“Yep, he did.”

“Holy shit! That stuff is highly combustible! It’s meant to oxygenate a fire and sustain it for a prolonged period.”

“Gathered that. Anything we should worry about with substantial smoke inhalation?”

“Nothing more than the usual. I can be back in a few hours.”

“No, no, we’re good. He’ll clean up his own mess.”

Dean frowned.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. You enjoy your time away from us.”

Sam sighed. “For fuck’s sake. Never a dull moment.”

“Not with your brother it isn’t. Talk soon.”

You ended the call and stared at Dean. Hard. “Dean?” you prodded.

“We were out of pepper!” His shoulders lifted and met his ears.

“I was out getting supplies!”

“If I’d asked you to get pepper you’d have known I was cooking!”

“I already knew you were cooking for our anniversary, Mr. Not Subtle!”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmured. “We missed celebrating the way I’d planned because of the hunt. I was making those spicy pulled pork sandwiches you love with all the extra chiles. I tossed some of the pepper in and this fucking flash bomb happened. I jumped back and lost my footing. Hit my head and that was all she wrote.”

You leaned in to feel the knot on the back of his head. “You probably have a concussion.”

He shrugged. “Nothing new there. I’ll be fine.”

You fumed, nostrils flared. “How can you be so, so-” you tossed your hands in his direction, “-this!”

He dared to toss you a cheeky grin.

“Dean, it’s not funny! You could have burned the bunker down and who knows what could’ve happened to-”

He grabbed your face with both hands. Quietly, he stated, “I would burn down the world for you.”

“Don’t do that.” You whispered. “You aren’t gonna get out of me being mad at you.”

He smiled. “Good. That means we can finally have angry make-up sex.”

You pursed your lips together and swallowed down a laugh.

His expression turned serious. “I made a mistake. It happens. I’ll clean up the mess in the kitchen.”

The thunder in your chest faded away. “You can be so careless sometimes.”

He nodded.

“You just act first, think later.”

He nodded.

“Well, you're right that you’re cleaning up all that mess and whatever the hell you did to the bunker.” You pointed down the hall to the kitchen and up at the lights.

He nodded. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine! You can kiss me now!”

He repeated. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”

[dovahhmonn]

Audrey Afton design completed!! Some info about her and William Afton in this AU below the cut! 💙🦋

Audrey & William Afton – Relationship & Working History Overview 

Audrey was hired as a mechanical engineer for Fazbear Entertainment. At the time, she was considered overqualified but underutilized—skilled in fine-tuned mechanics and custom hydraulics, but often brushed off by upper management due to her age and gender. William Afton, however, took a quiet interest in her.

They didn’t work together directly at first. Audrey would often attend to difficult animatronic maintenance and she gained a reputation for fixing problems without asking questions. William noticed her improvisations in maintenance logs, admiring how she treated machines like living systems. He began leaving anonymous blueprints and notes for her to follow, nudging her deeper into his corner of the mechanical world.

Eventually, he revealed himself as the one behind the notes. Their collaboration deepened. He was cold, precise, and invasive; she was bright, sharp-tongued, and wary. Their relationship was strictly professional, but simmering with quiet tension. He valued her mind, her hands, and the way she listened. She never trusted him fully—but part of her wanted his approval.

One night, Audrey was called to handle a security override for a malfunctioning animatronic. The override triggered a lockdown protocol, and the maintenance shaft beneath her gave way. Her legs were crushed between gears and a hydraulic press.

She nearly died. William was one of the first to reach her. While other staff panicked, he assessed the damage calmly. He made the decision not to call emergency services—instead, he took her to his workshop. No paperwork. No outside contact. He convinced her it was to protect her from liability avoidance.

What Audrey didn’t know at the time: the accident wasn’t entirely unplanned. She had gotten too close to figuring out his past. William had decided it was time to bring her in.

Audrey awoke in a back room, legs amputated mid-thigh. William greeted her like nothing had changed. “You’ll walk again,” he promised. But not as she had before.

He spent months designing her new legs—digitigrade, animalistic, a fusion of strength, efficiency and aesthetic. They ended in mechanical hooves. She hated them at first. But they worked. Better than anything on the market. She could run, climb, kick and crouch better than before. 

The process was invasive. Personal. He handled her body like a craftsman with a favorite sculpture—calculating, meticulous, intimate in the most uncomfortable ways. She came to rely on him. He encouraged that reliance. He whispered that she was meant to be more than human. That she had been chosen and that everything happens for a reason. 

She couldn’t leave. Not with her medical records missing. Not with the world thinking she was “on extended leave.”

She told herself she was staying because of the work.

Their first kiss happened late one night, after she had completed a modification to a new animatronic arm prototype he’d designed. Her fingers were slick with oil. She’d been awake for thirty hours. He approached to adjust her hair, gently brushing her ponytail over her shoulder. 

The silence was heavy. She looked up at him.

“I’m not your puppet,” she said.

He cupped her jaw. “You’re my masterpiece.”

She kissed him first. Angry, impulsive, needing to prove she had power in the equation. He kissed her back with an alarming gentleness.

Neither of them spoke about it afterward. But everything changed.

Weeks later, during a storm that cut power to the pizzeria, they were trapped in the basement together. She accused him of keeping her trapped. He accused her of pretending she didn’t enjoy being seen by him.

The argument dissolved into physicality.

Their first time was not romantic. It was tense, desperate, full of control games and unspoken resentment. He touched her like she was sacred and broken. She used him like he was a wound that needed reopening.

It was the first of many such nights.

Now, their relationship is a slow-burning war of intimacy and dominance. He doesn’t demand her love but he expects it to happen naturally, as if inevitable. She tells herself she’s manipulating him, but the truth is blurred. They’ve shared whispered secrets, stolen blueprints, and nights full of controlled chaos.

She still repairs for him. She’s never quite sure where her choices end and his design begins, but when she walks through the halls on her hooved legs, echoing like thunder, everyone else hears Afton’s genius. Only she knows they’re the sound of her own slow, deliberate damnation.

Though the pair of them aren't legally married, they often call eachother husband and wife.