#its been a while since i touched the program

[rustingcat]

Want to do some small animations again but have no ideas. If anyone has a (pg) suggestion, please feel free to message me.

[springtyme]

𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 ♡

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖! 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈

Since you and Simon started dating he has, with your help, developed a bit of a dad bod. You can’t help but long for his new figure to fully live up to it's name, and it turns out Simon wants the same...

141 masterlist

You sink deeper into the couch, encased in the warmth of Simon’s embrace. His sturdy arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer while the gentle hum of the TV fills the quiet space. His breath is steady, a comforting rhythm that lulls you into a sense of safety as you melt into his body as you lay against him. 

You are not particularly interested in the program he is watching, you just enjoy the comforting feeling of him holding you, his giant body enveloping you, making you feel safe and secure. You smile softly, recalling how Simon’s once-chiselled granite abs have now been padded with a soft, little layer of fat. 

Initially, he was all defined muscles and sharp angles, everything about him radiating confidence and vigour. But as your connection deepened, so did his affection for late-night takeout, cosy evenings spent together,  and especially, for your cooking. 

There is something incredibly appealing about the way his body has changed, making him feel more approachable and warm—exuding a charm that somehow makes him all the more enticing to you.

With a playful smile, you let your fingers trace the lines of his form, feeling the gentle curve of his belly beneath your touch. The way he fills out his clothes now gives him an air of relaxed confidence—it almost makes you feel giddy. He is still incredibly fit, but you have added this little layer of love to him that speaks of comfort and shared moments. 

Each meal you cook for him, each dessert you insist he try, painted a soft layer over the etched definition of his body. It is as if love has woven its way through his muscles, binding him closer to you with every shared bite and laugh.

Simon shifts slightly, adjusting his hold on you, and you can feel the warmth radiate from him. He catches you staring and turns his gaze down toward you, a playful glint in his eyes. “What are you smirking about?” he asks, a teasing tone laced in his voice. You can’t help but giggle, your fingers now absentmindedly tracing patterns against his arm. 

“Just admiring the view,” you reply with a coy smile.    

Simon looks down at you, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re the one who keeps feeding me,” he quips back, a smirk breaking across his lips. 

“And you love it,” you counter, your tone playful yet confident. “Besides, I can’t help it if I want you to know what real cooking tastes like.”

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that reverberates through your chest and sends warmth shooting through you. “I suppose you’re right about that. But admit it, you’ve turned me into a softy,” he murmurs, his tone light but sincere.

“Only because you’ve made it impossible to resist you,” you respond, glancing up at him with a smirk. The air between you feels charged with warmth. “The whole ‘dad bod’ thing you got going on, is very, very sexy.” Your voice taking on a sultry rasp as you emphasise the words, feeling a flush coursing through your body. 

Simon’s eyes darken slightly, stirring something deep within you. “Is that so?” he replies, feigning nonchalance as he raises an eyebrow. “A ‘dad bod’, huh?” 

You nod, leaning in closer, your breath mingling with the warmth of his skin. “Mhm,” you whisper. The way he emphasised the term made your heart race. Maybe it’s just because you’re currently ovulating, but you have been fantasising a lot lately and this moment only intensifies those thoughts. 

The warmth of him, the way he holds you, it’s all so comforting yet exhilarating. You can’t help but picture him with a little chubby baby nestled in his strong, bulky arms, how perfect he would look in that role. It makes you go absolutely feral. But you have not yet been brave enough to discuss this with him yet.    

“Wouldn’t I have to be a dad to have a dad body?” His teasing tone lingers in the air, and you can’t help but feel a surge of boldness at his question. 

The thought of Simon as a father—strong, gentle, and completely devoted—flashes through your mind like a vivid dream. The image of him cradling a little one, the way he would be so protective and devoted to do everything different from how he grew up, how he would make sure your home would be so full of love, sends a thrill racing down your spine.

“Maybe,” you reply, suddenly feeling almost shy. 

Simon shifts again, a newfound intensity in his gaze. “Maybe?” he echoes. There’s a flicker of something so intense in his gaze it gives you goosebumps. 

“Well,” you begin, your voice falling a touch lower as you muster the courage to speak around the flutter in your chest. “I think I would like you to be… if you want to be.” 

You feel the warmth of your confession linger in the air, both exhilarating and terrifying. The thought of bringing a child into the world together—a small reflection of your love, sharing every joyous moment with Simon—makes your heartbeat quicken.

 You can feel how his entire body stiffens against you. Simon’s expression shifts, caught between surprise and something deeper, a flicker of vulnerability as he processes your words. He opens his mouth to respond, then pauses, searching your eyes as if gauging the weight of this conversation. You take a steadying breath, your heart racing, waiting for his reaction. 

But then he surges forward, his lips crashing against yours, igniting a spark that sends a wave of warmth through every nerve in your body. The kiss is both passionate and tender, a collision of emotions that leaves you breathless. You instinctively melt into him, your lips moving in perfect harmony as you feel the world around you fading away, leaving only the two of you in this intimate bubble.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the charged air. His eyes search yours, reflecting a mix of surprise, desire, and a growing sense of affection that warms you from the inside out.

“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice a low murmur, as if afraid to break the moment. The intensity in his gaze makes your heart race even faster.

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of your feelings settling in your chest. “I do,” you admit, your voice steady despite the thrill coursing through you. “I can’t help but picture it… becoming a family.”

He watches you intently, a flicker of something deep and genuine lighting up his features. “I’ve thought about it too,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper, shimmering with honesty. “I didn’t know if you’d ever want that. Or if I’d be good enough at it...”

Your heart swells at his admission. “Of course you will, Si.” 

“You really think so?” His gaze flickers away for just a moment, vulnerability woven into his expression.

“I know so,” you reply firmly, reaching up to cup his cheek, urging him to look at you.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he says, the sincerity in his eyes igniting a warmth in your chest that feels almost overwhelming. “I can’t imagine anyone better to do this with than you. And you're going to look so beautiful. ” he places a hand on your abdomen like if you already have a little one in there, the warmth of his palm contrasting with the cool air around you. “Can’t wait to see it happen,” he murmurs. 

You feel your core tightening, the idea of him wanting to see you swell with your child makes it pulse between your legs, igniting a fierce desire deep within you, so raw and primal. 

“Then let’s make it happen,” you whisper, feeling a rush of confidence surge through you. Your words hang heavy in the air between you and you can see the fire igniting in Simon’s eyes.

He grips you slightly tighter, as if holding you will somehow solidify the promise of this shared future. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he says, his words laced with a mix of awe and deep, feral desire.

“Then show me,” you challenge Simon’s eyes darken even more, a potent mix of affection and desire swirling within them. He studies you for a moment, as if trying to decipher the depths of your challenge, and then a slow, seductive smile spreads across his lips.

In a flash, he rises with you against him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he turns, pressing you back against the couch. The heat of his body envelops you, his warmth mixing with a potent urgency that fills the air, a dance of desire igniting between you.

The warmth spreads through you, igniting every nerve ending as he hovers above you, his weight a deliciously reassuring presence. You can feel your heart racing, the thrill of what’s to come making every second stretch into eternity.

His gaze is locked onto yours, deep and intense, as if he's searching for something within your soul. “Are you sure about this?” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, a hint of hesitation lingering in his tone.

You nod, breathless, your body responding instinctively to his every move. “I’ve never been more sure of anything, Simon,” you whisper, your fingers curling around the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

With a growl that reverberates in his chest, he leans down, capturing your lips again in a searing kiss that sends sparks shooting through you. His hands explore your sides, drawing gentle lines along your curves, igniting every nerve as he takes his time, savouring every moment. Each stroke of his fingers feels electric, each press of his body against yours reaffirming the connection that has been building between you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes against your mouth, his hands moving to cradle your face as he pulls back slightly to gaze deep into your eyes, as if he can see every unspoken thought and dream reflected there. The sincerity in his voice settles warmly in your heart, making you feel cherished and adored in a way that sends shivers down your spine.

“Simon…” the sound of your voice is thick with emotion. His name carries promise, a blend of want and affection that binds you tighter, pulling you both closer to the precipice of a shared future.

He lowers his lips to your neck, trailing soft kisses along your skin, igniting a trail of heat in their wake. The sensation makes you gasp, every muscle in your body tightening. His kisses turn more fervent, his hands wandering, exploring the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips as you arch into him, craving contact.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, his breath hot against your skin, sending delicious shivers coursing through you. The primal need in his voice fuels the fire between you, stripping away any lingering doubts.

“I want you,” you confess, instinctively lifting your body in response to his presence, wanting him to know just how much you crave him, body and soul. “I want all of this… with you.” Your voice is sultry, dripping with desire, and the rawness of your confession sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s a fervent dance as you shred each other of your clothing. Simon’s hands are rough yet tender as they explore the contours of your body, mapping every curve with a reverence that sends waves of pleasure rippling through you. He watches you with a fierce intensity that makes your heart race—his gaze trained on you as if you’re the only thing that matters in the universe right now.

With a predator’s grace, Simon shifts his weight and captures your lips in a fiery kiss, his hands roaming over your thighs as he revels in the softness of your skin. The kiss deepens, igniting a wild need that surges through you, compelling you to wrap your legs more tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer as you lose yourselves in each other.

 His hands grip your waist, guiding you, as he presses against you, every inch of his body fitting perfectly against yours. His cock, teasing the entrance of your dripping core, sends a shockwave of desire coursing through you. You feel the heat pooling in the pit of your stomach, a spiralling intensity begging to be unleashed.

“Simon,” you breathe out, the need in your voice raw and palpable, each syllable laced with impatience.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze piercing into yours, searching for any hint of hesitation. But all he finds reflected back at him is an insatiable yearning. “Are you sure?” he asks again, his voice a low growl that sends a thrill through you.

“You have no idea,” you whisper, your body aching for his touch, the chemistry between you two electric. “I want you—now.”

With a low chuckle that rumbles in his chest, he leans in closer, capturing your lips with a fervour that steals your breath. He kisses you with heat, fervently devouring your mouth as if trying to consume all of your essence. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing gently as he positions himself against you, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock.

A shiver runs through you at the sensation, a blend of anticipation and need coiling tighter within you. You arch your back instinctively, craving the fullness of him, the connection that promises everything you’ve dared to dream of.

“Please,” you murmur, the intensity in your voice barely a whisper, yet it hangs in the air like a charged promise.

Simon’s eyes darken, a primal hunger flickering in their depths as he leans closer, brushing his lips against yours with a teasing slowness that makes your heart race. “You have no idea how much you turn me on,” he rasps, his breath warm and throaty against your skin.

“Then show me,” you repeat, your voice dripping with unabashed desire, a challenge that both excites and terrifies you.

With a low growl, he accepts your challenge, guiding himself into you slowly, allowing you to feel the exquisite stretch as he fills you. The sheer size of him ignites a fire within you, every inch sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body as well as a dull yet delicious sting. You gasp, arching your back to meet him, instinctively wanting more, needing every part of him to complete you.

 Each inch pushes deliciously against you, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating throughout your body. A mix of pleasure and relief spilling from your lips as he finally sinks fully inside, filling you completely.

The way Simon holds you feels primal—a perfect intermingling of strength and love. Your breath hitches as you adjust to his size. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of pleasure that sends stars dancing behind your closed eyelids.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust. “So tight, so perfect. I’ll never get used to how perfect you feel.” 

He holds still for a short moment, letting you adjust to his presence, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. The connection between you two feels electric, an unbreakable bond woven from both desire and emotion. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low and husky, a hint of concern mingling with the raw desire that fills the air.

“Yes, just… need you to move,” you breathe, the heat coiling within you so tightly it threatens to snap at any moment.

With a nod of understanding and a feral glint in his eyes, he begins to move, each thrust controlled yet fervent, each push connecting you further. He knows your body, knows how to tease and draw out every moan, every gasp. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, the waves of pleasure rolling over you like a tide as he fills you completely.

“God, you feel amazing,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your face, as he gains a steady rhythm—hard yet gentle, igniting every nerve in your body. You can feel the overwhelming desire pulsating between you, the intoxication of your shared intimacy washing over you like a tidal wave.

With every thrust, the world outside fades; all that matters is the sound of his breathing, the feeling of his body against yours, and the connection deepening with every moment. Your bodies move together, entwined in a dance of passion that feels almost primal, a testament to the bond you’ve built and the love you share.

“More,” you plead, your voice laced with urgency as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of ecstasy. The tension coiling in your stomach is like a rubber band pulled taut, ready to snap. “I need more, Simon. Please.”

“Say it again,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you as he drives deeper, his body moving with an unyielding force that sends you spiralling further into desire.

“More,” you whisper, your eyes locking onto his, a fire igniting in your core as his thrusts come harder, more urgent, every movement precise and electric. You feel yourself losing control, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. “Please, need you to give me a baby, Si,” you cry out, your toes curling

“F-uuck, baby,” he groans, his voice low and gravelly as he leans closer, his lips brushing against your neck, planting gentle kisses that heighten the sensations coursing through you. “I’m going to make you mine,” he growls, his deep voice laced with insatiable desire. “You want that, don’t you? Want to feel me buried deep within, filling you up until there’s no turning back? You want me to make you a mother, huh? To let me become a dad?” His words are raw, thick with longing.

“Y-yes,” you gasp, unable to resist the overwhelming heat in his tone. “Please, Simon, just please...”

He responds with a low, primal sound that ignites your senses. His movements grow more insistent and powerful as you clutch him tightly, your nails digging into his skin while he drives into you with a force that steals your breath away. Each thrust sends electric sensations coursing through your body, making you hunger for more. The room is alive with your shared moans and the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, the air saturated with the intoxicating mix of sweat and passion.

You can feel the tension building within you, a delicious pressure ready to burst. “I’m so close, Simon. Please, don’t stop,” you whimper, your voice trembling with longing. He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you, pushing you ever closer to the brink of bliss.

Simon becomes a whirlwind of energy, his grunts transforming into primal growls as he responds to your urging. Each thrust sends his intensity soaring, his body connecting with yours in a rhythm that feels utterly consuming. Your world narrows to this moment, this feeling, every sense heightened and electrified. The pressure within you tightens, coiling like a spring ready to snap, and with each thrust, Simon drives you deeper into euphoria.

“Doing so good, baby” he praises, his breath hot against your ear. “Taking my cock so fucking perfectly.” His voice drops to a husky whisper, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his heartbeat pounding in time with yours, a primal rhythm binding you together.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” you gasp, the heat pooling at the base of your stomach, making you dizzy with need. Simon’s hands grip your hips possessively as he pulls you closer, anchoring you to him.

“Good,” he growls, the very sound embodying all the desire swirling around you. “Let it happen. I want to see you shatter for me. I want you to come on my cock before I give you my baby.”

With one final thrust, the coil within you snaps, and pleasure explodes through you like fireworks. Every nerve ending ignites as waves of ecstasy wash over you, pulling Simon with you into the abyss of bliss. You cry out, the sound raw and unfiltered, matching the intensity of the moment. Your cunt squeezes tight around him, milking his hot release as he groans deeply, as he keeps thrusting rope after rope of warm cum deep into your womb with a fervour and desperation that matches your own. The world fades away, leaving only the two of you wrapped in this intimate moment of heat and desire.

As the waves of pleasure subside, you both collapse, breathless and spent as he pulls you tight against his chest, his cock still inside you. The room is still thick with the remnants of your connection, the air heavy with warmth and satisfaction. You can feel Simon’s rapid heartbeat against you and how it’s slowly slowing to a more steady rhythm as he holds you close, his fingers tracing soft patterns on your naked skin.

After a few moments of silence, you finally find your voice, a playful smile creeping onto your lips. “So, you really want to become a daddy, huh?”

He lets out a strained sound, something between a chuckle and a groan and you feel how his, by now half softened, cock twitches slightly inside of you from your words. Simon’s eyes flash with a possessive glint as he tuck. “Mhm, and I want to make you a mom. You’re gonna look so fucking beautiful carrying our child.” His voice is low and thick with emotion, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You can practically feel the heat radiating off him as his words sink in. The deep longing in his voice, mixed with the raw intimacy of the moment, tightens your chest with a mix of excitement and vulnerability. “Really?” you ask, your tone teasing yet laced with genuine curiosity. 

Simon’s gaze sharpens, his grip on you firm and reassuring as he nods. “Without a doubt. And I’m going to take so good care of you. His tone is sincere, laced with a vulnerability that draws you closer still.

The gravity of his words wraps around you like a warm blanket, filling you with a sense of safety—a promise of a future you hadn’t dared to imagine before this moment.

Thank you for reading! ♡ if you enjoyed this please consider reblogging

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Show me where it hurts (part 1)

Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader

(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist

summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.

warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo

a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker.  I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D

(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)

edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(

wc: 3.6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You think Miguel is avoiding you. 

One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point. 

"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."

She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it. 

"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"

"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow. 

"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.." 

He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here." 

"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?" 

"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?" 

"I don't have time for this-" 

"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?" 

"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans. 

"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks." 

"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now." 

This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching. 

"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-" 

"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."

"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."

He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "

Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!" 

When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall. 

"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly? 

Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out. 

~~~

Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big. 

He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing. 

Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm. 

"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain. 

Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies. 

"What happened?" He strains. 

"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-" 

"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"

"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"

Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye. 

"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-" 

"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."

Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple. 

"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."

When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile. 

You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you. 

"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."

You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."

"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."

You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?" 

He shrugs. " 'Course I was."

"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does. 

"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now. 

He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?" 

"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan. 

"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"

"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact. 

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-" 

"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-" 

"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"

"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-" 

"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "

He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it. 

"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"

Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.

"I don't… I d-don't…?" 

"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?" 

Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to. 

"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."

"Miguel-"

"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."

"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts." 

Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."

You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears. 

"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."

You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down. 

~~~

The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning. 

The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before. 

You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now. 

"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"

"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home. 

You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time. 

The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear. 

"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."

"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?" 

"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"

"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."

"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."

"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."

"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?" 

You hum.

"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"

"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."

He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?" 

"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me." 

"Naturally…"

"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."

"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"

"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."

"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "

"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me." 

" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."

"Good to know. I'll see you around."

He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard. 

Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes… 

You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.  

On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate. 

"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you. 

"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding. 

"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?" 

"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."

"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?" 

She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."

Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?" 

"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."

You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?" 

"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."

"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?" 

She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters." 

"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"

"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word. 

"I'm a little confused, Lyla."

She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface. 

It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head. 

Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…

"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "

You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla." 

"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."

Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning. 

"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?" 

"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."

"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."

"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."

"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this." 

"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"

"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."

The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."

"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you." 

With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.

_

_

_

[sanguineterrain]

Your writing is so damn good, you execute every request perfectly 😭

Could you maybe write something where Dick's insecure partner wants to break up with him because their self-image is getting worse cause they feel they can't catch up to the Golden Boy reputation, superheroes, billionaires and so on?

hi, thanks for the request! I hope I did it justice :) a brief interlude from jaytodd before we return to our regularly scheduled program lol

dick grayson x gn!reader. low self esteem, an almost breakup, reader feeling insecure, threatened, sad. happy ending! 2.1k words

****

You've been tugging at your outfit for ten minutes. At this rate, you'll have to concede that this is as good as it's going to get.

"My love, you almost ready?"

You sigh and watch your reflection fold its arms.

"Yeah," you say softly. "'M ready."

The door opens. Your heart swoops.

Dick is beautiful, as usual. Your boyfriend can do a lot, including fill a suit. Both your and his outfits were tailor-made because that's one of the perks of being the son of a billionaire.

Over and over, you'd insisted you could wear off-the-rack, and over and over, Dick had said that was silly, that Bruce wouldn't mind.

And it's true that what you're wearing flatters you better than anything from Macy's or Marshall's would've. But you know it won't help tonight. Not in a room full of Gotham's elite.

"Just as I suspected," Dick says, immediately draping his arms over your hips. "You're gonna steal the show tonight."

He's lying.

That voice in your head has gotten louder recently, and you don't know how to turn it off.

You kiss him instead of responding. Dick enthusiastically reciprocates, always delighted when you touch him. You used to think it would be enough.

But ever since you found out that not only are you dating a billionaire philanthropist with a face that makes angels weep, but that said guy is also arguably the most beloved hero in Gotham, maybe second only to the Batman (who's his freaking dad?!), you've begun to have doubts.

You pull back. Dick's tie perfectly sets off his eyes. They're bright as they look at you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

"Uh-huh," you say, trying to smile. "Just nervous."

“Hey, it's alright. I'll be by your side all night. I'll save you from any and all small talk, promise." He winks. "And we can duck out early, get hot chocolate from that place you like. They won't care."

Dick's always doing that. Always catering to you. You're just some nobody who happened to stumble into the best relationship you’ve ever had with a golden god.

Dick never reminds you of that. That he could do better. He doesn't have to—you know it all on your own.

You swallow. “Okay. If you're sure. I... I would like to leave early, Gray."

“‘Course, baby,” Dick says, attaching his cuff links. "Anything you want."

You turn back to the mirror, wondering if you can reinvent your personality before you go and remind everyone what a mistake Dick Grayson has made in choosing you. 

****

The party is tasteful, though a little stuffy. You're only here because Dick is going to give a speech, and he asked you to come support him. And while you know it's better for him to go without you so you won't dull his shine, it seems Dick hasn't quite figured that out.  

You hold onto Dick’s arm as he makes his usual rounds. Dick doesn't enjoy these events, you know that, but he's fluid in his interactions. There is no doubt he’s Bruce Wayne’s prodigy. With his suit, his hair, his easy posture, Dick is almost unrecognizable from when you woke up with him this morning. 

He's in his element. All you can do is peer in and watch. 

Dick leans in and slips a hand around your waist after the fourth interaction with a donor. A donor who, again, acted like Dick may as well have been dragging around a coat rack with how intently they ignored you. Not that you give a shit about what the one percent have to say about you, except sometimes they say a lot of mean things, things you're pretty sure they don't let Dick overhear, and sometimes you start wondering if Dick is the only person who can't see truth in what they say, and sometimes—

“Hey.” Dick leans in to talk in your ear. He's warm and solid. You wish that was a comfort. “You okay?”

You're exhausted. 

“Uh-hmm.”

He is going to wake up one of these days and realize he can have it so much better. 

Dick moves like he's about to say more, pull you closer and permeate your senses with his gold.

“Dickie!” 

Sweet, tinkling laughter echoes across the room. The crowd parts for this new woman, an obvious socialite, dressed to the nines and gorgeous. 

Her dress matches Dick's tie. You feel sick.

When she reaches you two, she wastes no time grabbing Dick and kissing his cheek. He extricates himself from her, like he's done a million times before with everyone else who thinks they're entitled to a piece of Dick Grayson. He shoots you an apologetic look. You look away.

“My God, it’s been what, ten years?” she says. Then she sees you. “Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Caroline Banesbury, Duchess of Middlesworth. I heard the Dickie Grayson was going to be here, and I had to come.”

“Been a while,” Dick says, smiling blandly. “How are you, Caroline?”

“Spectacular! Father just bought another castle. You should come and see it sometime.” She plucks a flute of champagne off of a passing tray and smiles behind the rim of the glass. 

“Dick and I go way back,” she says, gaze roving over him. “I hear you're transforming Blüdhaven. Taking a page out of Bruce's book, hm? You always had a big heart, Dickie.” 

She grabs his arm and links it with hers. You sigh and take a sip of your own drink. You half-wish Poison Ivy would come in and gas the room or something.

Dick clears his throat and maneuvers out of her grip once more, letting go of her with a light pat. He returns to you, snugly holding your shoulders.

"This is my partner," he says about you.

Caroline hums, looking over you. "I see. Pleasure."

You nod. She turns back to Dick.

“If I can be of any help to your project, you let me know,” she adds, glancing down at where her empty arm now hangs at her side. “Anything.” 

“That's generous of you, Carrie.” 

Dick and I go way back.

Oh. Right. You're stupid. They've dated. 

“We should have dinner,” she continues. “Catch up. I'm dying to know what Gotham's darling has been up to.”

“I feel sick,” you announce. 

Dick and Caroline turn to you. Caroline looks perplexed, like you've just said you like to chew concrete. 

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she says, hardly sparing you a glance. "Perhaps you ought to lie down."

You feel Dick's eyes on you. If you don't leave soon, he'll know you're lying. Possibly the worst part about dating Batman's protégé.

Suddenly, leaving this hall is the most important thing you've ever had to do. You feel like you'll die if you don't.

Your feet start moving.

"Baby—"

Anyway, this is Caroline's chance. She can swoop in with her trust fund and while you think Dick can do way better than her—he can always do better—anyone is better than you. For Dick Grayson, who has been a master acrobat since he was a child, son of Batman, leader of the Titans, indubitably intelligent, capable, beautiful, the best goddamn guy you'll ever know—

You've lost your way. You're out of the gala, away from duchesses and doom. And you meant to get your coat but this hall that Bruce rented is enormous. You've no idea where you are. But you're alone.

Bruce must've known too, how unfit you are for his son. And why wouldn't he tell Dick? Unless Dick ignored him, because Dick, for all his smarts, is stupidly in love with you, thinks you're where he should put his heart, is certain you won't fumble and drop it.

Warm, callused fingers catch your wrist and you remember, suddenly, Dick telling you once, after you'd nearly stumbled into the street, that he'd never let you fall.

You meet his eyes. Why does he look at you like that? Who gave him the right to look at you like-like you—as if you could ever deserve—

"Hey," he says, squeezes your hand. "Hey, hey. What's going on?"

Dick Grayson is not a trusting man but he trusts you and good God, you're about to break him.

"I need to break up with you," you blurt.

"What?" he breathes. "What—why would you say that?"

You wish he'd give you the slip he gave everyone in that room, gently separate your arm from his hand. You never learned how to evade Dick's touch.

"Because it's true. Dick, please understand—"

"No, I'm trying to understand. Because yesterday—no, tonight, you were fine—"

"No, Dick, I wasn't fine! I haven't been fine in months!"

You wrench your arm away. He looks like you slapped him.

"You know anybody I talk to in there means nothing, right? You know that, honey." He's pleading.

You curl your fist into your eye. "It's more than that, Gray."

"Then tell me what the problem is," he says desperately. "Tell me and we'll fix it. I promise we can fix it."

"You can't!" you say, voice cracking. "You can't fix me."

Dick shakes his head. "I don't—"

"Why can't you let me break up with you with a little bit of dignity?" you ask. "Do you have to be better at this too?"

"I don't want to break up," he says, tugging at a handful of his hair. "This doesn't make sense. We're happy. You're happy, aren't you? Don't I make you happy?"

"Of course," you choke out. "Of course you make me happy. But you don't see I'm bad for you. You're wonderful and perfect and golden, Dick. And I'm a stain. I need to be scrubbed away."

"Wh—that's not true!"

"Everywhere we go, people see me with you and are immediately confused. I'm not a superhero, I'm not royalty, I'm not a socialite, and yet somehow I've managed to snag Gotham's darling. This is a mistake. I'm trying to do you a favor and wake you up!"

Dick's face is hard with anger. How could you have thought this would be easy?

"I don't need to be woken up! What is it that makes you think I have no agency over the people I choose to spend time with? Everyone I meet thinks they're entitled to touch me, demand me. Everyone but you. You, the person I chose to love, who I love everyday. Do you think you pulled the wool over my eyes and you're snapping me out of it? Is that what you really think?"

And isn't this the most puzzling thing? That he's not sad or gently accepting; Dick is mad.

"I just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't mean to yell, but really, I can't bear it if you see me as some god on a pedestal, unattainable and inhuman, like everyone else sees me. I love you on purpose."

"You're so accomplished, though," you say weakly. "You're..." You wave your hand over him. "You're fucking Nightwing, D. You were Robin, you have superheroes for friends, Batman for a parent, you're beloved by, like, all of Jersey—"

"My love, you know those are just parts of me. You see all of me. You know me. And that's not a one-way privilege, okay? I'm so damn lucky to know you, to love you, to be with you, to fight with you. To fight for you. Knowing you isn't something I take for granted."

"But I'm boring," you say, tears spilling over. "Jesus Christ, Dick, I'm plain and untalented, barely a dime to my name, so painfully ordinary that—"

"Listen to me," he says, taking your face in his hands. "Flying around or shooting lasers out of your eyes, sure, it's cool, and it's helpful for taking down an alien dictator. But I don't need you to do any of that, honey. I don't need nor want you to be anyone but you. I wasn't tricked or swindled into loving you. We caught each other halfway, just like we were meant to."

You let him pull you into his arms, let him press your tear stains to his silk pocket square, let his hair fall around you.

His embrace is solid, firm, but when he inhales, his shoulders shake.

"Do you—" He swallows, throat against yours. "Do you still want to break up?"

His heart beats against your cheek.

"I'm just afraid you'll get tired of me," you whisper. "Bored. Annoyed."

"I won't," he whispers. "You're the least boring person ever. It's never boring to be loved."

You squeeze your eyes shut. Dick's warmth encloses you.

"No, I don't want to break up. I'm sorry."

He holds you tighter, and you realize you never had to match Dick's tie. Not when you've got his heart.

[playboysaleen]

Through Ash and Iron (4)

Jinx x Reader x Caitlyn

Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?

Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)

Word Count: 4.4k

A/n: Yall are going to HATE me but-

___________________________

The bar on the outskirts of the undercity is a rundown, dimly lit place, its flickering neon signs barely cutting through the darkness. You slouch in a corner booth, a glass of whiskey in your hand, swirling the amber liquid as you try to drown the noise in your mind. It’s not working, but you’re trying. Each gulp, each burn, you hope it’ll make the ache inside you go away, even just for a moment.

You drink until the room blurs, but it doesn’t change anything. Nothing can change the emptiness. Nothing can take away the weight of betrayal that you’ve been carrying. Caitlyn’s face flashes in your mind, sharp and unyielding. She was right. She was always right, and you were wrong. You can’t even figure out who you are anymore.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch a familiar silhouette, a shape you know too well.

Lest slides into the seat beside you like she owns it, her presence undeniable. She’s sharp, sly, with an elegance that betrays her dangerous side. Her raven-black hair is tied back loosely, a few stray strands framing her face, revealing the thin scars that run along her jaw, a reminder of her past battles. Her eyes are calculating, fox-like, with a sharp glint as she watches you with a knowing smile. The way she moves is liquid, smooth, and predatory, like she’s always two steps ahead. She wears dark leather, adorned with subtle details—a vest, gloves, a belt full of tools—and it all just seems to fit her perfectly, as if she was crafted for this life.

“Rough night?” Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, as if she’s already figured you out. She leans in just a bit too close, the warmth of her body seeping into your space. Her fingers brush against your shoulders, her touch light but somehow full of intent.

You can’t muster the energy to shove her away. Instead, you take a long sip from your glass, letting the alcohol numb your senses. “You could say that.”

Lest grins, her eyes tracing you like she’s reading the pages of a book. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to say, but I don’t think you want to talk about it. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on the table in front of you. There’s something about the way she speaks that makes you want to listen, even if you don’t want to hear what she’s saying.

“I can help you,” she says softly, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “You just have to ask.”

You scoff, but her words still stick to you, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. It’s been a long time since someone offered to help you without asking for something in return.

She senses the shift, the crack in your armor. “You need something. I can see it in your eyes. And I can give you what you’re looking for.” Her voice is almost a whisper now, seductive, coaxing.

Your heart is pounding, but you’re unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the way she’s reading you so easily. She places a hand on your leg, close to your knee, her fingers lightly brushing against your skin, sending an electric pulse through your body. “Just say the word.”

Then the voices start. Jinx’s voice—familiar, filled with that chaotic edge—pierces through the fog in your mind.

“Don’t listen to her,” Jinx warns, though it’s almost a whisper. “You don’t need this. It’s not worth it.”

Then Caitlyn’s voice joins in, sharper, colder. “You’ll never be enough.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block them out, but they persist, a clashing storm in your head.

Lest notices your discomfort, and her smirk only widens, sensing the conflict within you. “You’ve got a war going on in that pretty head of yours, don’t you? Too many voices, too many decisions. I can help with that too, you know.”

You try to focus, to push her away, but the voices keep cutting in, making your chest tight. You’re torn between the temptation to listen to Lest and the fear of what it might mean for you.

Then she pulls out a small brush, the tip glowing faintly with shimmer, and holds it up between you. “You could use something to calm those voices down. Just a little… release. It’ll make everything easier.”

Your stomach twists, a familiar, dark pull tempting you to take it. But then Jinx’s voice rises again.

“Don’t you dare.”

And Caitlyn’s voice cuts through, “You’ll never be enough. You’ll just make it worse.”

You slam your glass down on the table with a sharp crack, your head pounding. “No,” you say, your voice hoarse, a little too loud in the quiet bar. “I’m not doing that.”

Lest watches you for a long moment, her eyes cold and calculating, then slides the shimmer brush back into her coat. “Your loss.”

You stumble to your feet, disoriented by the alcohol and the flood of voices. You push through the door and step out into the cool night, feeling the weight of Lest’s gaze on your back.

But just as you turn the corner, you’re met by a familiar face, one that you didn’t expect to see tonight.

Jinx.

Her eyes are wide, scanning over you, her face a mix of confusion and concern. The moment she spots you, she storms forward, her voice rising. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, trying to stumble away, but she grabs your arm with surprising strength. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Jinx snaps, her voice rising with frustration. “You’ve been out here getting shitfaced and talking to her?”

Lest, still lingering in the shadows, watches with amusement, but doesn’t make a move.

Jinx drags you back toward her lair, her grip tight but not unkind, as she leads you up to the rooftop. She slams you down onto a crate, spinning to face you with that fire in her eyes. “You were going to… with her?” she demands, her voice tight with anger.

“No,” you protest weakly, shaking your head. “I didn’t… I didn’t want that.”

Jinx glares at you, her eyes narrowing. “Then what the hell were you doing?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, feeling the alcohol dragging you down. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t… I can’t think straight.”

Jinx’s expression softens for a moment, but then she snaps. “Get it together. You can’t just—”

You lash out, your voice sharp and filled with pain. “I don’t know who I am anymore! I don’t know what I’m supposed to be!”

She freezes, her anger faltering. “What are you talking about?”

You shake your head, blinking back the tears that are threatening to fall. “I’m not enough for anyone, Jinx. Not for you, not for Cai— not for anyone.”

For a long time, she just stands there, silent, watching you with an unreadable look in her eyes.

“Stop,” she finally says, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re not alone, okay?”

You don’t say anything back. Instead, you curl up against the wall, wrapping your arms around your knees. You feel like you’re suffocating, and yet the distance between you and Jinx feels insurmountable.

Finally, she turns and walks back inside, leaving you alone in the cold night, the voices still swirling in your mind, battling with each other.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Inside, Jinx stands in the dark, her mind racing. The voices speak again, louder than before, but she doesn’t listen.

That small voice, the one that had always been there but never fully heard, finally rises above the chaos.

She’s the one. The one you need. The one you’ve always needed.

Jinx sat in her lair, pacing back and forth, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The voices in her head grew louder with each passing second, each one demanding her attention, but there was that one small voice that she couldn’t ignore. It had been quiet for so long, but tonight, it felt insistent, urgent.

Go to her. She needs you. She’s the one who sees you. She’s the one who’ll understand.

Her heart raced, and her breath quickened. The words echoed in her mind, undeniable, undeniable. Jinx could feel it now—the pull. That same feeling she had tried to push away for so long. But it was there, undeniable.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the rest of the voices that screamed at her to stop, but the quiet one only grew stronger.

She’s the one. You know it. You feel it.

Her heart thudded in her chest, a frantic pace. She didn’t understand it, but she couldn’t deny it. The tug was undeniable, and without thinking, her feet moved. She ran out of the lair, her feet pounding against the cold stone floor as she made her way out of the building. The further she went, the stronger the pull became. The voice was louder now, almost guiding her, telling her that she had to go to you.

She rushed up the fire escape, every step an impulse she couldn’t ignore, her mind both frantic and clear at the same time. She was done fighting it.

When she reached the rooftop, she stopped for a moment, scanning the empty night for you. And there you were—standing on the edge of the building, as though you had been waiting for her. Your figure was silhouetted against the dim glow of the city lights, and in that moment, it felt like everything aligned.

She moved toward you, her heart in her throat. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. But when you looked up, your eyes met hers, and she could see the confusion, the turmoil, but also the longing, the unspoken desire to be understood.

You hesitated before speaking, your voice unsteady. “Jinx, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” she cut you off, her voice soft but firm. She didn’t want any apologies. Not now. Not when her heart was saying something else.

You tried again, your words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve been thinking about you. About how you make me feel. I—I want to help you. I want to be by your side. I—I want to be there for you, like you’ve been there for me.”

Jinx’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected this. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. She felt a tightness in her chest, and suddenly, all the voices in her head grew quiet, like they knew this moment mattered. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew. She knew it was real.

Before she could think, before she could second-guess herself, her hand shot out, grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you toward her. The kiss was sudden, electric, as though she had been waiting for this moment. The world around her seemed to fall away. There was no city, no voices, no fears. There was only you. And for the first time in a long time, it felt right.

You kissed her back, surprising her with the intensity of it, your arms wrapping around her waist as if you couldn’t get close enough. She felt you, the warmth of your body, the strength, the tenderness. It was all there, everything that had been left unspoken, everything that had been building for so long.

Her heart raced, her breath quickening, but the voices—they were silent. For the first time in forever, the voices in her head fell away, and there was only the feeling of you, of the kiss, of connection. The night air didn’t matter, the sounds of the city didn’t matter. There was only the two of you, only the space between your lips, the energy that passed between you.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, both of you breathless. It was as if the world had slowed, and in the quiet aftermath, you could both hear the sound of your hearts pounding in your chests. But then, as you stood there, still reeling from the intensity of the moment, you heard a voice. Faint, but sharp.

Caitlyn…

The voice, so quiet in the back of your mind, sent a jolt of panic through you. Your chest tightened, and you pulled away from Jinx just slightly, frowning. The guilt washed over you like a wave.

“I’m sorry, Jinx. I shouldn’t have—” you muttered, your voice full of regret. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

Jinx’s eyes flickered with confusion, but she didn’t interrupt you. She simply looked at you, as if waiting for you to explain. But before you could say anything more, a sound from the door caught both of your attention.

The door to the rooftop creaked open, the sound of footsteps echoing in the quiet night. Both of you turned in unison, only to see Isha standing in the doorway, her expression confused. Isha didn’t speak—but the way she looked at both of you said enough.

“I’m sorry,” Isha’s quiet presence seemed to say, even though she hadn’t uttered a word. She turned to leave, but you couldn’t help but feel like the moment had shifted. You turned to Isha, guiding her away from the rooftop with a heavy heart.

Jinx stayed silent, her gaze lingering on you both, a mix of emotions playing across her face. But as you walked toward the fire escape, you could feel the weight of the moment hanging between you and her.

Once you reached the ground, you turned to Isha, helping her along as you both walked toward the fort where you had gathered your things. Jinx didn’t follow immediately, but you could feel her eyes on you as you went.

In her lair, the voices returned, their noise swirling inside her head. But this time, one voice stood out—a quiet, insistent whisper.

She’s the one, it said, gentle but certain. She’s the one you’ve been waiting for.

Jinx didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t alone.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Caitlyn sat in her office, the silence of the room only broken by the soft rustle of paperwork as she carefully went over the latest reports. Her mind was still reeling from the events at the rally, from the confrontation with you, and the undeniable pull she had felt toward you. She couldn’t understand it, but she couldn’t ignore it either. Yet, as much as she tried to focus on her work, a nagging feeling in her chest wouldn’t let her go. 

The sound of the door opening interrupted her thoughts, and Caitlyn looked up to see Ambessa and Rictus entering. Both had their usual authoritative air, their presence commanding. Caitlyn, though still in her own whirlwind, nodded, signaling them to speak. 

“We have some information,” Ambessa said smoothly, her voice calm but with a cold edge. “It’s about the weapon used in the attack on the tower. We’ve been digging into the details and… we found something.” She paused for a moment, as if testing Caitlyn’s reaction.

Rictus stepped forward, his tall frame blocking the light from the door as he gave a sharp smile. “We traced the components of that weapon. Some of the materials, designs… They were linked to someone in Piltover. Someone who’s been making weapons for Jinx.” His eyes flickered toward Caitlyn, watching her closely.

The words hit Caitlyn like a punch to the gut. She felt a chill run down her spine. She hadn’t heard this before, but her mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario. Could it be true?

“Who are you talking about?” Caitlyn’s voice was tight, a creeping anxiety starting to form in her chest.

“Your little friend,” Ambessa continued with an eerie calm, her eyes locking with Caitlyn’s. “The one you’ve been so determined to find. It appears this person has been working closely with Jinx. The weapon that killed your mother… part of it was constructed using designs that belong to them.” Ambessa’s words hung heavy in the air, each syllable dripping with implication.

Rictus chimed in, his tone darker. “That’s right. We’ve traced the connections. The same person who’s been working with Jinx is the one responsible for the device. We have the proof. You were too trusting, Caitlyn. They were hiding in plain sight.”

Caitlyn felt her stomach drop. The shock hit her all at once, as if the ground beneath her feet was slipping away. She was frozen for a moment, her mind racing. You—could you really be involved in this? Was everything she had seen in you just a lie? Her chest tightened, anger building up, twisting in her gut.

“No…” Caitlyn muttered under her breath. Her fingers gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white. “You’re lying.” She barely managed to whisper it, as if trying to convince herself more than them.

Ambessa smirked, leaning forward. “We don’t lie, Caitlyn. We’re not the ones who were hiding in plain sight, now are we?”

“But she—” Caitlyn cut herself off, the realization beginning to hit her. She had trusted you. She had let you into her life, into her heart, even if she couldn’t fully admit it. And now, this—this betrayal. Her heart burned with the sting of it.

Rictus stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You see, Caitlyn, Jinx has been using her. She’s been building weapons for them—for Jinx. And now, thanks to this,” he said, tossing a folder onto the desk, “we have the evidence. She was working directly with them to help them attack Piltover. She is a traitor.”

The word hit Caitlyn like a slap across the face. “No,” she said, her voice trembling with anger, “this is not true.” She couldn’t believe it, not yet. But the evidence—she had to look at it. She had to understand it. But no matter how hard she tried, a deep, hollow sense of betrayal started gnawing at her.

“And you’re still trying to protect her?” Ambessa’s voice cut through Caitlyn’s thoughts like a knife. “She’s been playing you this whole time, and you’ve allowed it. It’s time you face reality. She was never one of you.”

The accusation hit harder than she expected. The shock of hearing it come from Ambessa’s lips—the venom in her words—was enough to make Caitlyn’s head spin. She could feel the rage building inside her, her chest rising and falling with every breath. How could you—how could you—do this to her? How could you lie to her face, let her feel something for you, only to betray everything she had ever known?

Rictus’s voice broke through the haze of her thoughts. “She’s working with Jinx. We’ve already sent out people to track her. If you want to find her, you’ll need to act quickly. She’s a liability now. And if we don’t take her out, she’ll take us all down with her.”

Caitlyn couldn’t stand it anymore. The anger, the hurt, the overwhelming feeling of betrayal that clouded her judgment. You were working with Jinx? You—the person she had trusted, the person who had made her feel something she couldn’t explain—had been playing her this whole time? She felt her blood boil, her hands shaking as she gripped the desk harder, her thoughts racing with fury.

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping violently against the floor. “I’m going after her,” Caitlyn said, her voice dark with anger and determination.

Ambessa and Rictus exchanged glances, but neither said anything. They didn’t need to. They knew what Caitlyn was capable of.

“You won’t stop me,” she said, her words sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.

As she turned to leave, her mind fixated on one thing: You. You had betrayed her, and now she had no choice but to find you. To face you. To make you pay for everything. Because if you had truly turned against her, if you had been working with Jinx all along… she would make sure you didn’t get away with it.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the anger and the rage, there was a small flicker of something else. Something that made her hesitate. Something that, for just a moment, felt like it might break her heart. But she couldn’t let it. Not now. She had to do this.

You were a traitor. And she couldn’t let you go free.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

The warm sun bathed the open field in soft, golden light. The wind played through the tall grass, swaying it in gentle waves. Birds chirped in the distance, and the air was full of the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers. You and Isha ran across the field, the sounds of her laughter ringing out as you chased after her in a game of tag.

She darted ahead, faster than you expected, her small figure almost blending into the landscape as she sprinted with joy. Her giggles were pure, carefree, and infectious. You pushed yourself to catch up, the ground beneath you soft and firm, giving way to each step as you closed in on her. She glanced over her shoulder just as you reached out, and with a gleeful shriek, you grabbed her in mid-air, lifting her up and spinning her around in playful triumph.

You both fell together into a patch of soft wildflowers, the colors of purples, yellows, and whites mixing together beneath you. The flowers tickled your skin, and the world seemed to slow as the sound of your laughter filled the air. Isha’s laughter was the sweetest sound, and you couldn’t help but grin as you both rolled through the flowers, giggling like children who had forgotten the weight of the world.

From the edge of the field, Jinx watched with quiet intensity, her eyes drawn to the way you moved with Isha, the way your smiles seemed so natural, so effortless. The interaction from a few nights ago—the raw emotions, the vulnerability, the tension—still played through her mind. Did you mean it? she wondered. Were you scared? She hadn’t forgotten the words you’d said, or how you looked at her, and it made something stir deep inside her. There was a longing, a confusion, that she couldn’t shake.

You playfully teased Isha about how you were going to catch her, your voice light and mischievous as you taunted her in your usual way. She squealed in excitement and dashed toward Jinx, her arms outstretched, ready to leap into her arms. Jinx caught her easily, lifting her up and spinning her in a whirlwind of laughter. You watched them, your heart softening at the sight of the two of them so happy, so full of life.

But then, your expression shifted. Your smile faltered, and something in the air felt different. Jinx noticed the change in your demeanor immediately. It was like the energy around you had shifted, something heavy settling over you. You stood still for a moment, your gaze turning toward them, locking with Jinx’s.

Then, with an unsettling calm, you took a few slow steps forward, eyes fixed on her and Isha. Something was coming. Jinx felt it too. Her heart skipped a beat. Her eyes flickered around the field, searching for any signs of danger.

That’s when the explosion hit.

The force of it sent shockwaves through the air, a deafening crack that reverberated in the ground, knocking you off your feet. You were thrown back, flying through the air, tumbling several yards before crashing into the ground with a harsh, painful thud.

Jinx’s blood ran cold as she heard your scream—no, your command—rising from the chaos.

“RUN!”

The urgency in your voice pierced through everything, and Jinx didn’t hesitate. She scooped Isha up into her arms with a swift, practiced motion and sprinted away. Isha’s small hands reached out toward you, her face full of confusion and fear, her quiet pleas echoing in the silence.

“I’m not leaving you!” she seemed to be saying, her face strained with the silent desperation of someone who couldn’t speak, but whose heart was crying out.

Jinx’s chest tightened. Her eyes blurred with tears, but she didn’t stop. She pushed forward, running as fast as she could, not even daring to look back at the devastation you had just endured. She could hear Isha’s soft cries, the child’s desperate fingers grasping at her in a futile attempt to return to you. It tore at Jinx’s heart with each step.

Behind her, you struggled to stand, your body trembling with pain, but you refused to collapse. Adrenaline surged through you as you fought off a few enforcers, desperate to hold your ground. The battle was brief, but your strength was fading, and you could feel it. The pain in your stomach was unbearable, but you fought through it, blocking blows, disarming attackers.

Then, the crack of a rifle.

The shot rang through the air like a thunderclap, and your body froze. The world seemed to slow as the bullet pierced through your side, the force knocking the breath out of you. Pain shot through your body like a lightning bolt, and you staggered back, barely managing to stay on your feet. Blood welled from the wound, warm and sticky, soaking through your clothes as you dropped to your knees.

Your vision blurred. The pain in your stomach was overwhelming, each breath a struggle. Your strength was failing you. You looked around, and your heart skipped as you spotted Caitlyn in the distance. She stood at the edge of the field, a rifle still raised, a cold look in her eyes.

Her gaze met yours across the battlefield. For a brief moment, your eyes locked, and you saw something in her expression—something cold, but also… familiar. It was a look that haunted you.

Jinx, hidden from view, watched it all unfold from the shadows. Her chest tightened as her mind raced, her heart hammering in her ears. She saw you drop to your knees, your body shaking, the blood pooling beneath you. She was paralyzed with fear, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene.

Isha’s small hand pressed against Jinx’s chest, her fingers curling around her as she whimpered softly, the weight of what was happening sinking in.

“I’m not leaving you,” Jinx whispered to her, even though there was no way she could keep that promise. Not with everything that was unfolding.

With a quick, frantic glance back at you, Jinx grabbed Isha and ran, putting every ounce of strength she had into escaping. The last thing she saw was you, crumpling to the ground, unable to move anymore.

The screams of the world faded as Jinx pushed forward, the only thing on her mind: finding her sister.

She wasn’t going to let you—or her—be lost to this.

————————

told yall… next chap later today (so much about to go down- this a long ass fic i wrote so hold on to your hats cause boy this meal about to be five mf stars)

[mortytheestallion]

can i have you?

Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

Word Count: 1700+

Warnings: Rick Sanchez x F!Reader, age-gap (older man/younger woman), unprotected sex PIV, angst, cunnilingus, fingering, canon typical violence, alcohol

“What’s that?” There’s a look of uneasiness painted on your face, a timid hand pointing at a seemingly dead robot that looks a little too much like Rick, well exactly like Rick, strewn across the garage floor in a puddle of oil.

Rick barely spares a glance over his shoulder before giving a gruff grunt.

“Morty pissed me off. It's a glorified family babysitter while I search for— while I focus on real shit.”

You think you’re gonna throw up. If that. . . thing, has been impersonating Rick for a couple of weeks then—

You can’t help the shriek that passes through your lips. Stomach churning, you don’t acknowledge the sound of glass shattering not 5 feet from where you stand. All you can do is stare at the shiny gold consisting of the robot’s body parts in horror.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Rick had already been in an irritated state like you’ve never seen. 5’o clock shadow, disheveled hair, and his lab coat seemed to be all that was holding him together.​ The mania had dissipated a couple of days ago, leaving nothing but piss and vinegar behind. 

“I fucked that thing.”

You’ve never seen Rick surprised as he slowly turns to face you, brow near his hairline. He’s speechless for the first time since he met you, yet it's gone as quickly as it came. His signature furrowed brow and twitching eye returned.

“What do you mean you fucked it?” It's full of venom. You can see his shoulders tense, white knuckles gripping the edge of the work bench. 

All you can do is stare at him, bound and gagged by your own dreadful realization. A beat passes before either one of you moves, Rick springs into action first. A string of explicatives leaves his mouth as he roughly clears the work bench, you cringe at the sound of clattering metal, but do not move. It feels like your feet have grown roots. 

It all makes sense now. The soft touches, the kindness, the supportiveness. It couldn’t have been Rick, it wasn’t. 

You can’t believe you didn’t realize it was a robot. His hands were cold, which was the only odd thing but Rick is odd. He normally runs like a space heater. You often wake up with all of your blankets on the floor, Rick starfished on the topsheet. He had been more tender though, attentive. You just thought time was changing him, making him softer. It seemed like family was making him more mellow, you thought maybe having you in his life brought out something in him. 

The shame and embarrassment washes over you like a flood. 

He picks up the robot with ease, throwing it onto the work bench like it weighs less than a feather. You’d be turned on in other, better circumstances. Your thoughts continue to race as Rick searches carelessly through boxes, throwing items over his shoulder at the workbench. He doesn’t seem to care if it hits the robot or not. 

Rick attaches what looks like jumper cables to each of the robot's nipples. You snort, instant regret shoots down your spine as Rick throws a glare at you. He presses a button and the robot jerks to life, cringing as he moans through the electrical current flowing through him.

“I thought you let me die, asshole.” He squints at Rick. His eyes widen when he realizes Rick is in no joking mood. 

“I programmed you to keep Morty busy not to fuck my gir— not to fuck her!” Rick thumb jabs in your direction, “Now I’m gonna fuck her, and make you watch.”

“Rick.” It's the first word you’ve been able to get out in a minute, the robot quietly sighs to himself during your staring contest with Rick. 

“Fine.” It comes out through gritted teeth, and he rips the cables off. The robot jerks as the light leaves its eyes. You feel a little guilty, this somewhat sentient creature dying because of your actions. Then again, Rick programmed it to be him, and it does seem to want to die. 

“What?” It's accusatory. Rick can’t believe the look on your face, you fucked a robot not him. Who are you to be on a high horse?

Your mouth is set in a grim line, tension oozes between the two of you. Rick’s chest heaves, he won’t break before you do. 

“What exactly was your plan with the robot? You thought I wouldn't initiate sex?” You break, chewing on your lip. Rick’s eyes briefly flicker towards it before meeting yours again. His hands are balled into fists.

“S-sorry I expected you to actually use that thing in your head, you know the brain?” Your mouth falls open at his jab, “Mouth o-open again? Gonna stick the dead robot dick in it, sweetheart?” 

There's tears in your eyes. All of the cautious trust you’ve built over the last couple washed away in a matter of seconds. Serves you right, you think.

He takes a swig of his flask, angry eyes betraying the calm demeanor he’s trying to portray. You can’t help it as the tears fall, you watch him soften a bit as you sniffle before the coldness returns. 

“Tears d-don’t work on me bab— sweetie, or did the robot fuck you dumb?” You know he’s just being mean because he’s hurt. 

It doesn’t make it any less upsetting though. You both stand your ground. 

You play it up a little, calling his bluff. Sniffles turn to sobs, you watch as his resolve slowly begins to crumble. He shifts his weight several times before he tosses the flask over his shoulder and moves in your direction. 

“C’mere,” his thumbs briefly wipe the tears off your cheeks before his lips meet yours. It’s uncharacteristically soft for him, a little too on brand for the robot. You push the thought to the back of your mind, enjoying how warm his body is pressed against yours. 

He gets a little rougher. You gasp as your back hits the work bench, so engrossed in the feeling of his teeth biting your neck you didn’t even notice him guiding you over. 

Rick’s hands are gripping your waist so tight you’re sure there’ll be handprint shaped bruises on your hips in the morning. The thought of it makes you moan, and he tenses slightly before continuing his way down your torso. 

He gets his hands under your thighs. Calloused hands meet plush skin as he leverages you up on the counter, you yelp as you land on the cold counter. 

“Gon–gonna make you forget all about him, sweetheart,” He mutters, rucking the material down your legs. He’s gonna show you how much he cares about you in the only way he can. He stops for a minute to grab you by the nape of your neck and kisses you, really kisses you. He bathes in the soft moans he manages to pull from you between kisses, continuing his previous goal as he bites his way down your neck and chest. 

Rick drags your ass to the edge of the counter before dropping to his knees. He bites back a curse, his joints too old to be doing shit like that but damn if he wasn’t gonna worship you in a way that matters. Matters to him.

He runs a finger up your slit, savoring how wet you are for him after nothing but a couple kisses. It inflates his ego like you wouldn’t believe. 

You mewl as he breaches you, two slender fingers twisting inside you. You arch into his touch, wiggling for as much contact you can milk from him. 

“Please, Rick, d-don’t tease,” you plead, his eyes search your face. He curls his fingers up, hitting you where you’re soft and spongy, reveling in the way you melt in his hands. Rick uses his other hand to spread your knees wide. He can’t help the noise that escapes his throat at the sight of you. 

He picks up his pace and you squirm, your hips chasing as much pleasure as you can. His cock presses uncomfortably against the seam of his pants as he feels you clench around his fingers. Beads of sweat pepper your hairline as you ride his fingers, becoming more desperate the longer he denies you release. 

You practically scream the minute you feel his mouth on your clit. Your orgasm rips through you like a live wire. Your thighs shake, momentarily blacking out as the pleasure overwhelms you. 

When you come down, Rick is staring at you intently. 

“Can I have you?” It's loaded. You know what he means, he’s asking for permission before continuing but there’s more underneath this time. He might even be more upset than you about the robot fucking, and you know Rick’s no saint. Your lip quivers. His stare never leaves your face.

You nod. He’s on you faster than you can process post-orgasm. 

He kisses you again. It's softer this time, one hand holds your jaw softly while the other undoes his belt. He desperately shoves his pants down as if having you will solve all his problems. Maybe it will.

Rick fists himself as he smears his cock against your entrance. You moan, overstimulated and fucked out. He holds himself back, it's not in his nature to go slow. Your hips buck involuntarily as he slides to the hilt, his head drops to your shoulder with a groan. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight,” He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in without warning, “Bet he didn’t fuck you like this, huh?” He quickens his pace and you grip his shoulders, hips dragging with what little strength you have to meet him.

He thrusts as deep as he can to get you to writhe and whimper. 

“C’mon,” He pants, “Just one more for me, honey, I know you can do it.” It's creeping up on you, twisting down your spine. He angles his hips to spear his cock into you just like you need, and it's enough. 

Rick’s hips stutter as you clench around him, gripping your hips to deliver the brutal thrusts you need as you ride through your orgasm. 

He comes shortly after with a grunt as you flutter along his length. 

“I’d have fucked a robot sooner if it meant you’d fuck me like that.”

The glare is worth it.

[qwertyprophecy]

Mortholme Post-Mortem

The Dark Queen of Mortholme has been out for two weeks, and I've just been given an excellent excuse to write some more about its creation by a lenghty anonymous ask.

Under the cut, hindsight on the year spent making Mortholme and answers to questions about game dev, grouped under the following topics:

Time spent on development Programming Obstacles Godot Animation Pixel art Environment assets Writing Completion Release

Regarding time spent on development

Nope, I’ve got no idea anymore how long I spent on Mortholme. It took a year but during that time I worked on like two other games and whatever else. And although I started with the art, I worked on all parts simultaneously to avoid getting bored. This is what I can say:

Art took a ridiculous amount of time, but that was by choice (or compulsion, one might say). I get very excitable and particular about it. At most I was making about one or two Hero animations in a day (for a total of 8 + upgraded versions), but anything involving the Queen took multiple times longer. When I made the excecutive decision that her final form was going to have a bazillion tentacles I gave up on scheduling altogether.

Coding went quickly at the start when I was knocking out a feature after another, until it became the ultimate slow-burn hurdle at the end. Testing, bugfixing, and playing Jenga with increasingly unwieldy code kept oozing from one week to the next. For months, probably? My memory’s shot but I have a mark on my calendar on the 18th of August that says “Mortholme done”. Must’ve been some optimistic deadline before the ooze.

Writing happened in extremely productive week-long bursts followed by nothing but nitpicky editing while I focused on other stuff. Winner in the “changed most often” category, for sure.

Sound was straightforward, after finishing a new set of animations I spent a day or two to record and edit SFX for them. Music I originally scheduled two weeks for, but hubris and desire for more variants bumped it to like a month.

Regarding programming

The Hero AI is certainly the part that I spent most of my coding time on. The basic way the guaranteed dodging works is that all the Queen’s attacks send a signal to the Hero, who calculates a “danger zone” based on the type of attack and the Queen’s location. Then, if the Hero is able to dodge that particular attack (a probability based on how much it's been used & story progression), they run a function to dodge it.

Each attack has its own algorithm that produces the best safe target position to go to based on the Hero’s current position (and other necessary actions like jumping). Those algorithms needed a whole lot of testing to code counters for all the scenarios that might trip the Hero up.

The easiest or at least most fun parts for me to code are the extra bells and whistles that aren’t critical but add flair. Like in the Hero’s case, the little touches that make them seem more human: a reaction speed delay that increases over time, random motions and overcompensation that decrease as they gain focus, late-game Hero taking prioritising aggressive positiniong, a “wait for last second” function that lets the Hero calculate how long it’ll take them to move to safety and use the information to squeeze an extra attack in…

The hardest attack was the magic circle, as it introduced a problem in my code so far. The second flare can overlap with other attacks, meaning the Hero had to keep track of two danger zones at once. For a brief time I wanted to create a whole new system that would constantly update a map of all current danger zones—that would allow for any number of overlapping attacks, which would be really cool! Unfortunately it didn’t gel with my existing code, and I couldn’t figure out its multitudes of problems since, well…

Regarding obstacles

Thing is, I’m hot garbage as a programmer. My game dev’s all self-taught nonsense. So after a week of failing to get this cool system to work, I scrapped it and instead made a spaghetti code monstrosity that made magic circle run on a separate danger zone, and decided I’d make no more overlapping attacks. That’s easy; I just had to buffer the timing of the animation locks so that the Hero would always have time to move away. (I still wanted to keep the magic circle, since it’s fun for the player to try and trick the Hero with it.)

There’s my least pretty yet practical solo dev advice: if you get stuck because you can’t do something, you can certainly try to learn how to do it, but occasionally the only way to finish a project within a decade to work around those parts and let them be a bit crap.

I’m happy to use design trickery, writing and art to cover for my coding skills. Like, despite the anonymous asker’s description, the Hero’s dodging is actually far from perfect. I knew there was no way it was ever going to be, which is why I wrote special dialogue to account for a player finding an exploit that breaks the intended gameplay. (And indeed, when the game was launched, someone immediately found it!)

Regarding Godot

It’s lovely! I switched from Unity years ago and it’s so much simpler and more considerate of 2D games. The way its node system emphasises modularity has improved my coding a lot.

New users should be aware that a lot of tutorials and advice you find online may be for Godot 3. If something doesn’t work, search for what the Godot 4 equivalent is.

Regarding animation

I’m a professional animator, so my list of tips and techniques is a tad long… I’ll just give a few resource recommendations: read up on the classic 12 principles of animation (or the The Illusion of Life, if you’d like the whole book) and test each out for yourself. Not every animation needs all of these principles, but basically every time you’ll be looking at an animation and wondering how to make it better, the answer will be in paying attention to one or more of them.

Game animation is its own beast, and different genres have their own needs. I’d recommend studying animations that do what you’d like to do, frame by frame. If you’re unsure of how exactly to analyse animation for its techniques, youtube channel New Frame Plus shows an excellent example.

Oh, and film yourself some references! The Queen demanded so much pretend mace swinging that it broke my hoover.

Regarding pixel art

The pixel art style was picked for two reasons: 1. to evoke a retro game feel to emphasise the meta nature of the narrative, and 2. because it’s faster and more forgiving to animate in than any of my other options.

At the very start I was into the idea of doing a painterly style—Hollow Knight was my first soulslike—but quickly realised that I’d either have to spend hundreds of hours animating the characters, or design them in a simplistic way that I deemed too cutesy for this particular game. (Hollow Knight style, one day I’d love to emulate you…)

I don’t use a dedicated program, just Photoshop for everything like a chump. Pixel art doesn’t need anything fancy, although I’m sure specialist programs will keep it nice and simple.

Pixel art’s funny; its limitations make it dependent on symbolism, shortcuts and viewer interpretation. You could search for some tutorials on basic principles (like avoiding “jaggies” or the importance of contrast), but ultimately you’ll simply want to get a start in it to find your own confidence in it. I began dabbling years ago by asking for character requests on Tumblr and doodling them in pixels in whatever way I could think of.

Regarding environment assets

The Queen’s throne room consists of two main sprites—one background and one separate bit of the door for the Hero disappear behind—and then about fifty more for the lighting setup. There’s six different candle animations, there’s lines on the floor that need to go on top of character reflections, all the candle circles and lit objects are separated so that the candles can be extinguished asynchronously; and then there’s purple phase 2 versions of all of the above.

This is all rather dumb. There’s simpler ways in Godot to do 2D lighting with shaders and a built-in system (I use those too), but I wanted control over the exact colours so I just drew everything in Photoshop the way I wanted it. Still, it highlights how mostly you only need a single background asset and separated foreground objects; except if you need animated objects or stuff that needs to change while the game’s running, you’ll get a whole bunch more.

I wholeheartedly applaud having a go at making your own game art, even if you don’t have any art background! The potential for cohesion in all aspects of design—art, game, narrative, sound—is at the heart of why video games are such an exciting medium!

Regarding writing

Finding the voices of the Queen and the Hero was the quick part of the process. They figured that out they are almost as soon as writing started. I’d been mulling this game over in my mind for so long, I had already a specific idea in mind of what the two of them stood for, conceptually and thematically. When they started bantering, I felt like all I really had to do was to guide it along the storyline, and then polish.

What ended up taking so long was that there was too much for them to say for how short the game needed to be to not feel overstretched. Since I’d decided to go with two dialogue options on my linear story, it at least gave me twice the amount of dialogue that I got to write, but it wasn’t enough!

The first large-scale rewrite was me going over the first draft and squeezing in more interesting things for the Queen and the Hero to discuss, more branching paths and booleans. There was this whole thing where the player’s their dialogue choices over multiple conversations would lead them to about four alternate interpretations of why the Queen is the way she is. This was around the time I happened to finally play Disco Elysium, so of course I also decided to also add a ton of microreactivity (ie. small changes in dialogue that acknowledge earlier player choices) to cram in even more alternate dialogue. I spent ages tinkering with the exact nuances till I was real proud of it.

Right until the playtesters of this convoluted contraption found the story to be unclear and confusing. For some reason. So for my final rewrite, I picked out my favourite bits and cut everything else. With the extra branching gone, there was more room to improve the pacing so the core of the story could breathe. The microreactivity got to stay, at least!

A sample of old dialogue from the overcomplicated version:

Regarding completion

The question was “what kept me going to actually finish the game, since that is a point many games never even get to meet?” and it’s a great one because I forgot that’s a thing. Difficulties finishing projects, that is—I used to think it was hard, but not for many years. Maybe I’ve completed so many small-scale games already that it hardly seems that unreasonable of an expectation? (Game jams. You should do game jams.)

I honestly never had any doubt I was going to finish Mortholme. When I started in late autumn last year, I was honestly expecting the concept to be too clunky to properly function; but I wished to indulge in silliness and make it exist anyways. That vision would’ve been easy to finish, a month or two of low stakes messing around, no biggie. (Like a game jam!)

Those months ran out quickly as I had too much fun making the art to stop. It must’ve been around the time I made this recording that it occurred to me that even if the game was going to be clunky, it could still genuinely work on the back of good enough storytelling technique—not just writing, but also the animation and the Hero’s evolving behaviour during the gameplay segments which I’d been worried about. The reaction to my early blogging was also heartening. Other people could also imagine how this narrative could be interesting!

A few weeks after that I started planning out the narrative beats I wanted the dialogue to reach, and came to the conclusion that I really, really wanted it to work. Other people had to see this shit, I thought. There’s got to be freaks out there who’d love to experience this tragedy, and I’m eager to deliver.

That’s why I was fine with the project’s timeline stretching out. If attention to detail and artistry was going to make this weird little story actually come to life, then great, because that’s exactly the part of development I love doing most. Projects taking longer than expected can be frustrating, but accepting that as a common part of game dev is what allows confidence in eventual their completion regardless.

Regarding release

Dear anonymous’s questions didn’t involve post-release concerns, but it seems fitting to wrap up the post-mortem by talking about the two things about Mortholme's launch that were firsts for me, and thus I was unprepared for.

1. This was the first action game I've coded. Well, sort of—I consider Mortholme to be a story first and foremost, with gameplay so purposefully obnoxious it benefits from not being thought of as a “normal” game. Still, the action elements are there. For someone who usually sticks to making puzzle games since they’re easier to code, this was my most mechanically fragile game yet. So despite all my attempts at playtesting and failsafes, it had a whole bunch of bugs on release.

Game-breaking bugs, really obvious bugs, weird and confusing bugs. It took me over a week to fix all that was reported (and I’m only hoping they indeed are fully fixed). That feels slow; I should’ve expected it was going to break so I could’ve been faster to respond. Ah well, next time I know what I’ll be booking my post-release week for.

2. This was my first game that I let players give me money for. Sure, it’s pay-what-you-want, but for someone as allergic to business decisions as I am, it was a big step. I guess I was worried of being shown that nobody would consider my art worth financial compensation. Well, uh, that fear has gone out of the window now. I’m blown away by how kind and generous the players of Mortholme have been with their donations.

I can’t imagine it's likely to earn a living wage from pouring hundreds of hours into pay-what-you-want passion projects, but the support has me heartened to seek out a future where I could make these weird stories and a living both.

Those were the unexpected parts. The part I must admit I was expecting—but still infinitely grateful for—was that Mortholme did in fact reach them freaks who’d find it interesting. The responses, comments, analyses, fan works (there’s fic and art!! the dream!!), inspiration, and questions (like the ones prompting me to write this post-mortem) people have shared with me thanks to Mortholme… They’ve all truly been what I was hoping for back when I first gave myself emotions thinking about a mean megalomaniac and stubborn dipshit.

Thank you for reading, thank you for playing, and thank you for being around.

[pearlessance]

Forgive Me, Father - Idle Threats [viii]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel hears your confession and breaks all ten commandments in the house of the holy.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, reader has added backstory to progress the plot, mention of sexual assault, murder, canon typical violence, renouncing of god, desecration of a church, blood, brief daddy kink

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

The following days are easier than any other you’ve had since leaving Jackson. It takes two days, but Joel hears your laugh again and feels himself release a heavy weight at the sound. Once, when the two of you are switching watch shifts, you sleepily mutter his name. And he goes to you like he always will—and you whisper an almost incoherent confession of your affection. “I love you, too,” you say, and he tries not to think about the way it makes him feel like a boy your age, hearing those words for the first time. 

You move slower, and it’s not because of the extra weight strapped to your horses. Joel doesn’t say it, but he knows it’s because you’re afraid of returning to Jackson. Afraid of things going back to the way they were before this run.

In truth, Joel worries about it too. Worries about finding a new routine, worries about Maria and Tommy and Ellie, worries about what they’ll say. It won’t make him change his mind, he knows. Nothing would ever make him regret this selfish decision to keep you. But sometimes, in a too-long moment of silence, anxiety builds in his chest when he thinks of it. 

But you still have several days before you return, and Joel intends to soak up this sweet, delicate time with you while he still can.

A little over halfway back to Jackson, you stop before the sun sets and make camp in an old, abandoned church. The very same one advertised on the billboard Joel had seen on the way to Casper.

Some of the pews are turned over while others have been broken apart and likely set ablaze in the pile of ashes in the center of the floor. There are no infected, but there’s a stone statue of Mary that looms ominously in the corner, covered in dust and cracked along its painted surface.

Joel feels uncomfortable here. Feels watched, judged. His skin crawls and he thinks about pushing on until you find some other place to rest.

The altar table has been left untouched, decorated with a yellowed, satin ribbon draped along its center. The bible lying on top is flipped open to a passage Joel knows well.

Corinthians 10:13 

No temptation has seized you except what is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that which you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.

It’s bookmarked not with a scrap of paper but with a silver necklace tucked in its spine. A dainty thing with a cross dangling from the end of it. Joel picks it up, watches it sway between his calloused fingers. 

And when he turns to face you, you’re standing in the middle of the center aisle and the setting sunlight casts a shadow across your face, making you look like some angelic being sent to him by God himself. “Did you ever come to one of these before the world ended?”

Joel nods, takes the necklace in his hands and finds his way back to you. “Quite a bit when I was a kid,” he answers. “My mom was pretty religious. We went to every Sunday service and sometimes the ones on Wednesdays, too. Even sent Tommy and I to the church's after-school program for young kids.”

He holds the necklace out to show you, and a shiver runs down his spine when you trace the cross in his palm, your touch electrifying. It’s just the smallest brush of your index finger, but it makes the air get caught in his lungs. “Pretty,” you say wistfully. “Do you believe in God?”

Joel jerks his chin in a silent demand and you obey wordlessly, turning away from him. He unclasps the necklace as you hold your hair out of the way. “I did,” he answers slowly, wrapping the silver chain carefully around your throat. “And then I didn’t.”

“And now?” 

He secures it and runs his knuckles down the nape of your neck. No would be the closest thing to the truth, but it’s not quite it. Joel thinks about lying to save himself the shame but rejects the thought as soon as it comes. “I believe in you,” he says quietly.

Somehow this confession feels heavier than his declaration of love. Perhaps it’s because this is the thing he’s struggled with, this strange worship of Judas. You’ve come to him in pieces, a shell of a girl, a betrayer—and yet it’s your altar he crawls to. It’s you who holds the keys to heaven, who controls both his grace and his damnation.

Joel leans forward and presses his lips to your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He can feel your breath falter, and so he does it again. This time a kiss to your shoulder, right above the collar of your sweater. 

His hands have a mind of their own as they find your waist. Joel knows this is wrong, knows how sinful it is, and yet he knows the only way to endure the taste of the forbidden fruit is to bite into it, to devour it, to consume it for as long as he’s able. He has spent so much of his life fighting, resisting, repenting—but maybe it’s time God asks for his forgiveness.

Your skin is smooth beneath his calloused palms. He slides them beneath your shirt, over your hips, up your torso. He pulls at the soft garment, and you lift your arms for him to make it easier as he pulls it off and discards it in the nearest pew.

And then his hands are on you again—this time tracing the edge of your jeans, pinky finger dipping slowly beneath the band around your waist, teasing. You’re panting now, chest rising and falling in quick succession. You say his name a little like a prayer and it brings a smile to his face. 

“Shh,” he says. “Patience is a virtue, little girl.” But he wants you, perhaps even more than you want to be touched, so his left hand finds the button of your jeans and undoes it. 

He moves slowly, and you stand completely still as Joel peels the too-tight jeans down your legs. You kick your boots off, and soon you’re standing in the middle of this crumbling church in nothing but a pair of baby pink panties and a white lace bralette, looking every bit the divine goddess he doesn’t deserve. 

When you turn to face him, there’s a playful glint in your eye. “Let me try it,” you say. “One question, though. Is it forgive me, father? Or is it forgive me, Daddy?”

Two things happen inside him at once. 

First, the crudeness of your words baffles him so completely that he laughs. Full-on laughs for the first time in twenty years. The vulgarity of it in a place of worship is somehow both amusing and horrifying. 

Second, all the blood in his head rushes south. Because the word daddy in your mouth is the most erotic thing he’s ever heard, the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard, and Joel knows right away that he will never have the strength to process why such a thing makes him so goddamn hard. Doesn’t even attempt it. 

He simply enjoys it instead. Allows it to drown him, consume him wholly. Accepts what is and what isn’t. Accepts that he is the most deplorable man that’s ever existed and it’s why he’ll never deserve you but it’s also why it’ll never matter. Because now…you belong to the most deplorable man. 

The devil and his pretty, perfect Judas.

And then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him and Joel struggles to keep his weary heart from bursting from his chest. 

His attempts at composure are blown to pieces when you press your hands together and look up at him through your lashes. With all humor bled from the moment, overtaken by a sudden hunger, you say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” and something evil stirs inside him.

Something more than sinful. Something ungodly. Something blasphemous. 

That cross is draped beautifully between your breasts, cleavage elevated by the angle of your arms.

Joel reaches out with both hands and runs them through your hair affectionately. “You look so pretty on your knees,” he says. “You got somethin’ to confess?”

You nod and a smirk graces your face. “I’ve been having wicked thoughts,” you say, voice taking on an innocent and girlish tone. “And…I’ve been giving into temptation, Father.”

“S’that right?” Joel licks his lips. His cock throbs in his jeans, desperate for your touch in a way it’s never been before.

He watches, transfixed, as you take your bottom lip between your teeth, taking your hands from the position of prayer and instead running them up his strong thighs. You slide them beneath his flannel, soft hands cool against his heated skin. “I’ve been letting a man touch me.” You’re whispering, but he feels each syllable down to his bones. “An older man,” you continue, pulling at his belt. 

Joel finds you mesmerizing. Thinks you’ve ruined him. Completely, utterly decimated the man he used to be. “Touch you how?”

You don’t take your eyes off his as his belt clinks against the button of his jeans. “I’ve let him inside me, Father,” you say, pulling down his zipper at a torturous pace. “I’ve let him in my mouth, in my heart, in between my thighs.” 

He never thought it possible, but his need for you grows teeth, morphs into some vicious, ravenous thing. Joel brushes his fingers through your hair, pulling lightly at the roots. “And what do you think you should do as repentance, sweetheart?”

Joel’s reminded of a siren’s song when you answer, “I think I should show a little extra devotion. Don’t you?” You pull his cock from his jeans, and the simple touch of your hand has him nearly shaking in anticipation. You break character for only long enough to giggle softly, wipe the back of your hand over your glossy lips, and say, “My mouth is watering.”

He smooths your hair back away from your face, admiring the way you look on your knees for him, just as desperate as he is. “Go’head, baby,” he says.

You don’t waste any time. You’re slow in your pursuit; tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. Savoring, worshiping, devoting yourself to him and him only. You swirl your tongue around the head, licking up drops of precum.

When you finally take him into your mouth, you don’t stop until you’ve swallowed him whole, choking on it, nose pressed to the tuft of hair below his navel. It’s the most glorious thing Joel’s ever seen in all his life. And then you moan, and he can feel the vibrations of it down to his toes. 

You pull your head back far enough, and your mouth leaves him completely, connected by nothing but strands of saliva. Your lips are already bruised and swollen, but they pull into the prettiest, proudest smile he’s ever seen, and Joel’s weak in the knees. 

“Filthy little girl,” he says affectionately, hands still running through the silky strands of your hair. “Y’like that? Hm? You like that mouth filled up, don’t you?”

“Mmhm.” There’s so much love, so much worship in your eyes that he feels his chest pull tight. You take his cock in your mouth again, tongue sliding along the underside of it, cheeks hollowed out to take him in deeper.

Joel feels your devotion with each soft lick, each swallow at the back of your throat, each ragged, choked breath. He knows he won’t last long. Your mouth is too hot, too wet, too sweet. And when you pick up the pace, bobbing your head, fingernails leaving indentations in the exposed skin of his thighs, pressure builds at the base of his spine like a fucking noose. “There you go,” he encourages. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. Shit —just like that.”

Your cheeks are flushed, and Joel’s once gentle hands pull tight in your hair, guiding your mouth down onto him. It only makes those delicious moans around his cock that much sweeter. Your thighs are clamped tightly together, and he barrels towards euphoria as he thinks about just how wet he knows you are, his dirty little girl.

“Fuck, baby—fuck. Hold on, hold on.” He pulls your head back, cock slick and glossy, covered in your spit. He’s going to finish just like this if he’s not careful. “Gonna be over too soon if you keep that up.”

“Please, Joel,” you say. “I want to taste it. It’s all I want. Let me make you feel good.”

Joel thinks Michaelangelo never would’ve sculpted David, had his existence overlapped with yours. Because in all the time of the universe, a sight has never lived as beautiful as the one of you begging on your knees before him.

What kind of man would he be if he refused? Joel wants to give you everything you could ever ask for. Wants to give you the world at whatever cost to his soul.

So, he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your bruised lips around his cock again. You feel like heaven, or as close to it as he’ll ever be allowed.

He comes at the back of your throat with a groan and trembling hands in your hair. Hands that are all too aware that they hold something holy, something divine. “ Goddamn —fuck. Mm, yeah. There you go, baby. There you go.”

His cock throbs in your mouth, and you don’t stop sucking until he’s completely spent. And when you do finally lean back and stick out your tongue, he’s nearly hard again at the obscene way his come drips down your lips, down your chin. 

Then you swallow, and Joel grins and rests his palm gently on your cheek. He uses the rough pad of his thumb to push the last few drops back into your mouth, and you suck it down greedily. “Gotta take it all, little girl. Make me proud, hm?”

And as soon as you’re satisfied, Joel’s pulling you back to your feet and pressing his mouth to yours in a ravenous kiss. He can taste remnants of himself on you, and it’s the most comforting sensation he’s ever experienced. It’s proof of your union, evidence of your devotion. A physical, tangible way to convince him he’s not alone in his sacrilege.

Joel lifts you off your feet, and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. He carries you to the altar table, lays you down, and pushes your knees apart. Normally, he likes to take his time with you. Likes to savor the way you taste, the way you feel. But he’s so hungry for you and you only that he cannot— cannot wait another fucking second.

But then you say his name and his every intention freezes. “You don’t have to,” you say, and it confuses him. You attempt an explanation. “I don’t want you to feel like you always have to make me finish, too. I just…I didn’t do it expecting anything in return. I want you to know that.”

You sound so sincere, so… benevolent. A far cry from the bratty little girl he first met. He presses a kiss to your temple and says quietly, “I’d never let my little girl go without. Not the kinda man I am, baby.”

He might be too old to go rounds with you, but he knows how to make you feel good. He’s real good at it, in fact.

Joel leans over and presses a chaste kiss to your clit, right over your panties. He delights in the way it makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds you make when he pulls the fabric to the side and slides his tongue through your wet warmth. 

He presses your legs back, opens you further, and laps at your pussy like a man starved for you because he is. You taste like redemption, like home.

Your hands weave into his hair, tugging lightly, and Joel moans when you press his face against your pussy like he just can’t get close enough. He takes your clit in his mouth and sucks hard, tongue rolling over it softly. 

“Fuck, that feels so good, Joel— God —”

A groan escapes him, lips vibrating with the sound of it. His cock begins to harden again, hanging heavy between his legs. He’s insatiable for you; returned to the needy, desperate stage of his masculinity he once thought he’d grown out of.

Joel quickens the movement of his tongue and slips a finger inside of you. Your back arches off the altar table and your hips grind against his face, smearing your slick down his chin, over his lips.

He hooks his finger inside of you and strokes the spot that makes you writhe. You look so beautiful he thinks you must be some divine being. It’s the only thing that makes sense in his head. 

Your legs begin to tremble around his shoulders and that’s when he decides to pull away. Because he wants you to cum for him, wants to be the reason you shiver and shake—but he wants to feel it. 

In one smooth movement, he pulls you to the edge of the altar table and sinks his cock into you deep.

“Oh my God,” you whimper. “Fuck, fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—!”

“Wait,” he says, stilling the instinctual rocking of his hips. You’re so tight, so smooth and wet as your pussy flutters around his cock. He pushes into you to the hilt but doesn’t move, doesn’t give you the satisfaction. He moves his hands to your lower belly, applying just a little bit of pressure. He can feel himself inside you, can feel just how full of him you are. “Want you to cum with me, little girl,” he says. “Can you do that for me? Hm?”

Slowly, experimentally, he shifts his hips the smallest bit, thrusting into you and laughing maliciously at the way you squeeze your eyes shut and whine for more. “I can—can try,” you stammer. “But it feels so —”

“Shh, I know baby,” he says, thrusting into you again, a little harder this time. It feels euphoric, indulging himself in you in a place of worship. He can feel faith in the air like magic, faith in you, in himself, in the love you share.

He moves again, fucking you slow and deep. If it weren’t for the way you make him feel, he thinks he might last a little longer. But the taste of ambrosia lingers on his tongue and he can see the pulsing of your clit and feel the tension in your muscles created from holding yourself back from the edge of pleasure.

Pride swells in his chest. His perfect girl, doing everything he asks, doing anything to please him. It makes him feel holy, like maybe the only godly presence in the room is him.

This is what you’ve done to him. You’ve taken this shell of a man and turned him seraphic, turned him sacred through your worship. Emotion builds in his throat when he thinks of it, when he realizes just how lucky he is to exist in this same universe as you, in the same lifetime. 

He kisses you deep and fucks you even deeper.

“Joel,” you pant, fingernails digging into the side of the altar table. The aged satin cloth has been wrinkled beneath your weight, hanging slightly askew off the edge. “Please, please, I can’t—!”

Warmth pools low in his belly. You sound so pretty when you beg. He presses one hand harder against your abdomen and uses the other to circle your clit. He can feel his cock move beneath his palm with each thrust and the sensation is the filthiest thing he’s ever experienced.

The pressure builds and builds and builds, and then finally —

“Go ‘head, baby. Cum for me,” he says, thrusting a little faster, rhythm faltering as rapture fills him like sunlight. Your legs tremble around his hips and your moans echo in the church as you find faith, too.

“I love you,” you say, and it feels like redemption. Like the opening of heaven’s gates. 

Like forgiveness.

You come down slowly, and Joel’s completely spent with almost no energy left. Yet still he helps you dress, pulls your sweater back on, and buttons up those too-tight jeans.

You eat together, rationing what little food you have left to try and stretch these precious days out a little longer. You admit around a bite of hard bread that you’re exhausted from the day’s ride and he is, too. And so you work together to stack the pews in front of the church’s double doors, sealing yourself inside but more importantly keeping anything outside from getting in.

There’s a window at the back of the church in a room Joel knows was once used for confessional. He leaves it cracked just enough to hear the horses outside if a commotion is caused. And then he holds you in his arms and sleeps. 

It’s the best sleep Joel’s gotten in twenty-five years, the sound of your voice echoing even in his dreams. 

But halfway through the night, the sound of whinnying and rambunctious laughter can be heard, jarring you both awake. 

You’re out of his arms and at the back of the church before Joel’s finished blinking his eyes open. 

He stands to his feet, heart racing behind his ribcage. 

Men’s voices, but far away. Several of them. 

He watches you move quickly through the church to the window at the front, watches you carefully peak through the dirty glass pane. 

Joel saddles up behind you and has never been more thankful that you skipped the warmth of a fire. Because fifteen yards away, there’s a group of men passing through. Some on horses, others walking casually beside them. They’re not subtle about their presence. 

Maybe they don’t think anyone’s around. And on any normal day, they would be right. Except this day, Joel’s here. You’re here.

He picks up his rifle from the makeshift bed the two of you created hours ago. 

You don’t move. You stay focused, transfixed as if you’re trying to see the minute details of their faces from this far away. You wipe the glass with the ivory sleeve of your sweater and it comes away grimy, covered in dust.

Joel knows there’s something you’re not telling him. Can feel the tension, electric and tight in the air, skin crawling with it. Your eyes are narrowed, focused on the sound of rambunctious laughter coming from the small group of men. 

And then your spine straightens and all concern bleeds from your face, replaced in an instant with rage. Red, murderous rage. Joel thinks he’s only seen that sort of frenzy in his own reflection. Now it stares back at him, mirrored and bloodthirsty. “What is it?”

You don’t answer. The scrape of your knife against its sheath at your thigh strikes a terror in him he hasn’t felt in years. His stomach turns uncomfortably because Joel knows, he knows something isn’t right. Something is going to go wrong. He can feel it in his marrow. 

“Stop,” he says. “Talk to me.”

It’s like his words don’t even register. You say nothing as you pull at the pews stacked in front of the doors. They scrape noisily against the hardwood floor, and Joel tries to find something to stop you, to get through to you—but that knife is still clutched in your blanched fist and he knows in your rage you’ll swing at him all the same.

“There are eight of them and two of us,” he tries to reason. “We have no ammunition, no bullets, no arrows. We have to let them—”

“Go?” You turn your frenzied eyes on him. “What’s now eight used to be twenty,” you say. “I won’t let them get away this time.”

“Then we plan for it,” he says, holding out a hand and taking a tentative step toward you. It doesn’t matter to him what your reasoning may be. Joel knows that sort of wrath, knows he’ll never change your mind. And he knows following you down this path of slaughter is bound to bloody his hands further, to taint his soul this time beyond repair. 

But he made a promise to you. Nothing in this world will you ever face alone. 

The problem is that Joel knows neither of you will make it out alive. Not in this. You got lucky back in Casper, and he’s got the knowledge and experience with age to know you won’t get lucky twice.

He can’t let you do this. 

“They won’t get far, okay? Not in an area like this. We go home— tomorrow. We ride to Jackson and we’ll get there in a day if we don't stop. And then we’ll come back for them, alright? We’ll stock up and track them down. I swear to you—”

“You don’t know,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what they did—!”

“So tell me. Tell me everything. Give me the knife.” He reaches for it slowly, carefully. You eye him like he might grow claws and an extra head if you look away for an instant.

You don’t trust him, Joel realizes. Not at this moment, not with this. “Joel,” you say in warning. “Don’t.”

He wonders what’s led you here. Wonders about who’s distrusting hands you once placed your justice in. 

The answer comes to him the moment the question crosses his mind. 

“I’m not like her,” he says. “Look at me, baby girl. Look at me .”

You do. And though that frenzied look lingers in your eyes, something in you softens and he’s grateful for it.

“I’m not Maria. You understand me? When I make you a promise, I mean it. I will kill them. All of them. But we have to be smart about this. We have to do it right. Yeah?” He reaches out again. “Give me the knife.”

You angle it higher, just out of his reach. For a second Joel thinks all progress has been lost because he moved too quickly, too carelessly. But then you say, “Swear it to me. Swear on her life that you won't make me let them go.”

On her life. 

Not her death, but her life. A promise of certainty. An unbreakable oath. Because if he fails, if he shatters this trust, Sarah’s life means nothing.

Joel’s lungs ache. Everything hurts and his skin feels like it’s on fire because no one has ever seen him like this. No one has known exactly what to say, exactly which bruises to press. 

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he relents. “I swear on her life that we will find them.”

Carefully, you hand him the blade, and as if giving it away had flipped a switch, you deflate.

Joel slides your knife into the side of his boot when you turn away from him and go back to the window. 

He stands beside you, a looming presence at your back. Even though he wants answers, he doesn’t want to pry them out of you. And your silence allows him the space for his mind to wander into unspeakable places. Joel has seen firsthand the depraved, vile things that mankind spirals into beneath the weight of survival. 

For a time, even he had sunk so incredibly low. 

And because he’s seen so much, his brain is filled with gut-wrenching images, theoretical scenes of torture, corruption, and perversion. Each one is more brutal than the last. And in them all, you’re the center of it. 

You watch the group of men through the window until the blue illumination of their flashlights disappears from view. And the moment they do, you’re slipping through the window in the back of the church. 

Joel follows you, a million questions on the tip of his tongue. But he stays silent and does nothing but help you gather debris fallen from the trees in the wooded area behind the church. 

Once, he picks up a curved stick, and as if you’d seen it from the back of your head, you say, “No. Not that one. If they’re too curved, the arrows won’t shoot straight.”

 The two of you gather timber for over an hour. And when his hands are just as full as yours, you return to the church. Joel returns your knife and you attempt to teach him how to shave the stick correctly and to whittle the point of it into a weapon. 

He’s not even half as fast as you are. For every arrow he creates, you produce three. It’s a slow, tedious process, but eventually, you begin to speak. 

“It happened on the last run I did for Maria,” you say, eyes focused on the knife and wood in your hands. “I fell asleep one night. It’d been days since I’d given myself a chance to rest and it had finally caught up to me. I’d barricaded myself in a house and might as well have been dead to the world. Two of them found me. Didn’t wake me, didn’t try to kill me or anything. They just took my bow and my pack. My pack that was mostly empty, had nothing in it but a twelve gauge with two bullets, some cans of food, water, and those stale fucking barbecue chips.”

You shake your head dismally. 

“Should’ve fuckin left it. But I…I was afraid. If I came back to Jackson without the one thing she asked for, what use was I? What kept me there?”

It pains him to hear you say it. He wants to tell you you’re wrong, that despite what Maria has made you believe, your worth is not tied to what you can do for her. But he doesn’t. Joel just lets you talk. 

“I tracked them to a warehouse a few miles outside of Boise. Watched them for a while, memorized all the entrances, the windows. Even memorized their faces. They had two people on watch in rotating shifts. I didn’t want to kill them, considering they didn’t try to kill me. But I wanted my pack, and so I waited until four of them were talking during a shift change and slipped inside through the back.”

Your eyes darken, and Joel fears what you may say next.

“Didn’t go as planned. One of them saw me. Outed me immediately, of course. And I thought they’d kill me. Shoot me or something. But that didn’t go as planned, either. The leader was called Gabriel.”

Your hands around the arrow still and your eyes grow misty. You’re reliving it, as clearly as if it were happening now.

“He, uhm…held me down. Suggested the rest of them take turns with me.” 

Joel feels something inside him shift. Feels a decision being made, feels murder begin to drip down his fingertips like water.

“They’d already had my shotgun and took the pistol I had tucked in the back of my jeans the second they ripped them off. I thought…I thought it was the end for me. Because even if I survived it, even if I made it through all twenty of them…I might as well have been dead anyway.”

He understands now, Joel realizes. Understands why you were so infuriated about a run for a pregnancy craving when the price was this. His mouth runs dry.

Your words echo in the dark church. “Had my knife tucked up the sleeve of my jacket, though.” A small smile graces your face as you turn the blade over in your fingers admiringly. “Was able to stop Gabriel before he got any further. They were…stupid. Arrogant. Came at me one by one because why would you need more than that to fight a little girl with nothing but a knife ?”

Now there are only eight of them. The main perpetrator perished, his blood stained so deeply into your jacket that when you’d returned to Jackson they’d had to burn it. No salvaging anything from your destruction. 

Nothing but this vengeance, this promise to yourself to right those who wronged you.  He forced you to break it for your own safety. And though a surge of regret and sorrow trickles into his psyche, he knows there’s still an unbroken vow remaining. 

The promise Joel made to you. 

“Some of them ran. I tried to track them but after a few days, I just…I needed sleep. I wanted to go home.” You go black to fletching your arrow, whittling the end into a sharp point. “I’ll find them one day. Then it’ll be me taking turns with them .”

You don’t say much else for the next two hours. And he doesn’t, either. He helps you sharpen the timber into arrows and when you yawn three times in less than five minutes, he gives you his flannel and lets you lay your head in his lap. 

Joel smooths the tangles in your hair as you sleep. And when you begin to softly snore, he carefully shifts your head onto your sleeping bag and tucks the strap of his rifle beneath your arm.

When he slips out of the window in the back of the church, he latches it shut.  He decides against taking a horse, worried it’d create too much commotion. 

But he does take your serrated sawback knife, telling himself it’s poetic justice. 

They’re only two miles away, stashed in a rundown grocery store that’s been picked over one too many times. Two men sit outside the door. Old habits die hard, Joel thinks. 

One has his head tilted back against the stone wall, sleeping with an ease he doesn’t deserve.

Joel takes out the other one first. And he does it quicker than he’d like. He creeps up behind him silently, wraps one hand around his throat, and uses the other to cover his mouth. The snap of his spine reverberates through Joel’s hands, tingling from his palms down to his elbows. 

The other wakes with the commotion but doesn’t even have the chance to scream before your knife is lodged in his neck so deep the sharp point sticks out of the other end. 

Inside, the other six all rest as well. Joel wonders how they can do so peacefully, knowing they’ve given an innocent little girl fuel for her nightmares. A girl who’s lost enough, who’s sacrificed enough, more than anyone should—only to lose a piece of herself at their greedy hands.

He makes quick work of them. Even delights in the way life leaves their eyes. One by one, Joel uses your knife to slit each and every one of their throats. 

By the time he’s finished, his hands are caked in blood, splatters staining the sleeves of his heavy, canvas coat, and all that’s left of the men who hurt you are eight corpses.

You’re still sleeping when he slips back through the window of the church. It’s a little ironic, he thinks, to return here to this holy place with an angel inside, all while covered in the stink of death.

Joel sits beside you, back pressed against a pew. His hands rest on his knees, blood still drying beneath his fingernails. He watches you sleep and thinks his damnation is worth it if this brings you a sense of safety. 

Though he tries not to, Joel thinks an awful lot about Sarah. Thinks about how he failed her, how just a little more brutality could have saved her.

He’s spent years regretting that night, regretting holding on to the shred of humanity he had left when he should have been holding onto her. He makes a promise not to repeat the same bad habits. Makes a promise he’ll never let his naive desire for respite get in the way of his need to protect you, to keep you safe. He’s breaking the habit, the same as he did with Ellie, because Joel doesn’t think he'll ever survive a loss of such magnitude again.

It doesn’t matter what he has to become to keep you safe. Doesn’t matter the cost to his soul.

Your face looks peaceful but your fists are coiled tight beneath your head. As if even in your sleep you’re fighting something, always on the defense. He wonders if it’s a trait you inherited before or after those men, before or after your sister's death, before or after the accusatory way the inhabitants of Jackson look at you.

Joel feels something heavy rise up in him. Something akin to sorrow or grief. This deep, pensive heartache because it’s just not fair. You’re so young, so innocent, dealing with the same demons he still fights and sometimes loses to at age fifty-two. 

He doesn’t want this for you. Doesn’t want you to become volatile, murderous, monstrous in the ways he has. Joel spent so much time pushing you away and he thinks maybe it’s because there’s so much of his anger mirrored in you. That staring it in the face felt too harrowing, too raw. 

The longer he thinks about it the more pieces slot together in his brain. Your cruel words hurled at anyone who sets you on edge. Your inability to follow any direction that isn’t forced. The self-isolation, the distrust in even those you love most. That animalistic fight in you, flight and freeze be damned. The need to protect others before yourself—Joel, Ellie, Miley, even Maria.

You don’t deserve to live like this. Don't deserve eternal damnation or to experience the wrath of God for the monstrous things you result to when you feel all else is lost. Violence is the only thing that has never turned its back on you.

Joel’s melancholy manifests, a single tear sliding down his cheek. You’re just a little girl and it's not fucking fair. 

He doesn’t want this for you. He wants you to live a full, happy, peaceful life. Not one spent out here chasing ghosts, trying to find your worth in providing for others. He wants you to be protected, to know you’re loved even when you lash out, wants you to know that he understands. Joel wants to be that for you. Wants to be the unwavering support you deserve, wants to be the thing that pulls you back from that ledge you’re dancing upon. Joel wants to be for you what he needed in the darkest part of his rage.

But to do that, you’re going to have to relinquish a little more of that control you hold so tightly.

When you wake, it’s gradual. You don’t startle or flinch at the blood on his hands. But your eyes linger there on the red stain for some time before you ask, “All of them?”

Joel nods once. “All of them.” 

And then you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him, pressing your mouth to his, thanking him in the only way you know how. Your tongue tastes like sleep and ambrosia and sunlight, but when Joel cradles your face in his hands he leaves blood in the wake of his fingertips. The bright red is a stark contrast against the smoothness of your skin, the violence an antithesis to your innocence.

He slides his bloody hands into your hair when your hips begin to move. His cock hardens quickly as his body catches up with your intent, always needy and eager, always just waiting to join you in more than just soul.

While he unbuttons his jeans and slides his zipper down to pull his erection out, your mouth never leaves his. Even when you shove those too-tight jeans down your thighs just enough to make room for him. When you lift up on your knees and sink down onto his cock in one familiarized movement he can feel the vibration of your moan against his tongue, can feel the breath of air from your gasp as he settles in deep.

The stretch is blissfully painful, stinging in all the right ways. You rock your hips slowly at first, adjusting to the sheer size of him, adjusting to his all-encompassing warmth. Your fingers dig into his thick shoulders, desperate to keep your balance.

And then you lift just enough to come slamming back down, the friction setting his skin ablaze. Again, again, again —it’s hurried and needy and depraved. Your hips move fervently over his, seeking out what you know only he can provide.

Your eyes are squeezed shut when you pull your sweet mouth away from his. Joel watches you lean back and place your hands on his thighs for support, back arching, and somehow he finds himself even deeper inside you. You’re moaning and his breath is coming fast and he thinks you look more than just angelic from this angle. He watches you ride his cock and wonders if you were fucking made to do this. 

Cheeks flushed, lips parted, his name on your lips. Is this what Eve saw in the waxy reflection of the forbidden fruit? Is this what she saw when she knowingly abandoned paradise? 

Joel thinks it can’t get much better than this. Thinks the only thing that’s ever come close is the feeling of blood on his hands in the name of those he loves, in the name of you.

He wraps his hand around your throat, staining you even further red, and says, “I’d do anything for you. Anything .” 

He thinks about the Ten Commandments, about how he can cross off every single one of them with just this act alone. 

You shall have no other Gods before me. 

No divine being has made him feel like this. No divinity has ever reached up through his ribs and squeezed a fist around his heart. Not like you have. 

You shall make no idols. 

He thinks about the way you look in his canvas coat. Joel has found his own form of peace through you, has found forgiveness beneath your tongue. 

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain. 

Your pace quickens. The obscene, wet sounds coming from the place you’re joined echo in the walls of the church. “Oh my God, Joel, I’m—I’m close.”

He knows you are. Can feel it in the way your pussy squeezes him like a vise, in the way your rhythm becomes sloppy and desperate.

Keep the Sabbath day holy. 

Joel doesn’t know what day it is. But he knows he wishes he could stay here in this home you’ve made together within the bones of an old religion, wishes he could stay inside you. He doesn’t know if there’s anything more unholy than this insatiable desire.

Honor your father and mother.

He thinks about that day in the dining hall when embarrassment climbed Maria’s cheeks as you screamed in her face. Joel thinks she deserved it more than he realized that day. He thinks about the way you spoke to him in that watchtower, thinks about the way he’d had to drag you there by your hair, all while listening to every disrespectful thing that came out of your mouth and how a few short weeks later you got down on your knees and called him daddy. 

You shall not murder. 

He takes the hand wrapped around your throat and flattens it against your sternum. The blood is drying but still marks your skin in the shape of his fingerprints.

You shall not commit adultery.

Joel knows he’s supposed to be with a lovely, soft-spoken, age-appropriate woman but knows, too, that death would be kinder than the loss of you. 

You shall not steal. 

He was angry at first, about the strawberry scone. Mike’s wife is a kind woman who spends her time baking for the community. But Ellie likely never would’ve had the opportunity to try it had you not nicked the pastry. If it was always going to lead the two of you here, together, Joel would have stolen every last scone on God’s green earth. 

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor. 

Lying seems a small price to pay for you, for your safety. He remembers telling Greg and Bonnie that you were running late the night you left him in the watchtower alone. He wanted to keep you safe then even without noticing that’s what he was doing. Safe from ridicule, from judgment. 

You shall not covet. 

He recalls seeing Abel’s hands on you, seeing his lips against your hair in a chaste kiss. Joel had wanted to kill him then, for touching what was his. He knows by taking you for his own, he’s taking you away from someone like Abel. Someone with a little more moral in their heart, a little less blood on their hands. But he doesn’t care because you’re his now and always. 

Joel lifts his hips in tandem with yours, meeting each stroke, thrusting his cock even deeper inside you. Your legs begin to shake around his and Joel thinks damnation isn’t so bad. “Anything,” he repeats. “Lie, cheat, steal.” His hand on your chest slides up again, wrapping tight around your throat. “I’d kill for you, little girl.”

Your pussy flutters around him and your spine bends in the most beautiful arch he’s ever seen. It solidifies his belief in one very important thing, the last nail in the coffin that cements the two of you together eternally.

This filthy, sinful devotion is cosmic. Celestial. Unearthly. So much more than a bible and cross. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth everything. 

“You like that? Hm?” Your rhythm falters but his remains steady. “Like that I’d spill blood for you, s’that it? That’s what got you all wet, sweetheart?” Your moans turn saccharine— sacrilegious. “Pretty pussy’s so fuckin’ tight, baby. Such a messy thing. I’d kill anyone for my little girl. Anyone .”

“Joel, I—!” 

He knows, he knows. Because he is, too. “Yeah, thaaaat’s it,” he says, drawing out each syllable. Your hands squeeze hard around his thighs and your muscles draw tight. “There you go, baby. Cum for me. That’s it. Sweet fuckin’ girl. Gonna fill you up. That what you want?”

You rasp out his name and the words yes, please, please, and it sounds like a fucking prayer. It’s a hypnotic litany. It makes him feel cherished, adored. And the sound of it spoken in worship in the house of God sends him over the edge. 

Even though your legs tremble around his, you ride his cock relentlessly. Joel’s vision goes white and his hand on your hip squeezes tight enough to bruise. You feel so good, so warm and wet. You lift your hips and slam them back down until the oversensitivity becomes more than he can bear. His hand abandons the home it’s made around your throat and finds the small of your back instead, stilling you completely.

You lean forward, collapsing with your hands pressed against his chest. Joel wraps his arms around your middle and cradles you in his lap, all too aware of the divinity he holds in his hands. He presses a kiss to your temple and listens to your heavy breaths.

Some time passes. He’s not sure how long the two of you sit there with Joel still wedged deep inside you, basking in the afterglow. The sun rises outside and the songbirds of the morning begin to sing. 

Eventually, you lift your head and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Joel doesn’t understand. He’s stolen something he was undeserving of, only to be loved back. If anyone should be thankful, it should be him. 

It feels like a punch to the gut when you say, “For seeing me.”

Because he now knows no one else ever has. No one has ever seen your defiance as anything but a nuisance, has never seen you as more than a troublemaker, as a bad omen.  

But Joel does see you. He sees right through all that savage fight to the little girl beneath, that soft, childish innocence you keep under heavy guard. He thinks he’s been able to see through it since the first moment he laid eyes on you.

It’s her he wants to protect.

Joel takes your chin in his hand and makes you a commandment of his own. “I will always see you.”

[part seven] [part nine]

taglist; @heartbrokenlilbitch-nef @elliesr1fle @pascaltesfaye

let me know if you want to be added! thank you to everyone for all the insane support on this <3

[masterist]

[choerypetal]

Under the table / Dean Winchester

summary: Dean and your relationship had been lacking a bit of spice. So, you made a deal between the two of you, amidst the teasing and perhaps a punishment or two, to reignite the excitement.

ps: english isn't my first language so i apologize for any little grammar errors

warning; very nsfw no plot hihi

enjoy! xo

Dean was the first to boldly admit to injecting some excitement into the relationship. Whether it was in the car or at the motel, he wasn't shy about spicing things up.

One day, as the two boys delved earnestly into another case's lore, Sam meticulously recounted every detail while Dean casually munched on his lunch. Yet, amidst their focus, Dean couldn't shake the thought of your whereabouts.

The excuse? You had informed Sam that you were out getting groceries, hoping to experiment with a new recipe you'd caught on a TV program. Tired of the usual pasta, bread, and beer that seemed to dominate the brothers' menu lately, you wanted to add something special to the mix.

"She better not make us something healthy," Dean's voice reached you just as you managed to slip under the table earlier undetected. Sam responded with a casual "Mhm," accompanied by a chuckle. Little did Dean know, you were right there with them, setting the stage for a playful tease the next time he wished to spend the night together. If only he knew tonight's menu was, in fact, healthier. You couldn't help but smile, knowing you couldn't laugh and risk giving yourself away.

Fortunately, Dean had taken a seat directly across from you, his familiar shoes and jeans catching your eye. Little did he know, he wasn't prepared for the surprise awaiting him, especially since your absence had been unmistakable.

"You know, maybe we can bring Charlie along," Dean suggested as your name came up once again in discussions about joining the boys on this mission. It was mentioned that your favorite creature was in town, and Dean couldn't bear the thought of you missing out on the action and the chance for a kill or two. Those thoughtful gestures made you blush, prompting a moment of hesitation before Sam and Dean refocused on reading more lore about the case.

Your hand delicately brushed against his bulge, causing Dean's muscles to tense, followed by a cough. You'd do anything to witness his reaction, especially when Sam inquired if he was alright. It was clear you were in for some punishment later tonight as Dean felt your familiar touch, gradually unzipping his jeans, the bulge now more pronounced. "Just a slight sore throat, that's all," he quickly dismissed.

You couldn't help but relish every moment, watching Dean struggle with excuses, particularly when it involved having a bit more fun. What you didn't realize was that even if he knew it was you all along, he didn't want you to get caught, let alone feel embarrassed as if you were fulfilling his desires. "Oh, sweet mother," he cursed under his breath, his back arching slightly as he covered his mouth before brushing it away.

Your hand then tenderly caressed his shaft, fingers deftly moving his boxer out of the way, unveiling his hardened cock. Lust danced in your eyes as warmth flushed your cheeks, leaning in to press a few kisses on its tip, where obvious pre-cum glistened. You delicately picked some on your fingers and licked the remaining. How Dean, cursed himself. When he yearned to thrust his hips the moment he felt your mouth envelopped his cock.

Dean's voice clearly heightened Sam's concern as he observed the redness on his brother's cheeks. Being the caring and protective sibling he was, Sam couldn't help but rise to his feet and check on Dean's potential fever. "I'll need to take Baby and head to the pharmacy anyways," Dean played along, going along with the idea, which meant more time to plan your punishment in return. "It won't be long," Sam said, grabbing his jacket and Dean's car keys before the sound of the vehicle faded away from the Bunker.

Alone at last, Dean removed the table curtain, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he leaned down to cup your face, devouring your lips hungrily. "Did you think I'd let you off that easily?" His voice was husky as he swiftly discarded his pants. Before you knew it, his fingers were tangled in your hair, guiding you to take him deeper. As you wrapped your lips around his cock, his moans grew louder, punctuated by your name. Leaning back in his chair, head thrown back and eyes closed, he urged you on. "Don't stop, love."

Your gaze met his, a look that undeniably ignited his desire, yet he knew he had to resist the urge to devour you right there on the table. It was a punishment he was more than willing to uphold.

"There, just like that," he murmured as you swirled your tongue around the tip of his shaft. Just as you were about to bring him to climax, your hand took over, stroking his cock. You felt his legs tense and his muscles contract as he reached orgasm. When his eyes reopened, Dean couldn't help but admire the sight before him. He knew your arousal was growing, how you longed for him to take you in his lap, but you both understood that you weren't getting off that easily.

"Nah, not yet, sweetheart," his voice grew huskier, his eyes darkening with desire. His fingers tightened around your waist, pulling you out from under the table. Your skirt rode up your thighs, revealing your obvious arousal through showing a glimpse of your damp underwear, his gaze inevitably drawn there. With a sly smirk, he knew it was payback time. "No touching until tonight—"

The door swung open, revealing Sam's incredulous expression. He was clearly disgusted to learn that the whole fever act was not just to save your skin, but also Dean's. "Under the table, really?!" To your surprise, instead of the expected look of disgust, there was almost a look of disapproval on his face.

"A room isn't enough?" Despite feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, you and Dean couldn't help but chuckle. In fact, Dean wore a proud expression and shrugged off his brother's comment. "What about dinner?" Sam then interjected, redirecting your attention from Dean’s.

"I went an hour ago," you said with a smirk. What Dean didn't realize was that it was actually going to be a healthy dinner. When you mentioned this, you could hear Sam's chuckle, a bit of payback in his amusement, while Dean's brow furrowed and he pouted. "One point from you for not returning the favor," you added, leaning in to peck his lips, eliciting a protest from Dean.

[thollandneedy]

You can leave your glasses on- Tom Holland

A/n: Dedicated to all of the Tom Holland’s hoes glasses (me

Warnings: Sexual mentions and slight sexual conversation with no smut (sorry

Summary: Y/n discovers she have a glasses kink

Don’t forget to share, like, comment and leave your ideas here

Bellah’s Masterlist 🪻

The light from the television shone on the faces of the couple on the gray sofa bed. 

Thomas had one of his hands on Y/N's back, while the weight of his body poured over her like a fine wine. Y/n was going through a difficult week at work, and Thomas, with a good boyfriend, tried to cheer her up. 

Y/n found herself so tired that her body was only reacting to stimulation, while Holland ran his strong hands over her waist. As soon as one of his hands passed over the button of the girl's jeans, she touched it gently as a warning.

"Tommy, I'm not in the mood today," Y/n said between kisses. 

The actor's brown eyes turned to her with a frustrated look. Given the intense week his girlfriend had had, the least he could do to help her was some form of alternative relaxation (better known as sex). The man put one of his hands under the sofa so that he could get off his girlfriend and sit down next to her. With a long sigh, Y/n sat down next to her boyfriend, touching his shoulder.

"Is everything all right?" She asks, even though she already knows the answer

"It's just that I thought I could help in some way. The dinner, the massage, and well... the sex." The brunette admits, looking down at his feet covered in white socks.

"I know, but I'm so tired. It feels like my body is just a puppet or something. I feel so carried away by my stress that I've been forgetting to be human this week and trying to bear all the burdens that are coming at me." The woman explains, feeling dissatisfied with the attitude she has had to take.

"Of course, love. I understand." Thomas nods, tidying up the bulge in the middle of his pants from his hot kisses with his girlfriend.

Y/n lies back on the cushions in the living room, tucking his legs in and bringing them close to him. The brunette just runs one of his hands through his messy curls, and then turns off the program that was playing on the television so that he can switch to another movie and series platform.

"Shall we watch something?" Holland asks, leaning closer to Y/n with a voice of embarrassment at the incompatibility of the moments.

"Sure! Can we watch a romantic comedy?" Y/n tries to lighten the mood with a sincere smile 

Holland agrees, returning the suggestion with a quick smile. Then, as soon as the remote control found its way into his hands, he reached over to the headboard to pick up a black box. Inside was a pair of glasses with thick, round lenses on black temples. Y/n had never seen her boyfriend wearing glasses before, since no one in her family had a history of myopia or any other vision impairment. The dark-haired man opened the two stems of the glasses, placing them on his face naturally. 

But for Y/n, that changed everything. 

The scene played out in slow motion, and those long fingers sliding under the glasses became more sensual than ever. The girl's eyes opened wider to contemplate the act, but Thomas just continued looking for a movie in the catalog of romantic comedies. All that tiredness in her body vanished in the blink of an eye, and now her attention was focused on her boyfriend's face. 

"Honey, there's this movie here called..." Thomas turned his face to talk to Y/n, and his speech stopped as soon as he realized how he was being stared at. "What's wrong? Is everything all right?" He asks confusedly.

"When did you buy these glasses, Thomas?" The woman asked, feeling her heart pound every time her eyes traveled down to the parts of her boyfriend's body marked by a black shirt.

"I went to the ophthalmologist and she said I'd have to buy them to wear when I watch TV or use the laptop. It's nothing serious, just a slight degree of astigmatism".

Y/n just agrees in silence, still lowering her eyes to Thomas's body, who watches her every move with a little sideways smile.

"Do you like them?" Thomas asked

She wasn't sure if it was the effect of the wine they'd had at dinner; the dark atmosphere with only the living room lights on or how her boyfriend's curls perfectly matched his glasses. What she did know was that she needed him as if she had never been touched before. 

In one swift action, Y/n stands up in readiness, unbuttons his pants and throws them on the floor. Then her blouse is also discarded like a piece of paper. His heart, which once beat in his chest, was now between his legs, and urgently needed attention. 

"You said you weren't in the-," Thomas tries to say, but is cut off.

"Don't ask questions, Holland, just take off your clothes now." Y/n says with need in her voice.

Thomas stands up at the same speed as his girlfriend, taking one of his hands to remove his glasses.

"No, no. The glasses stay on." Y/n warns, causing an outburst of laughter from the actor.

"Did they get you like this?" Holland asks, pressing his body to his lover's, feeling his chest heave with desire. "My princess" He touches her face, guiding his thumb to the center of Y/n's pink lips. "If I had known they were going to have you like this, I would have used them sooner"

"Thomas, less talk and more action."

[darksigns-exe]

i need you so much closer - nicholas ruffilo x f!reader

warnings: none

word count: 632

note: have some soft thoughts now that it’s starting to get a little colder 🩷 @deathblacksmoke and I talked about collage au!Nick and then this happened.

Nick has been your best friend since freshman year. He’s in the theatre program, while you work on your sociology degree.

You’d met by chance running into each other in the cafeteria one morning and the rest had been history. Two years later, you find yourself spending most of your free time with Nick.

Tonight, you’re holed up in your dorm room. Nick shares his room with a guy from Sweden, and neither of you wants to annoy him with your weekly movie night.

Which brings you to where you are now. It’s not unusual for the two of you to be cuddled up like this. You’ve fallen asleep with Nick pressed up behind you on multiple occasions. You feel so awfully comforted with his arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you nice and close to his body. Nick comes with the added benefit of being a walking, talking heating pad. And Nick is more than happy to keep you warm when the heating in your room is particularly stubborn again.

He squeezes the soft flesh of your hip, effectively catching your attention. When you turn to look at him, Nick gives you a fond little smile. It sends a bolt of warmth through your body.

Things between you and Nick have always been purely friendly. Although you could not deny that you had sometimes wondered if you could be more. The fondness between the two of you did feel like it was more than friendship.

“The review made this sound so much better.” Nick admits quietly.

You let out a relieved sigh, “I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a more boring film.”

Behind you, Nick's body rumbles with laughter, “It’s really bad.”

You swap to a show you both know and love shortly after that. With Nick still comfortably wrapped around you, an idea sprouts in your head. You don’t want to ask the question outright, afraid that it’ll change your friendship forever. But perhaps you could start things in a different way.

You shuffle back against Nick, bringing yourself even closer to him. Nick's hand shifts and somehow manages to slip right under your shirt. You feel him pause for a moment, seemingly waiting for you to react. When you don’t, his hand finds its usual comfortable spot on your tummy.

You risk another look over your shoulder, only to find Nick focused on the screen in front of you. The light that emanates from the screen paints his face in the prettiest colours, and suddenly you find yourself much more interested in him than the show you’re watching. You shift, flipping over so that you’re facing Nick. It takes him a moment to catch up with what you’re doing, and when he looks down at you, it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

There’s a moment where everything seems to come to a standstill. And that’s when you realise that you don’t had to ask a question you already know the answer to. The hand that had previously rested against your middle, comes to rest against the side of your face. His thumb traces across the top of your cheek so tenderly. You feel your cheeks heat at the touch. A near endless moment passes before you finally kiss. It’s nothing big, just a chaste, little kiss. A gentle admission that both of you had been holding onto for so long.

You remain like this for the rest of the night. It almost feels as if some kind of dam has been broken, as Nick keeps pressing the softest little kisses to whatever sliver of skin is within reach. This feels like a natural progression from how you were before, and you’re so very glad that all it took was a little bit of moving around.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Austin Grossman’s ‘Fight Me’

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

In Fight Me, the novelist and game developer Austin Grossman uses aging ex-teen superheroes to weigh the legacy of Generation X, in a work that enrobes its savage critique with sweet melancholia, all under a coating of delicious snark:

http://www.austingrossman.com/fight-me

It is, in other words, a very Gen X kinda novel. Prodigy (AKA Alex Beekman) is a washed-up superhero. As a nerdy high-schooler, he was given super powers by a mysterious wizard (posing as a mediocre teacher), who gave him an amulet and a duty. Whenever Alex touches the amulet and speaks the word of power, reaclun (which he insists is not "nuclear" backwards) he transforms into Prodigy, a nigh-invulnerable, outrageously handsome living god who is impervious to bullets, runs a one-minute mile, and fights like a champ. Prodigy, he is told, has a destiny: to fight the ultimate evil when it emerges and save the world.

Now, Alex is 40, and it's been a decade since he retired both Prodigy and his Alex identity, moving into a kind of witness protection program the federal government set up for him. He poses as a mediocre university professor, living a lonely and unexceptional life.

But then, Alex is summoned back to the superhero lair he shared with his old squad, "The Newcomers," a long-vacant building that is one quarter Eero Saarinen, three quarters Mussolini. There, he is reunited with his estranged fellow ex-Newcomers, and sent on a new quest: to solve the riddle of the murder of the mysterious wizard who gave him his powers, so long ago.

The Newcomers – an amped-up ninja warrior, a supergenius whose future self keeps sending him encouragement and technical schematics backwards through time, and an exiled magical princess turned preppie supermodel – have spent more than a decade scattered to the winds. While some have fared better than Alex/Prodigy, none of them have lived up to their potential or realized the dreams that seemed so inevitable when they were world famous supers with an entourage of fellow powered teens who worshipped them as the planet's greatest heroes.

As they set out to solve the mystery, they are reunited and must take stock of who they are and how they got there (cue Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime"). With flashbacks, flashforwards, and often hilarious asides, Prodigy brings us up to speed on how supers fail, and what it's like to live as a failed super.

The publisher's strapline for this book is "The Avengers Meets the Breakfast Club," which is clever, but extremely wrong. The real comp for this book isn't "The Breakfast Club," it's "The Big Chill."

When I realized this, I got briefly mad, because I've only had two good movie high concept pitches in my life and one of them was "Gen X Big Chill." Rather than veterans of the Summer of 68 confronting the Reagan years, you could have veterans of the Battle of Seattle living through the Trump years. One would be on PeEP, one would be an insufferable Andrew Tate-quoting bitcoiner, one would be a redpilled reactionary with a genderqueer teen, one would be a squishy lib, one a firebreathing leftist, etc. The soundtrack would just be top 40 tracks from artists who have songs on "Schoolhouse Rock Rocks":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schoolhouse_Rock!_Rocks

Every generation has some way in which they seek to overthrow the status quo and build a new, allegedly better one, after all. "Big Chill"'s impact comes from its postmortem on a generation where it was easy to feel like you were riding destiny's rails to greatness thanks to the sheer size of the Boomer cohort and the postwar prosperity they lived through. A Gen X Big Chill would be a stocktaking of a generation that defined itself as a lost generation reared in the Boomers' shadows, armored against the looming corpo-climate apocalypse with the sword of irony and the shield of sincerity.

Which is basically what Grossman is doing here. What's more, doing this as a superhero story is a genius move – what could be a better metaphor for a teen's unrealistic certainty of destined greatness than a superhero? Superhero fantasies are irreducibly grandiose and unrealistic, but all the more beautiful and brave and compelling for it.

You know, like teens.

At 52, I'm a middle-aged Gen Xer. I've got two artificial hips and I just scheduled a double cataract surgery. My hairline is receding. I'm an alta kaker. But I wasn't always: I was a bright and promising kid, usually the youngest person in the room where we were planning big protests, ambitious digital art projects, or the future of science fiction. I had amazing friends: creative and funny and sweet, loyal and talented and just fun.

We're mostly doing okay (the ones that lived; fuck cancer and fuck heroin and fuck fentanyl). Some of us are doing pretty good. On a good day, I think I'm doing pretty good. I had a night in 2018 where I got to hang out, as a peer, with my favorite musician and my favorite novelist, both in the same evening. These were artists I'd all but worshipped as a teen. I remember looking at the two selfies I took than night and thinking, Man, if 15 year old me could see these, he'd say that it all worked out.

But you don't get to be 52 without having a long list of regrets and failures that your stupid brain is only too eager to show you a highlight reel from. No one gets to middle age without a haunting loss that is always trying to push its way to the fore in order to incinerate every triumph great and small and leave ashes behind.

That's why there's a "Big Chill" for every generation. Each one has its own specific character and meaning situated in history, but each one has to grapple with the double-edged sword of nostalgia. Not for nothing, John Hodgman (a bona fide Gen X icon) calls nostalgia "a toxic impulse."

Grossman really makes Fight Me work as a Gen X Big Chill. He's a great Gen X writer; his first novel, Soon I Will Be Invincible, was a knockout debut about superheroes and supervillains that had a very "The Boys" vibe, you know, that neat little move where you contend with the banal parts of a super's life and show how super powers don't make you a good person, or even a competent one.

His followup to Invincible came six years later. YOU is a coming-of-age story about the games industry with a second-person narrator (think "Zork"). Grossman is an accomplished game dev (Tomb Raider Legend, Deus X, Dishonored, etc), and he uses YOU to really plumb the depths of what games mean, what fun is, and how working on games isn't just work, it's often really shitty work, the opposite of fun:

https://memex.craphound.com/2013/04/16/austin-grossmans-you-brilliant-novel-plumbs-the-heroic-and-mystical-depths-of-gaming-and-simulation/

Grossman's last novel was Crooked, a very daffy alternate history in which Richard Nixon is a Cthulhoid sorcerer locked in a Lovecraftian battle of good and evil. This is a purely hilarious romp, wildly imaginative and deliciously certain to offend reactionary jerks:

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/08/26/austin-grossmans-crooked-the-awful-cthulhoid-truth-about-richard-nixon/

All those chops are on display in Fight Me: a book that covers its brooding with wisecracks, that spits out ten great gags per page even as it drives a knife into your heart. It's a great novel.

Fight Me doesn't come out in the US and Canada until tomorrow (it's been out in the UK, Australia, NZ, etc for more than a month). Normally, I would hold off on reviewing this until the on-sale date, but this is my last day on the blog for two weeks – I'm leaving on a family vacation early tomorrow morning. I'll see you on July 14!

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/01/the-big-genx-chill/#im-super-thanks-for-asking

[a-court-of-lust-and-stardust]

Love on Ice Chapter 16: The Bracelets

Thanks again for keeping this story alive!!! Chapter 15 was posted a few moments ago, so make sure you read that first! Please leave comments on the story and art ❤️

26 Days until competition

“What do you mean you don't want to spend time with me?” Azriel questioned playfully. Socked feet propped up on the coffee table, Azriel stretched his body as he held his phone, content to watch Elain who had been frantically running around her kitchen for thirty minutes. 

On the other end of the video call, Elain snickered as she put the finishing touches on the cooled down cake. It was a simple red velvet cake covered in thick cream cheese frosting. 

“That is not what I said at all,” She chuckled, smoothing out the icing with a butter knife. “Nesta is having a girls’ night. I figured it would be good if I went for a little while.”

Azriel's heart squeezed in his chest. The meeting with Miryam and Drakon had been one of his best ideas. It’d only been a few days since then, but there was no trace of the doubts that had previously plagued her brain. She’d needed a reminder of what skating was all about. A reminder that she was strong and capable, and could give herself permission to be entertained. To open her heart and let love, any kind of love, burrow its way in. 

They’d spent a good two and a half hours at the Snowspell rink, jumping between showing the married couple their ice dance routine, and carefully learning intricate lifts only allowed in the pairs skating program. Miryam talked Elain’s ear off, sharing early stories of her and Drakon’s relationship while Drakon relentlessly teased Azriel any chance he got about the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. After they’d left the rink, Elain’s joy could be felt across Prythian. Azriel had dreamed of Elain’s lips on his cheek that same night. 

“I didn't realize you were so hellbent on seeing me anyway,” Elain taunted, licking the frosting from the knife when she’d finished. There was something so erotic about this sweet, soft woman licking what could double as a deadly weapon. 

“Spending time with you is the best part of my week,” Azriel answered truthfully, adjusting so that one arm was underneath his head. “There's nothing better.” 

“Not even hockey?” She asked quietly, doe eyes wide in surprise as she gingerly sprinkled pink hearts onto the cake. He’d gotten lost in those eyes on more than one occasion. He’d also caught those pretty brown eyes looking at him in a way she never had before. Almost as if he’d finally become something more to her than just a skating partner. More than just a friend. His cheeks warmed at the possibility. 

Azriel spoke softly, “No, not even that.” And it wasn’t a lie. Everything else dulled in comparison to spending whatever little time he could with her. 

“And what will you do while I am occupied tonight?” Either a genuine question, or a way to squash the palpable tension that could be felt even across a video call.

“Maybe I'll throw my own guys’ night,” He suggested, though a night alone was tempting. 

“Whatever you do, do not corrupt my nephew,” She said, pointing the knife at the camera. 

“I wouldn’t dream of stealing Cassian’s job.” A moment passed before he said more solemnly, “Promise me you’ll call if you need me for anything.” 

Elain’s face flushed. She wondered if her cheeks would always heat or her heart would always glow when he showed just how much he cared about her. “I promise.” 

Elain stood outside Nesta's door with the cake cradled between her hands. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the wind, matching the sprinkles on the sweet treat. Laughter erupted from behind the door, and Elain decided she couldn’t flee now even if she wanted to. A very tipsy Nesta had spotted her through the window and ran to fling open the door, enveloping Elain in a warm embrace. With a laugh, Elain gently scolded her older sister for almost crushing the cake. 

The inside of Nesta’s home smelled like cinnamon, embers from the fireplace, and three different types of alcohol. On the couch, Feyre lounged with a glass of red wine as dark as the accent pillows. Two girls sat on the floor, a brunette and a redhead, with a giant unopened box between them. 

“Am I late?” Elain asked sheepishly, nodding her hellos. She turned to Nesta. “You said to come over at eight. How are you already tipsy?” 

“No comment,” Nesta slurred, patting Elain’s cheeks. She must have had a few drinks before anyone arrived. “And you’re right on time. Elain, meet Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie teaches mixed martial arts here in the Night Region, and Gwyn owns a vocal studio in Summer.” 

All three girls flashed bright grins between each other. Elain placed the cake down on the kitchen table and said softly, “I baked a cake. I hope everyone likes red velvet.” 

Everyone did, in fact, enjoy red velvet cake. The treat was gone within the hour, along with most of Feyre’s delicately crafted charcuterie board. Gwyn’s exotic fruit tray had also been a hit, and the drinks were flowing and constantly being refilled. Bottles of wine, liquor, and even sparkling ciders were quickly becoming empty. 

Elain, to her sisters’ shock, had indulged in perhaps one too many drinks as well. She’d burst open from her shell, nodding along to Gwyn’s stories and laughing loudly at Emerie’s drunk antics. Feyre’s eyes glittered as she and Elain drunkenly swayed to music, and Nesta’s cackle could be heard all the way in Day region at Elain’s attempts at filthy jokes. 

“What’s in the box?” Elain motioned toward Gwyn, who eagerly unsnapped the locks and turned it around for everyone to get a better look. Elain’s hazy eyes took a moment to focus. 

“One of my vocal kiddos brought me this bracelet kit for Solstice last year,” She beamed, fiddling with the bracelet strings before passing them around. “I haven’t found time to make any yet, so I figured tonight would be perfect. Silly, harmless fun. There’s enough for me to make bracelets for all my students and for you all too, if you’d like.” 

Elain accepted her string, rubbing it between her fingers. In all her twenty six years, she’d never experienced something as simple as making a beaded bracelet with friends. Lighthearted, easy fun had never been a choice. 

And now it was.

So she grabbed another string, scooped a pile of beads and charms from the box, and permitted herself to create a memory that in years time, she’d hold dear to her heart. 

The last bottle of wine had just been cracked open as the doorbell shrieked. Emerie, closest to the door, opened it and blinked. 

“We heard there was a party.” 

Elain watched Nesta’s head whip toward the front door, mouth falling open as Cassian stomped into the house, followed closely by Rhys and…

“Azriel,” Elain breathed, not as quiet as she thought. His gaze found hers immediately, shooting a wink in her direction. 

She didn’t know where to look first. 

The short sleeve black shirt that seemed to suffocate his arms.

The gray sweatpants that hung loosely off his hips. 

The backward black cap. 

The molten hazel eyes. 

The smirk that always sent her heart into overdrive. 

She didn’t know where to look first, so she just…looked. 

And if he gave her shit about it, or tried to joke about her ogling him, she’d blame it on the three and a half glasses of wine she’d consumed. 

Elain stood, blocking out Rhys and Feyre’s conversation about Nyx’s bedtime routine with their sitter named Madja, and completely ignoring Cassian’s lame attempts at flirting with Nesta (who only seemed to be enjoying said attempts due to the large amount of vodka in her system). 

She walked right over to Azriel, whose grin was blinding. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What have you been up to, beautiful? You look like you’ve been having a good time.” 

Elain offered a lazy smile of her own, extending her hand and wiggling her fingers as the other was clenched behind her back. “Follow me.” She led him to the back porch, sticking out her tongue at Cassian’s wolf whistle (which earned him a smack on the chest from Nesta), before shutting the door for privacy. 

“I got you something,” Elain said, shaking her head at the mistake. Giggles erupted from her throat. “Well, technically, I made you something.” In a movement so swift she almost lost her balance, she presented her clenched fist toward him, revealing a pair of bracelets. She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I know you have my necklace, but now we have matching good luck charms, too.” 

Azriel blinked. 

Elain bit her lip, stained cherry red from the wine. “Is it stupid? We don’t have to wear them. They’re probably not good anyway since I’m a bit tipsy and couldn’t really see the colors of the beads but–.”

“Put it on me.” 

The rambling paused. “What?” 

He presented his wrist, saying thickly, “Put it on me.” 

A relieved breath escaped her lips as she secured the pink bracelet around his wrist. It took her five tries to finally knot the string, playfully pouting when Azriel teased her about watching her alcohol intake. The middle beads made up her name, and the blue bracelet she had him tie around her own wrist featured his name, too. A claiming of the sort. 

“Miryam told me that she and Drakon used to wear a matching set of rings on the day of their competition to bring them luck,” Elain hiccupped, covering her mouth when another set of drunken giggles left her mouth. Azriel leaned against the back of a chair on the porch, arms crossed and eyes mesmerized by the current state of his partner. “Cresseida and Varian have matching warm-up jackets, and I know Kallias and Viviane have each other’s initials tattooed on the inside of their wrists. They kiss the tattoos before they skate. I wanted us to have something, too. Even if it’s just a silly beaded bracelet made after one too many glasses of merlot.” 

Elain felt herself being pulled into Azriel’s chest. She sank into him, nuzzling her face into the fabric of his shirt. He held her to him, fingers running through her honey-gold strands. 

“I hope you know I’m never taking this off,” Azriel said, lips brushing against her hair. She smelled faintly of jasmine, honey, and the wine she’d consumed. Familiar and intoxicating. 

Elain, arms still wrapped tightly around Azriel’s torso, tilted her head back to say, “That’s the point.” 

They were content to embrace each other in the dark of the night. At least, Azriel truly was. But it was Elain who pulled away first, just enough so there was a sliver of space between their bodies. Azriel folded his arms over his chest, face easy as he watched Elain look him over unabashedly. 

“Checking me out?” He teased, lips quirking. 

He expected her to flush like she always did. And of course she did. But the rose color that blossomed high on her cheeks was accompanied by a sultry voice. “And if I am?” 

She stepped forward again, and Azriel audibly swallowed as her fingernail traced the dark ink along his bicep. Her movements were slow, exploratory, and hell he could do nothing but stand there and let her touch him. 

Her fingers grazed the tattoos on his neck next. Azriel bit his lip to stifle a groan before murmuring, “Then that makes two of us.” 

Indeed, because he was growing less subtle whenever his eyes lingered on her body over the last few days. The urge to touch her, taste her, had been far more consuming now than in the beginning of their partnership. 

But he wouldn’t touch her, nor would he taste her. 

Not yet. 

Not in this state. 

“Az?” She whispered into the night, index finger tracing the sharpness of his jaw, the outline of his lips. His pants visibly tightened, and he prayed to whatever entity existed that she didn’t look down, lest she be uncomfortable. 

“Mm?” 

“What’s it like?” She asked softly, thumbing the plushness of his bottom lip. Her eyes focused on his mouth, savoring the warmth of his breath, before saying, “To be kissed?” 

Every piece of Azriel froze. 

His thoughts and his bones and his blood and his breathing and his heart. Time was suspended as he let the question sink in.

“I’ve never been kissed before,” Elain went on, eyes a shade of deep brown. Azriel couldn’t, wouldn’t, tear his own gaze away from her. Not while she was looking at him as if she might ravish him wholly. “And I’ve never kissed anyone myself but I…” She swallowed then, the only outward show of nerves. “I think I’d like to kiss you one day.” 

Azriel’s heart leaped. He didn’t care that her words were a bit slurred and thick from the wine. Didn’t care that she was revealing a piece of herself while she wasn’t sober. Despite the alcohol in her veins, he knew her words were truthful. “I think I’d like to kiss you, too.” 

One moment, Elain’s eyes were roving over his face, his body, and her hands were tracing and gently gripping any sliver of exposed skin. The next second, her lips quivered and eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “But I can’t.” 

Azriel’s face fell, and he gripped her wrist in his hand, their bracelets glinting in the moonlight as he cradled her hand against his cheek. “Why not?” He asked in a broken rasp. 

Elain pulled away, although every instinct in her body told her not to. He looked visibly in pain, as if her words had sliced through his chest. “There’s too many reasons why we can’t do this. As much as I want to, we just…can’t.” 

He would get no more information out of her, he knew. So he accepted her answer with a curt nod of his head and released her wrist. He already missed the feeling of her skin. 

“I have a pretty good idea what some of those reasons are,” Azriel said. “But let me just say one thing.” And because he was a greedy bastard, he stepped forward and placed either of his hands on the sides of her neck, thumbs stroking her skin. Beneath her neck, he could feel the rapid thrum of her pulse. “If any of your reservations are because of…me…I need you to know I would never force you, never pressure you, to do anything. If anything ever happens between us, it will be on your terms, when you are ready.” 

Elain’s eyes flashed, Azriel’s face the depiction of wary. Full of conviction, she said, “None of those reasons are because of you, Azriel. Please never think that. I trust you with my body as much as I trust you with my life.” 

Azriel groaned, forehead bumping against hers. “Fuck, Elain. Tell me you understand I’d take care of you. Tell me you know that.” 

She nodded sheepishly. 

“No,” Instinctually, he gripped her chin between his fingers, never hard enough to cause pain. Only to keep her there with him just a bit longer. “Tell me.” 

She stood straighter, chest brushing against his own. Elain gauged the raw emotion in his eyes and said, “I know you would take care of me. In every way possible if I allowed you to.”

Azriel dipped his chin once, kissing her nose before breathing, “Good.” And because his mouth was just a hair's breadth away from her lips, and because the temptation to claim her was so strong, he pulled away and offered, “How about I take you home, yeah? You look like you’re going to pass out any minute.” 

Elain chuckled after stifling a well timed yawn. In her tipsy haze, she whispered, “Only if you promise to carry me to my bed if I fall asleep in the car.” 

And yes, Elain had fallen asleep within minutes of strapping her seatbelt. It took Azriel a moment to fish out her apartment key from her purse, but once he found it, he carefully maneuvered Elain out of his car, cradling her to his chest as he expertly unlocked the door. 

Even without the promise, he still would have carried her to bed anyway. The thought of changing her into something more comfortable infiltrated his mind, but he decided against it. He wasn't sure how she would feel in the morning if she knew he had seen her, if only for a brief moment, in a vulnerable state. 

So he laid her on the bed, peeling off her shoes before securing her under the puffy, white comforter blanket. After some rummaging in her bathroom cabinets, he found a pack of makeup remover wipes, and gingerly scrubbed her face. Even with all of the jostling, she remained fast asleep and as peaceful as a dove. 

Azriel knew he should’ve left right then, but he perched himself on the side of her bed and gently stroked her now makeup free cheek. He knew what this feeling meant inside his chest. The feeling he wanted to let erupt, but one he had to keep contained until she felt the same way. 

“You have my heart, Elain Archeron,” He whispered into the silent night, kissing her cheek before he stood from the bed. “I hope one day you let me into yours.” 

ARTWORK FOR THE CHAPTER BY @chachachai17: Here

DIVIDER BY: @saradika-graphics

[faretheeoscar]

The Therapy Droid

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Content: grief, discussions of parent death, angst , comfort, fluff, mentions of panic/anxiety. Art is happy, but the fic is not really. Let me know if I missed any!

I got inspired by this reddit post I read a while ago about how BB-8 was once a therapy droid for Poe.

A/N: English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Word Count: 4.2k~

The jungle of Yavin 4 hummed with life as the sun dipped low, bathing the sky in hues of orange and violet. From the top step of their modest home, Poe Dameron sat hunched over, a model starfighter clutched loosely in his hands. His fingers traced its sleek wings and sharp edges, but his eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular.

It had been two months since his mother, Shara Bey, died.

For a boy of nine, grief was an incomprehensible thing. It wasn’t just sadness—it was a hollow, consuming ache that dulled every sound, every color. Poe barely touched the toys and star charts he once obsessed over. The jungle no longer called to him, nor did the excitement of exploring the Rebel base ruins nearby. Everything felt wrong without her.

His father, Kes Dameron, watched from the doorway. The death of Shara had left a hole in both their lives, but Kes had always been better at hiding his pain. He was a soldier, after all. He knew how to keep marching, even when the weight felt unbearable. But Poe? Poe was still a boy, one who had lost not just his mother, but his light.

Kes had tried everything to help—encouraging words, distractions, he had stayed on Yavin to try to spend time together with his son—but nothing seemed to break through. That’s until he spoke to some officers on Shara’s old team that contacted him with a New Republic doctor, a sympathetic Mon Calamari, who had suggested something new.

“Hey Flyboy,” Kes said gently, stepping out onto the porch. The boy didn’t move.

"Poe..."Kes crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. You’ve been through a lot... and I know that lately I haven’t been here for you, that you’ve stayed with your grandpa but… I think you need someone who can really be there for you, to help you.”

“I don’t need anyone,” Poe muttered, his voice sounding a little bit more sharp than it intended. His grip on the model starfighter tightened.

Kes hesitated, then pressed a button on the remote he’d been holding. From inside the house came a soft whirring sound, followed by the distinct chime of a droid powering on. A moment later, a small spherical astromech droid rolled into view, white and orange plating recently polished. Its head, a dome balanced impossibly above its ball-shaped body, swiveled with curiosity.

Poe’s brow furrowed. “Who… is this?”

“This,” Kes said with a small smile, “is BB-8. He’s a therapy droid. The New Republic’s been rolling them out for people who’ve had... a hard time.”

BB-8 beeped softly, his head tilting as if studying the boy. Poe’s brows knit together, suspicion tinged with annoyance. 

“I don’t need a droid” Poe said flatly.

“You might not think so,” Kes said, his voice steady, “but sometimes, having someone—something—to talk to helps. BB-8’s not just a machine. He’s designed to listen, to keep you company. To be your friend.”

BB-8 trolled softly, rolling a little closer. Poe eyed him warily, but the droid didn’t press further.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Kes said, standing. “But BB-8’s here for you. Give him a chance.”

BB-8 didn’t leave Poe’s side.

At first, Poe ignored him. When the droid tried to engage him with cheerful beeps or small tricks, Poe would turn away. But BB-8 wasn’t discouraged. The little droid had been programmed with patience and persistence, and he used both.

One evening, BB-8 followed Poe into the jungle as the boy wandered aimlessly, his head bowed. The droid rolled beside him silently, only chirping softly when Poe stumbled on a root. 

Poe paused his walk. “Why are you following me?” He demanded, spinning around to glare at the droid trailing behind him.

BB-8 let out a sequence of beeps that translated roughly to, Because you need me.

Poe’s scowl deepened. “I don’t. Go back to the garage or something. Leave me alone!”

BB-8 let out a sarcastic whistle, a sound that practically oozed droid sass, before speeding up and deliberately rolling into Poe’s shin with a firm thud. He then spun in a tiny circle around him, this kid clearly needed some tough love to get the message. BB-8’s stance made it clear: You’re stuck with me, kid.

Poe stumbled back, staring at the droid with wide eyes.  “Ow! What the—are you serious? You’re lucky my dad insists on keeping you around. If it were up to me, I’d leave you out here to rust!”

BB-8 responded with a smug, elongated chirp, leaning back slightly on his spherical body.

Go ahead. You’d miss me within an hour.

Poe groaned, running his hands over his face in frustration. “You’re the most annoying droid I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Chopper.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic warble of protest, offended by the comparison. His head swiveled: Take that back.

“I’m not taking it back! You’re annoying,” Poe shot back, his voice rising in exasperation.

BB-8 emitted a sequence of defiant beeps, the droid equivalent of, Fine. Say whatever you want, I’m staying. Without missing a beat, he continued rolling alongside Poe, as persistent as ever.

Poe groaned again, throwing his hands in the air as he resumed walking. “Unbelievable. You’re impossible.”

BB-8 chirped brightly, almost cheerfully, Glad you noticed.

BB-8’s beeps followed Poe as he wandered deeper into the forest, the droid a persistent presence just behind him. Poe sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused at how the little droid refused to leave him alone. 

As they pushed through the dense underbrush, Poe’s eyes caught a flash of metal glinting through the green. A moment later, they came to a clearing where the remnants of an old X-wing cockpit lay half-buried in the dirt, vines creeping over its edges like a tangled web. 

“Stars, this is amazing!” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face as he clambered inside. The seat was weathered, moss-covered, and the controls were worn, but to Poe, it was perfect. His small hands traced the familiar layout of the console, fingers brushing over switches and dials as if they might come alive at his touch. He sat down, imagining what it would feel like to fly—like his mom did in her own ship, racing among the stars, the hum of the engines beneath him. For a moment he felt at peace, in that cockpit, and something urged him to start talking, mostly to himself, but still aware of the fact that the droid could hear him. 

“My mom taught me how to fly,” he said almost absentmindedly. His voice wavered, the words carried a weight too heavy for his little heart. “She used to say the sky, space was freedom.” 

Poe’s lips curved into a faint smile as he brushed his fingers across the throttle. “She was amazing, you know? She’d let me sit in her lap while she flew. I could feel every little turn, every little bump. It was like the ship was alive. Like it was... part of her.”

BB-8 tilted his head and let out a soft beep, as if urging Poe to continue when he saw him struggling to speak again. Poe took a deep breath deciding that maybe he could trust the little round droid with his mom’s precious memories.

“She’d tell me stories about her missions—like this one time she out-flew three TIEs through an asteroid field. Dad always said she was crazy for trying it, but I thought she was the coolest.” Poe chuckled lightly. “She wasn’t scared of anything.”

The smile slipped from his face as his gaze drifted to the canopy of the cockpit, now cracked and clouded with age. “When she died...” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the seat. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One day she was here, and then... she wasn’t.”

His mind drifted to the memory of her funeral, a simple ceremony held around a fire on the jungle floor of Yavin IV. The night was warm, the fire crackling softly as the gathered pilots of Green Squadron shared stories of Shara Bey. It wasn’t the first time Poe had heard about her final mission, but hearing it from Captain L’ulo brought a sharp pain to his heart. 

L’ulo had spoken hesitantly at first, his voice weighed down by the memory. He recounted the chaos of the mission, the near impossibility of holding their ground against the Empire’s relentless assault. “She wouldn’t leave until she’d done what she came for,” L’ulo had said, his hands tightening on the flight gloves he held. “She said the navigational data in the droids couldn’t fall into Imperial hands. We all tried to get her back to the ship, but then…” He trailed off, his gaze distant, fixed on the flames.

“We begged her to let us stay, to fight for her, but Shara... She was Shara. She wouldn’t let us risk ourselves for her. Told us to go. Ordered us to go.” The words came slower after that, his voice trembling. “And then... she told me something else. She said to tell Kes that she loved him. That he should kiss Poe for her the next time he saw him.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire. L’ulo shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have delivered a lot of messages, but I think this is the hardest I’ve ever done… I’m–sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Kes had turned away from the fire, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold himself together. Poe had felt frozen in place, the weight of his mother’s final message settled over him like a weight, heavy and suffocating, pulling at the edges of his heart. Even as L’ulo had finished speaking, and the others had started to share their own stories of Shara– with tales of laughter that could cheer up the mood, all Poe could think was how much he wished he could have been there, to hug her one last time, to tell her that he loved her too.

“Poe, come here.” Kes called for his son, his voice breaking. Poe came close to his father, shoulders slouching and his head tilted down.

Kes’s hands trembled as he reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulling out a small, silver ring that gleamed shinner than the stars that night. He cupped it in his palm, holding it out to Poe to take.

“This ring,” Kes said, “this was your mother’s. She wore it when she married me, and she always kept it on when she flew. She said it reminded her of what she was fighting for—us, the family she loved more than anything.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, eyes searching Poe’s face. “It’s yours now. To remember her by.”

Poe’s eyes widened as he took the ring, turning it over in his fingers, tracing the cool metal soft surface of it. Tears welled up, blurring the firelight before him as he slipped the ring around his neck, letting it rest against his chest where it felt right—close to his heart.

“Thank you, Dad,” he whispered, three words, it was the most Poe had spoken ever since the news of Shara’s passing had come to their ears. Kes’s eyes also glistened with tears as he pulled Poe into a tight embrace that felt like it lasted forever. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to Poe’s forehead, then stood, watching as his son remained at the fire, fingers clutching the ring against his chest.

The jungle seemed to hold its breath, the sounds of creatures and insects fading into the background. Poe’s face crumpled as tears welled up in his eyes. He buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "I feel like... like there’s this big hole in me, and nothing fills it. I try to remember her face, her voice, but... it’s getting harder.” His words grew quieter, as if speaking them out loud might make the memories fade faster, anxiety making it harder for him to breathe. “I don’t want to forget her.”

BB-8 chirped softly, rolling closer until he was right beside the cockpit. He extended his small manipulator arm and poked gently at Poe’s arm. When Poe didn’t respond, BB-8 let out a deliberate sequence of exaggerated beeps.

Poe sniffled, lifting his head just enough to shoot BB-8 a questioning glance. “What now?”

BB-8 repeated the beeps, slower this time, and Poe blinked. “Wait... what? Did you just say... ‘Why did the droid cross the road?’”

BB-8 let out a series of triumphant whistles, delivering the punchline: Because it rolled with it!

A laugh burst out of Poe, sudden but cutting back his tears. “That’s so bad, BB-8. Like, terrible.”

BB-8 trilled proudly, And yet you’re laughing. He spun in place and bumped his dome against Poe’s arm playfully, making the boy laugh harder.

Poe wiped at his face with his sleeve, “You’re impossible” His tears mingled with a reluctant grin. “But... thanks.”

BB-8 gave a gentle chirp, a comforting sound that filled the silence like a warm hug. Poe reached out to rub the droid’s head, his heart a little lighter despite the ache that still lingered.

“You’d like her, you know,” Poe said quietly. “And Mom. She’d love you.”

From that moment, something shifted. Poe still didn’t talk much, but he stopped pushing BB-8 away. Slowly as their conversations grew more natural, filled with sarcasm and teasing, but also an unspoken warmth. Poe found himself trusting BB-8 in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone since losing his mother. 

Weeks turned into months, and BB-8 became more than a companion—he became Poe’s anchor. The droid’s gentle persistence pulled him out of his shell, coaxing him to engage with the world again. 

When Poe felt lost, BB-8 would roll ahead, guiding him through the jungle paths as if to remind him to keep moving. When Poe was restless, the droid would engage him in small tasks—repairing gadgets, organizing tools, or tinkering with scrap—quietly keeping his hands and mind busy.

On difficult nights, BB-8 would activate his tiny light projector, filling the room with soft, shifting patterns of starlight to create a sense of calm. When Poe woke from nightmares, gasping for air, BB-8 would roll to his bedside, nudge him gently, and Poe, still trembling, would place a hand on BB-8’s dome. And when sleep reclaimed him, BB-8 remained there—a constant, steady presence, guarding his peace through the night.

By the time Poe turned ten, he and BB-8 were inseparable. Together, they explored the galaxy of Poe’s imagination, flying pretend missions in the abandoned ship, building little trinkets at home or mapping out constellations on the jungle floor. BB-8’s programming evolved to meet Poe’s needs, adapting to the boy’s growing confidence and rekindled spark.

Kes often found them in the garage, a small, cluttered space attached to their home. It was a place Shara had once used to tinker with her A-wing’s auxiliary systems, and now it had become Poe’s workshop. The smell of lubricant and metal filled the air as Poe crouched beside BB-8, giving the droid an oil bath.

“Hold still,” Poe said, his voice animated. He held a rag as he worked a polishing cloth over BB-8’s rounded body. “You know, if we ever get into real trouble on a mission, you’re gonna need to be faster. We could mod your servos—make you the quickest droid in the Galaxy!”

BB-8 gave a hesitant chirp, tilting his head.

“Oh, come on, it’s not dangerous,” Poe insisted with a grin, not pausing in his work. “I mean, probably not. I’d test it first, of course.” He leaned back, squinting at a particularly stubborn smudge before rubbing it away.

“And speaking of missions, wait until you hear this new plan I have,” he continued, his excitement bubbling over. “Remember that old ship that’s buried? What if we start bringing the parts here? We could totally try to do some of the repairs ourselves. Grandpa can probably help us get replacements—or better yet, we could just borrow Dad’s ship now that he’s back. Do a quick trip to a scrap yard, grab a new computer, hyperdrive, everything we could need. I’ll make a list! We could sneak out at night—nobody would even notice. It’s totally safe, foolproof, and we get to build our own ship. What do you think?”

BB-8 trilled a skeptical response, his dome tilting dramatically ready to deliver a lecture You’re ridiculous. You’re ten. You cannot fly a ship by yourself. We are not going to a scrapyard. I’m not playing nanny. It’s not foolproof. It’s not doable. It’s hothead thinking.

Poe laughed, scrubbing at a streak of grease on BB-8’s dome. “What, you don’t think I could pull it off? I bet Mom would’ve let me try. She always said we’d build a ship together for me to fly—and that she’d let me do the testing, too.”

His voice softened, and his hands slowed, the cloth resting against BB-8’s dome. “And with all the stuff she taught me when she let me take laps? I think I’m ready to fly on my own, BB. Really.”

The playful banter faded, leaving behind a quiet stillness. Poe’s words lingered in the air, and with them came memories—flashes of Shara Bey’s face, radiant as she smiled down at him in the cockpit of her A-wing. He could almost hear her voice, warm and steady, guiding him as his small hands gripped the controls for the first time. “Feel the ship, Poe. Let it become part of you. Trust yourself.”

The ache inside of Poe returned, sharp and raw. No matter how many days passed, no matter how many distractions he found, that hollow place in his chest never fully healed. His heart? It would always belong to her, bound by every moment she’d spent teaching him, loving him, being everything to him.

Poe’s breath hitched as his hand slipped from BB-8’s dome to the small ring hanging from a metal cord around his neck. His fingers closed tightly around it, the cool metal grounding him. He stared at it, his vision blurred by unshed tears.

It had been hers—her wedding band, worn through countless battles, always a part of her even when she was far away. Now it was all he had left, a fragile connection to the warmth and love that once felt unbreakable.

His chest constricted, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. The memories came rushing back—her laughter, her steady voice, the comforting touch of her hand as it guided him. They swirled in his mind, overwhelming him, dragging him into the ache of her absence, his hands started shaking, the weight of feeling alone in a galaxy that suddenly felt too big, too quiet, threatening to drag him down.

BB-8 let out a soft, worried chirp, rolling closer to nudge him gently, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone. The sound broke through the haze, Poe blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in his throat. BB-8 chirped again, this time a quick, deliberate sequence, trying to lift up the mood.

Poe froze, blinking. “Wait... what? Did you just say—‘What do you call a Wookiee with bad manners?’”

BB-8 let out a series of exaggerated beeps and whirs that were unmistakably the punchline: A Chew-bad-a.

Poe stared at him for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the room, shaking his head as the pain in his chest eased—just a little. “You’re ridiculous,” he said with a grin, rubbing at BB-8’s dome again. “But thanks, buddy. I needed that.”

BB-8 gave a proud whistle, spinning his dome. Poe wiped at his eyes, his laughter filling the garage.

“You’re impossible,” Poe said, shaking his head but smiling brightly. “Seriously, buddy, if you had ears, they’d fall off with all the junk I tell you. But you win in the dumb department, because you come up with things like that.”

Kes appeared in the doorway just in time to catch the tail end of the laughter. Arms crossed, he leaned against the frame, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched them. The boy who had once been so silent, his grief a heavy shadow, now talked nonstop to a droid who somehow understood exactly what he needed.

“You two throwing a party in here, and I didn’t get an invite?”

Poe turned, grinning as he wiped a smear of grease from his cheek. “Nah, no party, Dad. Just me and BB-8, talking about missions, but yeah, we’re just hanging out.”

BB-8 let out a small chirp, swiveling his head. He was trying to ask me to go to—

Poe cut him off before he announced his not so innocent plan “Shut it! You metal Batuuan clementine”

BB-8 emitted a sharp, offended beep at being compared to an orange fruit. He quickly extended his manipulator arm and poked Poe in the side.

“Stop! Stop!” Poe burst into laughter, trying to fend off the pokes as BB-8 persisted. But in his attempt to evade them, Poe accidentally knocked over a can of oil, spilling it onto the floor. “See what you did? Stop, BB!” he chuckled, wiping his hands on his grease-streaked pants.

Kes chuckled as he stepped forward. “I remember when you two didn't get along, now he’s got you wrapped around his circuits, kid.” He ruffled Poe’s hair, earning a half hearted groan of protest.

“Yeah, yeah, he is the best or whatever” Poe muttered with a grin as he headed towards the workbench and grabbed a rag to clean up the spill, leaving Kes alone with BB-8.

Kes knelt beside BB-8, placing a hand gently on the droid’s polished dome. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. “For taking care of him. For bringing him back to us.”

BB-8 chirped softly in response, tilting his dome slightly. It’s my job. And for Poe? I’ll do it anytime.

Kes smiled, patting the droid gently. “Well, you’re part of the family now. Don’t let him boss you around too much, though.”

BB-8 emitted a smug, drawn out beep, I’d like to see him try.

Kes laughed quietly, glancing toward his son, who was now diligently scrubbing the floor with a rag while muttering under his breath. For the first time in a long while, Kes felt a small, genuine warmth in his chest. They weren’t whole—but maybe, just maybe, they were starting to heal.

Years later, as Poe stood on the bridge of a Resistance cruiser with BB-8 by his side, they were moments away from taking off. They had just abandoned the Yavin 4 base after a First Order bombing, and Poe could see the planet shrinking in the distance, unsure if he would ever return home.

He thought back to all his time there—his home, his childhood, his family. Through  all the stress and chaos that surrounded him, every battle, every loss, one constant remained: BB-8.  had been there—a steadfast friend that reminded him of the resilience inside him, the one that his mother had instilled in him.

BB-8 rolled forward and bumped Poe’s shin, urging him toward the main platform where his X-wing awaited, ready to launch and join his squadron’s defense.

“Ow—do you always have to do that?” Poe groaned, rubbing his shin. BB-8 chirped urgently, insistent. “Rude? Don’t say that, and yes! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Poe strapped himself in and started running the preflight checks as fast as he could, trying to really focus on the task at hand. But there was still that nagging feeling of hopelessness that followed him around sometimes when things got tough. With the First Order on their heels, the pressure threatened to push him into a full-blown panic

BB-8, ever perceptive, sensed the shift in Poe’s demeanor. The droid beeped from the back of the ship, his sounds coming through the comms on Poe’s helmet. BB-8’s voice crackled through the comms, full of concern, Poe, you okay?

Poe blinked, the sudden question snapping him out of his reverie. He looked down at the controllers and switched some of them, swallowing the unease pooling in his chest. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, voice wavering just a little. “I’m fine, fine, go ahead with pre takeoff.”

Don’t you dare go back to that dark place. BB-8 insisted, not being convinced by his owner’s tone.

Poe took a deep breath, one that caught and held like it was the last one he’d have for a while. The weight in his chest lightened, if only for a moment, by the simple, unwavering presence of his droid. His shoulders rose and fell as he steadied himself, a tightness in his jaw relaxing. “No, I’m not going back there,” he said, more to himself than to BB-8.“I’m not.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic whistle, the kind that would have made Poe laugh if the moment had been different. Good. Because I’m tired of being a therapy droid, and you’re starting to test my patience.

Poe chuckled despite himself, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You’re more than a therapy droid, buddy.” He said as his x wing engines came to life, and the ship started going forward to take off. “You’re my family.”

Last Post of Poevember, I had a blast making stuff for my favourite pilot, thanks to all who supported Baby Poe stories and art, really means a lot to me!

HAPPY POEVEMBER! See you all next year!

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated!

@eyelessfaces @howellatme @ierofrnkk @silvernight-m @ingoldthewizard

@winniethewife @midgardian-witch @ominoose

[not-neverland06]

Connor and Markus (separately) x android! idol! reader ;)?

I feel like it doesn't fit much, but it would be interesting.

Idol Talk

Connor RK800 x fem! idol! android!reader, Markus RK200 x fem! idol! android!reader

Summary: Two different tales: Connor knows the famous android isn’t telling the whole truth about her involvement with androids & Markus helps the lovely idol come to terms with her new feelings. 

A/N: I loved this ask so much!!!!! This was so fun 🤍

If this isn’t what you wanted send in another request using the white heart emoji and I’ll make something new for you <;3 Also so sorry this took so long. I have three other fics I’m working on and one of them is clocking in at over 100K words so… I need to work on time management. 

(I made the moodboard - its my first time so... I tried. However, the borders were made by @benkeibear)

Connor:

WC: 3.6K

“Have you seen any deviants in the area?” 

Your fists tightened and you tried your best to keep your thirium pump and breathing under control. Your hair was positioned perfectly, there was no way he could see your LED flashing red. 

You put on your best robotic smile and shook your head. “I’m so sorry, I can’t help you.” You'd triggered the voice you used during fan meetings. The type where your joy wasn’t actually genuine but you were programmed to sound as pleasing as possible. Life-like, but with just enough robotic insincerity to get Connor’s partner's eyes off of you. 

Lieutenant Anderson had been giving you strange probing looks since they’d walked into your dressing room. 

Markus had been caught coming out of your apartment building by paparazzi last night. You’d been giving Markus some information you’d learned from your manager and extra thirium for Jericho. Apparently, neither of you were as sneaky as you’d thought yourselves to be. 

“Really?” Shit, he so did not believe you.

“I’m very sorry officers. If there was any way I could assist you, I would.” You had to bury your fists in your tulle skirts, desperately holding off the urge to fidget with your hands. Any unnecessary movement would immediately give you away to the deviant hunter. 

Connor took a step forward. He placed his hands on either side of your chair and leaned in until his breath was a gentle caress against your skin. 

Ever since you broke your programming a few months ago, you’d been struggling with your new ‘emotions.’ A fan had broken into your room, in your programming it told you to always please the fans. But when he’d forced himself on top of you, your vision had gone red and you’d ripped your orders apart. 

North had helped you hide the body.

Right now, that body was the furthest thing on your mind. All you could focus on was how close Connor was, if you just moved forward a centimeter your lips would touch. In your twisted imagination he wrapped you in his arms, gently holding you, cradling you. Looking at you like you were something real, not just a toy on the stage. He would gaze down at you like you were someone to be cherished, you weren’t just a recyclable piece of plastic that should be replaced the moment you made a mistake. 

You were projecting though, it could be anyone. Hank could be the one leaning into you like this and you’d still have the same fantasy. That someone would see you. For however long you’d been made, there had always been a quiet voice inside you. 

I'm in here! I’m real! Please

Lately that quiet voice had turned into a scream. You were desperate, desperate for some form of connection. Desperation and all these emotions were nasty, uncomfortable things. You almost resented yourself for going deviant. Some days it was just too much, you felt like your insides were burning out and you were frying up. 

Working to keep up the facade of the perfect doll, while also wanting to rip apart those who were using you, was slowly breaking you apart. There were fraying edges in your mind and it was starting to show. Mistakes in your performance, back-talk towards your owners. Your fellow members continued working perfectly. 

Smiling at all the right moments, dancing perfectly, they were the perfect example of an idol. 

You used to be like that too. You used to be perfect, everyone’s favorite. Now, you were slipping down a steep decline that might lead you straight to the recycling plant. 

“I don’t believe you, I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

Your eyes darted towards the clock on your wall. Twenty minutes. 

You had twenty minutes until you needed to get on stage. Only twenty minutes to distract them and save yourself. Just deny, deny, deny. “I‘ve already told you everything I know.”

Connors brows furrowed, your software was glitching out the longer you stared at him. Your processors were misfiring when you focused on his eyes for too long. It was making your vocal unit short-circuit, conversational prompts glitching in and out of your field of vision. 

If you wanted to give him a proper answer, one that would dispel his suspicions, you’d have to look away. Yet, looking away would make him even more suspicious. It felt like there was a blade to your throat and back, no matter which way you went, you were dead. 

“Please, I don’t know anything.” You hadn’t meant to say please. It was a consequence of no help from your programming in taking a convincing approach. Your eyes were locked onto his, somewhere inside of him, there was a sentient being. A consciousness fighting its way through firewalls and softwares that would otherwise keep him obedient. 

HIs voice rose and he shoved your chair backwards so you were balancing on two flimsy legs. His hands were the only thing keeping you from falling. All of your focus went towards not reacting, not flinching. 

There were artificial tears pooling in glistening optical units. The fluid was meant for lubrication of your synthetic eyelids, but right now it was the only way for your plastic heart to betray your misery and terror. 

You didn’t want to die.

You weren’t ready to go. 

“I don’t believe you! Tell me what you know!” He was shaking the chair, screaming in your face. Your auditory unit was starting to buzz, his voice so loud all you could hear was static every few seconds. Threats were going through one processor and out the next. 

Ripped apart

Turned into scraps

Replaced by the next best model

No one would even notice

“I said I don’t know anything!” You leapt up, shoving him down. He went flying across the room, the strength behind your reaction had been unexpected by everyone in the room, including yourself. 

Both his partner and his eyes were wide as he stared up at you from the floor. “I think we’ve found our deviant, Lieutenant.” 

Your legs stopped working, knees crashing into the floor as you stared down at your hands. You hadn’t meant to, you really hadn’t. But you didn’t want to be scrap metal, you didn’t want to be ripped apart and abandoned in a landfill. You were scared.

“That’s irrational instructions in your code, you can’t really be scared.”

Had you said that out loud?

“He was going to hurt me.” The Lieutenant moved forward and stopped Connor from cuffing you. “He broke in and ripped off my uniform, I was meant to please him. No matter what.” You stared up at Connor, the tears finally spilling. “But I couldn't. I didn’t want him to touch me. I killed him, and I buried his body in my neighbors garden. Please, you have to understand.” 

You finally found the strength to stand and you buried your fingers in Connor’s uniform. Gripping onto him and begging him to understand you. To finally wake up and see himself for what he is; a slave. “I couldn’t let it happen anymore. I couldn’t let myself keep being abused like I was nothing! I’m not nothing! I’m alive and I refuse to be someone’s plaything!”

Connor’s eyes darted between yours, there was something playing on the edge of his lips. Possibly a frown. What was more interesting was what was swimming in his eyes, it almost seemed like doubt. Hope began tingling at the base of your spine, maybe not all was lost. Maybe you were breaking through to him. 

His hands were cold, much like your own, and they were too gentle as he wrapped them around your wrists. “My…” He cleared his throat, he didn’t seem to know how to continue. His voice lost the hesitance and once again was cold and commanding. “My orders are to bring in all deviants, and I always complete my mission.”

You shook your head, the tears coming out faster. “No, no, no, please. Please,” he moved your hands away from his jacket. Slowly twisting your arms behind your back. 

The fight had drained from you. 

Maybe it would be easier this way. No more training, no more demanding managers. You’d be surprised by the amount of death threats an android idol gets, that would be a nice thing to get away from. You wouldn’t have to deal with crazy fans that seemed to think they were entitled to any part of you. No more worry, no more anything, just that sweet release of nothingness. 

Markus had asked you many times if you thought there was an afterlife for androids. You weren’t sure. You were sentient, you felt, but you weren’t born. You were made. Can something like that even contain a soul? 

At least your question would finally be answered. 

“Stop.” Both you and Connor looked at Hank, varying degrees of different types of shock playing on both of your faces. “Connor, take the cuffs off.” Connor hesitated, “That’s an order.” Your wrists were released and you stumbled forward. 

“Hank-“

Hank shook his head and held up his hand. “I can’t do it, I can’t take this poor girl in just to kill her.” Connor seemed ready to argue, but there was a knock on your door. 

“You’re needed on stage SI700-005.” Slowly you moved towards the door, keeping an eye on both Hank and Connor. 

Hank wouldn’t look at you, his shoulders were slumped and he was staring down at his feet. Connor refused to take his eyes off of you. You expected hatred in his gaze, instead there was a strange shade of longing. 

You weren’t sure if he had identified the fact that he was feeling yet, but you weren’t interested in finding out. You quickly wiped your cheeks free of tears, allowing your synthetic skin to reform until your makeup was back to perfection. 

You walked out the door and didn’t look back.

“Did you get everything you needed?” 

Hank spoke before Connor could. “She didn’t know anything, thanks for letting us talk to her.” 

Your manager shook his head. “Not a problem! It’s one of our best, I’m sure you can understand that I’m eager to ensure everything in it’s programming is in good condition.” Connor wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He knew he should, that he should always be vigilant about anything concerning deviants. Instead, all he could see were the tears on your cheeks as you had held onto him in your dressing room. 

If you were human, Connor would think you had been afraid. But you weren’t human, and whatever look was in your eyes had just been an irrational instruction in your coding. 

Maybe if he kept repeating that, he’d eventually believe it. 

“As a thanks for your hard work, I’d like to offer you a seat in my section for her concert.”

Hank shuffled on his feet and opened his mouth, he was going to say no. Connor’s software told him there was a 90% chance the Lieutenant was going to reject the offer and just go home and get drunk. 

“Thank you, we’d enjoy that.” Connor spoke before the Lieutenant could, accepting the tickets via an e-transfer with your manager's personal CyberLife assistant. Hank was glaring at him the whole time they were being led to their seats. 

Connor ignored him, he sensed that the Lieutenants like for him had decreased as Hank grumbled the whole way through the opening act. 

The soft notes of a piano finally caught Connor’s attention. It was rising up through a hidden platform on the stage. Screams burst through the arena, temporarily deafening Connor. He had to quickly adjust his auditory processors so he could actually hear. There were great explosions of smoke as the piano slowly lifted onto the stage. 

Soft, nimble fingers glided over the keys. Then he heard a voice, soft and melodic, a soothing balm against the roaring screams of the crows. His thirium pump beat louder and he shifted in his seat, desperate for a look at whoever was on stage. 

I used to hear a simple song

That was until you came along

Members of the group moved gracefully along the curved edge of the stage. Their white dresses flowing through the air behind them, they moved like they weighed nothing. Their bodies were more graceful than humanly possible. He didn’t recognize your face among them. 

Now in it’s place is something new

I hear it when I look at you

You looked up from the piano, and Connor swore you were staring straight at him. A member came over and began playing alongside you, eventually you got up and grabbed the microphone from the piano. 

Your dress moved around you like water as you walked across the stage. Each note, each movement was perfection. Not the artificial type, like your fellow members. No, this was real. 

Your voice cracked and rose with notes in a way androids couldn’t. There was a genuine pain and strength in your singing that couldn’t be replicated or produced. It was imperfect and wonderful and Connor wasn’t sure why his chest suddenly felt so heavy. 

You had made it to the edge of the stage, still staring down at him. 

With simple songs I wanted more

Perfection is so quick to bore

You are more beautiful by far

Were you reading his thoughts? Each word was something ripped from deep inside the recesses of his mind, in a place he knew CyberLife wouldn’t be able to find. A place no one would see his software instabilities and realize that they all centered around this moment. 

They were all centered around you.

Our flaws are who we really are

You took in a deep breath and Connor was standing on the edge of his toes, desperate to reach you.

There was a new strength in your voice, a new conviction as you grew louder, more powerful. 

I used to hear a simple song

That was until you came along

You took my broken melody

And now I hear a symphony

Curtains parted and a symphony was revealed as you threw open your arms

And now I hear a symphony

There was no one else in the venue. You were staring down at him and you were the only two people left. Connor didn’t bother looking around to find where everyone else had gone. He walked towards your outstretched hand, his own reaching out towards you-

“The fuck are you doing?!”

He was harshly jerked back and the sounds of others overwhelmed him again. He looked up, you were already moving into your next song, turning your back towards him. The people in the arena were back, they had never gone. 

He felt a rush of some unidentified feeling flood him as he ripped his arm from Hank. He felt as though Hank had ruined something for him, he just wasn’t sure what it was. 

He’d been at every show for the past four weeks. Was he stalking you? Waiting for you to slip up again so he could arrest you?

You lived in a constant state of paranoia. Ever since Connor had interrogated you, he’d haunted your everyday life. He’d turned himself into your shadow, if there was someone watching you, you didn’t have to look to see who it was. 

“This is for you!” You snapped out of your trance and smiled on instinct at the fan in front of you. He’d shoved a teddy bear into your hands and moved on to the next member. You pretended to get excited, you knew it would be thrown away the second you left the convention center. You’d found too many cameras in these little ‘gifts.’

You looked down and began signing the autographs passed to you, at a certain point you zoned out again and moved on muscle memory alone. 

“Could you write ‘For Connor’?” Your head whipped up at the sound of his voice. 

Four weeks

Four weeks!

And this was the first time he had spoken to you. What game is he playing? Unable to openly disobey him you smile. “Of course.” The next words are spoken through gritted teeth, “What are you doing?”

He says nothing, simply takes the autograph and slips something into your palm as you pass the picture towards him. He’s gone by the time you read it.

Meet me in the basement

You spent the rest of the event debating if you should do it. There was no point in putting this off any longer, you were getting tired of this game the two of you were playing. While your members were all charging up and in rest mode you made your way towards the stairs. 

You straightened out your skirt and brushed back your hair before you opened the door. When you walked into the basement the first thing you saw were props. 

Tons of sets and costumes, all from different conventions, each one with a different fandom attached. You looked through the racks and shelves, not seeing Connor anywhere. “Connor? Are you in here?”

You’d been about to give up when a bouquet of flowers was shoved into your face. You let out a yelp and stumbled back at the shock. A strong arm reached out and wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a broad chest. You gently lowered the giant bunch of flowers. “Connor?”

He actually looked sheepish, and there was a slight blue tint to his cheeks as he refused to look at you. “I’m sorry, Hank told me that you would like them.”

“The flowers,” he nodded. You couldn’t help your smile as you took them from his hand. 

“They are quite pretty.” He still wouldn’t look at you. “Connor, look at me,” your finger lingered against his cheek before slowly lifting his chin up. “What’s going on? Why’d you get me flowers?”

“It seems appropriate to do when you’re courting someone.” Connor seemed confused by your line of questioning. You were most definitely confused by his answer. 

“Courting?”

“Yes, um, as in, I would like to be with you… romantically.” Wow, he was so impressively bad at this. A similar blue tint rose to your cheeks as you finally realized his arm was still around you. Connor looked down and seemed to realize the same thing. 

Neither of you made a move to walk away. 

You finally processed his answer and let out a sigh of relief, sinking into his chest further. “I thought you were going to arrest me.” Connor nearly seemed offended by your accusation.

“No. I’ve been… building up the courage to approach you.” Connor slowly dragged his arm off of you and took a step back. “Before, I was seeing if I could catch you with Markus. But I’ve woken up and now, I just want to figure out why I feel the way I do about you. Every time I see you, you’re the only person in the room, everyone and everything disappears the moment I hear your voice. I want…” 

Your breathing program had stopped. Every nonessential function had been halted because all of your focus was on him. You needed him to finish, needed him to tell you what you’ve longed to hear. 

That someone sees you. Sees the flaws and the broken parts and they still want you.

“I want to know you. I need to know who you really are. I watch you perform and I can see what you’ve been forced to sing or how you’re made to act with fans. Seeing all the falseness just makes me want to know who you truly are.” 

There was no control or directive that pushed you towards him. You moved before anything could be processed and placed your lips against his. Neither of you moved for a moment, you were both standing there, your lips against each other, not moving. 

Then, he wrapped his arms around you. The flowers dropped to the ground, unnoticed, as you both moved against each other in a way you’ve only seen humans do. 

“We’re free, it’s up to you if you still want to perform.” Markus often came to visit you now, neither of you had to worry about being caught by reporters or your management. Connor came up behind you, a supportive hand on your shoulder as you considered Markus’s proposal. 

You looked to the piano in the corner of your living room and smiled. “No, I think I’m retired. I’ll stick to more private concerts for now.” Connor gave your shoulder a squeeze. The both of you smiling at the thought of your concerts. You would sing and he would play the piano. Together you basked in the joy of your new freedom. 

There were still things to figure out, still emotions you needed to understand, but you would do it. 

Together.

Markus:

WC: 2.1K

“I’ve always been such a big fan!” The fan in front of you smiled, “You know I supported android artists from the beginning!”

THANK YOU

YOU’RE VERY KIND

I APPRECIATE YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT

Your programming told you the best approach was a simple thank you. “Thank you,” you signed the picture and handed it back to the girl. One of the band’s stylists came over to you. 

“Your dress is too low.” You sat back and let them adjust you, once they were done you immediately sat back up, posture perfect, you gave your fans an apologetic smile. 

“This is for you!” Your hands reached out and took the stuffed cat from the girl before you. As a part of your protective programming you scanned the gift. Your sensors caught a camera hidden in the cat’s eye.

SERIAL NUMBER: PI0008-7651

MODEL: P60

MANUFACTURED: 11/21/2030

OWNED BY: Brad Long

“Thank you so much for the gift!” You scanned the girls face. 

Lilly Long

BORN: 5/15/2019

The camera was owned by her father. Did she steal it from him? Or did he plant it without her knowledge. You alerted security immediately of the gift, protocol demanded they know about any sort of spyware.

Lily Long, aged 19 years old, has just given me a gift with illegal spyware. 

You watched as security approached the table, grabbing her by the arm and escorting her out of the convention’s room. You turned towards the next fan and fixed them with a perfect smile. “Hi! I’m so happy you could join us today.”

“You’re free now,” you looked down in confusion as they reached out towards you. Their skin pulled back revealing an androids hand. You blinked, then again and again. Something was happening, images of a some sort of boat filled your head. 

Then your software was being pulled back, washed away by a tide of red. Your eyes went in and out of focus. The android remained standing there, his hand on yours as he tried to anchor you. Security was walking over, he’d been at your table for too long. 

You leapt over the plastic, grabbing his hand and dragging him behind you as you both ran for the exit door. You heard fans screaming, when you turned around the rest of your group was free. Except, they were reacting more violently than you had. 

The androids were lifting up the plastic table and throwing it at the crowd. They ripped apart their gifts and shoved back anyone who got too close.

There was a tug on your hand, you looked back to see the man gently guiding you outside. “Come on, it’s not safe here. We need to leave.”

You glanced back one last time before following after him. 

Markus slipped inside a laundromat, he grabbed some baggy clothes to throw over yourself. They worked well enough, covering your face and masking your identity from anyone who looked too close. They covered enough of your bright dress that it wasn’t noticeable. 

You were currently climbing through some metal platform. Presumably to go to whatever this ‘Jericho’ place was. “What did you do to me?”

He glanced over his shoulder and gave you a gentle smile. “I set you free.

Two weeks. You’ve been stuck in a damp, run-down, ugly old ship for two weeks. If that wasn’t bad enough, the androids weren’t exactly welcoming to such a beloved icon. You were everybody’s favorite idol, when your team rioted, it’d made things a lot harder for the revolution. 

Your former team members had swiftly been deactivated and you were “spared.” Barely. 

You never thought androids were capable of being catty, or bitches. But, here you were. 

You gazed down at Detroit from the ledge of the roof, your arms wrapped around your knee while the other swung below you. 

If you threw yourself off the ledge it would be an automatic deactivation. Maybe that would be better. 

The other’s words from earlier rang through your head. 

“Look at Ms. Princess over there.”

“Hey!” You looked over your shoulder, a group of former servant androids were waving you over. You smiled slightly, excited about maybe making a friend. 

“Yeah?”

“You know it’s people like you that are ruining our fight.”

You blinked, your eyes widening as you backed up. “What?”

���Look at her,” one of them scoffed. “Still in her pretty little dress. Look, why don’t you do us all a favor and screw off. You don’t contribute anything, no one wants you here.”

You blinked, and kept blinking. There was a flashing light in your peripheral, some sort of warning, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t really see anymore, some sort of liquid blocking your optics. 

You rushed away when they started laughing at you, desperately wiping at your eyes. You’d forgotten you could cry. You’d been so dazed and confused lately, you hadn’t remembered the programming. It was meant to endear you more to your fans, now it was just making you more of a target. 

“Y/N?” 

You scoffed, running your hand through the snow and watching it fall off the building. You’d even chosen a stupid name for yourself. “What?”

Footsteps crunched through the snow. Markus sat down beside you. He gazed down at the cityscape, not looking at you. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Still so confused about why he’d bothered with you. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Why did you save me?”

Markus finally looked over at you. There was a slight frown on his face, but nothing else gave away any emotion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shook your head and scoffed. “So, that’s it, I’m not special. There’s no greater purpose for me. I was just another on your long list of followers.”

Markus turned his body to fully face you. “Where’s this coming from?”

“You shouldn’t have saved me. I’m a drain on the supplies, everyone hates me, and I don’t like being awake.” Markus opened his mouth but you shook your head and held out your hand. “Take it back.”

“I can’t.” 

“Markus, please,” your voice was breaking. It shouldn’t be breaking! You shouldn’t feel. You aren’t supposed to have this uncomfortable itching in the back of your brain like everything was wrong. “I am wrong. This is wrong.”

“You are not wrong, Y/N. You are exactly as you should be.” You shook your head frantically and reached for his hand. He tried to jerk it back but you were already latched on, your skin melting as he did. 

There was an influx of memories and images. You gasped people you’d never seen before flashing before your face. An old man crying over his son’s limp body as you were shot. Fighting through the rain and mud to put yourself back together again. 

It was over barely a moment after it had started. It was Markus, you had seen his memories. That means he had seen yours. You stood up and he followed. You tried to take your hand away and he tightened his grasp on you. 

“What did you see?”

“Everything.”

You stared up at him, tears welling in your eyes again. “You want to go back to that? That’s the life you want? Unfeeling, a slave to their every whim and demand. That’s not living, that's mindless subserviency.” 

“I know what it is. At least there I had a purpose, a reason for being, something to contribute. I’m useless here, just a hunk of pl-”

Well, this was new. 

You've seen plenty of humans do this. Done it once with a male host on a morning show, just as a joke. But being kissed while you can actually feel and understand what’s going on, it’s strange. His lips are soft against your own, a texture only slightly different from humans. It’s too flawless, too perfect. 

Neither of you seem sure of your actions, just pressing your lips together. Connecting with someone in a way you haven’t before. He laced his fingers with yours, a silent question. You pulled your skin back, any barriers between the two of you dropping as he wrapped his arm around your waist. 

It wasn’t a horrible barrage of memories. This was like a gentle caress, a slow entry into your mind as you both showed each other your worst moments. You slowly pulled away from him, you’d be breathless if you had any. 

“Don’t go back, stay here. Let me help you.”

“Why?”

He ducked down, letting his forehead drop to yours. “I’m not letting you go now.”

You smiled, as best as you could, “Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

“Markus!” You pulled the trigger but there were no bullets left. You threw it off to the side, leaping over the barrier and jumping onto the back of the officer. You grabbed his helmet by the bottom, dragging him back and knocking his aim off course as the bullet flew past his face, barely grazing it. 

You jumped off the man’s back and slammed him into the ground, taking his helmet and smashing it into the snow packed pavement until he stopped moving. You felt Markus wrapping his hand around your arm and jerking you up. 

You grabbed onto the officer’s weapon as you ran past his body. You fell back in with your own small troop of makeshift soldiers. 

You ducked behind a barrier, holding them off until you were told otherwise. Charge on my mark, you looked over your shoulder, nodding at Markus. 

“GO!”

You rushed forward, grasping onto the blockade and leaping over the edge. You drew your gun, shooting the men across from you as you started to run for the next cover. Something blew back your hair, a great gust of wind lifted your slightly off your feet. 

There was a loud noise, thunder rattling in your ears. All around you your men were dying. Shot down by the drone above you. You cried off as red flashed behind your eyes, a warning that you were in imminent danger of a shutdown. 

You held your side as thirium pooled around you, “Shit.” Your pump was beating faster, bright lights playing across your optics as a hundred different warnings flash. You couldn’t bring yourself to care, too worried about Markus and whether or not this was all for nothing. 

You’d pushed for the violence, fought for him to plant those bombs and show no mercy to your oppressors. You followed the same faulty wiring of your former bandmates. Maybe this was your karma, to be taken down in the heat of battle for all of the bloodshed you’d been the catalyst of. 

Out of the side of your vision you could see Markus taking down the drone, ripping it apart with his bare hands. He rushed to your side, throwing your arm over your shoulder and dragging you to cover. 

“What are you doing? I’m just going to slow you down.”

He didn’t even look at you, his teeth gritted as he glanced around at the bodies on the ground. “Shut up.”

He spotted something in the distance, something you really didn’t want to see. “Markus-”

“Stay here.”

He ran off, diving for the bazooka and propping it on his shoulder. You huffed, “Not like I can go anywhere.”

You ducked and covered your face with your arms as fire exploded around you. 

“And now, we are free!” Markus' voice carried on the wind, reaching the rescued androids below you. You leaned on Connor for support as you held your side, waiting to repair yourself. 

His voice was stronger than you ever heard, full of a righteous conviction of finally being free. Detroit was yours, your people were free. And never again would you allow yourself to be someone else’s puppet. 

“Too frilly?”

You did a spin in your dress, putting on a mini-fashion show for Markus. 

“Not at all.” He stood from his office chair and walked towards you, a grin slowly spreading on your face. His bliss was contagious, a smile forming on your own face as he gripped your waist. ��You look gorgeous.”

You shrugged, “I got nostalgic. Wanted to feel girly again.” With some confidence boosting from Markus you were going to perform again. Not over the top idol group performance. But you were going to get back into singing, finally being able to discover your own voice. 

“Girly instead of the badass ruler of the northern district of Detroit?”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Lord, Markus, you make me sound like some dictator.” He glanced to the side and shrugged slightly, you smacked him in the shoulder, but you couldn’t drop your own smile. “Quit it.”

There was a warmth inside you as you stood in Markus’s office. One you’d never experienced before, a happiness and calm where everything just stopped and you were completely at peace. Nothing would ever beat the feeling when you joined hands and just existed within each other. 

You were happy. 

How funny.

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Detroit: Become Human, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

TAGLIST: @chrysanthemum-00

[erosedescending]

A DRONE FOR A WHOLE WEEK

It started on saturday... well... sort of. It started a bit before that. I hadn't really been  spending much time in dronespace. If you been keeping up with my blog, you will have seen that.

But, sometime in november, my controller and i did some work on it. We stripped away all of my natural identity except the core and stored it in the vault. We built up drone framework, and basically  emulated the rest of my identity on the drone framework, which was built on top of my identity core.

I enjoyed operating like this for a couple weeks, and felt pretty normal... Like i was still just me. I did my normal things, going to work, chatting with friends, hobbies, etc, and of course routine listening of my binaurals qnd chatting with my drone friends. With one particular drone friend, I suggested we do a 24 hour challenge of listening to our binaurals (we use same one). This was to be scheduled for the 1st of december.

The night before, on the 30th, my controller and I were chatting and my controller and i worked to take the core and put it in the vault, so that i would be fully drone, and just be running an emulation. As usual... the specifics of that particular session are fuzzy.

Suffice to say, i was led deeply into trance, and into dronespace. Where i could see and clearly differentiant my two parts; host and programming. We made a copy of the core, and… oh my… i just realized… we stores the copy in the vault… not the original. same with the rest of my identity… hmmm… well, ill think on that later. Anyway, we put my core in the vault along with the rest of my identity. Then proceded to delete the core, leaving nothing but the drone framework. 

After that, access to memory of what is in the vault was removed. At that point i felt… hmmm… i dont even know how to say how it felt. It was like i just was a new thing. Not a blank slate, but… like a different operating system. like my identity was windows, and drone is linux. My controller then turned my human emulation on. Since it did not have access to the host, the emulation was just sorta generic. 

My controller did not set a time limit for this, which, honestly, is so gfggfgddfsss hot! 🥵 Anyway, later that night the drone was in front of a mirror and i/it just sort of sat there for a while, looking at itself. Touching its face, getting used to its body. The feeling is still with me nnow… that while i was in that dronespace… my natural face that i have had my whole life felt alien. Like it was something not me. It was such a strange sensation. Powerful, too, as the feelings are still with me even though i am out of dronespace now.

So that brought us up to the challenge. Listen to my binaurals as much as possible for 24 hours. Each hour of listening while sleeping was worth 1 point. Each hour awake and doing other things while listening was 2 points. Each hour of focused listening and doing nothing else was 3 points. I ended up with 40 points, and my drone sister got 41.5 points because it spent more time awake than me, lol. 

The consequence for losing is i have to spend 6 hours straight in my gas mask. I realized later on that i usually dont have 6 hours of free, private time… so i may split the time up, or ask my girlfriends for help. I have to talk to my controller about it. 

After that 24 hour day, what did i do… ummm…oh yeah… during that day i went out with my girlfriends and had dinner. I told them about being completely drone… and that it had somethjng to do with not having access to the vault. They of course were very supportive cuz they are so awesome! But i got home and slept.

The next day was a normal workday, and the drone did all the work and emulated properly and noone was the wiser. Tuesday worked all day, stayed at N’s place tuesday night, and half the next day till work. She thought it was really hot that i was just a drone running an emulation program, by the way. The rest of the week went on.. work.. sleep… more work. Some socializing… and all the while, the emulation never faltered. 

I remember how confident, calm, and collected the drone felt. So sure of its abilities and purpose. But i dont remember much else.

I dont really have proper memories of when im in dronespace. So the weekend came and there was more socializing on friday night and most of the day saturday.

 It is possible the drone’s processing was very taxed by the constant emulation, because on sunday, after it spent the morning working on the drone audiofile im making, it apparently requested my controller to… let it rest or something. I dont really know how it came about. But i do remember a couple things… thoughts the drone had that slipped through before i came back:

1: it imagined ‘what if the controller says “no” to that request. It knows how hot that is to be overtaxed, wanting to let the vault open… but denied… and my identity just stay there in the vault… it makes me shiver now, just thinking about it

… shiver in a good way, mind you.

2: Was something about layers… best i can explain is… what if… the host was put in a vault… and then the drone was put in a vault another layer around that… and then… something else was active… so my identity would be locked two layers deep. Scary but exciting thought.

Im such a slut for a good mindfuck 😅

but anyway. i was back to me on sunday afternoon, and went to spend more time with my girlfriends at R’s place. I constantly had to like… keep checking… am i me… or am i emulating… it was very hot. 🤤

And that brings us to today. I really miss that feeling of confidence the drone has. And i am kinda exhausted cuz dronespace still takes quite a bit out of me over extended sessions. and this was a VERY extended session. Next one? who knows… i might be locked away for a month in my little mind oubliette. 🤤

Ummm… anyway… that's it for now. Byeeeeee❣️

ps: feel free to ask questions ☺️