#last one is him watching something/being in the wake of the explosion

[raayllum]

Official batch of posters for S6 featuring a fallen/exploding star

[peachesofteal]

18+ noncon, Simon drugs you/her, somnophilia

Girl who takes herself to her favorite coffee shop on the corner to post up with her laptop and a latte.

They serve them in those big ceramic mugs she likes. The white ones that seem so wide you could take a bath in them. Filled to the brim with an unbroken layer of foam on top, she always appreciates when the barista takes the extra time to draw her a quick little design. Makes her feel seen, special, almost.

She always sits a corner, headphones in, typing away on whatever it is she’s working that week, barely away of the comings and goings around her.

She doesn’t notice anyone, and no one notices her.

It’s perfect, really.

Until one morning when she attracts the wrong kind of attention.

It starts with the cup being just a tad too full, balancing on its saucer, ceramic trembling in her fingers. The shop is busy, and someone at the long table in the middle fails to look over his shoulder, sliding backwards in his chair to stand. Hot espresso and milk splashes down her chest, her shirt, and she gasps, sizzling pain shocking the breath from her body.

“Oh shit,” the man starts, turning to face her, hands out and frantic. It’s quiet now, eyes in the room fixed on her, watching, waiting, expecting a civilized reaction. They want her to say ‘oh that’s alright, it was an accident’ or ‘no harm no foul, it happens’ something like that, effectively releasing the burden of shame hanging over the perpetrator.

But, alas. She’s not the one.

“Oh shit?” She rolls her eyes. “You just made me spill my fucking coffee all over myself, and your response is oh shit?” If it was quiet in the coffee shop before, it’s pin drop worthy now.

She expects the man to back down. To cower, start stuttering a profuse apology. That, or the other option, the one where they get defensive, enraged, emotions running wild at the idea of being challenged.

The man does neither of these things. He crosses his arms and cocks his head, sizing her up like he forgot to eat dinner last night and she’s his next meal. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. “Are you going to let me finish, little spitfire?” Jesus Christ. She shoots him the nastiest glare she can conjure, then turns on her heels.

Fuck that guy.

Simon likes himself a little spitfire. A little piece of c4 in his hand, his finger on the trigger. Likes a girl with fight in her, one that scratches, that yells.

His cock aches thinking about how she’d howl under him, face screwed up with rage, salty, sweaty slick pooling between her legs. He’d jam his thigh right in that spot, and order her to rub her pussy against the grain of his jeans until she was cumming on them. He wants to hear her gag on his finger as he scratches her tonsils with it, pressing down on her tongue, forcing her teeth wide, testing.

So, of course, he does the thing he knows he’s not supposed to do. He’s got some time, some leave, plenty of time to hunt his prey and set a snare, a rope around her ankle, stringing her up like a pretty precious offering.

She’s got a nice home. It’s small, one story, windows open with the breeze. The curtains wave with the wind, exposing slivers of her living room, kitchen, bedroom. She putters around the house for a while before the lights go dark, noise of the street enough to drown out the sound of his knife surgically cutting an opening in a screen.

Once the window is open, it’s over. There’s no match, no matter how explosive she is, there’s no him vs her. It’s just him, with her underneath, throat clogged by his cock.

Probably not tonight. Tonight, he’s going to peel her free from the top sheet and jab a needle into her ass to push diprivan, enough to keep her loose and sweet, trapped in sleep long after he leaves. She’ll be more than groggy when she wakes again, chalking it all up to some sort of dream.

She takes it so easy too. Doesn’t fuss. Barely stirs when he rubs a hand over the fat of her hips, squeezes the flesh for his needle. She gasps in her sleep, brow furrowed, listlessly drifting away.

The first thing he does is roll her to her back. She sleeps naked, a pleasant surprise, muscles soft as he pushes her knees to her chest, exposing her cunt to his hungry eyes. He’s only supposed to look, to inspect, but he can’t help pulling a glob of spit from his cheeks to the tip of his tongue, letting it drip down in a long drop, oozing onto her clit.

“Pretty pet.” He murmurs, gloved finger stroking through her folds, fingertip barely pushing against her hole, sliding down to feel the tight furl between her cheeks. “Perfect little holes f’me, eh? Tight little things you’ve got.” Maybe she’s never been fucked before. Too much acid in her blood to bend or break for anyone. He buzzes with the idea that no one has ever had a cock, or anything, inside her, and spits again, this time a bigger wad, bubbles and all, thick and viscous. “Let’s check little spitfire.” He presses inside her, working his finger in easy strokes, feeling her walls, the heated clutch of her cunt. There’s resistance there, a flimsy, thin barrier separating him and the rest of her, his chuckle dangerous in the dark. It’s tempting to take it right now, but he’d rather watch her face when it happens so he can see the moment she realizes, when he ruins her, when he rips through her purity and makes her his own.

He unzips his pants, fisting his cock, precum already beaded at the tip and dripping, coating his palm as he pumps. She moans, like she knows somehow. It’s a high pitched, breathy thing, one that rattles his bones. He answers with a thumb on her clit, pressing, circling, still stroking himself, indulging in her shudders, the jerking of her legs as she she climbs to her climax.

He wants it at the same time. Wants to paint her pussy with his cum when she explode into hers, wants to do it together. As he gets close, he works both himself and her furiously, waiting for that moment when her muscles will go rigid and her pussy will flutter.

When it hits, he follows, white spend shooting up over her belly to her breasts, almost too much to be believed. It’s a mess, really, and he doesn’t want to leave her like this. Too obvious.

He takes his time licking her clean, filling his mouth with his own cum, holding it against his teeth, under and over his tongue. He breathes through his nose until he’s satisfied he got it all, and then sticks a thumb between her teeth, prying her jaw wide-

so he can spit it, drool it, into her unsuspecting mouth, letting it drip to the back of her throat, white sticky load of spit and cum coating her tonsils, her teeth, her tongue.

See you tomorrow.

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲

yandere!nanami x reader

tags: yandere – extreme possessive and obsessive behaviour, like extreme, cage, angst no comfort, twisted love notes: request by: @superslutny wc: 1.8k

Nanami sat in his dimly lit apartment, his eyes fixed on the clock ticking away on the wall. Each second felt like an eternity, his mind consumed by thoughts of you. You, his everything, the light that brightened his otherwise dull existence. You were his girlfriend, his confidante, his reason for waking up every morning. But lately, something gnawed at Nanami, something dark and relentless.

Jealousy had always been a shadow lurking in the corners of his mind, but recently it had grown into a raging storm, consuming his every thought. He tried to control it, tried to push it down deep inside, but it clawed its way back, stronger and more insistent than before.

You were the only good thing in Nanami's life, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. You were beautiful, kind, and fiercely independent. But to Nanami, you were also a prize to be protected at all costs, a possession that he couldn't bear to share with the world.

He would watch you closely, his eyes following your every move, his heart racing with fear at the mere thought of someone else stealing you away. He knew it was irrational, he knew he was being unfair to you, but he couldn't help it. The jealousy consumed him, twisted his thoughts into dark, irrational patterns.

He tried to control it, tried to be the loving boyfriend he knew you deserved, but his efforts were futile. He couldn't help but question your every move, interrogate you about your whereabouts, and demand constant reassurance of your love and fidelity.

You tried to understand, tried to be patient with Nanami, but the constant scrutiny and possessiveness began to wear you down. You felt suffocated, trapped in a relationship that was becoming more suffocating by the day.

One evening, after yet another explosive argument fueled by Nanami’s jealousy, you couldn't take it anymore. With tears in your eyes, you packed your bags and tried to walk out the door.

Nanami couldn’t let you leave.

As you packed your bags, Nanami's anxiety and possessiveness intensified. He couldn't fathom a life without you, couldn't imagine facing the world alone. With each item you placed in your suitcase, his desperation grew, a knot tightening in his chest.

"Please, my love," Nanami pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion. "Don't go. I need you. You're everything to me."

You paused, your eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. You knew Nanami loved you deeply, but his jealousy was suffocating you. You longed for space, for freedom from his constant scrutiny and control.

"Kento," you said softly, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. "I need some time to think. I'll stay tonight, but tomorrow I have to go."

Nanami nodded, his heart sinking with resignation. He knew he couldn't force you to stay, but the thought of you leaving tore him apart inside. He resolved to make the most of your remaining time together, to show you just how much you meant to him.

But as the night wore on, Nanami’s jealousy bubbled to the surface once again. He couldn't shake the feeling that you were slipping away from him, that you were already planning your escape. Every innocent glance at your phone, every moment of silence between you, fueled his paranoia. He can’t let you leave, he won’t let you.

Despite the darkness that now enveloped Nanami's mind, there were moments of light, memories that shone like beacons in the fog of his obsession.

He remembered the first time you met, your eyes locking across a crowded room, a spark igniting between you that would soon blossom into love. He remembered your laughter, the sound of your infectious giggles echoing through the air as you shared inside jokes and silly stories.

He remembered your late-night conversations, the deep, meaningful talks that lasted until the early hours of the morning. You bared your souls to each other, sharing hopes, fears, and dreams with a level of intimacy that Nanami had never known before.

He remembered your walks in the park, hand in hand, the world fading away as you lost yourselves in each other's presence. The warmth of the sun on your faces, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze—it was in these moments that Nanami felt truly alive, truly loved.

And above all, he remembered the way you looked at him, your eyes filled with a love so pure and unconditional that it took his breath away. In your arms, he found solace from the demons that haunted him, a sense of peace that he had never known before.

Tears welled up in Nanami's eyes as he reached out to you, his fingers brushing against your sleeping form. "I'm sorry, my love," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you more than anything in this world. Please forgive me."

As you slept peacefully beside him, Nanami's mind churned with a plan born from his darkest impulses. With each breath you took, he felt the weight of his possessiveness pressing down on him, suffocating him with the fear of losing you.

Quietly, Nanami slipped out of bed, his movements deliberate and stealthy. He moved through the apartment like a shadow, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread. In the corner of the room, hidden from sight, stood the cage he had meticulously prepared for this moment.

With trembling hands, Nanami approached the cage and swung open the door, the metal hinges creaking softly in the stillness of the night. He returned to the bed where you lay, your form bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, and gently lifted your sleeping body into his arms.

With great care, Nanami carried you to the cage and laid you down inside, your limbs falling limply against the cold metal bars. He fastened the lock with shaking hands, the sound echoing through the room like a final, ominous chord.

The cage stood as a looming testament to Nanami's descent into madness, yet within its confines lay a paradoxical blend of memories and attempts at comfort. 

Constructed from sturdy steel bars, it was large enough for you to move around, to stretch your limbs and turn, yet small enough to serve its purpose—to confine you to Nanami's world, to keep you close at all costs. 

Despite its stark appearance, the cage was not devoid of warmth. Nanami had adorned its interior with small touches meant to evoke the memories you had shared together. A soft blanket, the one you had cuddled under on countless nights, draped over a corner. A stack of books you had read together rested nearby, their pages worn and dog-eared from hours of shared exploration. 

In one corner, Nanami had placed a small photo album, filled with snapshots of your happiest moments—smiling faces, stolen kisses, and adventures captured in frozen time. It was a reminder of the love you had once shared, a testament to the bond that had brought you together.

Despite his actions, Nanami had tried to make the cage as bearable as possible for you. He had stocked it with food and water, enough to sustain you until he could find a way to make things right. He had even left a note, a heartfelt apology penned in shaky handwriting, expressing his love and regret for what he had done.

But no amount of comfort could mask the reality of your captivity, the suffocating weight of Nanami's possessiveness bearing down on you with each passing moment. 

As you began to stir, Nanami stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched with a mixture of dread and fascination as you slowly woke, confusion clouding your eyes as you realized your predicament.

"What... what's going on?" your voice was barely a whisper, filled with equal parts fear and disbelief.

Nanami approached the cage, his eyes filled with desperation as he tried to explain himself. "I'm sorry, love," he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I had to do something to keep you with me, to make sure you never leave."

Your eyes widened in horror as the truth of Nanami's actions sank in. You rattled the bars of the cage, your voice rising to a panicked scream as you begged him to let you out.

But Nanmi was lost to his own madness, consumed by his obsessive need to possess you. He watched you from the other side of the cage, his heart torn between love and despair as he realized the depth of his own depravity.

He paced back and forth in front of the cage, his emotions a tempest raging within him. His eyes bore into you, filled with a mixture of desperation and love, as he began to rant, the words pouring out of him like a torrential downpour.

"I love you, darling. God, I love you more than anything in this world," he began, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "I would do anything for you, anything to keep you safe, to protect you from the dangers of this world."

He paused, his chest heaving with the weight of his emotions, before continuing with increasing fervor. "I can't stand the thought of you out there, exposed and vulnerable, surrounded by people who don't understand you like I do. People who don't appreciate you, who don't see you for the incredible person that you are."

Nanami's voice rose to a crescendo as he spoke, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I just want to keep you close, my love. To shelter you from the storms that rage outside these walls, to shield you from the pain and heartache that the world can inflict. Can't you see that everything I've done, everything I've built, it's all for you? Because I love you. Because I need you."

Tears welled up in Nanami's eyes as he spoke, his voice cracking with emotion. "I know I've made mistakes, darling. I know I've hurt you, and I'm sorry. But please, please don't leave me. Don't abandon me to face this world alone. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't survive without you."

He fell silent then, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. He watched you through tear-blurred eyes, his heart laid bare before you, praying with every fiber of his being that you would understand, that you would forgive him, that you would stay.

“This is insane, Kento! This isn’t love!”

And as your cries echoed through the empty apartment, Nanami knew that he had crossed a line from which there could be no return. In locking you away, he had lost not only your love, but his own soul as well.

"I can’t cage my jealousy so I’ll have to just cage you."

[searchingforserendipity25]

There are some things Davenport knows.

He counts them sometimes, the things he knows.

His name; how to tie his shoes with twelve different knots; how the Madame Director likes her coffee.

The rules of playing Fantasy Chess, and how to cheat at Fantasy Chess too.

How to tell when someone is afraid

How to make his bed, so tight and neat he can drop a coin on it and it jumps, newly polished and gleaming, right back into his hand

How to bandage up to twenty different kinds of injuries

How to make the best sea chowder on the Moon Base, and also on the planet

How to press a uniform so it lasts a week and several explosions with no crinkled corners

How to organise reports with proper colour-coding techniques

Not a great many words, when it comes to that - slippery as fishtails, words, hard to grasp in the mind and impossible to put into his mouth

How to laugh, and how to cry

How to be helpful, if not always in the most efficient way

Some very complicated geometry and arithmetic, though not the word for geometry, nor how to write down an equation to explain how he got his results.His name, the names of his colleagues, where he is, what time of the day it is, what happened yesterday.

His name, his name, even when he doesn't know anything else, his name is Davenport -

Most days, anyway

He cries, sometimes, over bowls of spicy soup and at cute dogs, when someone leaves a book half-open on the table - when he sees groups of people laughing, and when he's alone for a long time. He is rarely alone. The Madame Director finds him, every time. Brings him biscuits and jam, shares puzzles, gives him folders to file.

She tries to teach him new words from brightly coloured books, sometimes. Not often; Davenport hates to make her unhappy, and she looks very sad, whenever he fails. He hates failing - this he knows for certain. But regardless of what he does, the Director is sad a lot of the time. Busy, busy; but she goes very still, late at night, and writes lists in strange languages with shifting characters, and then burns them, with a look on her face like stone, like a closed fist. He sweeps the ashes, afterwards; there's nothing in them he can understand.

No one sees her in those hours. Only Davenport is there, with no one else around. Davenport does not count as company, really. Or at least the Madame Director trusts him enough to let him see her when it's very late and she is very tired, and there is too much work for a night's rest.

It's nice, being trusted. Davenport likes it, likes his little tasks, his schedule and his friends. He knows every corner of the Moon Base, except the ones he is not supposed to enter; he has a little map sewn into his coat pocket, for when he forgets he knows every corner of the Moon Base.

He loves slow music, and sea chowder, and to drink his tea (the Director makes it, sometimes; she knows just how he likes it) while standing behind the transparent windows and watch the planet down below, all green and blue and changeful, like a face with many moods.

He knows he likes these things.

It is only that, sometimes, Davenport is very full of a painful feeling, a feeling like being full of smoldering fire, a feeling like --

Anger has no face, no colour. Davenport does not know a lot of things; sometimes he grasps at the softened edges of his mind, looking for something sharp enough to cut himself with. Davenport is angry, sometimes, though he has no words for it. Sometimes, anger is the only real thing in Davenport's world, the first thing he ever knew.

And then he forgets about it.

There are few things Davenport knows. He can feel the shape of something very important, prodding at him, filling him up with a warm, unpleasant energy. It is there when he wakes, for a handful of moments - every day, in the dreaming place between wakefulness and sleep. Like a dream, it fades before he is done dressing for the day. He has no words for it. The truth is, most days Davenport only knows his name is Davenport, and the worst of it is Davenport forgets there might be anything missing.

[vexcraft]

also on ao3 here!

special delivery

Pearl was fairly certain this was not in her job description. 

She supposed she had agreed to do special deliveries and while she would not necessarily count this as one because there was a permit for these kinds of jobs – though she figured that since there was no transaction involved she wasn’t breaking the law and then technically this was not necessarily a job for the man with the mob permit – this was still something she would have called Scar for. If he was available that was. Which brings her to the next problem.

Scar was currently very small, very grey, and a little feathery. And also in her mailbag.

Pearl did know a little about the vex thing. Not a whole lot, it didn’t really come up all that often, but at least she knew enough to realize that the little creature she had spotted inside one of the chests of the explosive firework shop was Scar. She had noticed the chest wasn’t properly closed when she had been restocking her flower truck and she would hate it if rainwater ruined the fireworks that from what she’d heard could cost Cub more to make than he was selling them for, so she had decided to help the man out and close the chest. Only to find a very small Scar in it.

She had no idea what to do with a vex though. Especially with a vex that seemed very much to be sleeping and showing zero signs of planning on waking up any time soon. So she had carefully picked Scar up where he had been curled up in the middle of the fireworks and gently placed him in her bag, glad that she had already delivered all the mail that had been there earlier.

She was also, for once, glad that her donkey was as slow as it was. It made the journey to the one person she figured could probably help her with this issue a little more steady. Steady was what she needed right now – she didn’t trust herself to fly or even run with a literal person in her bag.

The journey took a while, and every now and then she looked into her bag to make sure everything was alright. Each time Scar seemed just as asleep as the last time and she briefly wondered if he was maybe unconscious and not just sleeping – but he seemed to be tossing and turning a little so she wasn’t too worried. Surely Cub would know what was up.

Pearl couldn’t say she was surprised she saw sculk when Cub’s area came into view. The extent of it was mildly terrifying though, especially as he resided quite close to her, but she paid it no mind. She had more important things to worry about, like finding Cub (and maybe hoping that he was not covered in sculk). 

“Cub?” she called as she got off the donkey. She didn’t have a lead and there weren’t any fence posts nearby anyway – she would just have to hope the donkey wouldn’t wander off the pathway into the sculk. “You around here?”

She heard the sound of a firework going off and quickly a rather normal-looking (aside from all the dye stains) Cub landed before her. 

“Hey hey,” Cub greeted her. “What’s up? Good to see you, Pearl.”

“I have a special delivery for you,” Pearl explained, putting on her slightly more professional mail lady voice. 

“Hmm?” Cub hummed, obviously curious. “Intriguing. I don’t remember buying anything or signing up for anything.” 

“Yeah, about that…” Pearl opened her bag and held it out enough for Cub to be able to look inside. He took a few steps forward to peek into the bag and then let out a little amused sound.

“I see, I see,” Cub nodded, reaching into the bag. Pearl winced a little as Cub picked up the sleeping vex by the scruff of his neck like one might hold a small kitten – she was certain Cub knew how to handle a vex miles better than she did but after spending the better part of the last hour being as careful as she could it did catch her off guard a little. Scar didn't seem to mind, still deep asleep. “Where did you find him?”

“He was sleeping amongst the fireworks in a chest at your shop,” Pearl said as she watched Cub cradle the vex in his arms – or rather his arm, he didn’t really need both of his arms to hold something so small. “I figured that might not have been the best place for him.”

“Makes sense, makes sense,” Cub nodded and Pearl had no idea what exactly about this was making sense to Cub, but she was glad something was. “Thank you for bringing him here, I’ll take care of him.”

Cub looked like he was about to turn around and leave to do whatever one did to care for a vex and Pearl couldn’t stop her curiosity. 

“Cub? Can I ask a question before you go?” 

The man paused. “Sure, of course,” he replied. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry which did ease Pearl’s nerves a little. “Shoot.”

"Why?” she asked and it came out a little less polite than she was hoping for. “I mean, is he like, alright? I’ve never seen that happen before. Had me a little worried there.”

Cub seemed to either not notice her tone or simply not care. “Just means he’s really tired. Like really really tired. Nothing too serious, I’ll talk to him about it.” Scar turned a little in Cub’s hold almost like he knew he was being talked about. “It happens sometimes, every now and then.”

“He’ll just be back to normal once he’s rested?” All of this was raising more questions than answering them, but she didn’t want to pry. 

“Yep,” Cub confirmed. “He seems to like sleeping in chests, not the first time he’s been found in one. I’ve never tried to put him in a shulker box, do you think I could mail him?”

Pearl just stared at him. “Please do not try to mail Scar.”

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I’m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.

[bloodmoonmuses]

when souls touch | mark lee.

genre: mark lee x reader, fluff, friends to lovers, drabble (0.7k words)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, strong language

It was as if your souls had touched- in a sort of catastrophic way. A cataclysmic way. Stardust and debris all blown up in your faces… A powdery explosion. Little bits of it dancing on your fluttering eyelashes. Fidgety hands rubbing specs of it out of tired eyes. 

The moon tiptoes across the river before you. Mark speaks to the water, as if it’ll hold his secret (or confession rather) on the off chance you decide to rid yourself of it. Subconsciously preparing himself for rejection.

“I guess I’ve liked you for a while now,” Mark sighs. And his words are a bit slurred, as are the ones that sit ready upon your own lips. You’re barely able to make out his silhouette in the depth of the night. Barely able to ground yourself as you palm the grass beneath your hands. 

You’ve both been drinking at this pseudo-picnic of yours on the riverbank. A last minute suggestion from Mark; he needed to escape from the burdens of the sun’s wake. From the daytime. From himself. The two of you had gorged yourselves with convenience store snacks and soju.

And now especially, Mark’s infatuation with the sky seems fitting. He’s the sun and the moon. Orange and blushy. Silver and shifty. Light and dark. His smile when he’s on stage. His furrowed brows as he grows frustrated at a late night dance practice. The way his laugh permeates his entire being. Feet dragging against pavement when he trudges into his apartment at two in the morning. 

His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response. 

“Liked me? As in-”

“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.

A scoff escapes you. There’s no bite to it. There’s no anything to it, really. Just air leaving your diaphragm. Then you’re shaking your head like you can’t believe what you’re hearing, because you can’t. 

“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky. 

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“Let’s get you home.”  After he stands, you drape one of Mark’s arms across your back, his wrist in your hand. Your other hand grasps his waist. And though you’re drunk as well, legs wobbly and steps off-kilter, you giggle with him as the two of you hobble down the river and towards Mark’s apartment.

Then you’re searching again, trying to meet Mark’s eyes, and there’s stardust in them. Glassy with exhaustion and the weird elation that comes with getting something off your fucking chest. Even if there’s been no real response. 

Quiet explosions with each step. Drawing nearer to a time in which you can’t avoid the something that’s between you. Hip to hip, the shell of Mark’s ear all folded up against you and red from the cold. Watching your breath plume in front of you like smoke. 

You reach the steps of Mark’s apartment bitterly, not another word passed on the walk to it, and fish his keys out of his pocket. He topples over onto his couch, flopping like a thrown pile of laundry.

“You gonna be okay?” you ask. 

Mark tugs the right side of his mouth into a smirk. Catastrophic. It’s muscle memory; you walking to his linen closet and grabbing a blanket to place gingerly over Mark’s sleep-laden body. You admire the rise and fall of his chest. The contentedness of his breaths. And for a second, you just stare.

Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering.

“Whatever you say.”

You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob. 

“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”

“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?” 

“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.

“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.” 

Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home. 

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! <333

[milf-murdock]

The Ghost of You (Part 3)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x 141!Reader Summary: The entire task force believes you to be dead. What happens when Simon finds you on his doorstep? Part 1 here Part 2 here (the rest of the 141 reacts to your death)

You awake in darkness. The dust is everywhere; you feel it coating your mouth, layering your lungs, prompting you to cough and sputter.

There was so much you didn’t know: how you survived, what exactly you survived–some kind of explosion, for sure, but what caused it? Enemy action? Was it a setup? Your head spins as you try to replay everything you remember. There wasn’t much to remember. One second you were standing in an abandoned warehouse on a routine recon mission. The next second, a devastating blast and everything went black. 

In spite of everything you don’t know, there is one thing you know for certain. Everything hurts. As your body rattles with each cough, pain wracks your body. When the coughing fit finally subsides, you test the extent of your injuries with light movement. Toes? Movable. Fingers? Still attached. 

Taking stock of your surroundings, you realize that it’s not the wholly darkness of night that surrounds you. There’s faint glimpses of sunlight trickling through the wreckage. It gives off enough light to see that you’re effectively trapped beneath a giant sheet of metal. It must have been the roof of the warehouse, snagged by fallen crossbeams that held it just barely over your body. A few inches further and it would have meant certain death. 

The realization sends a bolt of adrenaline through you. 

“Holy fuck,” you think to yourself. “I’m alive.” The gravity of that sentence hits you like a freight train. 

You survived this. You are alive. 

You need to get the hell out. 

With your strengthened resolve, using every scrap of strength you can muster, you set to work slowly, carefully, freeing yourself from the debris. There’s not much give between the roof and your body, but you manage to make it onto your stomach so you can begin to crawl from under the wreckage. The pain threatens to pull you back under into unconsciousness, but up ahead lies a single golden ray of sunlight streaming through a gap in the wreckage–a beacon of hope. You fix your sights on it and power through. 

Ghost sits alone in the darkness, consumed by his grief. The small velvet ring box is back in his hands, taunting him. 

Every time he felt he had gathered up the strength to get rid of the damn thing, something stopped him–a small tug deep from within. One final shred of hope? One last desperate attempt to cling to what could have been?  He just couldn’t let it go. 

He had been so close to happiness, so close to letting himself believe for just a moment that maybe he even deserved to be happy, after all the pain he had endured in his life. 

He was a fucking fool. 

The box served as a painful reminder of everything he had lost: a future, a family, you. 

But he hadn’t just lost you. No, he lost the man who was capable of that kind of love, that kind of hope. 

The man who had happiness just within his reach. And then watched as it crumbled to ash in his fist. 

Everything reminds him of you. 

He can’t stand being in the kitchen; the ghosts of you two slow dancing, your favorite song playing in the background, pass him on the way to the fridge. 

He can’t sit on the couch because the phantom touch of your familiar body tucked up into him is too damn painful.  

He can’t even sleep in his own goddamn bed because even when sleep does eventually win out and take over, he never fails to wake up to that fleeting moment of hope when he opens his eyes, hands stretching out automatically to cup you, and for a split second all feels right in the world again. Then his hands meet empty air and the loss comes crashing back down to him tenfold. 

And so Ghost sits on the floor. In the dark. With his bourbon. 

Haunted by the ghost of you. 

It takes every ounce of strength you have to limp to the safehouse roughly 3 klicks away. Collapsing onto the musty sofa, you finally allow yourself to succumb to the darkness that has been creeping into the edge of your vision. 

You’re woken by a strong hand on your shoulder. Fight or flight kicks in as your hand flies up to grab the stranger’s arm, jerking  awake to find a familiar face hovering over you. 

“Nikolai?” You gasp in surprise. You’re not sure who’s more surprised: you or the rugged sergeant above you. 

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Just hearing Nikolai’s thick Russian accent was a comfort. 

You survived. You made it to safety. And now, you’d be able to get home. 

There’s footsteps on the doorstep once again. 

‘That bloody idiot doesn’t know when to quit,’ Simon thinks to himself. 

“Fuck off Price,” he shouts towards the door before taking another drink. “Damn prick needs to take the fucking hint,” he mumbles under his breath. 

The door clicks. 

Price doesn’t have a key, the thought races through his addled brain a second too late. 

Typically, Ghost would be on alert. Someone entering his home? Not on his fucking watch. 

But what does it matter? Ghost thinks. Maybe they’ve finally come to take me away. 

Let them fucking come. 

“Simon.” Your voice is hoarse–soft and broken. 

The sound alone cleaves Simon’s heart in two. Was he hearing things? It sounded so real. 

He stumbles to his feet, tripping slightly as he gets his bearings and steps into the hallway, moving towards the door. 

When your broken and bruised body limps into view, Simon can’t even think straight. 

It’s a trick. It’s not…it can’t be… 

Regardless of what his brain is telling him, his feet move to you. 

You make it all of two steps before you’re falling, collapsing into Simon’s outstretched arms. 

The second he makes contact, he knows it's real. 

His knees buckle beneath him and he guides your bodies to the floor, falling to his knees as he holds your trembling form tight against him. 

“Oh my god,” he whispers, repeating your name over and over like a prayer. The pure shock and disbelief are overwhelming as he pulls you tighter, his grip a vice on your body, keeping you rooted to him. 

He buries his face in the top of your head and breathes you in. Hot tears slide from his eyes, falling into your hair. 

“You’re alive. You’re here.” His voice is ragged, desperate for this to be real, to be true. He has spent every moment since that day in Price’s office dreaming of your touch, longing to feel you in his arms again. Losing you was a pain incomparable to any other. 

And here you are, your trembling body back in his arms as he holds you fiercely to his chest. 

“You’re alive,” he repeats, voice equal parts pain and relief. “You’re here.”

“I’m here, Si,” you whisper into his chest. “I’m here.” He smells of bourbon and that distinct smell of Simon and it warms your heart–you weren’t sure you’d ever smell it again. 

“How?” Simon’s voice breaks on the single syllable. 

Simon carries the two steaming mugs of tea over to the couch, relief washing over him once again as he walks back in the room to find you sitting there. He was half convinced that you would have disappeared when he walked into the kitchen, nothing more than a mirage sent straight from the depths of hell to torture him. 

But there you sit. Hair wet from the shower. Draped in one of his old t-shirts. You smile up at him as you take the mug, and the sight alone has Simon reaching up to press against his chest, as if he could soothe the ache that lay beneath there.

He takes his seat close to you, one hand instinctively finding purchase on your bare thigh.

“You were dead,” Simon’s voice chokes out the last word, his grip tightening further, like if he relaxed his grip even a little bit, you’d vanish into thin air. 

“I survived.” Your own voice chokes up as the reality of your ordeal catches up to you. Your hand covers Simon’s and you absentmindedly trace the veins on the back of his hand, steadying your breath. 

You recount as much as you can remember: escaping from the wreckage, searching for survivors, making your way to the safe house. How your good fortunes continued as Nikolai found you and helped you navigate your way back home. 

The tea has long gone cold by the time you finish. Simon doesn’t look away the entire time, utterly transfixed by you. His eyes trace you up and down, as if he still can’t believe you’re sitting here before him. 

You turn a pleading look towards Simon. “I tried to call you,” you explain. “So many times. But it never rang.” 

For the first time, Simon looks away, something like shame settling in him. 

He didn’t want you to see him like that–a mess of a man, hardly a man at all. A man who drowned his pain and his sorrows in bourbon. A man who couldn’t even sleep in his own bed. A man who turned off his own cell phone because he couldn’t bear the condolence messages and check-ins from his squadmates.  

You spare him the burden of explaining as you sit up to press a kiss against his hollow cheek. 

“It’s okay, Si,” you say quietly. “We’re okay now.”

Simon pulls you from your spot on the couch to his lap, holding you even closer. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. 

His strong arms wrap around your body, and it dawns on him that he holds his entire world within his arms. And he’d be damned if he would ever let anything take you away from him again. 

He holds you tightly as your breathing levels out, sleep tugging at your edges. The sheer exhaustion deep in your bones weighs you down, but none of it matters as you fall asleep in the safety of Simon’s arms. 

Masterlist here

[happytroopers]

Pent Up // Tech x Reader

Summary: After an awkward wake up call from a rather... entertaining... dream. You spend a week trying to distract yourself from your traitorous mind. It doesn't take long for Tech to catch on.

TW: wet dream, brief mentions of erotic things, nothing outright just a lot of build up and tension

somewhere between pg13 and R, originally I was gonna write the smut but then it sat in my drafts for two years so congrats you're getting a fade to black

18+ MDNI for sure tho

A hand shook your shoulder, shaking the last sensation of your dream away and forcing you awake with a start. A whine died on your lips as your bleary eyes snapped open to meet the eyes of the object of aforementioned dream. Your already blushed cheeks went even hotter as Tech looked down at you in mild concern and heavy curiousness. He was put together, as always, still in his armor except for his helmet. Laying in your bunk in disheveled pajamas, the contrast wasn’t lost on you. You were acutely away of how warm you were, how much you had been squirming in your sleep, how your thighs were clenching, and extremely aware of the slick warmth dampening your pajama bottoms. 

As your mind reeled from the… riveting dream, it switched gears to run overdrive on how to save yourself the embarrassment of being caught having a wet dream. Caught by the one soldier you were mentally assaulting in your sleep… Under Tech’s curious gaze you wanted to melt- and not in the fun way his gaze usually made you want. How loud were you that you not only alerted the genius, but you drawn him away from his projects- something that usually took an explosion or ship crash to do? 

Of course Tech didn’t look uncomfortable in the least, simply waiting for your answer as he removed his hand from your shoulder so you could scramble up into a sitting position, keeping the blanket firmly around your lower half as you batted sleep mussed hair from your face. The only consolation was that while you and Tech hit the rack, Wrecker and Hunter were supposed to be flying while Crosshair filled out his fair share of his share of field reports. 

Tech gave you a once over as you collected yourself, eyebrows creasing as you tried to get your breathing under control. 

"Are you alright, (y/n)?" He asked slowly, watching you curiously as your knees bowed together under your blanket. If you’re eyes weren’t screwed shut from embarrassment, you would’ve seen his Adam’s apple bob at the sight. You cleared your throat to busy trying not to focus on the way his armor accentuated all of his best features in the dim light of the bunks, hoping your voice would maintain some level of propriety. 

"Y-yeah, yeah, Tech, I’m alright. ‘M Fine." You nodded just a little too quick, voice just a hair from being even, so in an attempt to feel out how much damage you did to your dignity in your sleep, you added in false casual airs, "Why do you ask?"

Tech's eyebrow went from creased to quirked, running a hand over his face, "You were tossing and turning, groaning like you were-" 

You didn’t think you could take him continuing or the thought of him watching you so you went with the first excuse that came to mind, "In pain, like I was in pain." 

Voice rushed, your own eyebrows furrowed at what you were saying. Tech looked confused as well- neither of you knew where this was heading. 

"Pain?" He repeated, voice unbelieving but worried, "Are you…injured? Why didn’t you tell me earlier." 

Well, that lie wouldn’t work either. Besides your inability to control your brain, there was nothing wrong with you. And if you couldn’t come up with something, Tech would insist on checking you over. You couldn’t look him in the eye at the moment much less let him touch you after your dream. Wait, dream! 

"Injured? No, no sir." You cringed, you had never once called Tech ’sir’ since you met him, and judging by his… reaction, now wasn’t the time to start, "I had… a nightmare. Yeah, real bad nightmare. Probably gonna talk to the Civ. Enlistment shrink about it, yep." 

Your nodding didn’t do much to convince the Tech, as he just watched your rambling, with a concerned furrowed brow. Running a hand over your face, flung your blanket off your legs quickly as you swung them over the side of your bunk- the middle one. Just high enough that you had to jump, but low enough someone tall like Tech could still look down at you if you were laying down. Too much laying in the dark room with the man (literally of your dreams) had your thoughts spiraling along with your white hot embarrassment- fight or flight was kicking in and you were choosing flight. 

Pushing off the bunk, your bare feet hit the cold floor but you weren’t prepared for how jelly-like your legs would be. Before you could even hit your knees, Tech caught you against his chest. He was warm, and the hopeless romantic in you didn’t fail to notice how you fit perfectly against him or how easily he held you steady, and his chest was firm. Oh stars, don’t let him feel how hard my nipples are. Tech was leaner than his brothers, but no less stronger than his brothers, something that slipped your mind occasionally- only now, as your palms were splayed over his chest it wasn’t so easy to forget. 

His large hands easily encased both of your arms, images flashed through your mind- but it wasn’t your arms he had been holding in your dreams. Eyes fluttering, you shook your head, backing away from the genius as soon as you were sure you wouldn’t fall over. Tech ignored your stammered apologies though you were sure cheeks were practically glowing in the dim light, "(Y/N), are you sure you’re alright? You feel warm, you might have a fever. I think I should-" 

You were pretty sure if you spent one more moment with his hands on you, you would break every single rule about soldier civilian interrelations in the books so you all but wrenched away from him, earning a confused look as you grabbed the first jacket and pair of pants you could find. 

"No time, I’m perfectly fine- hey that’s almost a rhyme-" You stammered, snatching your shoes, "Look at the time, things to fix, no fever here." 

Tech tried to protest but you were already down the hall before he could even grab a medscanner off his belt.

__

I’ve been on this ship too damn long.

You thought to yourself, splashing water on your face. If the interaction with Tech wasn’t enough to keep you from sleeping again, the lingering feelings and memories from your dream kept your skin tingling and your mind swirling around one resident genius. So you gave up sleep. 

Instead, you decided to work, preferably underneath floor panels where engine parts were thrumming with power - where Tech wouldn’t run into you unless he tried. Bonus points for being far away one of the few places on the ship your dream hadn’t contaminated. 

If he can’t see me, I can’t think about- images of lips trailing across skin, pressing into your thighs, thighs over a lean shoulder. You smacked hands on either side of your cheeks to physically halt that train of thought, What is wrong with me?!

The answer was simple, you were the only woman on a ship of five men, one of which you pretty sure you were in love with, had been on active duty nonstop for weeks and you didn’t even have your own room- no action, no breaks, no privacy. 

You worked for a couple hours straight, too embarrassed show your face again. Until, you finally surfaced top pass through the fresher. Clean face, clean thoughts, right? Growling in frustration, you ran a dry towel over your face before shoving your arms back into your work jacket. 

You were so caught up in your own thoughts, you didn’t even think twice when the fresher door swished open- it was a communal fresher, it wasn’t uncommon for one or more of the Batch to share the space with you at a time. So common in fact, you didn’t even look up from your routine- adjusting your hair, swiping cosmetics on. 

As you peered into the mirror, internally giving yourself a half pep talk, half scolding, the last face that you wanted to see appeared in the reflection behind you.

"Kriff!" You yelped, startled, spinning around so quickly you risked whiplash, instinctively your hands flew to balance yourself against the counter, the cool metal grounding your feverish skin. It was Tech behind you, in his blacks with a towel over his shoulder, watching you in confusion as you met his eyes briefly before your face went scarlet, your eyes dropped- resting anywhere but his. "Tech! Good morning- night… afternoon? No time in space, am I right?" 

The genius’s eye brows crinkled, which you would’ve noticed if you weren’t so busy staring at the floor. Tech took another step forward, bending slightly so he could look at your face and eyes narrowing. He was close enough to touch, the smell of mechanic grease, GAR issue soap, and something so inherently Tech flooded your senses as he asked, "You didn’t get anymore sleep, did you? Are you sure you’re alright, (Y/N)?" 

Another slew of images flashed through your mind, long fingers tilting your chin up, and the last time you were pressed against a counter it wasn’t from this angle, ‘is this alright?’… It was then you realized with his new position, your floor gaze had turned into staring at his abdomen, where his blacks clung to him leaving very little to the imagination. You forced your eyes up to his. 

Between his scent and your own traitorous thoughts, your throat constricted, eyes widening and nostrils flaring slightly, "‘m fine. Gotta go, things need fixing." 

With that, you ducked away from him and quite literally fled the scene for the second time in a matter of hours. Tech watched you go, head tilting to the side. 

"I don’t understand civilians."

—— 

Ridiculous, You thought. I’m an adult, I should be able to control myself. 

The bolt you were tightening popped out of the panel it was supposed to be holding together. 

“Dank Farrik!" You growled, snatching it back and attempting to shove it into place. The first time it skewed to far to the left, and next swaying to the right, and the third it was too far up. Irritated, in rapid succession, you slammed the bolt into the metal over and over- despite it never going into the hole.

 A certain part of your dream popped into your mind.

Don’t think about slamming- or holes. You quickly corrected yourself, but didn’t stop your incessant sla- jamming. 

"I thought being a trained engineer meant knowing how to do something a bit more… technical than that." A drawling voice appeared over your shoulder, the bolt getting plucked out of your fingers and plugged into the ho- opening on the first try. 

"Crosshair." You breathed in recognition, irritation still lacing your tone as you looked over your shoulder. The stir in your stomach thinking it might be Tech fading away into not quite relief, but something less… stirring. The marksman was leaning against the wall you were working on, it wasn’t surprising he sought you out. Aside from Tech, you were close with Crosshair- an odd friendship that no one really understood. "I thought you were next on nav rotation.” 

“Tech came to the cockpit with a pretty interesting concerns. He switched shifts with me, said he had too much to think about to sleep. So, he’s up top with Hunter." The marksmen shrugged, critical eyes giving you a once over as you blushed- a more and more common occurrence. 

"Yeah, we all have bad dreams sometimes." You huffed, a low blow, but if anyone could take a mean comment it was Crosshair. The nightmares were kind of a sensitive spot for most clones, but was there anyone on this ship that hadn’t already heard of your sleep... issues?

You assumed that once he got his odd version of teasing in, he would move along but Crosshair didn’t go any further than the nearest crate so he could sit down and pop a tooth pick in his mouth. You allowed him two minutes of staring before snipping, "Is there something you needed?” 

"Not me. Tech wanted you to help him with something about reverse thrust-“ 

"I’m busy." You clipped quickly cutting off Crosshair’s words, wrenching the bolt so quickly that the metal scraped. Your fingers were shaking as you tucked hair behind your ears, clearing your throat, you elaborated, "Tech can handle them himself, he’s, ah, perfectly adept. I’m incredibly busy here.” 

Crosshair lifted a single brow, looking at the squeaky cupboard panel you were working on. Clearly a bottom of the list kind of task, "You are acting weird. He might be oblivious, but he always notices you.” 

"I am not acting weird." You snapped but your voice had a quirk to it, what did Crosshair mean by that? You filed that away for later, "Unless you have something to put on my to do list, I’m busy because I’m fine, Cross.” 

"Riiiiight, completely normal, I’ll let him know.” 

You watched him go before looking at your rather shoddy wrench-bolt job. Sighing, you set to work undoing the crooked bolt, Maybe I am a little pent up.

__

So started a week of awkwardness between you and Clone Force 99’s resident genius. And it wasn’t long before the rest of the batch began to catch on. Not that you were exactly subtle about it. 

Any time Tech entered a room, your eyes would go wide and a flush would creep up your neck. If you were speaking to someone else, the moment you saw him you would start stuttering or just stop all together. Sometimes it was fluttery nervousness, and other times you just got distracted by his presence. But always, unless actively in a firefight, it would only take about five minutes before you’d shake your head and escape the room like a gundark out of hell. 

Bright side, you spent so much time avoiding Tech you had made it to the bottom of your prioritized to-do list for the first time since joining Clone Force 99. Down sides, it was getting harder to avoid him, and as mentioned earlier, the others were starting to notice- plus, even if you to do list was getting slim, all the work was shoddy at best. When you weren’t actively avoiding him, all you could do was stare at Tech like a lovesick (re: hormonal) schoolgirl.

Crosshair had caught you staring at Tech on multiple occasions, typically flicking his toothpick at you to get you to stop. He would roll his eyes but at least he was quiet about it. He’d just tease you whenever he caught you alone, constantly reminding you of your embarrassment. If you weren’t so preoccupied with Tech, you’d be glad- his teasing his own way of accepting you into the group. But you were preoccupied, so usually, you’d huff dramatically throwing (and missing) the toothpick back in his direction. 

There was the incident where Hunter himself had to order you to go with Tech on a mission, something that had never been an issue before as you usually preferred working with the genius. Subsequently, you were so high-strung that you put your complete focus on rewiring a door panel. So much focus, in fact, that Tech himself had to pull you out of the way of a super battle droid’s fire. He had pushed you against a wall and completely covered you with his body while Crosshair took care of the battle droid. Had it not been for the smoking blaster shot in the wall where you had previously been working, you would have melted when Tech so tenderly asked if you were alright. Like a helpless damsel, all you could do was stare up into the goggles of his helmet for a moment before nodding demurely. Then, so frustrated with yourself you had to walk away from the genius before you could give Hunter a reason to transfer you. 

Tech, himself, had decided you were obviously upset about something and spent more time than usual trying to get you alone. He’d sit down across from you while you ate, which resulted in an awkward silence and you abandoning your barely touched food. Find you while you brushed your teeth- it had been embarrassing when you accidentally choked yourself with the toothbrush because you’d been too busy ogling him in his blacks. And if you hadn’t been so focussed on saving yourself from any additional embarrassment, you would have noticed the worried expression start to slip into a more hurt category whenever you’d literally run away from him with a lame, short excuse. 

Then there was the time when Wrecker had been speaking to you, explaining how his helmet’s comms unit was shorting out after a hit in battle. You were supposed to be listening to him, figuring out from his description of the sound what the issue was and how to fix it. But over his shoulder, your eyes had landed on Tech and your breath had hitched in your throat as you watched him unfasten his armor. Like a teenager watching a strip tease, you shifted your weight from foot to foot, "Are you even listening to me?" 

Wrecker’s booming voice sounded more distant that it should considering you were fiddling with his helmet, but it alerted Tech who looked up from his chest piece. His eyes immediately found yours, and you looked away quickly. After promising Wrecker you’d look into it, you took the helmet before escaping down to the cargo hold, thankful Tech didn’t follow you this time.

 You might actually have too request a transfer at this rate. 

It was Hunter that confronted you about it. He’d noticed your distraction, your anxious demeanor, the decline in your quality of work, and that’s just the things he noticed outright. He saved some of your pride by not mentioning everything he could smell or hear. Instead taking the role of scolding boss. A role he played expertly, judging by the exceedingly dissapointed way he said your name before pressing further. 

"You’re better than this. What’s up with you?" He had asked, having followed you after you slipped away from Tech yet again. He had found you cleaning the brand-new air filters in the cargo hold. 

"Nothing’s up with me, Hunter." You shrugged, hoping he would drop it. He didn’t. 

"Really? ‘Cause you’ve been making rookie mistakes. You were assigned to us because you don’t do that." The sergeant reminded you, crossing his arms over his chest. You were offended to say he had a point. 

"Just going a little stir crazy, Sarge." You sighed. Hunter shook his head, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. 

"Do us all a favor and just tell him." He requested, shaking his head as he turned to leave, "It’s a small ship to be stir crazy on, and neither of you are subtle." 

You watched him go, first embarrassed at being caught- knowing what Hunter could hear, smell, and infer, that he chose not to complain about- but then your mind fixated on something else. 

"Hunter. What do you mean by ‘neither’?"

___

You were grateful for the planet’s scorching sun, some unnamed backwater (despite the lack thereof) planet that simply had been the nearest Republic friendly refuel/ maintenance station after you deduced the Havoc Marauder wouldn’t make it back to Kamino with the navigation calibration malfunctioning like they were, lest you hyper speed into a black hole. After you’d made your deduction, you had almost combusted when Tech had leaned over your shoulder, breath grazing your ear as he checked over your work at Hunter’s request. You would’ve been offended if you weren’t so busy gaping like a schoolgirl at Tech’s side profile so close to your face. 

’Neither of you are subtle.’ The sergeant’s words played through your mind for the hundredth tune. 

Like, for instance, as you sat in the cockpit, you were supposed to be running diagnostics on the rather shifty new calibrator and modifier Hunter had procured from the maintenance station’s ‘buy, sell, trade’ front room. It didn’t have to be perfect, it just had to get you from dust ball point A to rainy, Kaminoan point B. 

But instead, you were distracted. Which should really be the summary of the past week of your life. Specifically, you were distracted by Tech’s legs. Long, armor clad, muscled, his leather side holsters clinging to the white composite as they splayed out from under the Marauder’s dash. 

You never exactly forgot how tall Tech was, he towered over you even with his usually hunched posture. But, with his top half hidden underneath the console it was a reminder at just how long his legs were. Your breath caught in your throat as his hips lifted, legs tensing as metal groaned. Something snapped before Tech tossed a rusted piece of metal away from himself. The way his thighs clenched and unclenched with the effort made your entire body tense as well, you hadn’t noticed your straying focus until the electroprod zapped your hand. Fortunately, Tech’s voice drowned out your quiet yelp.

"I have found our problem." He announced, grabbing a tool off of his belt. So preoccupied with his long legs, you blinked slowly at his long fingers as they traced up his thigh to find the right tool. 

"Oh? have you?" You breathed, after realizing you hadn’t answered. You shook your head, forcing yourself back to your task. You corrected your own work, the small electro prod in your hand zapped at the calibrator, mostly to see if it could handle any sort energy current. Tech had started rambling about some Acid spitting bugs the ship had picked up on Ethesda IV, apparently the coating on the calibrator was similar to their main food source. Acid spitting bugs should’ve been a turn off, but how his voice stopped and started and strained and grunted as he periodically tore out rusted pieces outweighed the bugs.  

“And the calibrator? Is it satisfactory?” He asked, hips twisting as he continued working under the dash. Satisfactory? Nothing about the past weeks had been satisfactory but that wasn’t what he asked. He emerged just enough to hold his hand out. 

“It’ll do.” You hummed as the diagnostic ran somewhere between yellow and green. You stood, keeping a respectable distance between you as you handed him the small piece of equipment, “I could use an extra set of hands down here, would you?” 

You were digging through your mind for another lame excuse until you saw Hunter peek around the door frame of the cockpit, a look someplace between warning and scolding crossing the sergeant’s face. So, you sighed. 

“Of course, where do you need m-e?” You nodded, noticing your words as they caught in your throat. You cleared it and crouched down beside the soldier. He paused for a moment, even his feet halted their slight movement until he cleared his throat as well. 

“Beside me, I need you to hold the calibrator in place as I wired it in.” Tech answered you, staying half obscured but twisting his body so his hips stayed flat but he was laying on his ribs. You swallowed around nothing, sighing flatly as you wiggled under the dashboard beside him, “A bit closer, so I can reach around you.”

Stiff and rigid, you slowly inched closer to him until you were close enough for one of his arms to snake under your waist and pull you all the way to him. You choked out a yelp. Just as easily as he’d pulled you to him, he propped you just enough so his shoulder and chest could slot underneath your back. 

Under the dash there was barely enough room for this position, so it wasn’t possible to keep yourself propped up unless you wanted your nose pressed to the exposed wiring he was working on. So, you had no choice but to forced yourself to at least half relax against him. Your back to his chest, his face right next to yours so the light on his goggles could illuminate the slot where the calibrator belonged, one of his knees twisted under yours leaving you caged between the legs you’d been staring at for so long. His even breaths were fanning over your cheek, the two of you practically puzzle pieced together. He retracted the arm from underneath your waist and moved himself accordingly so that arm instead went under your neck, further trapping you against him.

“Apologies, though I trust I don’t need to explain to you what happens if this comes loose during light speed travel.” He explained, though you couldn’t see how his analytical eyes watched you carefully as he pressed the calibrator back into your hands and guided them to the correct spot, “Perfect, just there.” 

His fingers left your wrist and began the process of wiring the calibrator into place. You were grateful for his armor, even if your couldn’t ignore his scent and warmth all around you, you were positive if you could feel his muscles moving underneath you you’d have to stick your hand in the power source to keep from committing a serious breech of civilian-solider contact etiquette. Just a snap of his hips… placed just under the round of your ass… 

“You’re shaking, is everything alright?” Tech’s voice shocked you out of your thoughts. You flinched, almost jerking the half connected calibrator right back out of the dash. You tried thinking of a reason, but your voice seemed caught somewhere between your heart and throat. So you settled for a vague hum.

“Mhm.” 

“Would you hand me the microwelder? It’s on the right side of my belt.” 

Even your breaths were shaking as you used one hand to keep the calibrator in place, and used the other the blindly reach down between the two of you. Your fingers grazed against the composite of the armor on his thigh, overshooting your aim for his belt. For the first time, he tensed as well. Using nothing but touch, you worked your way up, trying to keep your touch as light as possible as it worked over his holsters and to the tools hanging from his belt. You put all your focus on your mechanical knowledge, deducing the tools by shape- data scomp, electoprod, multitool, electrical tape… microwelder.  You almost cried in relief, jerking your hand away as soon as you’d unclipped it. The slight graze of your finger tips against his glove palms felt the same as sticking your fingers in the power source.  Tech’s shoulders adjusted, jostling the both of you. Though he didn’t struggle to move you at all, his voice sounded ever so slightly strained as he used the microwelder to hold the wires in place, “Almost there, keep doing what your doing.” 

Kriff, what the hell was wrong with this man?

“There. That should do it.” 

You wiggled out from the dash so fast that you almost didn’t register his hands on your waist assisting you. Almost. Tech watched after you, the curiosity in his eyes turning into something more akin to understanding as you slipped into the fresher. 

— 

You had never been so grateful to touchdown on Kamino. After the longest week of your life on probably the smallest ship you could’ve been assigned to, you were ready for some much needed space. And the privacy of the usually empty civilian barracks sounded like the perfect retreat. Kamino was the one republic stronghold that didn’t have a shortage of workers, they didn’t need a civilian enlistments to lighten the load when they could hand the tasks off to Cadet’s and call it a learning experience. Usually you found Kamino to be lonely, only seeing the boys at meal times, but this time you were chomping at the bit, praying to the Force or whatever other entity out there that the bunks would be empty as usual. 

As soon as the Marauder touched down in the hangar, you were down the loading steps before it even finishing descending. You finished your debriefs in record time and skipped dinner in favor of returning to the Havoc Marauder to start fixing some of your shoddier than usual workmanship in addition to typical post-mission ship maintenance since your bunk would be the first place Tech might look for you. 

"I thought I would find you here.” 

You physically jumped when Tech’s calm voice called out from the ship’s entrance, hitting your head on the cockpit’s console you were working under. Cursing under your breath, you scuttled out from under the console. Tech was leaning against the entrance to the cockpit, watching you like a wild animal who might spook. You guessed that wasn’t too far off from the truth judging by the already rising heat to your face and the way your eyes danced around to anywhere but his face. 

"You missed dinner." He informed you when you didn’t respond, rubbing your head as you closed the panel you had been working on and pulled yourself up to your knees. 

"Oh, did I?" You asked in faux concern as if you hadn’t purposely skipped communal dinner. Suddenly, you realized you were looking up to him from your knees and your nearly choked on the recycled air your were breathing. You scrambled up to your feet, nervously smoothing out your clothes as you momentarily met Tech’s eyes before purposely pointing your own gaze else where- the blinking lights around the cockpit very interesting. In your peripheral, you saw his eyebrows furrow, face hardening as you leaned back against the console. 

"Have I done something to bother you?" He asked, suddenly. Moving a bit closer to you, he froze when you leaned even further away. 

"Not a thing, Tech. Why do you ask?” 

One of his eyebrow quirked behind his goggles, telling you he didn’t believe you for a moment. Tech might be oblivious about somethings, but he always knew when you were lying to him, "You have not looked me in the eye, much less spoken to me since…” 

He trailed off, looking to you to finish his thought. Your rose tint flashed ruby, redder than the shield button blinking on the console behind you. Yep, time to escape. 

"Listen, Tech, I really don’t-" You chuckled dryly, moving to squeeze past him. 

"Have time for this? I think you do." Tech shook his head, sidestepping so his larger frame immediately cut off your exit. Bumping into the composite chest piece of his armor, you stammered something akin to an excuse as you tried to squeeze past you again. The genius repeated his action, this time catching you by bracing his hands on either of your arms and holding them gently to your side to keep you in place. 

Now, you were forced to look up at him, trying to ignore how much skin his longs fingers managed to cover. You wondered if he could feel your erratic pulse under your skin. He observed your face for a moment, from the tint in your cheeks, the quickness of your breath, to part of your lips. He muttered mostly to himself but you caught it, "Dramatic dilation of the eyes, heightened pulse, shallow breathing, erratic behavior.” 

Once he finished his list- or maybe stopped listing aloud for your pride’s sake- he cleared his throat, releasing his grip one your arms so you could take a hesitant step back. Your mind was screaming at you to create some distance, but your thudding heart made it hard to force yourself to move. Tech wasn’t finished with you yet though, his chocolate yes narrowed on you before softening as he continued, "Hunter informed me that you didn’t have a ’nightmare’, as you said.” 

Yep, you were going to spontaneously combust if the ground didn’t open up and swallow you first- either option was preferable to the turn in conversation. Hell, spontaneous separatist invasion would be less painful. 

"Listen, Tech, I really-" You started, but silenced yourself when you saw the way he adjusted his stance. Shoulders broader, chin dipping lower, one leg moving forward…. if you were any closer it would be between your legs. 

"He also had a few theories about the content of said dream, one in particular that interested me." He continued, voice dipping as he continued to stalk towards you until the back of your thighs hit the control deck, forcing you to half lean half sit on the panel. Your backside pressed a couple buttons, managing to conveniently kill the overhead lights and close the door to the bridge in one fell swoop. Whoever was in charge of the force, you wanted to have a firm talking to because you’re heart couldn’t take much more of this. "You’re in your prime, in multiple adrenaline and endorphin inducing situations, surrounded by 4 men… a healthy drive is nothing to be so embarrassed of.”

Your own voice wasn’t quite a sure, almost choked as you nodded, "Gl-glad we covered that, Tech.” 

"I also know, from my research, that the easiest way to resolve this is to act on it.”

Your mind actually went blank the moment the word sunk in. You weren’t sure, but there was a large likelihood you just stood there and gaped at Tech like a fish. He waited, eyes analyzing you from behind the goggles. One moment passed, and then two before you spoke. 

"Act on it…" You repeated slowly, butterflies melting from your stomach, pooling elsewhere, "Like.. you want to act on it with me?” 

Tech closed the distance, his hands on you again. One at your hip and one gracing your hair,  "We really were as oblivious as Hunter said.” 

The armor on his hips pressed into your soft flesh, his long diligent fingers trailing down your arm, "You can tell me to stop.” 

Your eyes had be following his fingers down, your own twitched and laced into the leather straps that held his holsters to his thighs as if that would tether him to you, "Please don’t.”

A ghost of a smile went across his face before he startled you, picking you up swiftly and depositing you in the pilots seat. You weren’t quite sure of the logistics of this decision until he knelt down in front of you, kissing your lips first and yet not long enough for your liking. You chased his mouth with yours, but he pulled back, focussing down to your belt.

“Now, tell him. How did these dreams of yours go?” 

---

as usual half edited so excuse the typos

[in1-nutshell]

Uh hi, this my first ever resquest, and i'm sorry if things don't make sense, english is not my first language.

Could i get tfp bot buddy who has shadow powers(like can turn into one and use them as portals), has the appearance of nightmares and is close to Ultra Magnus(dunno if is platonic, familial or romantic)?

They kinda been living as Ultra Magnus shadow since forever and help him on missions,tasks or just anything, but in one of their missions, the decepticons maneged to reallyyy hurt buddy and buddy, not wanting to die, retreated to Ultra Magnus shadow and went into stasis to heal but Ultra Magnus didn't knew that and thought that buddy had perished.

Only now on earth did buddy finally wakes up.

Could i get reactions from the team or something like that if not, that's okay :) also love your writing

Magnus was so close to having a spark attack when he saw Buddy pop out of his shadow the first time they used their powers, that's for sure.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy with shadow manipulation and being Ultra Magnus's Amica Endura

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Buddy met Magnus through Optimus.

He introduced them to Magnus during the earlier years of the war as his Second in Command.

Magnus just thought he was getting to know another coworker.

A couple missions later, several late-night conversations and some free time later they become Amica Endura.

“You know you never did tell HOW you became Amica with Commander shoulder pads over there. Was it a bet you loss?”--Wheeljack

“No bets were lost Wheeljack. We became Amica out of our own choice and free will. Nothing else to do with it.”--Buddy

“Sure…”--Wheeljack

Buddy loves to prank Magnus with their shadow powers.

Magnus does not find this funny… but he does find it a bit endearing after a while.

Being an Outlier was rare to find in this world.

Even rarer to find after the war broke out.

So many had been the first ones targeted at the beginning of the war there were barely anymore left.

It was a risk putting Buddy in the Wrecker’s, but so far it brought greater success to the unit than any point in their formation.

“Freeze Autobot scum!”—Random Decepticon

Buddy putting their servo in the air almost mockingly.

“There’s three of you and one of me… what ever shall I do?”--Buddy

Buddy’s servos start glowing a bit.

“Have you met my Amica?”--Buddy

“Why would we—”—Random Con

SLAM!

Magnus takes out the three mechs after appearing from behind thanks to Buddy’s shadow powers.

“That was brutal!”--Buddy

Magnus fixes his blaster a bit.

“I hate when you put yourself in these situations.”--Magnus

“Its in the job description Mags.”--Buddy

“Buddy we’ve been over this.”--Magnus

“And we’ve been over this too.”--Buddy

“…”--Magnus

“…”--Buddy

“First one that takes out five Cons has to buy the other a drink.”--Buddy

“If you insist.”--Magnus

Buddy has defiantly used their powers to get Magnus to sneak up on unsuspecting troops.

Magnus is always there for Buddy when they overexert themselves and need someone to watch over their back.

One trip left Buddy badly injured.

They saw Magnus’s backside as he was trying to find them in the rubble of the exploding base.

They tried to call for him, but they could barely keep their optics open.

His shadow was the closest thing they could reach so they snuck into his shadow.

With a quick nap, their wounds would get healed in no time.

Magnus thought that Buddy had died in the explosion after coming back to the base for regrouping.

He checked all other places they set rendezvous points and in none of the places did he even find a trace of Buddy.

Magnus could see it in the optics of his Wrecker’s that the war was about to turn bloodier than it was now that Buddy was gone.

Hopefully things would get better…

Hope was the last thing they had.

Timeskip to Magnus being on Earth…

Buddy finally feels ready to get out of the shadow.

Yeah, it took a while to finally get healed, but they are sure they are ready now.

By their calculations they missed about a couple weeks in the war. Things couldn’t have changed that much.

Magnus is arguing with Wheeljack when Bulkhead sees something wrong with Magnus’s shadow.

“Hey guys, shadows aren’t supposed to do that right?”--Bulkhead

Miko looks from the perch.

“Wow! Wheeljack made Magnus so mad his shadow gained sentience!”--Miko

In a blink there is a bot laying on the floor rubbing their helm.

“Urgh! Never doing that again… hey Mags when did we get better lighting—Mags?”--Buddy

Ultra Magnus stares at Buddy with wide optics.

“By the Allspark! Buddy is that you?!”—Wheeljack

“Who’s that?”--Miko

Buddy moves their helm a bit and spots Wheeljack.

“Wheeljack? I thought you left cycles ago—Hey!”--Buddy

Bulkhead scoops Buddy from behind giving them a crushing hug.

“Bulkhead!? I thought you left to team Prime? Magnus? Magnus what’s going on?”—Buddy

“Seriously who’s that?”--Miko

Magnus remains still just staring at Buddy like a ghost.

Buddy gets out of Bulkhead’s grip stumbling a bit until they reach their Amica with a worried look on their face.

“Mags? Are you okay?”--Buddy

“I…I thought you had perished in the explosion. I looked everywhere…”--Magnus

Buddy scratches their helm a bit.

“Yeah, I got injured pretty badly back there. Your shadow was the closest thing I could reach and… well…”--Buddy

“So, this entire time you’ve been in Ultra Magnus’s shadow?”--Wheeljack

Buddy furies their optics a bit.

“You’re making this sound like I was gone for millennia. I was just gone for a couple of weeks most.”—Buddy

Magnus gives them a sad smile.

“…You never were good at your calculations Buddy.”--Magnus

Magnus puts a servo on his Amica’s shoulder.

“Mags?”--Buddy

“Mags?”--Miko

Buddy finally looks over at Miko.

“Who’s this?”--Buddy

“I’m Miko! Welcome to Earth!”--Miko

Buddy’s optics widen.

“How long was I in there!?”—Buddy

Optimus walks into the room with some of the reports.

“Ultra Magnus where—Buddy?”--Optimus

“WHY IS PRIME SO BIG!?”--Buddy

[matan4il]

Update post:

Most of this will be about the unprecedented attack of the Islamist regime of Iran against Israel, but first I have to take a second to mourn a 14 year old boy, who was murdered in a Palestinian attack on Friday. At around 6 in the morning, teenager Binyamin Achimeir led his sheep herd out of the farm he lives in, but a few hours later, the sheep returned to the farm without him. At first, it was feared that he had some accident, or was dehydrated, and thousands of people voluntarily joined the search for him. On Saturday, at around noon, the IDF found his body, with signs of brutal violence on it. Based on the forensic evidence, he was murdered by several Palestinian terrorists, and he fought back. The army is still hunting down the murderers. May Binyamin's memory be a blessing.

Right, back to the Islamist regime of Iran's attack on Israel. I posted about it as soon as the news started being aired here, in case someone didn't know about it. The news broke past the normal time when people watch news on TV in Israel, I noticed it by chance right before I was about to turn in for the night. I'm physically okay, but I didn't get that much sleep, I had to wake up early to take care of some stuff, so I AM very tired, which is why I'm not going to do the usual thing I do, which is to look for English journalistic sources for everything, but I have no doubt even the stuff I won't look up can all be easily found online.

On a personal note, I can tell you that at 1:43 in the morning I heard the first explosion, but no sirens went off. A few more explosions followed, and only then did we hear the sirens. It was scary, for a moment we couldn't tell whether we're hearing explosions of missiles from neighboring areas, or whether something went wrong with the sirens, and we need to hurry into the bomb shelter. It seems like in Jerusalem specifically there was some issue with the sirens, I heard a reporter mention it. Also, the alert app didn't go off, even though it should have, at the latest when the sirens did.

This is what the Temple Mount looked like from an Iranian attack that could have easily destroyed the al-Aqsa mosque (it's not in the frame, but it's right next to where this was filmed):

Quick background: Iran is the biggest financier of anti-Israel terrorism for decades now, including funding Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis, all of which have been a part of a continuous attack on Israel since Oct 7 as Iran's proxies. Iran has sent its own military seniors to help and instruct those local terrorists, in places like Lebanon, Syria and Iraq. Israel has eliminated them whenever possible, this is not something new. On Apr 1, Israel carried out such a strike, in which it targeted 7 Iranian army seniors in Damascus, Syria's capital. Iran claimed Israel targeted the Iranian consulate in this city, but diplomatic buildings are all publicly listed. Iran has an embassy in Damascus (in a separate location) and no consulates. That's why the magnitude of Iran's response to this has taken Israel by surprise, because the Israeli strike wasn't that out of the ordinary. In fact, the US assassination of Iran's military commander, Qasem Soleimani, back in 2018, was a far graver blow for the Iranian regime, and yet it did not lead to an attack as massive as the one launched against Israel last night.

It is now known that some of the attack waves against Israel were intercepted by other countries, including The US, the UK, France and Jordan. It's been said that there's at least one more Arab country that helped in intercepting Iran's attack, but it can't be publicized. Many countries denounced Iran for attacking Israel.

We don't have numbers regarding the full size of the attack. Out of all the countries who participated in curtailing this attack, we know that the US has intercepted at least 70 suicide drones and 3 cruise missiles, while Israel has intercepted at least 185 suicide drones, 36 cruise missile and 110 ballistic missiles (that last one is the missile type that causes the most damage). Israel's interceptions are said to have been 99% successful, but like I said, no defence system is perfect. A small number of ballistic missiles did land inside Israel. One hit an Israeli air Force base in the south. There's over 30 people who got injured when rushing to the bomb shelter in the middle of the night (elderly people, including Holocaust survivors, have died from such injuries), and over 30 more ended up in hospital due to severe mental health reactions. On top of that, there's a 7 years old Muslim Bedouine girl who was injured by interceptors debris. A friend of her family that I heard being interviewed said the family wanted to go to the communal bomb shelter, but before they even had a chance to make it out of the house, the girl was hit by the debris piercing into their home, and she is suffering from severe head injuries. The hospital is currently fighting for her life.

The estimate of how much it cost Israel to defend its citizens from this one attack last night is 5 BILLION shekels (which is over 1.3 BILLION US dollars). That's for one night.

Israel will respond. According to one reporter I heard, that was decided as soon as it was clear how big the attack is, so this isn't about how much damage Iran caused, it's about how it crossed several red lines. This is the first time Iran itself attacked Israel itself, it's not an attack on an extension of Israel, nor was it done by using proxy terrorists. Israel has had terrorist organizations attacking it continuously since 2001, but this is the first attack from a fellow sovereign country since Iraq (led by tyrant Saddam Hussein) in 1991, so that in itself is crossing a red line. The size of the attack is also considered an escalation on Iran's part. In 2019, Iran launched a smaller scaled suicde drone attack on Saudi Arabia, and the latter's western allies refused to launch a counter attack, which led to these countries being seen as unreliable, and some Middle Eastern countries renewed their ties with Iran. That's why how it would seen in the Middle East if Israel doesn't react to an even bigger attack, and how it might drive more moderate countries to grow closer to Iran, is another consideration in why Israel must respond. Not to mention that launching such a mass attack basically caused a paralysis of the country once the first intel became known. For example, all educational activity (schools, universities, you name it) has been canceled, Israel's air space had to be closed, every single ambulance across the country had to be manned, and so on. That is not something any country can simply shrug off. Not to mention, Israel financially can't afford this reality to become normalized.

Not to mention, Israel tried to contain Hamas, PIJ and Hezbollah's rocket attacks for decades. What we got for it was the invasion and massacre on Oct 7. The lesson for most Israelis is that containing mass attacks on our population only leads to worse ones.

That said, there's also no desire here of getting dragged into a war on another front while we're still in the middle of one in Gaza and with Iran's proxies on several more fronts. So, Israel is looking for a balanced response, one that won't let this mass attack slide, but hopefully doesn't make matters much worse.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[ofmermaidstories]

Katsuki’s been dreaming about you.

At first, it’s in fragments. Stuff he doesn’t remember after waking up, or can otherwise shrug off as a product of his brain, cartwheeling around with the day’s information. It’s your face, frowning in concentration, or you saying something disjointed from the rest of the conversation (No, you tell him, faintly annoyed. Of course I bought it.). It’s you squinting into the sun, the broad daylight. It’s your leg, hot and wet and sparkling with pool water, as Katsuki palms your calf. A dozen tiny moments of you, slipped between Izuku grinning with All Might’s face, his eyes glowing green, or Iida clopping through the landscape, half horse.

It’s—whatever, Katsuki thinks. Maybe he just saw your dumbass face somewhere—wide-eyed, moony, watching him warily—and his brain latched on to it, desperate for some normalcy among Best Jeanist with long golden hair like a cape, or Katsuki’s mother, crying over him, his heart in a box.

But most of the shitty extras in his dreams don’t repeat. Not like you. Katsuki wakes up in the coolness of the twilight world before dawn, breathing hard as his heart thumps in fear, the last thing he can remember from his dream being you, whispering his name and prickling his skin like he can feel your breath on his shoulder and—

It’s just him, in his wide bed. Him in the blue world before his alarm.

Katsuki shudders, eyes squeezed tight, and has to admit to himself: maybe shit was weirder than he thought.

For a while, things don’t change. The heat of his nightmares (the smoke, the ground underneath his feet tilting as UA poises precariously in the air, over the country) stays the same. His stupider dreams stay the same. The ones that feed his guilt (Izuku, four years old, chubby hand held out; Edgeshot, his eyes crinkling above his mask as he balanced his tea against his leg, the group being debriefed before battle) stay the same. You slip in like a comma, a pause, the back of your head haloed by the latelight as you’re passing by a civilian begging for Dynamight to save them. You, your lips parted around the words you can’t say before Kirishima is there, throwing his arm around Katsuki’s shoulder and talking about how they’ll be late for a school dance that never happened.

Maybe it’s a fucking Quirk, Katsuki thinks, gritting his teeth at the idea of some bastard getting a hit in, unchecked. But when the doctor shrugs at him, Katsuki slouching in the stiff chair, and says, “you’re all clear, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, sir. There’s nothing in your system—”

Well, the blond thinks, mouth tightening. Then there was a fucking problem.

Maybe he’s been givin’ it too much damn attention. Katsuki resolves to ignore it, throwing himself into the investigation at hand—some bastard, turning people into living mannequins—and for a while, it works. His dreams are filled with nonsense from work, from patrol, from the insecurities he left behind at seventeen—and then you return, the breath between words, the hyphen between thoughts.

You’re walking ahead of him, Katsuki too aware of his hands balled into his pockets, your jacket long and bright against the city night, the glitter of Tokyo Tower ahead of you both. You’re laughing at something Denki is saying, ugly and breathless and on the verge of tears, Katsuki’s chest tight with it. You’re hesitating, your legs curling against his sheets as you stare up at him, his heart thumping with the pulse he sees jump in your throat.

It’s making him more vicious. He spars with Denki and nearly burns a idiot-shaped hole into the concrete floor of the training room. Out on the scene with Deku, Katsuki jumps into the fight first, causing the nerd to shout after him, startled at the deviation of the plan.

“You’re scaring everyone,” Shouto tells him, breaking the silence as they strip from their Hero gear. Katsuki stills, coiled and deadly but Shouto is unperturbed, buttoning his shirt. “Izuku’s worried. Denki’s been threatening to make a formal request to Support for a panic button. What’s happened?”

“Nothin’s fucking happened, Icyhot,” Katsuki says, scowling. But his hand tightens on his hoodie as he says it, and for all the moron’s obliviousness, Shouto is eagle-eyed when it comes to the tremor in his friends.

“What’s happened?” He repeats, the faint steel of insistence in his voice and Katsuki tsks, before conceding.

“Been having shit dreams is all,” he says, frowning unhappily.

Shouto frowns in answer, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. “Nightmares?” He asks, reasonably.

Nightmares. Katsuki’s jaw tightens, thinking of the latest dream—you, damp and flushed underneath him, gasping against his mouth as you share the same hot breath, his hand curling against your neck, so, so afraid.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “Something like that.”

[existentialgaybirdnerd]

Bad habits from the 141

Ghost:

Knife tricks, he will be bored and with nothing to do and will just start flipping knives and doing shit with them no one else has seen. This has caused numerous occasions where a dumb recruit decided they could do it better than him and sliced some fingers.

Picky with how his sandwiches are made, the meat has to be on the very top unless there's provolone cheese, will take apart any premade sandwiches to change how it is placed. No one knows why, he just does it and will give no explanation.

Skin picks. If he finds something different on his arms or his hands or his neck or his face, he'll see if he can pick it off. Be it a scab or a chunk of dirt or a pimple, he'll mess with it either until it bleeds or it's gone.

Soap:

Plays with bombs??? He literally just takes explosive putty and turns it into shapes like it's Play-Doh. He's safe about it, but holy shit you can't just pull a bomb out of nowhere and hand it to someone as a joke when they ask for a wrench or something.

Will drink coffee obsessively. It doesn't really affect him all too much, but if he's got free time where he CAN have coffee, he WILL have coffee. He can go to sleep right after coffee and be ok, but he can also "accidentally" drink like 20 cups in a day because he's bored. He has stomach issues very often when he does this ofc but it doesn't stop him.

Bites his nails. Will go at a nail until it bleeds, particularly when he's nervous or bored. He keeps himself occupied drawing or journaling just to avoid going to town on his nails.

Gaz:

Lays in bed all day when he has nothing to do. Literally will wait until the last second to go to the bathroom during these times and won't move except for that and for getting into more comfy positions. He has a snack stash that literally no one can find in his room, so he doesn't even need to leave for food, he just sits and lays there watching stuff and doom scrolling on his phone.

Eats salads one ingredient at a time. Will find every piece of lettuce in the salad and eat it and then go on to the next ingredient. He thinks this is how salads are meant to be eaten. He doesn't even separate the ingredients, he just picks them out around the other stuff, even when it's got dressing on it.

Listens to music obsessively. Will sit in the most serious meetings with one earbud in, somehow hidden, and listen to the music while passively taking in the information unless it's a super serious meeting. If it's a cut-and-dry "get in, get out" or information grab, he gives no shits and simply watches what's being projected for them to see (maps, details, plans, etc.)

Price:

Smoking ofc, but what a lot don't know is that he went from cigarettes to cigars in his early 20s and still slips onto cigarettes sometimes when he's super stressed. It tastes different and wakes him up whereas cigars are heavy smoke and calm him down.

If he's got mashed potatoes of any sort, they HAVE to be mixed with vegetables, he refuses to eat them otherwise. It's not a bad habit perse, but his refusal to even look at mashed potatoes unless there's a vegetable such as peas or corn makes it a stubborn issue no one in the world can change his mind on. If he gets an MRE with mashed potatoes and no vegetables, he'll either negotiate getting someone else's vegetables or simply give them the mashed potatoes.

Picks at his nails. Thinks it's gross to bite at them, but they get chipped and bother him by snagging on things so he'll pick at the inconsistency and make it worse then keep picking. Ghost gets him a small nail file he can put in his phone case to keep with him so he doesn't need to continue getting frustrated at his nails.

Laswell:

Doesn't sleep. Will get maybe 4-5 hours out of a day and will stay up for hours in the middle of the night because she's following a lead or researching something that caught her attention 5 days ago.

Refuses root vegetables and will fight someone if she finds one in her food. Again, not much of a bad habit, but the fighting is. Once threw down at a family gathering because someone (a particularly stubborn aunt who hated this habit) snuck a cut-up carrot in her food and only her food. She was 16.

Reorganizes her desk and office once a week. You wouldn't think this would be a problem or even a bad habit until you realize she puts stuff in such different locations each time that she can't shit. She never learns from this and jokes that it makes her life more fun when she finds the stapler actually under the desk.

[wreckedandpolemic]

I have nothing to say other than I am thinking so heavily of regret me matty, and I need to be put down <3

ohh you and me both my friend

today i am thinking particularly of being on tour with him, singing songs you wrote about him to sold-out crowds who only want him, his hands on you every night, everything about him inescapable even though he’s not yours. every night is a brutal struggle for dominance, each of you desperate to force the other into a confession, a commitment, but only reaching obeisance.

tonight is a hotel night, which never ends well. worse, you’ve spent all evening watching matty flirt with anything that moves, petting hair and patting asses and smirking knowingly. you’re about ready to rip his dick off by the time the night winds down, practically dragging him by the hair into your hotel room.

all you want is to rip matty to shreds. you slap him clear across the face as soon as the door shuts behind you, his eyes bright with something entirely different from anger. shit, you jealous, or somethin’? he smirks, and you slap him again.

don’t talk. you slip your switchblade free of your pocket. one more fuckin’ word and i’ll cut you. matty moans, nodding helplessly, and you trace the point of the blade lovingly over his throat. you cut him out of his shirt, shove him down on the bed and sink down on his cock before he can catch his breath. that’s it, pretty boy. good little toy, nice and quiet for me. my good boy, right?

he knows better than to answer.

your hand slides to his throat, choking him, marking him, bruising him up under your fingers. when you cum, it’s explosive, almost violent, and you almost feel sorry for matty with how pathetic he looks, hard and begging and soaked with your arousal. you want — you need — to leave a lasting mark, real evidence of your claim over him, so you etch your initials on his hip, opposite the tattoo he knows you love. you dig a little deeper than necessary, really make it hurt, and you’re both equally surprised when he cums untouched from it, twitching and shuddering and gasping in pain and pleasure.

god, y’such a little painslut. didn’t say you could cum, did i? matty shakes his head. he’s fearful of what your punishment is going to be, and he’s right to be.

but neither of you talk about in when you wake up tangled in each others’ arms the next morning. you don’t comment on the fact you’re both pretending to be asleep to snatch a few more hours of this. and if your smiles with a stranger at the bar the next night are a little too wide, your laughter a little too loud? well, the look in matty’s eyes tells you the next hotel night isn’t going to be so much fun for you.

[koodless]

Fire and Elec headcanons saved because I think about them a lot. Some sweet stuff, some sad stuff. Also, I yap a LOT in this so I'm sorry if stuff doesn't make sense or repeats itself:

When they were first built/waking up, of course, Light tested each one to ensure they functioned well before the big reveal.

I'd like to imagine Fire is right there next to Elec waiting for him to wake up. It might be that he senses Elec is sleeping (gathering code and waiting til it's done to wake up for testing) and keeps to the side and stays by his side when he first wakes up. It's kind of like making sure that he's alright and not alone (personally I imagine both robots had to wake up separated, Fire and Bombs, since they’re explosive together, and Fire not understanding anything when he wakes up alone and stuck in a chamber with powers that can heat things instantly.) (Elec is also last in the line next to Fire and Bomb and idk i just think Fire suddenly is drawn in his programming to make sure Elec is ok once he sees him a month later)

Not wanting a friend to wake up alone like he did

Poor Light has to reassure Fire that Elec is in fact ok. It's like he saw Elec tubed up and thought “What happened? Does this robot require medical attention?”

I imagine Elec can't touch water, other than cold surfaces or some small precipitation. If he touches water then it can shock him or the surrounding area. That's why when he cries, it's hard for him to wipe it away. He shocked himself before and left a few tear marks behind. Also, he's supposed to be the confident and cool role, why would he cry or have the ability to cry? He thinks to himself. Fire meanwhile reaches over and wipes the tears away, and it feels like a warm mist over his face. Elecs face is super red afterward.

I mentioned in another post that Robot Masters can have dreams and thus bad dreams based on the memories they have saved or experienced (memories saved in RMs can appear in dreams depending on what they are, like deja vu or stress/ terror they experienced).

Fire Man can't sleep well if he has a bad dream, particularly one that he is under control and stressed to attack others. Elec stays with him all night, talking about the better memories he has saved or telling him he’s not that kind of robot at all.

Elec has bad dreams too, as part of being their group's team leader, he has ones where the others are in danger. A really bad nightmare was when he found Fire badly injured, so badly broken, he could feel his core weakening. On another side headcanon, Elec can hear and oftentimes gets overwhelmed by the influx of electricity around him. From power generators to other Robot Masters. He could feel Fire dying at that moment and he woke up freaked out that Fire still isn’t able to keep power; he was that scared.

They have both asked each other to stay the night after those moments just so they don’t wake up alone again.

Afterward, they get comfortable being in each other's space, whether it's how close they are or just talking about whatever/ working through their emotions

On their friend meetings (dates) after work, I imagine them getting different types of human foods to consume other than their traditional foods. They’ll pick up some food they’re curious about to try as they sit on the empty rooftops to watch the stars. Do silly food reviews of “I heard about these sour worms you might like them…” or “wanna try a REALLY spicy pizza?”

Elec came home late in the rain once, trying to make it in time for Rock’s birthday party. He had come home tracking in mud, something Roll did not like. After that whole bit, Fire just said, “Come on Elec, I’ll warm you up” and showed him how to square dance, going slow and dancing around the room.

“Red, I don’t know how to dance, I'm not a dancer!” “Well, call me a teacher cuz I'm teachin’ you!”

Elec saved those moments, of them laughing when they stomped on each other's foot or bumped into something. He comes back acting coy, saying with a small smirk “Listen Red, I think I might’ve forgotten a step in that little dance you showed me earlier. Can you show me again, how did it go?”

NICKNAMES– Elec called Fire, Red (because he’s always as red as a tomato) and Fire calls Elec, Eleki, or darlin’

One of Elec’s favorite things about Fire: is his dimples, freckles, and face. He doesn't get to see them as much! He also likes the sound of Fire’s core, the way it doesn’t sound overcharged but a calm, humming furnace.

Fire’s favorite thing about Elec: he can't choose. It would be one thing, but then it ties into another, and soon enough, he just thinks about revisiting Elec at work.

He will hold the other’s face and watch Elec’s cheeks flush because his hands are constantly warm.

Fire’s love language to me is mostly physical touch/ affection, so he can pass out hugs, and pat/ scratch your back. Elec, when he's comfortable, won't stop talking and will talk for hours about a niche topic and gets to be goofy.

Elec, since he is working himself overtime constantly, tends to fall asleep in random places or doze off. He argues with Fire that he’s fine until he falls asleep because he’s in the comfort of others.

A big BIG believer in the “person a fell in love, person b fell harder” trope between them (and between other robots)

They haven’t had a first kiss really 🫣just moments where they snuggle and Fire dabbles kisses on Elec’s face or Elec smooches Fire’s hand. If they were to ever have their first kiss, Elec would do it first. Fire to me is like the encouraging, loving type, does the little things just to encourage or to make the other comfortable. Elec meanwhile has cuteness aggression and even if he has to have the courage to face dangers, why does he still feel butterflies and gets nervous when Fire smiles at him?

He’d be like “Oh I forgot to do something,” “Forgot to do what?” then give Fire a smooch and watch as Fire explodes before his eyes like a supernova.

Elec got sick with a virus over winter (much to his dismay, a robot suffering a cold!) and Fire brought soup (with the twins' help) and cuddled up next to him. Elec jokingly said “You know humans stay away from each other if they get sick. Aren't you scared I'll get you sick with my germs?” “No, I want to be with you either way, so I don't mind if you get me sick.”

Fire indubitably got sick afterward

Fire always makes sure Elec doesn’t overwork himself when they go their separate way for their job sites.

Occasional accident of elec zapping fires hand or fire forgetting he’s cooking elec as he places his head under his chin, but such mistakes they’ll laugh and try again

The others can automatically see how much they like each other before they do.

[desiderio-dixon]

Darkest Before the Dawn

Chapter 7 : I'd Rather Go Blind

Pairing : Daryl Dixon x f!reader (endgame), (unrequited) Glenn Rhee x f!reader

Series summary : When Glenn Rhee comes into your life, you become convinced he's a guardian angel sent by your late best friend. You think he's your soulmate. But then he falls for the farmer's daughter, and you find that your own angel may be a little more blatant than expected; wings and all.

Chapter summary : Leaving the CDC in the rearview mirror, the group faces further obstacles: A misunderstanding arises between the reader and Daryl, Sophia goes missing, tensions build between reader and Shane, Carl gets shot, and Glenn begins the heartbreak saga.

Chapter warnings : uhhh jealousy, heartbreak, misunderstandings, illusions to sex, shane being a creep, sophia goes missing, grief, lmk if I missed anything! <33

Word count : 2.8k

A/N : OKAY SO THIS ONE TOOK FOREVERRR I'm so sorry!! To be fair though, something super serious happened to a family member of mine so my life has just been absolute chaos the last couple weeks. BUT TRUST ME THAT I DIDNT ABANDON THIS FIC!!! Love u guys! (also there may or may not be a Dean spicy fic on the way to all those who voted yes to that poll I made hehe)

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

The next morning, you woke to a knock on your door. Groggy and hungover, you wrapped your naked body in blankets and stumbled to the door. You opened it to find Glenn, his head hung low and eyes sunken. He was equally, perhaps more, hungover. He made no effort to greet you, just groaned at you and pushed past into your room. He flopped himself down on your bed, face in the pillows. You sighed, leaving the door open and moving to sit on the bed, still only in a puddle of blankets.

"My head is gonna explode." Glenn cries out. You hum tiredly. Outside of the room you can hear everyone waking, wandering out of their rooms. Part of you wants to kick Glenn out and fall back into sleep. But you don't. You two sit quietly for a few minutes, you're certain Glenn has fallen asleep.

And then, there's a crinkle in your doorway. You look over, surprised to see Daryl. He stands, fully dressed and ready for the day, with a waterbottle clutched in his hand. He'd brought it for you, you knew that somehow. But you watched his gaze rake over your bare shoulders, and the onto the figure laid in your bed. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. For some reason you feel like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't. He crouches down, setting the waterbottle in your doorway. And then he's turning, leaving.

The CDC is a blur after that. A blur of confusion, panic, anger. Screams and explosions. And an overwhelming loss. Jacqui died, Jenner and the sanctuary you thought you'd found went with her.

You'd never seen something explode like that. What was once there, simply wasn't anymore. No longer an impressive and futuristic building, but a mess of fire and ash. It shook everything. The ground, the air, even your insides felt like they were vibrating within you.

You weren't even sure whose car you'd piled into, simply just eager for cover, but you'd realized too late that it was Daryl's truck, and this was going to be an awkward ride. Though, neither of you said a word. Not about the drunken conversation you'd shared, or him seemingly finding you and Glenn in bed together. There's an air of shock that only silence seems appropriate for. Still, when the caravan stops due to the RV hose again, you break it. Digging into your back pocket, you produce the crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Here, I, uh, found them. Figured you'd like them." Daryl grunts, slapping his hand over yours to grab the pack. Nothing else is said, so you both climb out.

The traffic build up seems to go on forever, cars for as long as you can see. Everyone drifts off into groups to scavenge through the cars. You end up by yourself, sorting through a mini van. The sight of the empty toddler car seat brings a sense of dread washing over your body. You try to shake it off. Surely there's a chance the baby lived, just moved on to another place.

You find a box on the floor, overflowing with clothes. Winter will come quicker than you think, so you begin to rifle through, looking for anything thick and comfortable. Instead, you find a pretty dress. A sundress, with wildflowers printed all over and a dipped neckline. You're not sure that it's something you'd have worn before, but something calls you to it. It's exactly your size. Something tells you to take it, even if it's not exactly practical. So you shove it into your bag.

Then you hear Glenn's laugh, an excited and relieved laugh. You decide you need a little joy in your life, so you seek him out. There, you find him and Shane, drenching themselves with water off a truck. "You guys not gonna share?" You tease. Glenn ushers you forward to stand under a spout, then he releases the cap. You squeal at the sensation, water soaking through your clothes. Your eyes are closed, enjoying the cooling sensation when a hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you to the floor.

You smell them first, the horde of dead stumbling through the traffic jam. You roll under the truck with Glenn and Shane, making panicked eye contact with each of them back and forth. Then you hear them, groaning and shuffling. And finally, you see their feet as they move past. Most of their shoes are muddied and falling apart, ankle skin falling off the bone like good barbecue. When it's finally passed, your heart shatters.

Where you expected silence, you found the cries of a distressed mother. Carol, screaming after Sophia. You crawl out just in time to watch Rick run after her, Lori holding a sobbing Carol.

You want to pull her into a hug, hold her sorrow in your hands to take it off her shoulders. But you're soaking wet, and you're sure she doesn't need a cold on top of everything. You settle instead for a hand on her shoulder, telling her a gentle, "Rick will bring her back." You're not sure you believe it. You have faith in Rick, though you're not sure about Sophia. She's a smart girl, sweet like sugar, and you adore her. It's just that a scared adult is unpredictable, let alone a scared child. Still, you want to hope.

It's only a few minutes, maybe ten. Rick emerges from the forest and you wait with bated breath for Sophia to trail after him--but she doesn't. Carol's sob sends a lightning bolt right through your heart.

Rick gathers a few people up to go look for her: Glenn, Shane and Daryl. While they gather up their things, you stand with Glenn. You feel eyes on you, heavy in their gaze. Turning, you find who'd been staring at you. Shane. He meets your eyes, and something about it turns your stomach. His eyes are dark, and he doesn't look away. You break the eye contact yourself, looking to your shoes.

"You okay?" Glenn asks. You hum, nodding your head. But truthfully, you can't shake the feeling of unease that has washed over you.

Then, just as everyone is geared up to leave, Daryl trots up to you. He tosses something at you. You catch it, unfolding it to reveal a flannel shirt. "Cover up a bit, huh?" He says, looking at you before his eyes flick to Shane. For a moment, you're confused. Then, you look down to your shirt--your soaked, white shirt that has now turned see-through. Your ears burn with a sudden rush of blood, and you hurry to throw on the flannel he gave you. It has the sleeves cut off, because of course it does. It looks ridiculous on you, you're sure, but it works well enough.

You stand, dumbfounded for a bit while the group pushes forward. Another one of Carol's sobs throws you out of your daze.

She stands, hands covering her mouth as sobs pour openly out of it, leaning against Lori. Lori has tears of her own streaming her cheeks, but she stares coldly ahead at the treeline her husband disappeared into. Although the sight of them squeezes your chest, it's the sight behind them that hammers the final nail into your heart.

Carl, a few feet behind his mother, looking sorrowful with tears of his own silently falling, but a determination in his eyes unlike any you'd seen. You walk to him, grazing your hand over Carol's arm gently as you pass. When you reach Carl, you pull him into a hug. His arms wrap weakly around you as you crouch, and he lets out a sob into your chest. "They'll find her. And if they don't--me and you will." You whisper to him, squeezing him tight.

It's not long before Shane and Glenn return. Glenn looks solemn, which quickly gives away that their leads aren't solid. Shane barks orders immediately upon return to search and move cars. You rifle through more cars, coming up mostly empty time after time. After an hour, you produced three items. A leather jacket, thick; good for winter and to stop bites. A box of granola bars, unfortunately your least favorite flavor. And an unopened limited edition Barbie.

The Barbie came from a car with no sign of children, and given how old it is, you assume it's someone's antique. You feel better taking it, given you don't think you're stealing from a dead child. It'll be nice for Sophia, you think. It's the exact thing you'd have loved as a girl. Big, poofy white dress with black polka dots and heaps of frill. A classic red lip and a pair of cute little heels. She's absolutely fabulous. You tuck her carefully into your bag, making sure to not dent the box.

As you weave through the cars to find your next hidden treasure, you spy Lori and Shane. The tension is thick in the air as they whisper-yell back and forth to each other. It's not hard to piece together the contents, despite you not being able to hear them. Surely it's about what once was between them, and what never can be now with Rick's return. Still, the sight sends bolts of unease through your spine. Especially with the way Shane slams his fist against a cars hood, fire burning behind his dark eyes.

You enter some beat down sedan, crawling into the drivers seat and letting your head drop down to the steering wheel. 'Please let Rick and Daryl come back safe with Sophia.' You think to yourself. You're beyond anxious, chest feeling as though a pile of rocks sit in your lungs. Moving on from this stupid highway with your group intact would be the greatest gift.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

It's almost dark now, though the humidity still weighs down the air, thick and heavy. A thin sheen of sweat collects over your skin as you sit and wait. "Oh, God. They're back." Glenn says. Your heart leaps to your throat. Rick comes first, then Daryl, then... Nothing. No Sophia. Just as quick as your heart rose, it sank to your feet like an anvil.

"You didn't find her?" Carol squeaks, sounding small like a scared child.

Rick shakes his head, guilt written in the way his lips draw tight and his eyes drop to the floor. "Her trail went cold. We'll pick it up again at first light." You knew they didn't find her, but even so, the confirmation feels like a hammer bashing into your heart.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own to spend the night alone in the woods." Carol cries desperately.

Daryl glances to you, then the floor. Shaking his head, he responds. "Out in the dark's no good. We'd just be trippin' over ourselves. More people get lost." You know he's right. He's smart with these things, a natural. But you also know hearing this hurts Carol. Truthfully, it hurts you too. A part of you wants to stray from the group right now, tear the forrest apart until your hands are bloodied to find Sophia and bring her home to her mother.

But Daryl's right--so you stay.

The next morning is early, sun barely up. Dew slides over the morning grass, tickling your ankles as you all trudge through the forest. The air is damp and crickets chirp around you. It reminds you of early wakings during your school days as a child. Up before the sun so you could drown your stomach with sugary cereal before the bus called your name. It's nostalgic in such a bitter way. Sophia will never get that again, whether you find her or not.

The only two that hadn't come on the search were Dale and T-dog. Dale, to fix up the RV, and T-dog to rest. He'd landed himself a nasty gash on his arm during the herds passing. You're thankful Daryl was there.

Everyone else in the group, even including little Carl were gathered around you. Daryl, Shane, and Rick mainly led the charge-- but everyone was equal in effort of looking for signs. You'd lost count already how many times you'd crouched to inspect the dirt, trying your hardest to search for small shoeprints.

The search had been null, up until you found a campsite. Carol had called out, and you all held your breath in anticipation. When nothing came, Daryl investigated. Nothing but a man who'd been dead for a long while.

Now, you stare at Daryl. He's disappointed, maybe even frustrated. You guess he must feel pressure, feel that it's on him to do the tracking and finding. Your feet seem to move on their own, stalking towards him on shaky feet. He doesn't notice you coming, doesn't look up from his boots. But still, you reach a hand out, just mere moments away from touching his bare bicep--until the bells ring.

You freeze, catching Daryl's eyes immediately as he shoots up. And then, as if reality had snapped back into motion, you all run.

The church is a grim scene, the pews loaded with rotting corpses, staring lifelessly at the cross. When you swing the doors, they groan, turning and shuffling loudly across the wooden floors. The smell is overpowering. The air is thick with rot, moist and sickening.

It's fitting. Fitting to the soulless feeling of tearing through walker after walker, only to at the end be met with nothing but a pile of corpses; no Sophia in sight. Carol prays in front of the statue of Jesus, and you can't judge her for turning to faith in a time like this, but something about it turns your stomach.

How could a God allow a mother to be without her child? Suddenly, the air in the church feels like it's no longer air at all. You feel suffocated. You rush out, hand covering your mouth as a nauseous feeling rises. Falling to your knees in the grass, you huff breath after breath of fresh air. When will the constant loss end?

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

It's only a couple hours later when you're trudging through the forest, chatting with Glenn absentmindedly as Daryl leads your group back to the highway. And then, like a flash of lightning, a woman appears. The heavy thudding of her horse's hooves matches the rapid beating of your heart, and then she's yelling. Yelling that Carl has been shot. Then, you feel as if your heart stops at the same time the horse skids to a halt. He's stable, she says, but it's still a weight you're not sure you can handle.

You want to cry, to collapse, to give up. You want to curl into someone and share in your sorrow. When you turn to Glenn, your stomach swirls in sickness at his expression. Well, perhaps not the expression alone, but that the expression isn't being sent to you.

There, frozen in place, he stands. Awestruck eyes gazing up at the woman on the horse, jaw open. Your eyes fly between the two of them, time moving in slow motion. You can't even blame him. She's beautiful. Big, green eyes wide in urgency, tan skin slick with sweat, shining in the sunlight.

You can't blame him--but it hurts so bad.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

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